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d told him； his friend； not to guess； she had forbidden him； so far as he might； to know； and she had even in a sort denied the power in him to learn： which were so many things； precisely； to deprive him of rest。 It wasn't that he wanted； he argued for fairness； that anything past and done should repeat itself； it was only that he shouldn't； as an anticlimax； have been taken sleeping so sound as not to be able to win back by an effort of thought the lost stuff of consciousness。 He declared to himself at moments that he would either win it back or have done with consciousness for ever； he made this idea his one motive in fine； made it so much his passion that none other； to compare with it； seemed ever to have touched him。 The lost stuff of consciousness became thus for him as a strayed or stolen child to an unappeasable father； he hunted it up and down very much as if he were knocking at doors and enquiring of the police。 This was the spirit in which； inevitably； he set himself to travel； he started on a journey that was to be as long as he could make it； it danced before him that； as the other side of the globe couldn't possibly have less to say to him； it might； by a possibility of suggestion； have more。 Before he quitted London； however； he made a pilgrimage to May Bartram's grave； took his way to it through the endless avenues of the grim suburban necropolis； sought it out in the wilderness of tombs； and； though he had come but for the renewal of the act of farewell； found himself； when he had at last stood by it； beguiled into long intensities。 He stood for an hour； powerless to turn away and yet powerless to penetrate the darkness of death； fixing with his eyes her inscribed name and date； beating his forehead against the fact of the secret they kept； drawing his breath； while he waited； as if some sense would in pity of him rise from the stones。 He kneeled on the stones； however； in vain； they kept what they concealed； and if the face of the tomb did become a face for him it was because her two names became a pair of eyes that didn't know him。 He gave them a last long look； but no palest light broke。
CHAPTER VI
He stayed away； after this； for a year； he visited the depths of Asia； spending himself on scenes of romantic interest； of superlative sanctity； but what was present to him everywhere was that for a man who had known what HE had known the world was vulgar and vain。 The state of mind in which he had lived for so many years shone out to him； in reflexion； as a light that coloured and refined； a light beside which the glow of the East was garish cheap and thin。 The terrible truth was that he had lostwith everything elsea distinction as well the things he saw couldn't help being common when he had become common to look at them。 He was simply now one of them himselfhe was in the dust； without a peg for the sense of difference； and there were hours when； before the temples of gods and the sepulchres of kings； his spirit turned for nobleness of association to the barely discriminated slab in the London suburb。 That had become for him； and more intensely with time and distance； his one witness of a past glory。 It was all that was left to him for proof or pride； yet the past glories of Pharaohs were nothing to him as he thought of it。 Small wonder then that he came back to it on the morrow of his return。 He was drawn there this time as irresistibly as the other； yet with a confidence； almost； that was doubtless the effect of the many months that had elapsed。 He had lived； in spite of himself； into his change of feeling； and in wandering over the earth had wandered； as might be said； from the circumference to the centre of his desert。 He had settled to his safety and accepted perforce his extinction； figuring to himself； with some colour； in the likeness of certain little old men he remembered to have seen； of whom； all meagre and wizened as they might look； it was related that they had in their time fought twenty duels or been loved by ten princesses。 They indeed had been wondrous for others while he was but wondrous for himself； which； however； was exactly the cause of his haste to renew the wonder by getting back； as he might put it； into his own presence。 That had quickened his steps and checked his delay。 If his visit was prompt it was because he had been separated so long from the part of himself that alone he now valued。
It's accordingly not false to say that he reached his goal with a certain elation and stood there again with a certain assurance。 The creature beneath the sod knew of his rare experience； so that； strangely now； the place had lost for him its mere blankness of expression。 It met him in mildnessnot； as before； in mockery； it wore for him the air of conscious greeting that we find； after absence； in things that have closely belonged to us and which seem to confess of themselves to the connexion。 The plot of ground； the graven tablet； the tended flowers affected him so as belonging to him that he resembled for the hour a contented landlord reviewing a piece of property。 Whatever had happenedwell； had happened。 He had not come back this time with the vanity of that question； his former worrying 〃What； WHAT？〃 now practically so spent。 Yet he would none the less never again so cut himself off from the spot； he would come back to it every month； for if he did nothing else by its aid he at least held up his head。 It thus grew for him； in the
oddest way； a positive resource； he carried out his idea of periodical returns； which took their place at last among the most inveterate of his habits。 What it all amounted to； oddly enough； was that in his finally so simplified world this garden of death gave him the few square feet of earth on which he could still most live。 It was as if； being nothing anywhere else for any one； nothing even for himself； he were just everything here； and if not for a crowd of witnesses or indeed for any witness but John Marcher； then by clear right of the register that he could scan like an open page。 The open page was the tomb of his friend； and there were the facts of the past； there the truth of his life； there the backward reaches in which he could lose himself。 He did this from time to time with such effect that he seemed to wander through the old years with his hand in the arm of a companion who was； in the most extraordinary manner； his other； his younger self； and to wander； which was more extraordinary yet； round and round a third presencenot wandering she； but stationary； still； whose eyes； turning with his revolution； never ceased to follow him； and whose seat was his point； so to speak； of orientation。 Thus in short he settled to livefeeding all on the sense that he once HAD lived； and dependent on it not alone for a support but for an identity。
It sufficed him in its way for months and the year elapsed； it would doubtless even have carried him further but for an accident； superficially slight； which moved him； quite in another direction； with a force beyond any of his impressions of Egypt or of India。 It was a thing of the merest chancethe turn； as he afterwards felt； of a hair； though he was indeed to live to believe that