“Of course,” he said, “I know my behaviour is liable to misconstruction. It looks as if — as if I were mercenary. Yesterday I asked you to marry me as quickly as possible. I know it sounds funny when I ask you to-day to wait.”
“Oh, not at all,” said Mrs. Strong, encouragingly.
He took her hands, but Mrs. Strong gently withdrew them. He was talking very quickly, nervously.
“I feel,” he said, “that my duty to you counterbalances everything. I hope you understand that it’s entirely for your sake that I want you to wait.”
“Oh, you want me to wait?”
“In three or four years all sorts of things may happen. I have a good deal of influence in clerical quarters, and I have been given to understand that I’m my Uncle George’s sole heir. Of course he’s only sixty-five. He may live another ten years; but even then I should only be fifty.” He took her hand again. “I know I’m asking a great deal; but will you wait for me, Edith, say five years? I’m certain to get a better living by then.”
“Are you sure,” she asked quietly, “that you wouldn’t prefer not to be bound by an engagement? As you suggest, so much may happen in five years.”
“Oh, Edith, surely you have not so poor an opinion of me as to suppose me capable of breaking off our engagement because — because—”
“You know, Robert, you are a young man, and in ten years you’ll only be fifty; but I shall be fifty too! And you have a great future before you. I’m sure you’ll end up as a bishop. A man of your calibre is wasted on a little country parish. I don’t feel myself justified in hampering you.”
“I should be contemptible if I asked you to give me back my word.” The Vicar of Swale was genuinely disturbed; he was a gentleman, and he could not stoop to a discreditable action.
“But it is I who ask you, Robert. I do not feel myself justified in standing in your way. It is no sacrifice to me when I think of your future.”
“I can’t accept your sacrifice,” he said solemnly. “I should feel such a — such a cad.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Strong, changing her tone. “We will forget our interview of yesterday. You may be quite certain that I will say nothing about it.”
“Ah, Mrs. Strong, you are a truly Christian woman.”
The Vicar of Swale was humbled, but Mrs. Strong was a woman, and she could not let him go without a small revenge.
“I hope,” she murmured with a smile, as she shook his hand, “I hope I haven’t made you feel very ridiculous? I really haven’t tried to.”
Next morning Lady Proudfoot rushed into Mrs. Strong’s drawing-room.
“Oh, Edith, what have you done?”
“Good Heavens! what’s the matter?”
“I’ve just had a letter from Mr. Branscombe, and he tells me—”
“What?” Surely the Vicar of Swale had not betrayed their secret.
“He tells me that he’s engaged to Jane Simpson.”
Mrs. Strong did not move a muscle.
“Oh, is that all?” she said. “I knew he meant to propose to her. He came to see me two days ago, and I told him she’d make a pattern wife.”
“But he wanted to propose to you.”
“Oh, dear no. You’re completely mistaken,” she replied, calmly. “He thinks I’m really too Low Church.”
She smiled her most fascinating smile.
“You certainly have got beautiful teeth,” said Lady Proudfoot, rather sourly.
LADY HABART
I
Ever since Lady Habart had been able to look in a mirror, and she was a precocious child, she had been a warm admirer of her personal appearance; and long before mastering the multiplication table she had become convinced of her own abnormal cleverness. She was indeed excessively clever; she was one of those persons who can multiply by thirteen as easily as the common herd by two; but a gift for mathematics is fatal to a woman, her skill in the manipulation of figures and her jugglery with accounts invariably land her in the Bankruptcy Court. Lady Habart was no exception to the rule, and of late her thoughts had often wandered to future interviews with the Official Receiver; she had considered the explanations she would offer to that most pertinacious of enquirers. This was the first occasion in her life upon which she had shunned publicity, and she came to the conclusion that it was scandalous to allow the newspapers to publish details about the private affairs of widowed gentlewomen. Her mind was also disturbed by the vague prospect of dreadful penalties if she contracted debts for more than twenty pounds; it seemed so vulgar not to get one’s discharge.
The most casual observer would have noticed how distressed was Lady Habart, for she had overpowdered her nose; and she was too true a gentlewoman ever to commit such an enormity, except when suffering from the very greatest perturbation of spirit.... Lady Habart had realised early in life that woman is essentially artificial, and consequently that artifice can always heighten the charms of even the most beautiful; so she lent a delightful wave to the straightness of her hair, and altered the cold brown with which Nature had endowed her to a delicate reddish gold that exactly suited her great blue eyes and her rose-like mouth. She had never seen a mouth she preferred to her own. She was a consummate artist, and few men noticed that the lady’s pencilled eyebrows and long black lashes owed half their beauty to her exquisite taste; and if they did they cared not. They saw that Lady Habart was charming and did not mind how she came by her advantages; when pressed by their womankind, they acknowledged that she was made-up; but so were many other people, and she certainly made up uncommonly well. Lady Habart’s enemies said her clothes were outrageous, but that was solely her misfortune, for she was the type of woman who would have looked overdressed apparelled in nothing more elaborate than fig-leaves. She was exactly the woman whom one would suspect of wearing artificial jewellery, and her bosom friends whispered that the suspicion had grounds — but this was generally disbelieved. It is best to keep to solid fact, and it was as plain as a pikestaff that Lady Habart was very delightful when she liked, that she was beautiful and under thirty.
Lady Habart was in her boudoir reading Mrs. Humphry Ward’s latest novel. Being a widow, she thought it the proper thing to do. She was also dining that very evening with some literary people — there are literary folk who give dinner-parties to which quite nice persons go — and her inner consciousness told her that this particular work would undoubtedly be discussed. Now, one can never feign such ignorance of a book as when one has read it, and she understood that the men who talked would be much annoyed if she knew all about it.... But it was impossible for her to fix her attention, her heart beat uncomfortably, and at every sound she started. She put her book down, and, taking out her handkerchief, withdrew from it a little flat powder-puff and passed it over her face.... At last the door opened and a young man entered, tall, good-looking, fair, and resembling Lady Habart. He was her brother. He was one of those men whom one sees everywhere, and who always have ample ready money, although no one can imagine where the deuce they get it. Guy Cherriton was the son of a general on half pay who had left a very small fortune, and Guy appeared every year to spend at least half his capital. He was always well dressed, well groomed, and well behaved. People supposed he would eventually marry an heiress and settle down.
“Well?” said Lady Habart eagerly.
“He won’t hear of it,” answered her brother.
“Oh!” she cried. “You are so hopelessly stupid!”
As I have hinted, Lady Habart was up to her eyes in debt; her brother, Guy, had been to a money-lender, trying to get time for the payment of old debts, and if possible to contract a new one. But money-lenders have lost their faith in countesses.
“Did you tell him that I simply couldn’t pay?” she asked distractedly.
“He said you’d have to. If you don’t fork out within a week he’ll make you bankrupt.”
“What a loathsome brute he is! I wish I’d never had anything to do with him. I wish I’d gone to a Jew instead of to a
Christian. Christians always swindle one more.”
She walked up and down the room, and in her agitation put more powder on her face. She stopped suddenly in front of her brother.
“Why d’you stand there like an owl? Why on earth don’t you do something?”
“What the dickens can I do!” he said crossly. “I haven’t got any damned money.”
“Oh, it’s no good beginning to swear — that won’t help me. And besides, it’s bad form.”
“How about your diamonds?”
“Oh, really, Guy, you are really too idiotic. You must know that I’ve been wearing paste for the last two years.... What’s to be done! Nobody will trust me now. I can’t get any clothes unless I pay ready money — tradesmen nowadays are so disgustingly independent.... Did you tell Smithson that I’d sign anything?”
Smithson was the Christian money-lender.
“Oh, I said we’d both sign anything, and he told me it was no good wasting clean paper on such a pair as us.”
“Why didn’t you knock him down?”
Brother Guy shrugged his shoulders, while Lady Habart stood in front of a looking-glass, frowning.
“I do look frightful,” she said. She arranged the curls of her fringe; then her features relaxed and she slowly smiled at herself.
Her teeth were perfect. She assumed a languorous expression, and her blue eyes became very caressing.
“I think,” she said softly, “I’ll go and see him myself.”
“Oh, you won’t be able to bamboozle him,” said her brother, immediately divining.
She assumed an air of great dignity. “I shall merely state the facts, and I have no doubt that he’ll be reasonable. He’s a very gentlemanly man really.”
Her brother shrugged his shoulders again. Lady Habart was not a woman with whom one could argue; reason is always the undoing of her sex, and she was too clever to listen to it.
She rang the bell to order the carriage, and, going to her room, began to dress. She discussed within herself whether she should go in the simplest costume possible to show the disordered state of her mind, or whether she should clothe herself magnificently to prove her great importance. It was a very difficult question, but eventually she decided on the latter, thinking to impress the money-lender. She dressed as carefully as if she were about to visit her dearest enemy, and finally surveyed herself in the glass. But then she changed her mind.
“He’s sure to have lots of actresses who go to him frightfully dressed up. It’ll be far nicer to be quite simple.”
She was very pleased with the idea and smiled contentedly as she caused her maid to robe her in a gown the simplicity of which was only equalled by its costliness. And it was grey, that which no colour suited her better. In her carriage she looked at herself in a little mirror.
“I really don’t look more than three and twenty,” she murmured.
II
Lady Habart was shown into a gorgeous waiting-room.
“Captain Smithson will see you in two minutes,” said an attendant, who looked like a butler in a family that came over with the Conqueror.
Once upon a time money-lenders were unwashed Hebrews in shabby clothes, malodorous, speaking English with an abominable accent; and the newspapers tell us that even now there flourishes a worthy Pole who answers more or less to this description. But Captain Smithson — of the Militia — was a gentleman to the tips of his fingers. He had been to a public school and afterwards to Oxford, where he had distinguished himself by his classical attainments. He always had a box at the opera for the season, and every morning could be seen in the park riding a horse which had obviously cost a fortune. He once thought of taking over the Exshire hounds, for he was as sportsman-like as he was gentlemanly. He was the sort of man of whom one might swear that he would invariably do the right thing at the right moment. Captain Smithson did not use a poky and ill-smelling office in the city, but received his clients in a palatial suite of chambers not three minutes’ walk from Piccadilly.
After a very short time Lady Habart was invited to step into Captain Smithson’s private room. It was decorated with priceless china, with mezzotints and Chippendale furniture; nothing could be more chastely elegant. He came to the door to meet her — a handsome man of thirty with an excessively military appearance; his fine moustache was carefully waxed, he wore an eyeglass, and his clothes fitted perfectly. He was dressed with the absolute irreproachableness of a tailor in Savile Row and an haberdasher in Bond Street. He was justly proud of his figure.
“I’m so sorry I kept you waiting,” he said with a slight drawl, shaking Lady Habart’s hand. “So good of you to take the trouble to come and see me.”
“Oh,” she replied, with her most gracious smile, “I’m always pleased to come here, you have such lovely things; I simply adore china.”
“Yes, I know you do,” he replied enthusiastically. “Now just look at these two plates that I got at Christie’s yesterday — look at the drawing of those figures and the colour.”
“Perfectly exquisite,” replied Lady Habart, whom nothing bored so much as porcelain. “How clever of you to have picked them up.”
“But do sit down.”
“You’re very kind.”
Captain Smithson stroked his moustache, waiting for the lady to speak.
“I expected to find my brother with you,” she said, with her usual air of veracity. “We arranged to meet here, you know.”
“I’m sorry, he left an hour ago.”
“Did he really,” cried Lady Habart, with the utmost surprise, rising from her seat. “How very annoying!”
“Oh, don’t go, Lady Habart. Do sit down.”
Lady Habart seated herself immediately. “Did he talk to you about — about that loan of mine?” she asked.
“Let me see,” said the money-lender, as if he were thinking. “I think he did. I dare say you remember that the money is due on Monday next.”
“Oh, well, Captain Smithson,” said Lady Habart, with a sweetly innocent laugh, “I can’t pay it.”
Captain Smithson smiled, but his smile was merely a clever facial contortion; his eyes were quite grim, no one could have seen in them the least trace of amusement.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to, dear Lady Habart,” he said.
“Come now,” she said, putting her pretty hand on his arm. “You’re not an ordinary business man, you’re one of us, aren’t you?”
“I must have the money next Monday,” he replied shortly. He was becoming grave.
Lady Habart began to think him singularly ill-bred.
“I think you’re very unkind,” she murmured, and looked at him languishingly. “You know I’m absolutely in your power.... I think you might treat me as a friend.”
There was a sofa in the room, and Lady Habart wished they were sitting on it side by side. It is impossible for a woman to be really nice to a man who is ensconced in a writing-chair two feet away from her. A writing-chair is a very chilling thing. She drew her seat a little closer to his. Captain Smithson watched her with amusement. She could not guess that fair ladies went through the same pantomine seven times a day.
“I wish you’d come and see me and talk about it comfortably over a cup of tea,” she said. She smiled bewitchingly. “There are many men who’d give their heads to get such an invitation out of me.”
Captain Smithson looked at his nails, thinking he must go to the manicurist when he had dismissed his visitor.
“I don’t think that would be any use,” he remarked gently. “I must have the money on Monday.”
“Beast!” said Lady Habart under her breath, and aloud: “But my dear Mr. Smithson, I haven’t got three thousand pounds in the world!” Her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears.
“A woman in your position can always get money.”
“You are cruel!” she cried, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “I feel so faint,” she sobbed.
Captain Smithson smiled.
“If you put y
our head down — between your legs — the faintness will pass off immediately. It’s merely a question of driving the blood back to the brain.”
Then Lady Habart lost her temper. She had been as seductive as she knew how, and the vulgar creature had declined to be seduced. She was about to put her handkerchief away, and tell the wretch in sarcastic language what she thought of him; but she restrained herself. It was no good making an enemy. She lowered her veil and in faltering accents bade him farewell.
“When are you going to file the petition?” she asked.
“Oh, you’ll find the money,” he said.
III
Lady Habart’s carriage was waiting half-a-dozen doors lower down at a very smart dressmaker’s. People recognising it would naturally suppose the owner within, trying on expensive costumes. Lady Habart stepped in and ordered the coachman to drive her home. She was furious. She was clever enough to see that the money-lender had been laughing at her, and she saw now that she had made herself ridiculous. She felt no particular humiliation, but she could not make up her mind whether Captain Smithson was a brute or a fool.
“I should have thought any man would see that I’m not exactly hideous. Perhaps he’s got some odious wife hidden away somewhere. I dare say Jews are better after all.”
The remarks that Lady Habart made to herself often sounded inconsequential, but in her own mind the meaning was always clear.... She drove along in a storm of indignation, railing against the fate which had caused her invariably to come across in this world persons of egregious stupidity. If her husband had not been a drivelling fool he would never have broken his silly neck in the hunting-field. Thousands of men rode to hounds every winter, and it was so unnecessary for a man who practically could not leave his wife a penny to go and kill himself. She got on so well with her spouse that it was most irritating of him to come to a premature end: for a month the defunct earl had adored his countess, for six months he had loathed her, and for the remainder of their two years of married life had been completely indifferent, which is the most comfortable situation for married couples. She had looked upon him as a rather disagreeable acquaintance, but except when she was not feeling very well had always treated him politely.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 272