The Map of Time Collection, page 155
“But, Monty,” he said, “we’ve been over this a hundred times. If you want to tell Emma who you really are, do it now, because the longer you stall, the more difficult it will become. Remember, it’s been two years since you stepped out of that silly balloon. On the other hand, if you decide not to tell her, you must convince yourself it is the best thing for you both, so you can stop being affected by that kind of remark.”
“I know, George, but the problem is I can’t decide. Part of me thinks I should come clean with her. Find the right moment and explain it to her as best I can. I’m sure she’ll understand . . . Or at least I like to think so.”
“Then do it.”
“But the other part of me doesn’t want to risk spoiling our happiness. If I lose Emma . . . if I lose her, George, I don’t know what I’d do . . . I’m afraid I would lose the will to live.”
“Then don’t do it.”
“You aren’t much help, George,” Murray muttered.
“Damn it, Monty, it’s for you to decide, not me!” exclaimed Wells, “And the sooner the better, because if you keep dragging this burden around with you, it will end up driving you crazy.”
Murray nodded, pursing his lips until they resembled a freshly stitched wound.
“It almost has, George. I spend half the time racked with guilt when I remember that she doesn’t know who I am and the other half worrying that she might find out. Do you remember that Scotland Yard detective who kept hounding me a while back? The arrogant, lanky fellow to whom you revealed my identity so as to save your own skin . . .”
“Yes, yes, I remember,” Wells replied uncomfortably. “I already told you I was sorry. What was I supposed to do? At the time you and I were—”
“I know, George, I know, and I don’t blame you. But the fact remains that during those few months when he was pursuing me I had a dreadful time. I spent a fortune thwarting his various attempts to unmask me. He was like a dog with a bone. It got to the point where I ran out of ideas. I had bribed half of London, but that arrogant devil was still intent upon exposing me. I tell you, it was a veritable war of attrition, but the most difficult part was trying to hide my alarm from Emma. And then one day, out of the blue, when he all but had me cornered, he stopped chasing me.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he suddenly seemed to lose all interest in the investigation, and he hasn’t troubled me since.”
“And you never discovered why he gave up?”
“I imagine some superior of his whom I bribed must have called him off, but I find it hard to believe that a fellow like that wouldn’t kick up a fuss. It could be that he gave up of his own accord, unaware that his quarry was about to surrender. Who knows, perhaps he isn’t as dogged as I thought. Then I calmed down, you see. And I began to toy with the idea that after this no one could ever discover my secret. Until this afternoon.”
“This afternoon?” Wells was surprised.
“Yes, all my old fears came flooding back when I saw Doyle. I was afraid he might recognize me, that he’d use his powers of deduction, and in no time he’d be calling me by my real name.”
Wells laughed.
“Oh, come now, why on earth would Doyle connect you to Gilliam Murray? That would be like thinking I have a time machine in my attic.”
Murray shrugged.
“I imagine that like most of his readers I have always assumed he was as shrewd as his detective.” He paused and seemed to reflect. “In fact, when Murray’s Time Travel still existed, Doyle was one of my most passionate defenders. Did you know he wrote several articles attacking those who accused me of being an impostor? We even exchanged correspondence, in which I described in great detail how I had discovered the hole leading to the fourth dimension during a trip to Africa. When he showed an interest in traveling to the year 2000, I even wrote to tell him that, as a sign of my appreciation for his vindication of me, I would organize an expedition especially for him, just as I had for the queen. But unfortunately, while I was organizing it . . . well, you know . . . the hole disappeared.”
“Hmm. A real pity. Doyle would have loved your future.”
“And so when I saw him here . . . ,” Murray went on, ignoring Wells’s remark, “Good God, George, I thought one glimpse of me and he would give the game away. And what’s more, in front of Emma. And yet he didn’t recognize me, and the fact that not even the creator of Sherlock Holmes himself was able to do so makes me think my secret is safe. Everyone seems to have forgotten all about the Master of Time. Emma need never know my secret, unless I reveal it to her myself.”
Murray’s head started to droop, as if his thoughts weighed him down like lead, until finally he was staring at his shoes. Wells waited patiently for him to continue.
“I could let sleeping dogs lie, of course,” he said at length. “That way I would run no risks; I would only have to struggle with my remorse. But you can’t imagine the terrible bitterness I feel knowing that I’m deceiving her! And I have no idea what to do. What advice can you give me, George?”
“I’m not qualified to give you any advice, Monty.”
“Oh, come. You gave me the best advice anyone has ever given me in your letter. Please tell me what to do.”
“I never wrote that damned— Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Wells gave a weary sigh. “Very well, Monty, I’ll tell you what I would do.”
But for several moments Wells said nothing. He felt incapable of deciding which of the two options was the best, since there were arguments in favor of both. He could advise Murray to confess, insisting Emma deserved to know his true identity. But he could just as well recommend he keep quiet, insisting that she was blissful in her ignorance and it didn’t matter what he might have done in the past because he had changed so radically, it was as if someone else had done them. But the worst thing of all, Wells told himself, wasn’t that he couldn’t help Murray choose between the two options, but rather that he couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Try as he might (and he had been trying for two years) he couldn’t understand what the problem was. As he saw it, there was no reason for Emma to be angry about something like that. If Jane had told him that prior to meeting him she had been the famous sword swallower Selma Cavalieri, would he have left her? Of course not. Nor did he understand why Murray was plagued with remorse by the thought that Emma didn’t know who he really was. Wells was sure that, in his case, if he had decided that the best way to hold on to what he had was to keep a secret, he would have done so without hesitation. Why did Murray find that so difficult? He had no idea, but he sensed that wasn’t the right question, and that he should be asking himself why he found it so easy. Because he lacked empathy, he told himself, that deficiency Jane so often referred to in order to explain his behavior. If he was empathic, he could have put himself in Murray’s shoes and told him what the best course of action was for him. But that ability, instinctive in most people, was refused him. Murray had asked for his advice, and in order not to disappoint him, Wells could only choose one of those two options, however arbitrarily, and by means of that friendly gesture hide the fact that the lives of others were of no consequence to him.
“Well, George?” Murray asked in response to his lengthy silence.
“You should tell her,” replied Wells, who might just as well have said the opposite.
“Do you really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Why?” Murray asked wretchedly.
Wells had to stifle a shrug.
“Because otherwise your happiness will be built on a lie,” he improvised. “Is that what Emma deserves? I don’t think so. She trusts you, Monty. It would never occur to her that you had secrets, much less that you are the Master of Time. If one day she discovered the truth, wouldn’t she feel betrayed by the only person in the world from whom she would never expect a betrayal? And does her not being able to discover it make you any less of a traitor? You claim you love her. If that’s true, how can you allow your love to be anything but completely honest?”
Murray reflected on what Wells had said, while for his part Wells mulled over how common it was for people to seek advice from others, to allow somebody else to decide for them, somebody who could examine the problem objectively, theoretically, safe from any ramifications.
“I suppose you are right, George,” Murray said at last. “I take pride in loving her, and yet my love is flawed. It contains an impurity, a stain I must expunge. Emma doesn’t deserve a love that isn’t completely truthful. I shall tell her, George. I shall be brave and I’ll do it. Before the wedding.”
After making that promise, Murray flung his arms around Wells, who felt as if a grizzly bear were embracing him. The pair of them went back inside the cottage and took up their respective places at the table. No one asked about the biscuits. For a time, Doyle went on talking of seals, and oceans bristling with icebergs, while Murray was content to nod occasionally, visibly distracted. It was clear he was mulling over what Wells had just said to him, but Wells knew that no matter how intent Murray was upon following his advice, as always, the days would go by and he would fail to confess his true identity to Emma. Finally, even Doyle’s adventures proved not to be inexhaustible, and after he ended his monologue with the usual moral he had drawn from the story, the conversation languished without anyone making any effort to stimulate it. It was already late, and the journey back was a long one, and so they decided to bid one another good-bye, setting a date for their excursion to Dartmoor the following week. However, judging from the look of determination on Murray’s face, Wells had the sudden suspicion that on this occasion time might fail to weaken his resolve. It was quite possible that when they next met, Murray would have confessed to Emma that she was about to marry the Master of Time.
That night, Wells found it hard to fall asleep. He was fretting about what consequences his advice might bring if this time Murray was bold enough to follow it. Emma struck him as both sufficiently intelligent and in love for Murray’s confession only to strengthen their bond. But what if it didn’t? What if Emma was incapable of forgiving him and abandoned him? Should he feel guilty? Was it possible that in a part of his brain he rarely visited, the flame of his old hatred toward Murray was still burning and that the advice he had given him was designed to destroy his happiness, that dazzling, hypnotic happiness he perhaps secretly envied? No, Wells was certain that no remnants of his old animosity had survived. Otherwise he would never have gone to talk to Inspector Clayton two years before.
Wells only knew the inspector briefly from their excursion to Horsell Common on the morning the Martian cylinder had appeared, but something told him that this arrogant, meticulous fellow’s determination to unmask Montgomery Gilmore would never wane, no matter how much money the millionaire threw at the situation. And so, one morning Wells had turned up at Clayton’s office and supplied the answers he was looking for: after all, it was only a matter of time before the inspector discovered them for himself. He did so secretly, hoping that the inspector’s need for truth outweighed his desire for glory, and once he had confirmed this to be the case, he used all his rhetorical skill to try to persuade the inspector to abandon the case: assuring him that this man was nothing like his former self, that everyone deserved a second chance, and much more besides. Sadly, none of his arguments succeeded in swaying Clayton. Finally, out of desperation, he had even appealed to the love story between Murray and Emma, which was the toast of all England, which had begun with the appearance of the Martian cylinder, and which Clayton had no right to destroy, even though it might pin another medal on his chest. If he made public everything he knew about Murray, Emma would probably abandon him and they would never be together again. Do you think you can persuade me with an argument like that? Clayton had exclaimed with a sardonic smile, to which Wells, cringing at his own words, had replied that he didn’t, because to have done so, the inspector would have had to have known the torment of being condemned to go on living after hurting the person he loved most. The inspector had remained silent for a few moments, after which he asked Wells politely to leave his office, which he did, cursing his lamentable performance. Because of Murray, he had championed love, only to make himself look ridiculous in front of that stuck-up young man. However, during the following weeks, Murray made no more mention of Inspector Clayton, and Wells gradually realized that whilst he considered it an overrated emotion, love was a sentiment many others valued, and so when they came across it would step respectfully around it, as they might a flowerbed.
And so, in brief, Wells had prevented Emma from discovering her fiancé’s secret. Then why the devil had he just advised Murray to tell her, when he could have done the exact opposite? In order to discover the answer to that, Wells would have to delve too deeply into his soul, and so he preferred to let it slide.
And yet Wells was struck by the parallels between that scene and the afternoon when Murray went to his house to ask his opinion about his shoddy little novel. Then, also, Wells could have chosen between two options. He had held the dreams of that complete stranger in his hands while Murray awaited his verdict pathetically ensconced in the armchair in his living room. And this afternoon someone had arranged the pieces in exactly the same way beside the hibiscus bush, so that Wells had the same feeling as five years ago of being able to set Murray’s life on the course he chose, no matter that he was now Wells’s best friend.
With a shudder, Wells wondered what Murray might find at the end of the path he had chosen for him this time.
15
DESPITE FINDING HERSELF ON HER aunt’s front step, sheltered from an overcast sky, Emma Harlow gave a sigh, opened her parasol, and began twirling it above her head. It was the day of the trip to Dartmoor, and Monty was already half an hour late. He had promised her the day before that he would be on time. On the dot! he had said solemnly, as though reciting a family motto. He had even asked her to start waiting on the front step a few minutes early, because he had a surprise he wanted to show her, something to do with the way they would travel to Dartmoor, which was worth beholding in all its splendor. And Emma had deigned to accept, concealing a delighted smile, for secretly there was nothing she liked more than the theatricality with which her fiancé celebrated every occasion, which made her feel like a little girl who had stumbled into a great magician’s secret lair. But after standing there for half an hour, bored and cold, she was beginning to regret having indulged him. Narrowing her eyes, Emma surveyed the driveway that crossed the gardens of her aunt’s town house, then looked up at the leaden sky, unable to rule out the possibility that Monty might emerge from the clouds sitting on some preposterous flying machine.
“Goodness me! Are you still here?”
Emma wheeled round angrily, preparing to take out her frustration on her aunt, but seeing the old lady planted in the doorway, bundled up in various shawls, some of her irritation vanished.
“Yes, Aunt Dorothy,” she sighed. “As you have so cleverly perceived, I am still here.”
“I told you so,” the old lady muttered, ignoring her niece’s irony. “There was no need to go out so early to wait for him. I don’t know why you still haven’t realized that punctuality is not your fiancé’s strong point. Although, heaven forgive me for offering my unsolicited opinion, I would be hard-pressed to say what his other strong points might be.”
“Please, Auntie . . . not now.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t come outside in this infernal weather to talk about your beloved Gilmore. I have little or nothing more to say about him. Quite frankly, for the past two years the subject bores me. I only came out to implore you to step inside, my girl. It is freezing out here! The servants will inform you when he arrives.”
“No, Auntie. Monty specifically asked me to wait on the front step. Apparently, he has a surprise for me, and—”
“He can give it to you when he gets here!” her aunt interrupted. “It’s far too damp out here. You’ll catch your death! I can’t imagine what would happen if you fell ill weeks before your wedding. It would be a complete disaster! What would I say to your wretched parents, who will arrive any day now? After their shock at your unusual engagement and your subsequent refusal to have the wedding in New York, not to mention the recriminations I have had to endure because of it all . . .”
“Come, now, Auntie, nobody who knows me—and I assure you my parents know me very well—could possibly hold you responsible for my actions.”
“Well, they do! And your mother, my beloved sister-in-law, has made it her business to tell me as much in all her delightful letters, in that subtle, insinuating way of hers. I’m sure they think I didn’t protect you enough when, two years ago, they placed you in my care so that you could enjoy a nice, safe holiday on the old continent. But how could I have suspected such contempt for the rules of etiquette in a young lady of your upbringing? Anyway, for better or for worse,” she went on with the resigned tone of a martyr, “you will be Mrs. Gilmore in a few weeks’ time and will no longer be my responsibility. But there is one last thing I will say, dear niece: notwithstanding my horror at the idea of a distinguished Harlow marrying an adventurer of uncertain origin, who made his fortune as a common merchant, I confess that after living with you for two years I can’t imagine any other man who would put up with you.”
“And I, dear Auntie, couldn’t agree with you more. In fact, before I met Monty, I had decided not to get married at all, for I doubted any man was capable of making me happy.”
