The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(79)
“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.