THE NEW MACHIAVELLI

6

I had to tell what were, so far as I can remember my first positive

lies to Margaret in explaining that return. I had written to her

from Chicago and again from New York, saying that I felt I ought to

be on the spot in England for the new session, and that I was coming

back-presently. I concealed the name of my boat from her, and made

a calculated prevarication when I announced my presence in London.

I telephoned before I went back for my rooms to be prepared. She

was, I knew, with the Bunting Harblows in Durham, and when she came

back to Radnor Square I had been at home a day.

I remember her return so well.

My going away and the vivid secret of the present had wiped out from

my mind much of our long estrangement. Something, too, had changed

in her. I had had some hint of it in her letters, but now I saw it

plainly. I came out of my study upon the landing when I heard the

turmoil of her arrival below, and she came upstairs with a quickened

gladness. It was a cold March, and she was dressed in unfamiliar

dark furs that suited her extremely and reinforced the delicate

flush of her sweet face. She held out both her hands to me, and

drew me to her unhesitatingly and kissed me.

"So glad you are back, dear," she said. "Oh! so very glad you are

back."

I returned her kiss with a queer feeling at my heart, too

undifferentiated to be even a definite sense of guilt or meanness.

I think it was chiefly amazement-at the universe-at myself.

"I never knew what it was to be away from you," she said.

I perceived suddenly that she had resolved to end our estrangement.

She put herself so that my arm came caressingly about her.

"These are jolly furs," I said.

"I got them for you."

The parlourmaid appeared below dealing with the maid and the luggage

cab.

"Tell me all about America," said Margaret. "I feel as though you'd

been away six year's."

We went arm in arm into our little sitting-room, and I took off the

fur's for her and sat down upon the chintz-covered sofa by the fire.

She had ordered tea, and came and sat by me. I don't know what I

had expected, but of all things I had certainly not expected this

sudden abolition of our distances.

"I want to know all about America," she repeated, with her eyes

scrutinising me. "Why did you come back?"

I repeated the substance of my letters rather lamely, and she sat

listening.

"But why did you turn back-without going to Denver?"

"I wanted to come back. I was restless."

"Restlessness," she said, and thought. "You were restless in

Venice. You said it was restlessness took you to America."

Again she studied me. She turned a little awkwardly to her tea

things, and poured needless water from the silver kettle into the

teapot. Then she sat still for some moments looking at the equipage

with expressionless eyes. I saw her hand upon the edge of the table

tremble slightly. I watched her closely. A vague uneasiness

possessed me. What might she not know or guess?

She spoke at last with an effort. "I wish you were in Parliament

again," she said. "Life doesn't give you events enough."

"If I was in Parliament again, I should be on the Conservative

side."

"I know," she said, and was still more thoughtful.

"Lately," she began, and paused. "Lately I've been reading-you."

I didn't help her out with what she had to say. I waited.

"I didn't understand what you were after. I had misjudged. I

didn't know. I think perhaps I was rather stupid." Her eyes were

suddenly shining with tears. "You didn't give me much chance to

understand."

She turned upon me suddenly with a voice full of tears.

"Husband," she said abruptly, holding her two hands out to me, "I

want to begin over again!"

I took her hands, perplexed beyond measure. "My dear!" I said.

"I want to begin over again."

I bowed my head to hide my face, and found her hand in mine and

kissed it.

"Ah!" she said, and slowly withdrew her hand. She leant forward

with her arm on the sofa-back, and looked very intently into my

face. I felt the most damnable scoundrel in the world as I returned

her gaze. The thought of Isabel's darkly shining eyes seemed like a

physical presence between us…

"Tell me," I said presently, to break the intolerable tension, "tell

me plainly what you mean by this."

I sat a little away from her, and then took my teacup in hand, with

an odd effect of defending myself. "Have you been reading that old

book of mine?" I asked.

"That and the paper. I took a complete set from the beginning down

to Durham with me. I have read it over, thought it over. I didn't

understand-what you were teaching."

There was a little pause.

"It all seems so plain to me now," she said, "and so true."

I was profoundly disconcerted. I put down my teacup, stood up in

the middle of the hearthrug, and began talking. "I'm tremendously

glad, Margaret, that you've come to seeI'm not altogether

perverse," I began. I launched out into a rather trite and windy

exposition of my views, and she sat close to me on the sofa, looking

up into my face, hanging on my words, a deliberate and invincible

convert.

"Yes," she said, "yes."…

I had never doubted my new conceptions before; now I doubted them

profoundly. But I went on talking. It's the grim irony in the

lives of all politicians, writers, public teachers, that once the

audience is at their feet, a new loyalty has gripped them. It isn't

their business to admit doubt and imperfections. They have to go on

talking. And I was now so accustomed to Isabel's vivid interruptions,

qualifications, restatements, and confirmations…

Margaret and I dined together at home. She made me open out my

political projects to her. "I have been foolish," she said. "I

want to help."

And by some excuse I have forgotten she made me come to her room. I

think it was some book I had to take her, some American book I had

brought back with me, and mentioned in our talk. I walked in with

it, and put it down on the table and turned to go.

"Husband!" she cried, and held out her slender arms to me. I was

compelled to go to her and kiss her, and she twined them softly

about my neck and drew me to her and kissed me. I disentangled them

very gently, and took each wrist and kissed it, and the backs of her

hands.

"Good-night," I said. There came a little pause. "Good-night,

Margaret," I repeated, and walked very deliberately and with a kind

of sham preoccupation to the door.

I did not look at her, but I could feel her standing, watching me.

If I had looked up, she would, I knew, have held out her arms to

me…

At the very outset that secret, which was to touch no one but Isabel

and myself, had reached out to stab another human being.