Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  The music was beautiful. There was about it a staid, sad dignity; and it seemed to Margaret fit thus to adore God. But it did not move her. She could not understand the words that the priests chanted; their gestures, their movements to and fro, were strange to her. For her that stately service had no meaning. And with a great cry in her heart she said that God had forsaken her. She was alone in an alien land. Evil was all about her, and in those ceremonies she could find no comfort. What could she expect when the God of her fathers left her to her fate? So that she might not weep in front of all those people, Margaret with down-turned face walked to the door. She felt utterly lost. As she walked along the interminable street that led to her own house, she was shaken with sobs.

  ‘God has forsaken me,’ she repeated. ‘God has foresaken me.’

  Next day, her eyes red with weeping, she dragged herself to Haddo’s door. When he opened it, she went in without a word. She sat down, and he watched her in silence.

  ‘I am willing to marry you whenever you choose,’ she said at last.

  ‘I have made all the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘You have spoken to me of your mother. Will you take me to her at once.’

  The shadow of a smile crossed his lips.

  ‘If you wish it.’

  Haddo told her that they could be married before the Consul early enough on the Thursday morning to catch a train for England. She left everything in his hands.

  ‘I’m desperately unhappy,’ she said dully.

  Oliver laid his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

  ‘Go home, and you will forget your tears. I command you to be happy.’

  Then it seemed that the bitter struggle between the good and the evil in her was done, and the evil had conquered. She felt on a sudden curiously elated. It seemed no longer to matter that she deceived her faithful friends. She gave a bitter laugh, as she thought how easy it was to hoodwink them.

  * * * * *

  Wednesday happened to be Arthur’s birthday, and he asked her to dine with him alone.

  ‘We’ll do ourselves proud, and hang the expense,’ he said.

  They had arranged to eat at a fashionable restaurant on the other side of the river, and soon after seven he fetched her. Margaret was dressed with exceeding care. She stood in the middle of the room, waiting for Arthur’s arrival, and surveyed herself in the glass. Susie thought she had never been more beautiful.

  ‘I think you’ve grown more pleasing to look upon than you ever were,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what it is that has come over you of late, but there’s a depth in your eyes that is quite new. It gives you an odd mysteriousness which is very attractive.’

  Knowing Susie’s love for Arthur, she wondered whether her friend was not heartbroken as she compared her own plainness with the radiant beauty that was before her. Arthur came in, and Margaret did not move. He stopped at the door to look at her. Their eyes met. His heart beat quickly, and yet he was seized with awe. His good fortune was too great to bear, when he thought that this priceless treasure was his. He could have knelt down and worshipped as though a goddess of old Greece stood before him. And to him also her eyes had changed. They had acquired a burning passion which disturbed and yet enchanted him. It seemed that the lovely girl was changed already into a lovely woman. An enigmatic smile came to her lips.

  ‘Are you pleased?’ she asked.

  Arthur came forward and Margaret put her hands on his shoulders.

  ‘You have scent on,’ he said.

  He was surprised, for she had never used it before. It was a faint, almost acrid perfume that he did not know. It reminded him vaguely of those odours which he remembered in his childhood in the East. It was remote and strange. It gave Margaret a new and troubling charm. There had ever been something cold in her statuesque beauty, but this touch somehow curiously emphasized her sex. Arthur’s lips twitched, and his gaunt face grew pale with passion. His emotion was so great that it was nearly pain. He was puzzled, for her eyes expressed things that he had never seen in them before.

  ‘Why don’t you kiss me?’ she said.

  She did not see Susie, but knew that a quick look of anguish crossed her face. Margaret drew Arthur towards her. His hands began to tremble. He had never ventured to express the passion that consumed him, and when he kissed her it was with a restraint that was almost brotherly. Now their lips met. Forgetting that anyone else was in the room, he flung his arms around Margaret. She had never kissed him in that way before, and the rapture was intolerable. Her lips were like living fire. He could not take his own away. He forgot everything. All his strength, all his self-control, deserted him. It crossed his mind that at this moment he would willingly die. But the delight of it was so great that he could scarcely withhold a cry of agony. At length Susie’s voice reminded him of the world.

  ‘You’d far better go out to dinner instead of behaving like a pair of complete idiots.’

  She tried to make her tone as flippant as the words, but her voice was cut by a pang of agony. With a little laugh, Margaret withdrew from Arthur’s embrace and lightly looked at her friend. Susie’s brave smile died away as she caught this glance, for there was in it a malicious hatred that startled her. It was so unexpected that she was terrified. What had she done? She was afraid, dreadfully afraid, that Margaret had guessed her secret. Arthur stood as if his senses had left him, quivering still with the extremity of passion.

  ‘Susie says we must go,’ smiled Margaret.

  He could not speak. He could not regain the conventional manner of polite society. Very pale, like a man suddenly awaked from deep sleep, he went out at Margaret’s side. They walked along the passage. Though the door was closed behind them and they were out of earshot, Margaret seemed not withstanding to hear Susie’s passionate sobbing. It gave her a horrible delight. The tavern to which they went was on the Boulevard des Italiens, and at this date the most frequented in Paris. It was crowded, but Arthur had reserved a table in the middle of the room. Her radiant loveliness made people stare at Margaret as she passed, and her consciousness of the admiration she excited increased her beauty. She was satisfied that amid that throng of the best-dressed women in the world she had cause to envy no one. The gaiety was charming. Shaded lights gave an opulent cosiness to the scene, and there were flowers everywhere. Innumerable mirrors reflected women of the world, admirably gowned, actresses of renown, and fashionable courtesans. The noise was very great. A Hungarian band played in a distant corner, but the music was drowned by the loud talking of excited men and the boisterous laughter of women. It was plain that people had come to spend their money with a lavish hand. The vivacious crowd was given over with all its heart to the pleasure of the fleeting moment. Everyone had put aside grave thoughts and sorrow.

  Margaret had never been in better spirits. The champagne went quickly to her head, and she talked all manner of charming nonsense. Arthur was enchanted. He was very proud, very pleased, and very happy. They talked of all the things they would do when they were married. They talked of the places they must go to, of their home and of the beautiful things with which they would fill it. Margaret’s animation was extraordinary. Arthur was amused at her delight with the brightness of the place, with the good things they ate, and with the wine. Her laughter was like a rippling brook. Everything tended to take him out of his usual reserve. Life was very pleasing, at that moment, and he felt singularly joyful.

  ‘Let us drink to the happiness of our life,’ he said.

  They touched glasses. He could not take his eyes away from her.

  ‘You’re simply wonderful tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m almost afraid of my good fortune.’

  ‘What is there to be afraid of?’ she cried.

  ‘I should like to lose something I valued in order to propitiate the fates. I am too happy now. Everything goes too well with me.’

  She gave a soft, low laugh and stretched out her hand on the table. No sculptor could have modelled its exquisite delicacy. Sh
e wore only one ring, a large emerald which Arthur had given her on their engagement. He could not resist taking her hand.

  ‘Would you like to go on anywhere?’ he said, when they had finished dinner and were drinking their coffee.

  ‘No, let us stay here. I must go to bed early, as I have a tiring day before me tomorrow.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing of any importance,’ she laughed.

  Presently the diners began to go in little groups, and Margaret suggested that they should saunter towards the Madeleine. The night was fine, but rather cold, and the broad avenue was crowded. Margaret watched the people. It was no less amusing than a play. In a little while, they took a cab and drove through the streets, silent already, that led to the quarter of the Montparnasse. They sat in silence, and Margaret nestled close to Arthur. He put his arm around her waist. In the shut cab that faint, oriental odour rose again to his nostrils, and his head reeled as it had before dinner.

  ‘You’ve made me very happy, Margaret,’ he whispered. ‘I feel that, however long I live, I shall never have a happier day than this.’

  ‘Do you love me very much?’ she asked, lightly.

  He did not answer, but took her face in his hands and kissed her passionately. They arrived at Margaret’s house, and she tripped up to the door. She held out her hand to him, smiling.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘It’s dreadful to think that I must spend a dozen hours without seeing you. When may I come?’

  ‘Not in the morning, because I shall be too busy. Come at twelve.’

  She remembered that her train started exactly at that hour. The door was opened, and with a little wave of the hand she disappeared.

  10

  Susie stared without comprehension at the note that announced Margaret’s marriage. It was a petit bleu sent off from the Gare du Nord, and ran as follows:

  When you receive this I shall be on my way to London. I was married to Oliver Haddo this morning. I love him as I never loved Arthur. I have acted in this manner because I thought I had gone too far with Arthur to make an explanation possible. Please tell him.

  MARGARET

  Susie was filled with dismay. She did not know what to do nor what to think. There was a knock at the door, and she knew it must be Arthur, for he was expected at midday. She decided quickly that it was impossible to break the news to him then and there. It was needful first to find out all manner of things, and besides, it was incredible. Making up her mind, she opened the door.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry Margaret isn’t here,’ she said. ‘A friend of hers is ill and sent for her suddenly.’

  ‘What a bore!’ answered Arthur. ‘Mrs Bloomfield as usual, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, you know she’s been ill?’

  ‘Margaret has spent nearly every afternoon with her for some days.’

  Susie did not answer. This was the first she had heard of Mrs Bloomfield’s illness, and it was news that Margaret was in the habit of visiting her. But her chief object at this moment was to get rid of Arthur.

  ‘Won’t you come back at five o’clock?’ she said.

  ‘But, look here, why shouldn’t we lunch together, you and I?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, but I’m expecting somebody in.’

  ‘Oh, all right. Then I’ll come back at five.’

  He nodded and went out. Susie read the brief note once more, and asked herself if it could possibly be true. The callousness of it was appalling. She went to Margaret’s room and saw that everything was in its place. It did not look as if the owner had gone on a journey. But then she noticed that a number of letters had been destroyed. She opened a drawer and found that Margaret’s trinkets were gone. An idea struck her. Margaret had bought lately a number of clothes, and these she had insisted should be sent to her dressmaker, saying that it was needless to cumber their little apartment with them. They could stay there till she returned to England a few weeks later for her marriage, and it would be simpler to despatch them all from one place. Susie went out. At the door it occurred to her to ask the concierge if she knew where Margaret had gone that morning.

  ‘Parfaitement, Mademoiselle,’ answered the old woman. ‘I heard her tell the coachman to go to the British Consulate.’

  The last doubt was leaving Susie. She went to the dressmaker and there discovered that by Margaret’s order the boxes containing her things had gone on the previous day to the luggage office of the Gare du Nord.

  ‘I hope you didn’t let them go till your bill was paid,’ said Susie lightly, as though in jest.

  The dressmaker laughed.

  ‘Mademoiselle paid for everything two or three days ago.’

  With indignation, Susie realised that Margaret had not only taken away the trousseau bought for her marriage with Arthur; but, since she was herself penniless, had paid for it with the money which he had generously given her. Susie drove then to Mrs Bloomfield, who at once reproached her for not coming to see her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been exceedingly busy, and I knew that Margaret was looking after you.’

  ‘I’ve not seen Margaret for three weeks,’ said the invalid.

  ‘Haven’t you? I thought she dropped in quite often.’

  Susie spoke as though the matter were of no importance. She asked herself now where Margaret could have spent those afternoons. By a great effort she forced herself to speak of casual things with the garrulous old lady long enough to make her visit seem natural. On leaving her, she went to the Consulate, and her last doubt was dissipated. Then nothing remained but to go home and wait for Arthur. Her first impulse had been to see Dr Porhoët and ask for his advice; but, even if he offered to come back with her to the studio, his presence would be useless. She must see Arthur by himself. Her heart was wrung as she thought of the man’s agony when he knew the truth. She had confessed to herself long before that she loved him passionately, and it seemed intolerable that she of all persons must bear him this great blow.

  She sat in the studio, counting the minutes, and thought with a bitter smile that his eagerness to see Margaret would make him punctual. She had eaten nothing since the petit déjeuner of the morning, and she was faint with hunger. But she had not the heart to make herself tea. At last he came. He entered joyfully and looked around.

  ‘Is Margaret not here yet?’ he asked, with surprise.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  He did not notice that her voice was strange, nor that she kept her eyes averted.

  ‘How lazy you are,’ he cried. ‘You haven’t got the tea.’

  ‘Mr Burdon, I have something to say to you. It will cause you very great pain.’

  He observed now the hoarseness of her tone. He sprang to his feet, and a thousand fancies flashed across his brain. Something horrible had happened to Margaret. She was ill. His terror was so great that he could not speak. He put out his hands as does a blind man. Susie had to make an effort to go on. But she could not. Her voice was choked, and she began to cry. Arthur trembled as though he were seized with ague. She gave him the letter.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  He looked at her vacantly. Then she told him all that she had done that day and the places to which she had been.

  ‘When you thought she was spending every afternoon with Mrs Bloomfield, she was with that man. She made all the arrangements with the utmost care. It was quite premeditated.’

  Arthur sat down and leaned his head on his hand. He turned his back to her, so that she should not see his face. They remained in perfect silence. And it was so terrible that Susie began to cry quietly. She knew that the man she loved was suffering an agony greater than the agony of death, and she could not help him. Rage flared up in her heart, and hatred for Margaret.

  ‘Oh, it’s infamous!’ she cried suddenly. ‘She’s lied to you, she’s been odiously deceitful. She must be vile and heartless. She must be rotten to the very soul.’

  He turned round sharply, and his voice was
hard.

  ‘I forbid you to say anything against her.’

  Susie gave a little gasp. He had never spoken to her before in anger. She flashed out bitterly.

  ‘Can you love her still, when she’s shown herself capable of such vile treachery? For nearly a month this man must have been making love to her, and she’s listened to all we said of him. She’s pretended to hate the sight of him, I’ve seen her cut him in the street. She’s gone on with all the preparations for your marriage. She must have lived in a world of lies, and you never suspected anything because you had an unalterable belief in her love and truthfulness. She owes everything to you. For four years she’s lived on your charity. She was only able to be here because you gave her money to carry out a foolish whim, and the very clothes on her back were paid for by you.’

  ‘I can’t help it if she didn’t love me,’ he cried desperately.

  ‘You know just as well as I do that she pretended to love you. Oh, she’s behaved shamefully. There can be no excuse for her.’

  He looked at Susie with haggard, miserable eyes.

  ‘How can you be so cruel? For God’s sake don’t make it harder.’

  There was an indescribable agony in his voice. And as if his own words of pain overcame the last barrier of his self-control, he broke down. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. Susie was horribly conscience-stricken.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to say such hateful things. I didn’t mean to be unkind. I ought to have remembered how passionately you love her.’

  It was very painful to see the effort he made to regain his self-command. Susie suffered as much as he did. Her impulse was to throw herself on her knees, and kiss his hands, and comfort him; but she knew that he was interested in her only because she was Margaret’s friend. At last he got up and, taking his pipe from his pocket, filled it silently. She was terrified at the look on his face. The first time she had ever seen him, Susie wondered at the possibility of self-torture which was in that rough-hewn countenance; but she had never dreamed that it could express such unutterable suffering. Its lines were suddenly changed, and it was terrible to look upon.