Belamis— was equally culpable. What could he do? How could he explain his guilt? There was no excuse. No excuse— and that was all he could plead.
As dusk began to fall he heard the car on the gravel drive, and stood up to await his husband’s arrival; but Furnival did not appear, so Elias went anxiously in search of him. The car was empty, but the garden gate stood open, and with great trepidation he went to look in. One glimpse revealed Furnival sat forlornly on the arbour bench beneath the pediment, at the far end of the path. He was quite alone— Marios had vanished. Elias went to his partner and humbly knelt down at his feet.
Furnival gazed on him without expression, and the young man felt his eyes wetten.
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ were his first, faltering words, ‘except say how sorry I am. Not just sorry to be caught out, but sorry to have acted so foolishly, and to have hurt you. I can’t expect you to believe that what you saw was the only time, or the work of a minute— I can’t prove it, so you ought to believe what you want. But above all, please believe that I’m sorry— Matthew, I’m more sorry than I can bear— I’ve treated you so cruelly, I know I have— but I don’t know why, and I can’t make up for it. All I can think to do is leave— take myself away from here to let you forget, at least— I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven. Oh, Matthew, how can you look at me? You must detest me! Say something— speak your mind! I won’t go until you’ve had your chance to be angry— I won’t deny you that, or anything. I deserve to be kicked, I know it. I’ve wronged you, and I’ll pay for it— then you can forget me.’
This speech had the effect of reducing its speaker to penitent sobs, but Furnival was as grim and silent as before. His gravity tortured Elias more than any explosion of wrath might have done, and he shook in every limb with the anxiety of it. At last, his visible distress moved Furnival to break his reverie and sigh, before picking up his quaking spouse and lodging him on the seat at his side.
‘So you were unfaithful,’ he said, rather wearily. ‘You were— but I don’t blame you.’
Elias looked up in confusion. Furnival brushed at his wet cheeks, thoughtfully.
‘How can I?’ he continued. ‘You were bound to be tempted. You’re young, and beautiful, and I’m past my best. How could you help it? And I knew there would be tempters enough.’
‘You knew?’ said Elias hoarsely. ‘You expected me to stray?’ Furnival looked aside. ‘But— but why would you think it of me?’
‘Oh, Elias, men are men. And when a man loves a man he knows his lover is no better than himself.’
Elias shifted away, distraught. ‘And I’m no better than the rest? You do despise me, then— but not for what I’ve done— for what you always knew I’d do.’
‘Despise you! How can you say it? You can’t believe it, Elias. I hoped you’d be faithful to me, but I always warned myself that it was a hope too far. What does it matter? I wanted you then and I want you now— I still do.’
Elias stood up, trembling. ‘I’m not prepared for this— I didn’t anticipate it. I did make a mistake— you’re right to resent that. But you’re not right to think it was inevitable. I didn’t realise you were so cynical.’
‘Maybe I am cynical— call it worldly-wise— but for all that, I’m optimistic. Whatever you’ve done needn’t break us, Elias.’
Elias backed away, however, horrified. ‘Then— then it’s nothing to you? You set no store by my fidelity— you can do without it?’ He put his hand to his forehand. ‘What does that leave me? “Young and beautiful” —and giddy— and you’ll wink at the giddiness while the first two last. No, Matthew, I can’t live with that. I may not be “worldly-wise” but I know when I’ve done wrong, and I feel it, too. I must face and bear it, even if you won’t. I at least will acknowledge I’ve been unfaithful, accept the consequences, and leave.’
‘Come here— sit down again. You’re too hard on yourself, Elias.’
‘And you are too soft on me, which is hard on yourself too.’ He remained standing. ‘Where did you learn to think like this, Matthew? Did men like me teach you? Are we all you can hope for after him?’ He pointed to the inscribed tablet on the wall behind Furnival. ‘Am I just a man to him? No doubt he was as constant as marble, and I’m just a clay copy.’
Furnival stood too, and held him by the hands. ‘Belamis is constant, Elias— he’s dead. But you are alive, not fixed in stone, and for that I forgive you.’
The two men stood and faced each other as the garden darkened round them.
And now it comes to the demand d’amour— who was more generous? Elias, in offering to leave— or Furnival, in offering to take him back?
At that point I left off my remembrancing, and returned my attention to the open, neglected book before me, with its description of a garden gate. The motto above one half of it had been inviting enough, so I turned to read the description of the words written over the other. They spoke of a garden of sorrow, in which trees shall never fruit nor bear leaves. A single garden full of both the hopes of spring and the despairs of winter— the notion made me think of Furnival and Elias once again. I do not know what became of the younger man. Perhaps, in the very crux of their dispute, when they took each other’s hands, the strange injunctions of Elias’s dream were exacted, and he was abruptly transformed into a spreading pear tree, his words its turning leaves, and his teardrops its golden pears.
But whatever the truth of that, I know for sure that Furnival demolished the house soon afterwards, and a few years later sold the property altogether. The garden was deserted, and soon ran to ruin. The wall was pulled down for the stone, the monuments decayed and collapsed, and the paths disappeared beneath seasons of leaf mould, until all that remained were the unkempt plants run wild, and one fruit tree stood apart, lost amidst the surrounding woodland.
The end
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