H. Wells: THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

a child tormented beyond endurance might suddenly weep…

"Oh! I don't care," I cried, "now. I don't care. Damn the whole

system of things! Damn all this patching of the irrevocable! I

want to take care of you, Isabel! and have you with me."

"I can't stand it," she blubbered.

"You needn't stand it. I thoughtit was best for you… I

thoughtindeed it was best for you. I thoughteven you wanted it

like that."

"Couldn't I live alone-as I meant to do?"

"No," I said, "you couldn't. You're not strong enough. I've

thoughtof that; I've got to shelter you."

"And I want you," I went on. " I'mnot strong enough-I can't stand

life without you."

She stopped weeping, she made a great effort to control herself, and

looked at me steadfastly for a moment. "I was going to kill

myself," she whispered. "I was going to kill myselfquietly-

somehow. I meant to wait a bit and have an accident. I thought-

you didn't understand. You were a man, and couldn't understand…"

"People can't do as we thoughtwe could do," I said. "We've gone

too far together."

"Yes," she said, and I stared into her eyes.

"The horror of it," she whispered. "The horror of beinghanded

over. It's just only begun to dawn upon me, seeinghim now as I do.

He tries to be kind to me… I didn't know. I feltadventurous

before… It makes me feellike all the women in the world who

have ever been owned and subdued… It's not that he isn't the

best of men, it's because I'ma part of you… I can't go

through with it. If I go through with it, I shall be left-robbed

of pride-outraged-a woman beaten…"

"I know," I said, "I know."

"I want to live alone… I don't care for anything now but just

escape. If you can helpme…"

"I must take you away. There's nothing for us but to go away

together."

"But your work," she said; "your career! Margaret! Our promises!"

"We've made a mess of things, Isabel-or things have made a mess of

us. I don't knowwhich. Our flags are in the mud, anyhow. It's

too late to save those other things! They have to go. You can't

make terms with defeat. I thoughtit was Margaret needed me most.

But it's you. And I need you. I didn't thinkof that either. I

haven't a doubtleft in the world now. We've got to leave

everything rather than leave each other. I'msure of it. Now we

have gone so far. We've got to go right down to earth and begin

again… Dear, I WANT disgrace with you…"

So I whispered to her as she sat crumpled together on the faded

cushions of the boat, this white and weary young woman who had been

so valiant and careless a girl. "I don't care," I said. "I don't

care for anything, if I can save you out of the wreckage we have

made together."

The next day I went to the office of the BLUE WEEKLY in order to get

as much as possible of its affairs in working order before I left

London with Isabel. I just missed Shoesmith in the lower office.

Upstairs I found Britten amidst a pile of outside articles,

methodically reading the title of each and sometimes the first half-

dozen lines, and either dropping them in a growingheap on the floor

for a clerk to return, or putting them aside for consideration. I

interrupted him, squatted on the window-sill of the open window, and

sketched out my ideas for the session.

"You're far-sighted," he remarked at something of mine which reached

out ahead.

"I like to seethings prepared," I answered.

"Yes," he said, and ripped open the envelope of a fresh aspirant.

I was silent while he read.

"You're going away with Isabel Rivers," he said abruptly.

"Well!" I said, amazed.

"I know," he said, and lost his breath. "Not my business. Only-"

It was queer to find Britten afraid to say a thing.

"It's not playing the game," he said.

"What do you know?"

"Everything that matters."

"Some games," I said, "are too hard to play."

There came a pause between us.

"I didn't knowyou were watching all this," I said.

"Yes," he answered, after a pause, "I've watched."

"Sorry-sorry you don't approve."

"It means smashing such an infernal lot of things, Remington."

I did not answer.

"You're going away then?"

"Yes."

"Soon?"

"Right away."

"There's vour wife."

"I know."

"Shoesmith-whom you're pledged to in a manner. You've just picked

him out and made him conspicuous. Every one will know. Oh! of

course-it's nothing to you. Honour-"

"I know."

"Common decency."

I nodded.

"All this movement of ours. That's what I care for most…

It's come to be a big thing, Remington."

"That will go on."

"We have a use for you-no one else quite fills it. No one…

I'mnot sure it will go on."

"Do you thinkI haven't thoughtof all these things?"

He shrugged his shoulders, and rejected two papers unread.

"I knew," he remarked, "when you came back from America. You were

alight with it." Then he let his bitternessgleam for a moment.

"But I thoughtyou would stick to your bargain."

"It's not so much choice as you think," I said.

"There's always a choice."

"No," I said.

He scrutinised my face.

"I can't live without her-I can't work. She's all mixed up with

this-and everything. And besides, there's things you can't

understand. There's feelingsyou've never felt… You don't

understandhow much we've been to one another."

Britten frowned and thought.

"Some things one's GOT to do," he threw out.

"Some things one can't do."

"These infernal institutions-"

"Some one must begin," I said.

He shook his head. "Not YOU," he said. "No!"

He stretched out his hands on the desk before him, and spoke again.

"Remington," he said, "I've thoughtof this business day and night

too. It matters to me. It matters immensely to me. In a way-it's

a thing one doesn't often say to a man-I've loved you. I'mthe

sort of man who leads a narrow life… But you've been

something fine and goodfor me, since that time, do you remember?

when we talked about Mecca together."

I nodded.

"Yes. And you'll always be something fine and goodfor me anyhow.

I knowthings about you,-qualities-no mere act can destroy them..

.. Well, I can tell you, you're doing wrong. You're going on now

like a man who is hypnotised and can't turn round. You're piling

wrong on wrong. It was wrong for you two people ever to be lovers."

He paused.

"It gripped us hard," I said.

"Yes!-but in your position! And hers! It was vile!"

"You've not been tempted."

"How do you know? Anyhow-having done that, you ought to have stood

the consequences and thoughtof other people. You could have ended

it at the first pause for reflection. You didn't. You blundered

again. You kept on. You owed a certain secrecy to all of us! You

didn't keep it. You were careless. You made things worse. This

engagement and this publicity!-Damn it, Remington!"

"I know," I said, with smarting eyes. "Damn it! with all my heart!

It came of trying to patch… You CAN'T patch."

"And now, as I care for anything under heaven, Remington, you two

ought to stand these last consequences-and part. You ought to

part. Other people have to stand things! Other people have to

part. You ought to. You say-what do you say? It's loss of so

much life to lose each other. So is losing a hand or a leg. But

it's what you've incurred. Amputate. Take your punishment-After

all, you chose it."