CHAPTER III : The Time Traveller Returns

I think that at that time none of us quite believed in the TimernMachine. The fact is, the Time Traveller was one of those men who arerntoo clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all round him;rnyou always suspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity in ambush,rnbehind his lucid frankness. Had Filby shown the model and explained thernmatter in the Time Traveller’s words, we should have shown _him_ farrnless scepticism. For we should have perceived his motives: arnpork-butcher could understand Filby. But the Time Traveller had morernthan a touch of whim among his elements, and we distrusted him. Thingsrnthat would have made the fame of a less clever man seemed tricks in hisrnhands. It is a mistake to do things too easily. The serious people whorntook him seriously never felt quite sure of his deportment; they werernsomehow aware that trusting their reputations for judgment with him wasrnlike furnishing a nursery with eggshell china. So I don’t think any ofrnus said very much about time travelling in the interval between thatrnThursday and the next, though its odd potentialities ran, no doubt, inrnmost of our minds: its plausibility, that is, its practicalrnincredibleness, the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utterrnconfusion it suggested. For my own part, I was particularly preoccupiedrnwith the trick of the model. That I remember discussing with thernMedical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnæan. He said he had seen arnsimilar thing at Tübingen, and laid considerable stress on thernblowing-out of the candle. But how the trick was done he could notrnexplain.rnrnThe next Thursday I went again to Richmond—I suppose I was one of thernTime Traveller’s most constant guests—and, arriving late, found four orrnfive men already assembled in his drawing-room. The Medical Man wasrnstanding before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and hisrnwatch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller, and—“It’srnhalf-past seven now,” said the Medical Man. “I suppose we’d better haverndinner?”rnrn“Where’s——?” said I, naming our host.rnrn“You’ve just come? It’s rather odd. He’s unavoidably detained. He asksrnme in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he’s not back. Saysrnhe’ll explain when he comes.”rnrn“It seems a pity to let the dinner spoil,” said the Editor of arnwell-known daily paper; and thereupon the Doctor rang the bell.rnrnThe Psychologist was the only person besides the Doctor and myself whornhad attended the previous dinner. The other men were Blank, the Editorrnaforementioned, a certain journalist, and another—a quiet, shy man withrna beard—whom I didn’t know, and who, as far as my observation went,rnnever opened his mouth all the evening. There was some speculation atrnthe dinner-table about the Time Traveller’s absence, and I suggestedrntime travelling, in a half-jocular spirit. The Editor wanted thatrnexplained to him, and the Psychologist volunteered a wooden account ofrnthe “ingenious paradox and trick” we had witnessed that day week. Hernwas in the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridorrnopened slowly and without noise. I was facing the door, and saw itrnfirst. “Hallo!” I said. “At last!” And the door opened wider, and thernTime Traveller stood before us. I gave a cry of surprise. “Goodrnheavens! man, what’s the matter?” cried the Medical Man, who saw himrnnext. And the whole tableful turned towards the door.rnrnHe was in an amazing plight. His coat was dusty and dirty, and smearedrnwith green down the sleeves; his hair disordered, and as it seemed tornme greyer—either with dust and dirt or because its colour had actuallyrnfaded. His face was ghastly pale; his chin had a brown cut on it—a cutrnhalf-healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, as by intensernsuffering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had beenrndazzled by the light. Then he came into the room. He walked with justrnsuch a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps. We stared at him inrnsilence, expecting him to speak.rnrnHe said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motionrntowards the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne, and pushed itrntowards him. He drained it, and it seemed to do him good: for he lookedrnround the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across hisrnface. “What on earth have you been up to, man?” said the Doctor. ThernTime Traveller did not seem to hear. “Don’t let me disturb you,” hernsaid, with a certain faltering articulation. “I’m all right.” Hernstopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught.“That’s good,” he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour camerninto his cheeks. His glance flickered over our faces with a certainrndull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room. Thenrnhe spoke again, still as it were feeling his way among his words. “I’mrngoing to wash and dress, and then I’ll come down and explain things....rnSave me some of that mutton. I’m starving for a bit of meat.”rnrnHe looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped hernwas all right. The Editor began a question. “Tell you presently,” saidrnthe Time Traveller. “I’m—funny! Be all right in a minute.”rnrnHe put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door. Again Irnremarked his lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, andrnstanding up in my place, I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothingrnon them but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks. Then the doorrnclosed upon him. I had half a mind to follow, till I remembered how herndetested any fuss about himself. For a minute, perhaps, my mind wasrnwool-gathering. Then, “Remarkable Behaviour of an Eminent Scientist,” Irnheard the Editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines. And thisrnbrought my attention back to the bright dinner-table.rnrn“What’s the game?” said the Journalist. “Has he been doing the AmateurrnCadger? I don’t follow.” I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read myrnown interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveller limpingrnpainfully upstairs. I don’t think anyone else had noticed his lameness.rnrnThe first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical Man,rnwho rang the bell—the Time Traveller hated to have servants waiting atrndinner—for a hot plate. At that the Editor turned to his knife and forkrnwith a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. The dinner was resumed.rnConversation was exclamatory for a little while with gaps ofrnwonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in his curiosity. “Does ourrnfriend eke out his modest income with a crossing? or has he hisrnNebuchadnezzar phases?” he inquired. “I feel assured it’s this businessrnof the Time Machine,” I said, and took up the Psychologist’s account ofrnour previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous. ThernEditor raised objections. “What _was_ this time travelling? A manrncouldn’t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?”rnAnd then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature.rnHadn’t they any clothes-brushes in the Future? The Journalist too,rnwould not believe at any price, and joined the Editor in the easy workrnof heaping ridicule on the whole thing. They were both the new kind ofrnjournalist—very joyous, irreverent young men. “Our SpecialrnCorrespondent in the Day after Tomorrow reports,” the Journalist wasrnsaying—or rather shouting—when the Time Traveller came back. He wasrndressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard lookrnremained of the change that had startled me.rnrn“I say,” said the Editor hilariously, “these chaps here say you havernbeen travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about littlernRosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot?”rnrnThe Time Traveller came to the place reserved for him without a word.rnHe smiled quietly, in his old way. “Where’s my mutton?” he said. “Whatrna treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!”rnrn“Story!” cried the Editor.rnrn“Story be damned!” said the Time Traveller. “I want something to eat. Irnwon’t say a word until I get some peptone into my arteries. Thanks. Andrnthe salt.”rnrn“One word,” said I. “Have you been time travelling?”rnrn“Yes,” said the Time Traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.rnrn“I’d give a shilling a line for a verbatim note,” said the Editor. ThernTime Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and rang it withrnhis fingernail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at hisrnface, started convulsively, and poured him wine. The rest of the dinnerrnwas uncomfortable. For my own part, sudden questions kept on rising tornmy lips, and I dare say it was the same with the others. The Journalistrntried to relieve the tension by telling anecdotes of Hettie Potter. ThernTime Traveller devoted his attention to his dinner, and displayed thernappetite of a tramp. The Medical Man smoked a cigarette, and watchedrnthe Time Traveller through his eyelashes. The Silent Man seemed evenrnmore clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regularity andrndetermination out of sheer nervousness. At last the Time Travellerrnpushed his plate away, and looked round us. “I suppose I mustrnapologise,” he said. “I was simply starving. I’ve had a most amazingrntime.” He reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end. “But comerninto the smoking-room. It’s too long a story to tell over greasyrnplates.” And ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into thernadjoining room.rnrn“You have told Blank, and Dash, and Chose about the machine?” he saidrnto me, leaning back in his easy-chair and naming the three new guests.rnrn“But the thing’s a mere paradox,” said the Editor.rnrn“I can’t argue tonight. I don’t mind telling you the story, but I can’trnargue. I will,” he went on, “tell you the story of what has happened tornme, if you like, but you must refrain from interruptions. I want torntell it. Badly. Most of it will sound like lying. So be it! It’srntrue—every word of it, all the same. I was in my laboratory at fourrno’clock, and since then … I’ve lived eight days … such days as no humanrnbeing ever lived before! I’m nearly worn out, but I shan’t sleep tillrnI’ve told this thing over to you. Then I shall go to bed. But norninterruptions! Is it agreed?”rnrn“Agreed,” said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed “Agreed.” And withrnthat the Time Traveller began his story as I have set it forth. He satrnback in his chair at first, and spoke like a weary man. Afterwards herngot more animated. In writing it down I feel with only too muchrnkeenness the inadequacy of pen and ink—and, above all, my ownrninadequacy—to express its quality. You read, I will suppose,rnattentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker’s white, sincerernface in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonationrnof his voice. You cannot know how his expression followed the turns ofrnhis story! Most of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in thernsmoking-room had not been lighted, and only the face of the Journalistrnand the legs of the Silent Man from the knees downward werernilluminated. At first we glanced now and again at each other. After arntime we ceased to do that, and looked only at the Time Traveller’srnface.