“I am very sorry,” she said.
Ramsden gave a laugh. “What is the good of being sorry? Do you know what you made me suffer? Can you imagine my bitter agony while I tried to forget you? Oh, I hate you with all my heart.”
Lady Habart gave a little cry, not of pain, or horror, but of exultation; for she knew suddenly that he still loved her; she had been right in all her suppositions. Her heart swelled with pride and pleasure, with keen appreciation of her own cleverness. He was looking at her with flaming eyes, and he muttered again: “I hate you.”
Then she tried a bold stroke. “But I — I love you all the same, Freddy.”
“You are excessively clever, Lady Habart.” His passion was dissipated, and he spoke now with the calm appreciation of the dilettante. Lady Habart considered him neither clever nor polite.
“Oh, it is you who are heartless now,” she cried, with a finely dramatic gesture. “I suffered also — I suffered too much for my fault.” She put her hands to her head and her voice trembled; perhaps she forced the note a little. “I was mad. Of course I was wrong. I know I behaved vilely to you. When Habart came down to Blueriver he turned my head. I was so young then, I was only a child. I didn’t love him. I confess I married him for — oh, it’s too horrible to think of, it’s too inexpressibly vulgar. But I loved you, Freddy,” she concluded, with a heart-rending sigh. “I can’t call you Mr. Ramsden; I’ve always thought of you as Freddy.”
“I’m glad you suffered.”
If the note was forced, Ramsden had not perceived it.
“I used to be always thinking of you, Freddy. And the more I was with him the more I loathed him, the more I regretted what I had lost. Don’t you believe I love you, Freddy?”
“No!” He looked at her angrily; she knew she was stirring in his heart all the old emotions; the passion of the old days was returning to him like an overwhelming flood.
“And then I knew you were unhappy, and I knew it was my fault. I repented bitterly.”
“I should have thought your house in Park Lane and your castle in the country would have silenced the qualms of your conscience. It must be more obstinate than I suspected.”
“If he only knew,” she murmured to herself in the same distracted tones, “how out of repair the town-house was, and how old-fashioned the furniture.... I had looked forward to it all so much,” she cried; “and then when I had it — Oh, I longed to be back again in the country, in your arms, Freddy; and I longed for your simple, frank old smile.”
They paused, buried in contemplation. Lady Habart had forgotten that she was acting a part, and now believed every word she said. It would have been wonderful if her passionate accents had not affected Ramsden, for her they touched profoundly. She felt herself the most ill-used of distressed females, and she had not much ground to traverse before thinking Freddy Ramsden vastly to blame for leaving her to the tender mercies of her late husband. Lady Habart turned towards her visitor the best side of her profile. “Was Habart good to you?” asked Ramsden at last.
“He loved me very much,” replied Lady Habart, heaving a sigh. But that was so frank a misrepresentation of her husband’s feelings that she almost smiled; she was a woman of humour. “Oh, Freddy, my life was awful; sometimes I felt I couldn’t go on with it. I was so unhappy. Often I was on the verge of running away and following you.”
“You have lied to me so much.”
Immediately she spoke her last words she knew that they did not ring true. He withdrew himself into his shell.
“Don’t you believe what I say?” she sighed. “But why should you? I know you’ll never believe in me again — I don’t deserve that you should.... Oh, but forgive me, Freddy.” She put out in supplication her bejewelled hands: as she had told her brother, the rings were mostly paste. “Forgive me before we part forever.”
“Would my forgiveness do you any good?”
“You’re going to be married soon, aren’t you? I do hope you’ll be happy — I’d willingly give my life to know you completely happy.”
“I shall never get married,” he replied.
Lady Habart looked up quickly.
“Oh, but Guy told me you were engaged to a Miss — I forget the name. I thought you’d only come from abroad to get married.”
“I have only been engaged once.”
“Oh, well, I’m glad. I don’t want you to get married; I don’t want you to forget me.... Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying — I wish you didn’t hate me!”
“Do you think I have no cause, Lady Habart?”
“You used to call me Dolly — don’t you remember?”
“I have no right to, now.”
“It would make me a little happier, if you did.” She had again lost herself in her part and she was living, not acting. She really felt very miserable and the strain upon her nerves began to tell on her. She could not restrain the real tears that came to her eyes, and she put her handkerchief up, sobbing quietly. It was tremendously effective, and she could not help perceiving it. “I’m so unhappy — I want some one so badly in whom I can trust.”
“I will do anything I can to help you,” he whispered; he could not trust himself to speak aloud. Few men can stand a woman’s tears.
“What can you do! I’m so frightfully unhappy. You don’t know what it is to be utterly alone in the world with nobody to stand by one — with nobody to love one.”
“Ah, Dolly, I would have loved you all my life if you had let me.”
“It’s too late now,” she sighed, drying her tears. “I feel that my life is finished — I’m quite young and I feel so old.” She remembered that in artificial light she did not look more than twenty-three.
“Sometimes I think I should like to lie down and die.... I used to be beautiful when you knew me, Freddy.”
“To me you are always beautiful.”
She smiled at him painfully, thinking the style of his remark more applicable to a woman of at least forty. Her eyes, wandering over Freddy’s head, caught sight of one of the water-colours of her school-days.
“Do you remember how we used to wander about the fields together at home, when we were boy and girl? And on Sunday evenings when we walked home from church you used to put your arm round my waist. And we used to sit under the big trees and smoke cigarettes.”
“Ah, Dolly,” he cried, as the recollections crowded back upon him, “how could you treat me as you did!”
“And we used to play tennis together. D’you remember how frightfully cross you used to get when I beat you?”
He laughed in his old boyish manner, forgetting suddenly all that had gone between. “You only won when I didn’t play up.”
“Oh, what nonsense! You always used to say that just to aggravate me, but it wasn’t true.... And afterwards you used to lie down on the grass and smoke, while I made you lemon-squashes.”
“D’you remember how sick your first cigarette made you?”
“Oh, it was horrible!”
“You wouldn’t speak to me for days afterwards, and you made me give you my knife to make it up.”
“But you took it back again next day,” she said, laughing.
“It seems to me that then there were no rainy days. Our whole life was warm and sunny and beautiful.”
“And d’you remember that day I nearly fell in the lake? I was so frightened and you kissed me. You were always kissing me.”
“You drive me perfectly mad,” he said. “Oh, I know you loved me then, Dolly. Why didn’t you let that sweet life go on forever!” She put her hands to her eyes. Surely now he would spring forward and clasp her in his arms, vowing he adored her; she would sink her beautiful head upon his bosom and burst into another flood of tears; she would offer her rose-like mouth to his kisses.
But he uttered a cry and it made Lady Habart start and look rapidly at him.
“What a fool I am!” he said. “You took me in like a child. You’ve been humbugging me all through.”
“Freddy,” she
cried, springing up. “What d’you mean? You’re mad.”
She could not understand the sudden change. What error had she committed? It was incomprehensible.
“You humbug!” he repeated.
“Freddy!” A look of genuine horror came into her eyes. How had he seen?
He took up his hat and walked out of the room without another word. Lady Habart sank back into her chair, half-fainting. Had she lost him? But why, why? Oh, it was impossible.
“Oh no, he’ll come back,” she muttered. At the first moment she was overcome, but her confidence quickly returned. She knew he loved her passionately, he couldn’t help himself; he was like a fish with the hook in its mouth, struggling to get free. Every toss and turn forced the steel deeper in, and she smiled at the thought of the bleeding gills. She looked at the time. She had intended to send a note to the people with whom she was dining to say she was seriously indisposed and could not possibly come; but the matter had gone out of her head and now it was, perhaps, a little late. She was restless and excited, inclined to go out, experiencing a need for speech and admiration. She was so sure of her triumph that she could afford to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. There was now really nothing to ruffle her temper, and already she began to feel herself looking more beautiful than an hour ago.
She went to her room in the highest of good humours, and chose to wear her most extravagant costume. Looking at herself in the glass, she thought she had never appeared more fascinating. For once she did not ask herself whether her hair should not be golden red rather than reddish gold — a momentous question which had given her many troubled moments. Her neck was adorable, her eyes flashed, and she felt sure of repeating in a different way her triumph of the afternoon. Finally she descended to her carriage; certainly she was overdressed, but then no one could have been more fashionable. She wondered whether after dinner Freddy Ramsden would walk up and down beneath her windows; he was a sentimental creature, and she thought it very probable. Her absence, however, made such a performance distinctly ridiculous.
“Poor Freddy,” she murmured, “he’s so naïf.”
Next day Lady Habart was somewhat meditative. She sat in her boudoir awaiting Freddy’s inevitable visit; her old knowledge of him told her that he had been counting the hours which passed before he could decently present himself again. She had closed her door to every one but him, even to her brother; for she felt certain that Ramsden had prepared some speech or other with which to break in upon her, and the presence of a third party would possibly be disastrous. Poor Freddy was so melodramatic; Lady Habart had a very low opinion of masculine good taste; judged by the standard of her own exquisite savoir faire, all men were just a little vulgar.
A servant brought her coffee — it was after luncheon — and said that Captain Smithson had called.
“What on earth can he want?” she asked herself. The servant added that the money-lender had particularly asked to see her, and on being told she was out had inquired when she would be at home, and then said he would come again a couple of hours later. Lady Habart was still wondering why Captain Smithson should want so particularly to see her, when Ramsden was shown in. Lady Habart sprang up.
“Freddy!” she cried with astonishment. “I expected never to see you again.”
“I ought not to have come. I am not — I am not worthy to see you. I have come to beg your pardon.”
Lady Habart looked at the pattern of her carpet. “It is not you who should do that — I beg your pardon, Freddy, with all my heart for all I have done.”
“I spoke to you like a cad yesterday; I had thought out long ago what I wanted to say to you. When I saw you I felt I couldn’t, but — I forced myself.”
“You said nothing that I did not deserve,” she replied in a low voice, with a humble bend of the head.
“I’ve come to-day to ask you to forgive me. And,” he hesitated, colouring, then with an obvious effort, “and I’ve come to ask you to marry me. Yesterday I accused you of being insincere, I thought you were humbugging me; but when I accused you — forgive me, I was mad — a look of horror came over your face that has been haunting me all the night. That look showed me that I wronged you.” He came forward and took her hands, pleading. “Will you marry me, Dolly?”
Then an inspiration came to her. She restrained the joyful “Yes” that was forcing itself from her lips against her will. If she accepted him, and he discovered her penniless condition, he would understand that she had been indeed playing the fool with him. She dared not risk it; he would surely make inquiries about her. It was safer to tell him first. She disengaged her hands.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Oh! God help me! I can’t. I thank you all with my heart for what you have said; but it’s impossible, Freddy. I’m so sorry; I think I could have made you happy.”
“What do you mean?” he cried. “Yesterday you swore you loved me.”
She passed her hand over her forehead. “Don’t you know? I thought all the world knew. I’m hopelessly in debt, and I’m going to be made bankrupt.”
“What! But Habart—”
“He left me nothing. Everything was tied up. I had a little, but — oh, I don’t know what happened. I got into the hands of the money-lenders. One of them has just been here clamouring for his money. Oh, God, I don’t know what I shall do. Everything will be sold, and I shall be a beggar.”
“Oh, Dolly, I love you with all my heart.”
He clasped her in his arms, but she pushed him away.
“Oh no,” she cried, “don’t humiliate me. Don’t you see that I can’t marry you; it wouldn’t be honourable. My name will be dragged through the dust. People will say that I married you for your money.”
“What does it matter what people say!”
“Oh, I couldn’t bear it. I love you too much.”
“But if you’re in trouble let me stand by you. Oh, now, you must marry me. You owe it to me, I have suffered and loved so much.”
“I daren’t. Don’t tempt me. I should like to so much, but I’m afraid. Afterwards, when you thought of it, you’d believe also that I married you for your money. And if I saw that thought in your eyes I’d kill myself. If I don’t marry you it means hopeless ruin and disgrace. You’d think I inveigled you into marriage. I’ve got to pay Smithson four thousand pounds next Monday, and I can’t, I can’t.”
She finished by burying her head on his bosom, while he kissed her repeatedly.
“Say ‘Yes,’” he said; “say ‘Yes.’”
And at last she cried: “Oh, I can’t help it, I love you too much. Take me and do what you will with me.”
Freddy Ramsden had not enjoyed such bliss for many years. He pressed her to marry him quickly, and she did not resist.
“And now I want you to do something for me,” he said at last. “Will you promise — on your word of honour?”
“Yes,” she replied, smiling through her tears.
“I want you to let me give you a cheque to pay that moneylender with. You promised,” he added, as she started, and he saw she meant to tell him such a thing was impossible. “You promised.”
“You are too good to me,” she murmured. She thought herself very clever for having put an extra thousand on to the sum; it would be mightily useful for incidental expenses. She quickly ran up in her mind which bills she was bound to pay immediately. It seemed as if Freddy could not tear himself away; but at last he left her, promising to return for dinner, and then Lady Habart hurriedly slipped the cheque into an envelope and sent it to her bank. Four thousand pounds! She gave a little cry of delight. She telephoned for her brother.
The moment he appeared she burst into a torrent of explanation. Never in her whole life had she felt more pleased with herself; the triumph of Habart’s proposal had been nothing to this, for he had been but a second and better string to her bow. Ramsden never knew that she had written him his letter of dismissal two hours after accepting the earl.... Lady Habart had never felt herself so entirely
spiritual as at this moment; never had she been more convinced of the superiority of mind over matter, of man over beast, of herself over everybody else. Though she was a pious woman and fervently thanked her Maker for her success, she thanked her own intelligence more.
“Oh, I was splendid,” she cried to her brother. “If I weren’t going to be married, I’d go on the stage. What a success I should be!”
She could not contain herself, and she repeated half-a-dozen times every detail of the two interviews with Ramsden. She could scarcely understand that her mind should be so remarkable — she wondered whence her talent came; certainly neither her father nor her mother had ever shown such diabolical cleverness. It flattered her to think herself Mephistophelian. Then in unwonted generosity she began telling Guy all she would do for him — his circumstances had been no better than hers, but his debts were infinitesimal, since no one had ever been so foolish as to trust him. She said she would find him a rich wife — that was self-help after the most approved pattern of the excellent Samuel Smiles; it would provide for him also without any expense to herself or dear Freddy. Dear Freddy’s money she now looked upon as her own and meant to be careful with it. Of course, Freddy would go into Parliament — it would give him something to do, and keep him out of the way, and he’d be quite at home among all those old fogies. She would write his speeches herself; she had always had an inclination for public life, and henceforward she would go in for problems, model dwelling-houses, old-age pensions, temperance, and all that sort of thing. Guy listened meekly to all she was going to do for him, for Freddy, and for Freddy’s wife. In his heart of hearts he did not greatly believe in any one benefiting enormously by her efforts besides herself. He had for her a very great affection, but few illusions.
But the butler interrupted Lady Habart with the announcement that Captain Smithson was again below, insisting on seeing Her Ladyship.
“What a rude man he is,” said Lady Habart. “Isn’t it a shame that I should have to pay him the money!”
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 274