To Paradise

XVI

He found himself leaving the house in a trance, and once outside, he stood dazed on the pavement. Around him, the world was impossibly vivid: the sky assaultively blue, the birds oppressively loud, the smell of horse manure, even in the cold, unpleasantly strong, the stitches in his fine kid gloves so precise and tiny and numerous that he could easily become lost in counting them.

There was a storm roiling within him, and to counter it, he began one of his own, directing his hansom to shop after shop, spending money in a way he never had, on boxes of fragile meringues, as snowy as lard; on a cashmere scarf the same black as Edward’s eyes; on a bushel of oranges, plump and as fragrant as blossoms; on a tin of caviar, each bead as shimmery as a pearl. He spent extravagantly, and only on extravagant things—nothing he purchased was necessary, and indeed most of them would decay or sour before there would be time to reasonably consume them. On and on he bought, taking some of the packages with him but sending most directly to Edward’s house, and so, by the time he finally reached Bethune Street, he had to wait at the bottom of the steps as two deliverymen hoisted between them a flowering kumquat tree through the entryway and another two exited, carrying an empty crate that had once held a complete Limoges tea service painted with animals of the African jungle. Upstairs, Edward was standing in the center of his room, his palms on either side of his head, directing—or, rather, not—the placement of the tree. “My goodness,” he kept repeating. “I suppose put it here—or, no: here, maybe. But—no, not there either—” And when he saw David, he gave a cry of surprise and relief and perhaps exasperation as well. “David!” he said. “My darling! What is the meaning of all this? No, please, over there, I should think”—this to the deliverymen—“David! My dear, you’re back so late! What have you been doing?”

In response, he began pulling things from his pockets, tossing them onto the bed: the caviar, a triangle of White Stilton cheese, a little wooden box containing shards of his favorite crystallized ginger, liqueur-filled bonbons, each wrapped in a scrap of gaily colored tissue—everything sweet, everything delicious, things meant only to delight, to enchant away the regret that surrounded him like a cloud. He had been in such a frenzy that he had purchased things in multiples: not one bar of chocolate stippled with gooseberries but two; not one cone of candied chestnuts but three; not one more fine wool blanket to match the one he’d already bought Edward but two more.

But this they only discovered, laughingly, after they had gorged themselves, and by the time they were able to come to their senses—unclothed yet perspiring even in the damp chill of the room, lying on the floor because the bed was covered with packages—they were both holding their stomachs and moaning, theatrically, from all of the sugar, the rich creamy fat, the smoked duck and pâté that they had just consumed.

“Oh, David,” said Edward, “will you not regret this?”

“Of course not,” he said, and he didn’t—he had never behaved like this in his life. His actions had been necessary, he felt—his fortune would never feel his own until he behaved as if it were.

“We shall not live like this in California,” Edward murmured, dreamily, and instead of answering, David stood and found his trousers—thrown to a far corner (such as it was) of the room—and reached inside its pocket.

“What is this?” Edward asked, taking the little leather case from him, and opening its hinged lid. “Oh,” he said.

It was a small porcelain dove, perfectly captured, its tiny beak open in song, its black eyes bright. “It is for you, because you are my little bird,” David explained, “and because I hope you will be forever after.”

Edward took the bird from its case and cupped it in his palm. “Are you asking me to marry you?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes,” David told him, “I am,” and Edward flung his arms around him. “I of course accept,” he said. “Of course I do!”

They would never be as happy again as they were that night. All around them, all within them, was pleasure. David especially felt himself born anew: In one day, he had lost an offer of marriage, and yet he had made his own. He felt, that night, invincible; every piece of happiness the room contained was because of him. Every sweet taste on their tongues, every soft cushion they lay their heads upon, every scent that perfumed the air: All of it was because of him. All of it he had provided. Running beneath these triumphs, though, like a dark and poisoned river, was his disgrace—the unconscionable things he’d said to Charles and, below that, the fact of his behavior, of how disrespectfully he had treated Charles, how he had used him out of restlessness and fearfulness and in desire of praise and attention. And beneath that was the specter of his grandfather, whom he had betrayed and to whom no apology would ever suffice. Whenever knowledge of these things bubbled up within him, he pushed them down again by slipping another bonbon into his or Edward’s mouth, or by making Edward turn him on his stomach.

Yet he knew that it would never be enough, that he had stained himself, and that the stain was irreversible. And so, the next morning, when the little maid tapped on the door, her eyes agoggle at the scene within the room, and presented him with a terse and inarguable note from his grandfather, he knew both that he had been found out at last and that there was nothing to do but return to Washington Square, where he would answer his shame—and declare his freedom.