Tono-Bungay H. G. Wells (popular novels .txt) 📖

interpretation. This was Life! It came to me like a revelation, a revelation at once incredible and indisputable of the abysmal folly of our being. III

I was roused from such thoughts by the sound of footsteps behind me.

I turned half hopeful⁠—so foolish is a lover’s imagination, and stopped amazed. It was my uncle. His face was white⁠—white as I had seen it in my dream.

“Hullo!” I said, and stared. “Why aren’t you in London?”

“It’s all up,” he said.⁠ ⁠…

“Adjudicated?”

“No!”

I stared at him for a moment, and then got off the stile.

He stood swaying and then came forward with a weak motion of his arms like a man who cannot see distinctly, and caught at and leant upon the stile. For a moment we were absolutely still. He made a clumsy gesture towards the great futility below and choked. I discovered that his face was wet with tears, that his wet glasses blinded him. He put up his little fat hand and clawed them off clumsily, felt inefficiently for his pocket-handkerchief, and then, to my horror, as he clung to me, he began to weep aloud, this little, old worldworn swindler. It wasn’t just sobbing or shedding tears, it was crying as a child cries. It was⁠—oh! terrible!

“It’s cruel,” he blubbered at last. “They asked me questions. They kep’ asking me questions, George.”

He sought for utterance, and spluttered.

“The bloody bullies!” he shouted. “The bloody bullies.”

He ceased to weep. He became suddenly rapid and explanatory.

“It’s not a fair game, George. They tire you out. And I’m not well. My stomach’s all wrong. And I been and got a cold. I always been li’ble to cold, and this one’s on my chest. And then they tell you to speak up. They bait you⁠—and bait you, and bait you. It’s torture. The strain of it. You can’t remember what you said. You’re bound to contradict yourself. It’s like Russia, George.⁠ ⁠… It isn’t fair play.⁠ ⁠… Prominent man. I’ve been next at dinners with that chap, Neal; I’ve told him stories⁠—and he’s bitter! Sets out to ruin me. Don’t ask a civil question⁠—bellows.” He broke down again. “I’ve been bellowed at, I been bullied, I been treated like a dog. Dirty cads they are! Dirty cads! I’d rather be a Three-Card Sharper than a barrister; I’d rather sell cat’s-meat in the streets.

“They sprung things on me this morning, things I didn’t expect. They rushed me! I’d got it all in my hands and then I was jumped. By Neal! Neal I’ve given city tips to! Neal! I’ve helped Neal.⁠ ⁠…

“I couldn’t swallow a mouthful⁠—not in the lunch hour. I couldn’t face it. It’s true, George⁠—I couldn’t face it. I said I’d get a bit of air and slipped out and down to the Embankment, and there I took a boat to Richmond. Some idee. I took a rowing boat when I got there and I rowed about on the river for a bit. A lot of chaps and girls there was on the bank laughed at my shirtsleeves and top hat. Dessay they thought it was a pleasure trip. Fat lot of pleasure! I rowed round for a bit and came in. Then I came on here. Windsor way. And there they are in London doing what they like with me.⁠ ⁠… I don’t care!”

“But⁠—” I said, looking down at him, perplexed.

“It’s abscondin’. They’ll have a warrant.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“It’s all up, George⁠—all up and over.

“And I thought I’d live in that place, George⁠—and die a lord! It’s a great place, reely, an imperial⁠—if anyone has the sense to buy it and finish it. That terrace⁠—”

I stood thinking him over.

“Look here!” I said. “What’s that about⁠—a warrant? Are you sure they’ll get a warrant? I’m sorry uncle; but what have you done?”

“Haven’t I told you?”

“Yes, but they won’t do very much to you for that. They’ll only bring you up for the rest of your examination.”

He remained silent for a time. At last he spoke⁠—speaking with difficulty.

“It’s worse than that. I’ve done something. They’re bound to get it out. Practically they have got it out.”

“What?”

“Writin’ things down⁠—I done something.”

For the first time in his life, I believe, he felt and looked ashamed. It filled me with remorse to see him suffer so.

“We’ve all done things,” I said. “It’s part of the game the world makes us play. If they want to arrest you⁠—and you’ve got no cards in your hand⁠—! They mustn’t arrest you.”

“No. That’s partly why I went to Richmond. But I never thought⁠—”

His little bloodshot eyes stared at Crest Hill.

“That chap Wittaker Wright,” he said, “he had his stuff ready. I haven’t. Now you got it, George. That’s the sort of hole I’m in.”

IV

That memory of my uncle at the gate is very clear and full. I am able to recall even the undertow of my thoughts while he was speaking. I remember my pity and affection for him in his misery growing and stirring within me, my realisation that at any risk I must help him. But then comes indistinctness again. I was beginning to act. I know I persuaded him to put himself in my hands, and began at once to plan and do. I think that when we act most we remember least, that just in the measure that the impulse of our impressions translates itself into schemes and movements, it ceases to record itself in memories. I know I resolved to get him away at once, and to use the Lord Roberts β in effecting that. It was clear he was soon to be a hunted man, and it seemed to me already unsafe for him to try the ordinary Continental routes in his flight. I had to evolve some scheme, and evolve it rapidly, how we might drop most inconspicuously into the world across the water. My resolve to have one flight at least in my airship fitted with this like hand to glove. It seemed to me we might be able