H. Wells - THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

the doorway. "May I come in?" she said.

"Do," I said, and turned round to her.

"Working?" she said.

"Hard," I answered. "Where have YOU been?"

"At the Vallerys'. Mr. Evesham was talking about you. They were

all talking. I don't thinkeverybody knewwho I was. Just Mrs.

Mumble I'd been to them. Lord Wardenham doesn't like you."

"He doesn't."

"But they all feelyou're rather big, anyhow. Then I went on to

Park Lane to heara new pianist and some other music at Eva's."

"Yes."

"Then I looked in at the Brabants' for some midnight tea before I

came on here. They'd got some writers-and Grant was there."

"You HAVE been flying round…"

There was a little pause between us.

I looked at her pretty, unsuspecting face, and at the slender grace

of her golden-robed body. What gulfs there were between us!

"You've been amused," I said.

"It's been amusing. You've been at the House?"

"The Medical Education Bill kept me."…

After all, why should I tell her? She'd got to a way of living that

fulfilled her requirements. Perhaps she'd never hear. But all that

day and the day before I'd been making up my mindto do the thing.

"I want to tell you something," I said. "I wish you'd sit down for

a moment or so."…

Once I had begun, it seemed to me I had to go through with it.

Something in the quality of my voice gave her an intimation of

unusual gravity. She looked at me steadily for a moment and sat

down slowly in my armchair.

"What is it?" she said.

I went on awkwardly. "I've got to tell you-something

extraordinarily distressing," I said.

She was manifestly altogether unaware.

"There seems to be a gooddeal of scandal abroad-I've only recently

heardof it-about myself-and Isabel."

"Isabel!"

I nodded.

"What do they say?" she asked.

It was difficult, I found, to speak.

"They say she's my mistress."

"Oh! How abominable!"

She spoke with the most natural indignation. Our eyes met.

"We've been great friends," I said.

"Yes. And to make THAT of it. My poor dear! But how can they?"

She paused and looked at me. It's so incredible. How can any one

believe it? I couldn't."

She stopped, with her distressed eyes regarding me. Her expression

changed to dread. There was a tense stillness for a second,

perhaps.

I turned my face towards the desk, and took up and dropped a handful

of paper fasteners.

"Margaret," I said, " I'mafraid you'll have to believe it."

Margaret sat very still. When I looked at her again, her face was

very white, and her distressed eyes scrutinised me. Her lips

quivered as she spoke. "You reallymean-THAT?" she said.

I nodded.

"I never dreamt."

"I never meant you to dream."

"And that is why-we've been apart?"

I thought. "I suppose it is."

"Why have you told me now?"

"Those rumours. I didn't want any one else to tell you."

"Or else it wouldn't have mattered?"

"No."

She turned her eyes from me to the fire. Then for a moment she

looked about the room she had made for me, and then quite silently,

with a childish quivering of her lips, with a sort of dismayed

distress upon her face, she was weeping. She sat weeping in her

dress of cloth of gold, with her bare slender arms dropped limp over

the arms of her chair, and her eyes averted from me, making no

effort to stay or staunch her tears. " I am sorry, Margaret," I

said. "I was in love… I did not understand…"

Presently she asked: "What are you going to do?"

"You see, Margaret, now it's come to be your affair-I want to know

what you-what you want."

"You want to leave me?"

"If you want me to, I must."

"Leave Parliament-leave all the things you are doing,-all this

fine movement of yours?"

"No." I spoke sullenly. "I don't want to leave anything. I want to

stay on. I've told you, because I thinkwe-Isabel and I, I mean-

have got to drive through a storm of scandal anyhow. I don't know

how far things may go, how much people may feel, and I can't, I

can't have you unconscious, unarmed, open to any revelation-"

She made no answer.

"When the thing began-I knewit was stupid but I thoughtit was a

thing that wouldn't change, wouldn't be anything but itself,

wouldn't unfold-consequences… People have got hold of these

vague rumours… Directly it reached any one else but-but us

two-I sawit had to come to you."

I stopped. I had that distressful feelingI have always had with

Margaret, of not beingaltogether sure she heard, of being doubtful

if she understood. I perceivedthat once again I had struck at her

and shattered a thousand unsubstantial pinnacles. And I couldn't

get at her, to helpher, or touchher mind! I stood up, and at my

movement she moved. She produced a dainty little handkerchief, and

made an effort to wipe her face with it, and held it to her eyes.

"Oh, my Husband!" she sobbed.

"What do you mean to do?" she said, with her voice muffled by her

handkerchief.

"We're going to end it," I said.

Something gripped me tormentingly as I said that. I drew a chair

beside her and sat down. "You and I, Margaret, have been partners,"

I began. "We've built up this life of ours together; I couldn't

have done it without you. We've made a position, created a work-"

She shook her head. "You," she said.

"You helping. I don't want to shatter it-if you don't want it

shattered. I can't leave my work. I can't leave you. I want you

to have-all that you have ever had. I've never meant to rob you.

I've made an immense and tragic blunder. You don't knowhow things

took us, how different they seemed! My characterand accident have

conspired-We'll pay-in ourselves, not in our public service."

I halted again. Margaret remained very still.

"I want you to understandthat the thing is at an end. It is

definitely at an end. We-we talked-yesterday. We mean to end it

altogether." I clenched my hands. "She's-she's going to marry

Arnold Shoesmith."

I wasn't looking now at Margaret any more, but I heardthe rustle of

her movement as she turned on me.

"It's all right," I said, clinging to my explanation. "We're doing

nothing shabby. He knows. He will. It's all as right-as things

can be now. We're not cheating any one, Margaret. We're doing

things straight-now. Of course, you know… We shall-we

shall have to make sacrifices. Give things up pretty completely.

Very completely… We shall have not to seeeach other for a

time, you know. Perhaps not a long time. Two or three years. Or

write-or just any of that sort of thing ever-"

Some subconscious barrier gave way in me. I found myselfcrying

uncontrollably-as I have never cried since I was a little child. I

was amazed and horrified at myself. And wonderfully, Margaret was

on her knees beside me, with her arms about me, mingling her weeping

with mine. "Oh, my Husband!" she cried, my poor Husband! Does it

hurt you so? I would do anything! Oh, the fool I am! Dear, I love

you. I love you over and away and above all these jealouslittle

things!"

She drew down my head to her as a mother might draw down the head of

a son. She caressed me, weeping bitterlywith me. "Oh! my dear,"

she sobbed, "my dear! I've never seenyou cry! I've never seenyou

cry. Ever! I didn't knowyou could. Oh! my dear! Can't you have

her, my dear, if you want her? I can't bear it! Let me helpyou,

dear. Oh! my Husband! My Man! I can't bear to have you cry!" For