Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I shall have you all tomorrow.”

  He looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking forward to spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that he must do that in common decency; he could not leave her by herself in a strange house.

  “I’m awfully sorry, I’m engaged tomorrow.”

  He knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have given anything to avoid. The colour on Norah’s cheeks grew brighter.

  “But I’ve asked the Gordons to lunch” — they were an actor and his wife who were touring the provinces and in London for Sunday— “I told you about it a week ago.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, I forgot.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly come. Isn’t there somebody else you can get?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow then?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t cross-examine me.”

  “Don’t you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t in the least mind telling you, but it’s rather annoying to be forced to account for all one’s movements.”

  Norah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got the better of her temper, and going up to him took his hands.

  “Don’t disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I’ve been looking forward so much to spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see you, and we’ll have such a jolly time.”

  “I’d love to if I could.”

  “I’m not very exacting, am I? I don’t often ask you to do anything that’s a bother. Won’t you get out of your horrid engagement — just this once?”

  “I’m awfully sorry, I don’t see how I can,” he replied sullenly.

  “Tell me what it is,” she said coaxingly.

  He had had time to invent something. “Griffiths’ two sisters are up for the week-end and we’re taking them out.”

  “Is that all?” she said joyfully. “Griffiths can so easily get another man.”

  He wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It was a clumsy lie.

  “No, I’m awfully sorry, I can’t — I’ve promised and I mean to keep my promise.”

  “But you promised me too. Surely I come first.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t persist,” he said.

  She flared up.

  “You won’t come because you don’t want to. I don’t know what you’ve been doing the last few days, you’ve been quite different.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to be going,” he said.

  “You won’t come tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “In that case you needn’t trouble to come again,” she cried, losing her temper for good.

  “That’s just as you like,” he answered.

  “Don’t let me detain you any longer,” she added ironically.

  He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that it had gone no worse. There had been no tears. As he walked along he congratulated himself on getting out of the affair so easily. He went into Victoria Street and bought a few flowers to take in to Mildred.

  The little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a small pot of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy, which was her favourite wine. With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and one of Mildred’s shades on the lamp, the room was cosy.

  “It’s really just like home,” smiled Philip.

  “I might be worse off, mightn’t I?” she answered.

  When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire, and they sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt happy and generous.

  “What would you like to do tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the shop, well, she’s married now, and she’s asked me to go and spend the day with her. Of course she thinks I’m married too.”

  Philip’s heart sank.

  “But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with you.”

  He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she would stay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not have hesitated.

  “Well, you were a silly to do that. I’ve promised to go for three weeks and more.”

  “But how can you go alone?”

  “Oh, I shall say that Emil’s away on business. Her husband’s in the glove trade, and he’s a very superior fellow.”

  Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart. She gave him a sidelong glance.

  “You don’t grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it’s the last time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don’t know how long, and I had promised.”

  He took her hand and smiled.

  “No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only want you to be happy.”

  There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a twopenny novelette, and the author was Courtenay Paget. That was the name under which Norah wrote.

  “I do like his books,” said Mildred. “I read them all. They’re so refined.”

  He remembered what Norah had said of herself.

  “I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me so genteel.”

  LXXI

  Philip, in return for Griffiths’ confidences, had told him the details of his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning, after breakfast when they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the scene of the previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got out of his difficulties so easily.

  “It’s the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman,” he remarked sententiously, “but it’s a devil of a nuisance to get out of it.”

  Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill in managing the business. At all events he was immensely relieved. He thought of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill, and he found in himself a real satisfaction because she was happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his part that he did not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.

  But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah. She wrote:

  Dearest,

  I’m sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in the afternoon as usual. I love you.

  Your Norah.

  His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note to

  Griffiths and showed it to him.

  “You’d better leave it unanswered,” said he.

  “Oh, I can’t,” cried Philip. “I should be miserable if I thought of her waiting and waiting. You don’t know what it is to be sick for the postman’s knock. I do, and I can’t expose anybody else to that torture.”

  “My dear fellow, one can’t break that sort of affair off without somebody suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One thing is, it doesn’t last very long.”

  Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer; and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was capable of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had told him she was going to be married. He did not want anyone to experience what he had experienced then.

  “If you’re so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her,” said

  Griffiths.

  “I can’t do that.”

  He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was angry with Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She must have seen that he had no more love to give her. They said women were so quick at seeing those things.

  “You might help me,” he said to Griffiths.

  “My dear fellow, don’t make such a fuss about it. People do get over these things, you know. She probably isn’t so wrapped up in you as you think, either. One’s always rather apt to exaggerate the passi
on one’s inspired other people with.”

  He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.

  “Look here, there’s only one thing you can do. Write to her, and tell her the thing’s over. Put it so that there can be no mistake about it. It’ll hurt her, but it’ll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally than if you try half-hearted ways.”

  Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:

  My dear Norah,

  I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let things remain where we left them on Saturday. I don’t think there’s any use in letting these things drag on when they’ve ceased to be amusing. You told me to go and I went. I do not propose to come back. Good-bye. Philip Carey.

  He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought of it. Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling eyes. He did not say what he felt.

  “I think that’ll do the trick,” he said.

  Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable morning, for he imagined with great detail what Norah would feel when she received his letter. He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at the same time he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief seen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day’s work at the hospital was over.

  When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him.

  “May I come in? I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”

  It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile.

  “Yes, do,” he said.

  He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. She looked at him brightly.

  “Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I’d taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched.”

  “It was meant seriously,” he answered gravely.

  “Don’t be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and apologised. You weren’t satisfied, so I’ve come here to apologise again. After all, you’re your own master and I have no claims upon you. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

  She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands.

  “Let’s make friends again, Philip. I’m so sorry if I offended you.”

  He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at her.

  “I’m afraid it’s too late,” he said.

  She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees.

  “Philip, don’t be silly. I’m quick-tempered too and I can understand that I hurt you, but it’s so stupid to sulk over it. What’s the good of making us both unhappy? It’s been so jolly, our friendship.” She passed her fingers slowly over his hand. “I love you, Philip.”

  He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the room.

  “I’m awfully sorry, I can’t do anything. The whole thing’s over.”

  “D’you mean to say you don’t love me any more?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took that one?”

  He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the other. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned away.

  “I’m awfully sorry to hurt you. It’s not my fault if I don’t love you.”

  She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been easier to bear if she had reproached him. He had thought her temper would get the better of her, and he was prepared for that. At the back of his mind was a feeling that a real quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would in some way be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At last he grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room and got a glass of water; he leaned over her.

  “Won’t you drink a little? It’ll relieve you.”

  She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three mouthfuls. Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a handkerchief. She dried her eyes.

  “Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you,” she moaned.

  “I’m afraid that’s always the case,” he said. “There’s always one who loves and one who lets himself be loved.”

  He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart. Norah did not answer for a long time.

  “I’d been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful,” she said at last.

  She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her before complain of the life she had led with her husband or of her poverty. He had always admired the bold front she displayed to the world.

  “And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I admired you because you were clever and it was so heavenly to have someone I could put my trust in. I loved you. I never thought it could come to an end. And without any fault of mine at all.”

  Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of herself, and she hid her face in Philip’s handkerchief. She tried hard to control herself.

  “Give me some more water,” she said.

  She wiped her eyes.

  “I’m sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me.”

  He wondered what it was she saw in him.

  “Oh, it’s always the same,” she sighed, “if you want men to behave well to you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you suffer for it.”

  She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip a long, steady look. Then she sighed.

  “It’s so inexplicable. What does it all mean?”

  Philip took a sudden determination.

  “I think I’d better tell you, I don’t want you to think too badly of me,

  I want you to see that I can’t help myself. Mildred’s come back.”

  The colour came to her face.

  “Why didn’t you tell me at once? I deserved that surely.”

  “I was afraid to.”

  She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight.

  “Will you call me a cab,” she said. “I don’t feel I can walk.”

  He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed him into the street he was startled to see how white she was. There was a heaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older. She looked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone.

  “I’ll drive back with you if you don’t mind.”

  She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill cries, played in the road. When they arrived at her door she did not immediately get out. It seemed as though she could not summon enough strength to her legs to move.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, Norah,” he said.

  She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips.

  “Poor fellow, you’re quite worried about me. You mustn’t bother. I don’t blame you. I shall get over it all right.”

  Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no ill-feeling, the gestu
re was scarcely more than suggested; then she jumped out of the cab and let herself into her house.

  Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred’s lodgings. There was a curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to reproach himself. But why? He did not know what else he could have done. Passing a fruiterer’s, he remembered that Mildred was fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he could show his love for her by recollecting every whim she had.

  LXXII

  For the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. A happy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her.

  “Don’t waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work,” she said.

  “Tyrant,” he answered gaily.

  He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue. Mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in. The good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred’s sense of propriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered something which tempted Mildred’s capricious appetite. It enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against her knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his happiness.

  “Had a nice little nap?” he smiled, when she woke.

  “I’ve not been sleeping,” she answered. “I only just closed my eyes.”

  She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her. She took a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. She went for a ‘constitutional’ every morning that it was fine and remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she sat in St. James’ Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant detail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. Now and then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; “I’m one to keep myself to myself,” she said, “I’m not one to go about with anybody.”) and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.