‘She says she’s got a situation,’ repeated Mrs Griffith, with a sneer at her husband, ‘and we’re not to be angry or anxious, and she’s quite happy — and we can write to Charing Cross Post Office. I know what sort of a situation she’s got.’
Mr Griffith looked from his wife to his son.
‘Don’t you think it’s true?’ he asked helplessly. At the first moment he had put the fullest faith in Daisy’s letter, he had been so anxious to believe it; but the scorn of the others....
‘There’s Miss Reed coming down the street,’ said George. ‘She’s looking this way, and she’s crossing over. I believe she’s coming in.’
‘What does she want?’ asked Mrs Griffith, angrily.
There was another knock at the door, and through the curtains they saw Miss Reed’s eyes looking towards them, trying to pierce the muslin. Mrs Griffith motioned the two men out of the room, and hurriedly put antimacassars on the chairs. The knock was repeated, and Mrs Griffith, catching hold of a duster, went to the door.
‘Oh, Miss Reed! Who’d have thought of seeing you?’ she cried with surprise.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing,’ answered Miss Reed, with an acid smile.
‘Oh, dear no!’ said Mrs Griffith. ‘I was just doing the dusting in the parlour. Come in, won’t you? The place is all upside down, but you won’t mind that, will you?’
Miss Reed sat on the edge of a chair.
‘I thought I’d just pop in to ask about dear Daisy. I met Fanning as I was coming along and he told me you’d had a letter.’
‘Oh! Daisy?’ Mrs Griffith had understood at once why Miss Reed came, but she was rather at a loss for an answer.... ‘Yes, we have had a letter from her. She’s up in London.’
‘Yes, I knew that,’ said Miss Reed. ‘George Browning saw them get into the London train, you know.’
Mrs Griffith saw it was no good fencing, but an idea occurred to her.
‘Yes, of course her father and I are very distressed about — her eloping like that.’
‘I can quite understand that,’ said Miss Reed.
‘But it was on account of his family. He didn’t want anyone to know about it till he was married.’
‘Oh!’ said Miss Reed, raising her eyebrows very high.
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Griffith, ‘that’s what she said in her letter; they were married on Saturday at a registry office.’
‘But, Mrs Griffith, I’m afraid she’s been deceiving you. It’s Captain Hogan.... and he’s a married man.’
She could have laughed outright at the look of dismay on Mrs Griffith’s face. The blow was sudden, and notwithstanding all her power of self-control, Mrs Griffith could not help herself. But at once she recovered, an angry flush appeared on her cheek bones.
‘You don’t mean it?’ she cried.
‘I’m afraid it’s quite true,’ said Miss Reed, humbly. ‘In fact I know it is.’
‘Then she’s a lying, deceitful hussy, and she’s made a fool of all of us. I give you my word of honour that she told us she was married; I’ll fetch you the letter.’ Mrs Griffith rose from her chair, but Miss Reed put out a hand to stop her.
‘Oh, don’t trouble, Mrs Griffith; of course I believe you,’ she said, and Mrs Griffith immediately sat down again.
But she burst into a storm of abuse of Daisy, for her deceitfulness and wickedness. She vowed she should never forgive her. She assured Miss Reed again and again that she had known nothing about it. Finally she burst into a perfect torrent of tears. Miss Reed was mildly sympathetic; but now she was anxious to get away to impart her news to the rest of Blackstable. Mrs Griffith sobbed her visitor out of the front door, but, when she had closed it, dried her tears. She went into the parlour and flung open the door that led to the back room. Griffith was sitting with his face hidden in his hands, and every now and then a sob shook his great frame. George was very pale, biting his nails.
‘You heard what she said,’ cried Mrs Griffith. ‘He’s married!’... She looked at her husband contemptuously. ‘It’s all very well for you to carry on like that now. It was you who did it; it was all your fault. If she’d been brought up as I wanted her to be, this wouldn’t ever have happened.’
Again there was a knock, and George, going out, ushered in Mrs Gray, the vicar’s wife. She rushed in when she heard the sound of voices.
‘Oh, Mrs Griffith, it’s dreadful! simply dreadful! Miss Reed has just told me all about it. What is to be done? And what’ll the dissenters make of it? Oh, dear, it’s simply dreadful!’
‘You’ve just come in time, Mrs Gray,’ said Mrs Griffith, angrily. ‘It’s not my fault, I can tell you that. It’s her father who’s brought it about. He would have her go into Tercanbury to be educated, and he would have her take singing lessons and dancing lessons. The Church school was good enough for George. It’s been Daisy this and Daisy that all through. Me and George have been always put by for Daisy. I didn’t want her brought up above her station, I can assure you. It’s him who would have her brought up as a lady; and see what’s come of it! And he let her spend any money she liked on her dress.... It wasn’t me that let her go into Tercanbury every day in the week if she wanted to. I knew she was up to no good. There you see what you’ve brought her to; it’s you who’s disgraced us all!’
She hissed out the words with intense malignity, nearly screaming in the bitterness she felt towards the beautiful daughter of better education than herself, almost of different station. It was all but a triumph for her that this had happened. It brought her daughter down; she turned the tables, and now, from the superiority of her virtue, she looked down upon her with utter contempt.
IV
On the following Sunday the people of Blackstable enjoyed an emotion; as Miss Reed said, —
‘It was worth going to church this morning, even for a dissenter.’
The vicar was preaching, and the congregation paid a very languid attention, but suddenly a curious little sound went through the church — one of those scarcely perceptible noises which no comparison can explain; it was a quick attraction of all eyes, an arousing of somnolent intelligences, a slight, quick drawing-in of the breath. The listeners had heeded very indifferently Mr Gray’s admonitions to brotherly love and charity as matters which did not concern them other than abstractedly; but quite suddenly they had realised that he was bringing his discourse round to the subject of Daisy Griffith, and they pricked up both ears. They saw it coming directly along the highways of Vanity and Luxuriousness; and everyone became intensely wide awake.
‘And we have in all our minds,’ he said at last, ‘the terrible fall which has almost broken the hearts of sorrowing parents and brought bitter grief — bitter grief and shame to all of us.’...
He went on hinting at the scandal in the manner of the personal columns in newspapers, and drawing a number of obvious morals. The Griffith family were sitting in their pew well in view of the congregation; and losing even the shadow of decency, the people turned round and stared at them, ghoul-like.... Robert Griffith sat in the corner with his head bent down, huddled up, his rough face speaking in all its lines the terrible humiliation; his hair was all dishevelled. He was not more than fifty, and he looked an old man. But Mrs Griffith sat next him, very erect, not leaning against the back, with her head well up, her mouth firmly closed, and she looked straight in front of her, her little eyes sparkling, as if she had not an idea that a hundred people were staring at her. In the other corner was George, very white, looking up at the roof in simulation of indifference. Suddenly a sob came from the Griffiths’ pew, and people saw that the father had broken down; he seemed to forget where he was, and he cried as if indeed his heart were broken. The great tears ran down his cheeks in the sight of all — the painful tears of men; he had not even the courage to hide his face in his hands. Still Mrs Griffith made no motion, she never gave a sign that she heard her husband’s agony; but two little red spots appeared angrily on her cheek bones, and perhaps she compressed her lips a li
ttle more tightly....
V
Six months passed. One evening, when Mr Griffith was standing at the door after work, smoking his pipe, the postman handed him a letter. He changed colour and his hand shook when he recognised the handwriting. He turned quickly into the house.
‘A letter from Daisy,’ he said. They had not replied to her first letter, and since then had heard nothing.
‘Give it me,’ said his wife.
He drew it quickly towards him, with an instinctive gesture of retention.
‘It’s addressed to me.’
‘Well, then, you’d better open it.’
He looked up at his wife; he wanted to take the letter away and read it alone, but her eyes were upon him, compelling him there and then to open it.
‘She wants to come back,’ he said in a broken voice.
Mrs Griffith snatched the letter from him.
‘That means he’s left her,’ she said.
The letter was all incoherent, nearly incomprehensible, covered with blots, every other word scratched out. One could see that the girl was quite distraught, and Mrs Griffith’s keen eyes saw the trace of tears on the paper.... It was a long, bitter cry of repentance. She begged them to take her back, repeating again and again the cry of penitence, piteously beseeching them to forgive her.
‘I’ll go and write to her,’ said Mr Griffith.
‘Write what?’
‘Why — that it’s all right and she isn’t to worry; and we want her back, and that I’ll go up and fetch her.’
Mrs Griffith placed herself between him and the door.
‘What d’you mean?’ she cried. ‘She’s not coming back into my house.’
Mr Griffith started back.
‘You don’t want to leave her where she is! She says she’ll kill herself.’
‘Yes, I believe that,’ she replied scornfully; and then, gathering up her anger, ‘D’you mean to say you expect me to have her in the house after what she’s done? I tell you I won’t. She’s never coming in this house again as long as I live; I’m an honest woman and she isn’t. She’s a—’ Mrs Griffith called her daughter the foulest name that can be applied to her sex.
Mr Griffith stood indecisively before his wife.
‘But think what a state she’s in, mother. She was crying when she wrote the letter.’
‘Let her cry; she’ll have to cry a lot more before she’s done. And it serves her right; and it serves you right. She’ll have to go through a good deal more than that before God forgives her, I can tell you.’
‘Perhaps she’s starving.’
‘Let her starve, for all I care. She’s dead to us; I’ve told everyone in Blackstable that I haven’t got a daughter now, and if she came on her bended knees before me I’d spit on her.’
George had come in and listened to the conversation.
‘Think what people would say, father,’ he said now; ‘as it is, it’s jolly awkward, I can tell you. No one would speak to us if she was back again. It’s not as if people didn’t know; everyone in Blackstable knows what she’s been up to.’
‘And what about George?’ put in Mrs Griffith. ‘D’you think the Polletts would stand it?’ George was engaged to Edith Pollett.
‘She’d be quite capable of breaking it off if Daisy came back,’ said George. ‘She’s said as much.’
‘Quite right too!’ cried his mother. ‘And I’m not going to be like Mrs Jay with Lottie. Everyone knows about Lottie’s goings-on, and you can see how people treat them — her and her mother. When Mrs Gray passes them in the street she always goes on the other side. No, I’ve always held my head high, and I’m always going to. I’ve never done anything to be ashamed of as far as I know, and I’m not going to begin now. Everyone knows it was no fault of mine what Daisy did, and all through I’ve behaved so that no one should think the worse of me.’
Mr Griffith sank helplessly into a chair, the old habit of submission asserted itself, and his weakness gave way as usual before his wife’s strong will. He had not the courage to oppose her.
‘What shall I answer, then?’ he asked.
‘Answer? Nothing.’
‘I must write something. She’ll be waiting for the letter, and waiting and waiting.’
‘Let her wait.’
VI
A few days later another letter came from Daisy, asking pitifully why they didn’t write, begging them again to forgive her and take her back. The letter was addressed to Mr Griffith; the girl knew that it was only from him she might expect mercy; but he was out when it arrived. Mrs Griffith opened it, and passed it on to her son. They looked at one another guiltily; the same thought had occurred to both, and each knew it was in the other’s mind.
‘I don’t think we’d better let father see it,’ Mrs Griffith said, a little uncertainly; ‘it’ll do no good and it’ll only distress him.’
‘And it’s no good making a fuss, because we can’t have her back.’
‘She’ll never enter this door as long as I’m in the world.... I think I’ll lock it up.’
‘I’d burn it, if I was you, mother. It’s safer.’
Then every day Mrs Griffith made a point of going to the door herself for the letters. Two more came from Daisy.
‘I know it’s not you; it’s mother and George. They’ve always hated me. Oh, don’t be so cruel, father! You don’t know what I’ve gone through. I’ve cried and cried till I thought I should die. For God’s sake write to me! They might let you write just once. I’m alone all day, day after day, and I think I shall go mad. You might take me back; I’m sure I’ve suffered enough, and you wouldn’t know me now, I’m so changed. Tell mother that if she’ll only forgive me I’ll be quite different. I’ll do the housework and anything she tells me. I’ll be a servant to you, and you can send the girl away. If you knew how I repent! Do forgive me and have me back. Oh, I know that no one would speak to me; but I don’t care about that, if I can only be with you!’
‘She doesn’t think about us,’ said George— ‘what we should do if she was back. No one would speak to us either.’
But the next letter said that she couldn’t bear the terrible silence; if her father didn’t write she’d come down to Blackstable. Mrs Griffith was furious.
‘I’d shut the door in her face; I wonder how she can dare to come.’
‘It’s jolly awkward,’ said George. ‘Supposing father found out we’d kept back the letters?’
‘It was for his own good,’ said Mrs Griffith, angrily. ‘I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done, and I’ll tell him so to his face if he says anything to me.’
‘Well, it is awkward. You know what father is; if he saw her.’...
Mrs Griffith paused a moment.
‘You must go up and see her, George!’
‘Me!’ he cried in astonishment, a little in terror.
‘You must go as if you came from your father, to say we won’t have anything more to do with her and she’s not to write.’
VII
Next day George Griffith, on getting out of the station at Victoria, jumped on a Fulham ‘bus, taking his seat with the self-assertiveness of the countryman who intends to show the Londoners that he’s as good as they are. He was in some trepidation and his best clothes. He didn’t know what to say to Daisy, and his hands sweated uncomfortably. When he knocked at the door he wished she might be out — but that would only be postponing the ordeal.
‘Does Mrs Hogan live here?’
‘Yes. Who shall I say?’
‘Say a gentleman wants to see her.’
He followed quickly on the landlady’s heels and passed through the door the woman opened while she was giving the message. Daisy sprang to her feet with a cry.
‘George!’
She was very pale, her blue eyes dim and lifeless, with the lids heavy and red; she was in a dressing gown, her beautiful hair dishevelled, wound loosely into a knot at the back of her head. She had not half the beauty of her old self.... George, to affirm the
superiority of virtue over vice, kept his hat on.
She looked at him with frightened eyes, then her lips quivered, and turning away her head she fell on a chair and burst into tears. George looked at her sternly. His indignation was greater than ever now that he saw her. His old jealousy made him exult at the change in her.
‘She’s got nothing much to boast about now,’ he said to himself, noting how ill she looked.
‘Oh, George!’ ... she began, sobbing; but he interrupted her.
‘I’ve come from father,’ he said, ‘and we don’t want to have anything more to do with you, and you’re not to write.’
‘Oh!’ She looked at him now with her eyes suddenly quite dry. They seemed to burn her in their sockets. ‘Did he send you here to tell me that?’
‘Yes; and you’re not to come down.’
She put her hand to her forehead, looking vacantly before her.
‘But what am I to do? I haven’t got any money; I’ve pawned everything.’
George looked at her silently; but he was horribly curious.
‘Why did he leave you?’ he said.
She made no answer; she looked before her as if she were going out of her mind.
‘Has he left you any money?’ asked George.
Then she started up, her cheeks flaming red.
‘I wouldn’t touch a halfpenny of his. I’d rather starve!’ she screamed.
George shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, you understand?’ he said.
‘Oh, how can you! It’s all you and mother. You’ve always hated me. But I’ll pay you out, by God! I’ll pay you out. I know what you are, all of you — you and mother, and all the Blackstable people. You’re a set of damned hypocrites.’
‘Look here, Daisy! I’m not going to stand here and hear you talk like that of me and mother,’ he replied with dignity; ‘and as for the Blackstable people, you’re not fit to — to associate with them. And I can see where you learnt your language.’
Daisy burst into hysterical laughter. George became more angry — virtuously indignant.
‘Oh, you can laugh as much as you like! I know your repentance is a lot of damned humbug. You’ve always been a conceited little beast. And you’ve been stuck up and cocky because you thought yourself nice-looking, and because you were educated in Tercanbury. And no one was good enough for you in Blackstable. And I’m jolly glad that all this has happened to you; it serves you jolly well right. And if you dare to show yourself at Blackstable, we’ll send for the police.’
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 268