Tono-Bungay by H. G. Wells (diy ebook reader txt) 📕

“Smithie’s brother. They were at Cromer.”

“Confound Cromer! Yes!”

“How could you bring yourself⁠—”

I felt a spasm of petulant annoyance at this unexpected catastrophe.

“I should like to wring Smithie’s brother’s neck,” I said.⁠ ⁠…

Marion spoke in dry, broken fragments of sentences. “You.⁠ ⁠… I’d always thought that anyhow you couldn’t deceive me.⁠ ⁠… I suppose all men are horrid⁠—about this.”

“It doesn’t strike me as horrid. It seems to me the most necessary consequence⁠—and natural thing in the world.”

I became aware of someone moving about in the passage, and went and shut the door of the room, then I walked back to the hearthrug and turned.

“It’s rough on you,” I said. “But I didn’t mean you to know. You’ve never cared for me. I’ve had the devil of a time. Why should you mind?”

She sat down in a draped armchair. “I have cared for you,” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I suppose,” she said, “She cares for you?”

I had no answer.

“Where is she now?”

“Oh! does it matter to you?⁠ ⁠… Look here, Marion! This⁠—this I didn’t anticipate. I didn’t mean this thing to smash down on you like this. But, you know, something had to happen. I’m sorry⁠—sorry to the bottom of my heart that things have come to this between us. But indeed, I’m taken by surprise. I don’t know where I am⁠—I don’t know how we got here. Things took me by surprise. I found myself alone with her one day. I kissed her. I went on. It seemed stupid to go back. And besides⁠—why should I have gone back? Why should I? From first to last, I’ve hardly thought of it as touching you.⁠ ⁠… Damn!”

She scrutinised my face, and pulled at the ball-fringe of the little table beside her.

“To think of it,” she said. “I don’t believe.⁠ ⁠… I can ever touch you again.”

We kept a long silence. I was only beginning to realise in the most superficial way the immense catastrophe that had happened between us. Enormous issues had rushed upon us. I felt unprepared and altogether inadequate. I was unreasonably angry. There came a rush of stupid expressions to my mind that my rising sense of the supreme importance of the moment saved me from saying. The gap of silence widened until it threatened to become the vast memorable margin of someone among a thousand trivial possibilities of speech that would vex our relations forever.

Our little general servant tapped at the door⁠—Marion always liked the servant to tap⁠—and appeared.

“Tea, M’m,” she said⁠—and vanished, leaving the door open.

“I will go upstairs,” said I, and stopped. “I will go upstairs,” I repeated, “and put my bag in the spare room.”

We remained motionless and silent for a few seconds.

“Mother is having tea with us today,” Marion remarked at last, and dropped the worried end of ball-fringe and stood up slowly.⁠ ⁠…

And so, with this immense discussion of our changed relations hanging over us, we presently had tea with the unsuspecting Mrs. Ramboat and the spaniel. Mrs. Ramboat was too well trained in her position to remark upon our somber preoccupation. She kept a thin trickle of talk going, and told us, I remember, that Mr. Ramboat was “troubled” about his cannas.

“They don’t come up and they won’t come up. He’s been round and had an explanation with the man who sold him the bulbs⁠—and he’s very heated and upset.”

The spaniel was a great bore, begging and doing small tricks first at one and then at the other of us. Neither of us used his name. You see we had called him Miggles, and made a sort of trio in the babytalk of Mutney and Miggles and Ming.

Then presently we resumed our monstrous, momentous dialogue. I can’t now make out how long that dialogue went on. It spread itself, I know, in heavy fragments over either three days or four. I remember myself grouped with Marion, talking sitting on our bed in her room, talking standing in our dining-room, saving this thing or that. Twice we went for long walks. And we had a long evening alone together, with jaded nerves and hearts that fluctuated between a hard and dreary recognition of facts and, on my part at least, a strange unwonted tenderness; because in some extraordinary way this crisis had destroyed our mutual apathy and made us feel one another again.

It was a dialogue that had discrepant parts that fell into lumps of talk that failed to join on to their predecessors, that began again at a different level, higher or lower, that assumed new aspects in the intervals and assimilated new considerations. We discussed the fact that we two were no longer lovers; never before had we faced that. It seems a strange thing to write, but as I look back, I see clearly that those several days were the time when Marion and I were closest together, looked for the first and last time faithfully and steadfastly into each other’s soul. For those days only, there were no pretences, I made no concessions to her nor she to me; we concealed nothing, exaggerated nothing. We had done with pretending. We had it out plainly and soberly with each other. Mood followed mood and got its stark expression.

Of course there was quarreling between us, bitter quarreling, and we said things to one another⁠—long pent-up things that bruised and crushed and cut. But over it all in my memory now is an effect of deliberate confrontation, and the figure of Marion stands up, pale, melancholy, tear-stained, injured, implacable and dignified.

“You love her?” she asked once, and jerked that doubt into my mind.

I struggled with tangled ideas and emotions. “I don’t know what love is. It’s all sorts of things⁠—it’s made of a dozen strands twisted in a thousand ways.”

“But you want her? You want her now⁠—when you think of her?”

“Yes,” I reflected. “I want her⁠—right enough.”

“And me? Where do I come in?”

“I suppose you come in here.”

“Well, but what are you going to do?”

“Do!” I said with the exasperation of the