Tono-Bungay, H. G. Wells [reading like a writer .TXT] 📗

I lit a cigar and fell to walking up and down. This queer flavour of intrigue, this nocturnal garden-door business, had taken me by surprise and changed my mental altitudes. I was startled out of my egotistical pose and thinking intently of Beatrice, of that elfin quality in her that always pleased me, that always took me by surprise, that had made her for example so instantly conceive this meeting.

She came within a minute of midnight; the door opened softly and she appeared, a short, grey figure in a motor-coat of sheepskin, bareheaded to the cold drizzle. She flitted up to me, and her eyes were shadows in her dusky face.

“Why are you going to West Africa?” she asked at once.

“Business crisis. I have to go.”

“You’re not going⁠—? You’re coming back?”

“Three or four months,” I said, “at most.”

“Then, it’s nothing to do with me?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Why should it have?”

“Oh, that’s all right. One never knows what people think or what people fancy.” She took me by the arm, “Let’s go for a walk,” she said.

I looked about me at darkness and rain.

“That’s all right,” she laughed. “We can go along the lane and into the Old Woking Road. Do you mind? Of course you don’t. My head. It doesn’t matter. One never meets anybody.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve wandered like this before.⁠ ⁠… Of course. Did you think”⁠—she nodded her head back at her home⁠—“that’s all?”

“No, by Jove!” I cried; “it’s manifest it isn’t.”

She took my arm and turned me down the lane. “Night’s my time,” she said by my side. “There’s a touch of the werewolf in my blood. One never knows in these old families.⁠ ⁠… I’ve wondered often.⁠ ⁠… Here we are, anyhow, alone in the world. Just darkness and cold and a sky of clouds and wet. And we⁠—together. I like the wet on my face and hair, don’t you? When do you sail?”

I told her tomorrow.

“Oh, well, there’s no tomorrow now. You and I!” She stopped and confronted me.

“You don’t say a word except to answer!”

“No,” I said.

“Last time you did all the talking.”

“Like a fool. Now⁠—”

We looked at each other’s two dim faces. “You’re glad to be here?”

“I’m glad⁠—I’m beginning to be⁠—it’s more than glad.”

She put her hands on my shoulders and drew me down to kiss her.

“Ah!” she said, and for a moment or so we just clung to one another.

“That’s all,” she said, releasing herself. “What bundles of clothes we are tonight. I felt we should kiss some day again. Always. The last time was ages ago.”

“Among the fern stalks.”

“Among the bracken. You remember. And your lips were cold. Were mine? The same lips⁠—after so long⁠—after so much!⁠ ⁠… And now let’s trudge through this blotted-out world together for a time. Yes, let me take your arm. Just trudge. See? Hold tight to me because I know the way⁠—and don’t talk⁠—don’t talk. Unless you want to talk.⁠ ⁠… Let me tell you things! You see, dear, the whole world is blotted out⁠—it’s dead and gone, and we’re in this place. This dark wild place.⁠ ⁠… We’re dead. Or all the world is dead. No! We’re dead. No one can see us. We’re shadows. We’ve got out of our positions, out of our bodies⁠—and together. That’s the good thing of it⁠—together. But that’s why the world can’t see us and why we hardly see the world. Sssh! Is it all right?”

“It’s all right,” I said.

We stumbled along for a time in a close silence. We passed a dim-lit, rain-veiled window.

“The silly world,” she said, “the silly world! It eats and sleeps. If the wet didn’t patter so from the trees we’d hear it snoring. It’s dreaming such stupid things⁠—stupid judgments. It doesn’t know we are passing, we two⁠—free of it⁠—clear of it. You and I!”

We pressed against each other reassuringly.

“I’m glad we’re dead,” she whispered. “I’m glad we’re dead. I was tired of it, dear. I was so tired of it, dear, and so entangled.”

She stopped abruptly.

We splashed through a string of puddles. I began to remember things I had meant to say.

“Look here!” I cried. “I want to help you beyond measure. You are entangled. What is the trouble? I asked you to marry me. You said you would. But there’s something.”

My thoughts sounded clumsy as I said them.

“Is it something about my position?⁠ ⁠… Or is it something⁠—perhaps⁠—about some other man?”

There was an immense assenting silence.

“You’ve puzzled me so. At first⁠—I mean quite early⁠—I thought you meant to make me marry you.”

“I did.”

“And then⁠—?”

“Tonight,” she said after a long pause, “I can’t explain. No! I can’t explain. I love you! But⁠—explanations! Tonight⁠—my dear, here we are in the world alone⁠—and the world doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Here I am in the cold with you⁠—and my bed away there deserted. I’d tell you⁠—I will tell you when things enable me to tell you, and soon enough they will. But tonight⁠—I won’t. I won’t.”

She left my side and went in front of me.

She turned upon me. “Look here,” she said, “I insist upon your being dead. Do you understand? I’m not joking. Tonight you and I are out of life. It’s our time together. There may be other times, but this we won’t spoil. We’re⁠—in Hades if you like. Where there’s nothing to hide and nothing to tell. No bodies even. No bothers. We loved each other⁠—down there⁠—and were kept apart, but now it doesn’t matter. It’s over.⁠ ⁠… If you won’t agree to that⁠—I will go home.”

“I wanted,” I began.

“I know. Oh! my dear, if you’d only understand I understand. If you’d only not care⁠—and love me tonight.”

“I do love you,” I said.

“Then love me,” she answered, “and leave all the things that bother you. Love me! Here I am!”

“But⁠—!”

“No!” she said.

“Well, have your way.”

So she carried her point, and we wandered into the night together and Beatrice talked to me of love.⁠ ⁠…

I’d never heard a woman before in all my life who could talk of love, who could lay bare and develop and touch with imagination all that mass