Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 354
[To Mrs. Fergusson.] Wouldn’t you like a glass of sherry, dearest? I can see you’re quite upset.
Mrs. Fergusson.
The — news has taken me by surprise.
Penelope.
To tell you the truth, I expected it last night. But I quite understand your emotion.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’m so much obliged for your sympathy.
Penelope.
I’m going to get you some sherry myself.
Dickie.
Oh, let me.
Penelope.
No, stay with Ada, darling. You have such a way with you when one’s in trouble.
Dickie.
[Edging off.] On an occasion like this a woman wants another woman with her.
Penelope.
[Preventing him from moving.] No, you know just the right thing to say. I shall never forget how charming you were when our last cook gave notice.
[She goes out. Mrs. Fergusson springs to her feet.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Now!
Dickie.
Good heavens! You made me positively jump.
Mrs. Fergusson.
What does all this mean?
Dickie.
It means that Mrs. Mack, like the rest of us, is mortal. The funeral takes place the day after to-morrow at Kensal Green. Friends kindly accept this the only intimation.
Mrs. Fergusson.
How can Mrs. Mack be dead? You know just as well as I do that she never existed.
Dickie.
Upon my word, I’m beginning to be not quite certain. I’ve talked about her so much that she seems much more real than — than my bank balance, for instance. And I could write a beautiful article for the Lancet on the case.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Furiously.] Oh!
Dickie.
After all, she did have a rotten time of it, poor old lady. Operation after operation. Life wasn’t worth living. She was bound to die. And I call it a jolly happy release.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Where were you last night?
Dickie.
I was at Mrs. Mack’s — no, of course, I wasn’t. I’m so used to saying that that it slips out quite naturally. I’m awfully sorry.
Mrs. Fergusson.
How can you tell me such lies?
Dickie.
I don’t know. I suppose it’s growing into a habit.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I recommend you to keep them for Penelope.
Dickie.
I suppose you think, then, they don’t matter?
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, she’s your wife. That’s quite another story.
Dickie.
I see.
Mrs. Fergusson.
What d’you mean by saying, I see?
Dickie.
It was the only reply I could think of at the moment.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’m sure you meant something by it.
[Peyton comes in with a tray on which are two wine glasses and a decanter. They keep silence till she has gone out.
Dickie.
Have a glass of sherry, will you?
Mrs. Fergusson.
No.
Dickie.
Well, I think I will if you don’t mind. [He pours himself out a glass.] I have an idea that sherry’s coming into fashion again.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Have you?
Dickie.
I always think I have a knack of making myself pleasant under difficulties.
[He drinks a glass of sherry to give himself courage.
Dickie.
Look here, I’ve got something to tell you that I’m afraid you won’t very much like. I daresay you’ll think me an awful brute, but I’m bound to say it. [Mrs. Fergusson does not answer, and after a moment’s pause he goes on.] The fact is, I’m not built the proper way for intrigue. All these lies make me awfully uncomfortable. I don’t like to think I’m treating Penelope badly. [Another pause.] I may as well tell you the whole truth bang out. I’ve discovered that I’m desperately in love with Penelope.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Calmly.] And?
Dickie.
[Rather surprised.] And that’s all.
Mrs. Fergusson.
And how do you imagine that interests me?
Dickie.
[Quite embarrassed.] I thought — er....
[Mrs. Fergusson goes into a peal of laughter. Dickie, quite taken aback, looks at her with astonishment.
Mrs. Fergusson.
You haven’t been under the impression that I ever cared for you?
Dickie.
[Trying to make it out.] No, no. Of course a man’s a conceited ass who thinks a woman’s in love with him.
Mrs. Fergusson.
You amused me when I first met you, but you’ve long ceased to do that.
Dickie.
It’s kind of you to say so.
Mrs. Fergusson.
It was convenient to have some one to do things for me. I’m a womanly woman and....
Dickie.
You don’t know your way about.
Mrs. Fergusson.
For the last month you’ve bored me to extinction. I’ve done everything in my power to show you except say it right out.
Dickie.
I’m afraid I’ve been very dense.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Dreadfully dense.
Dickie.
But it was good of you to spare my feelings.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[With an amiable smile.] D’you think it would be rude if I described you in your own words as a conceited ass?
Dickie.
It might make our future acquaintance rather formal.
Mrs. Fergusson.
There will be no future acquaintance.
Dickie.
Then there’s nothing more to be said.
[Mrs. Fergusson sweeps to the door. She stops.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Does Penelope adore you as blindly as when first I met you?
Dickie.
I venture to think she’s as much in love with me as I am with her.
Mrs. Fergusson.
What have you done with the letters I wrote to you?
Dickie.
I did as we agreed. I burnt them at once.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I didn’t. I kept yours.
Dickie.
I shouldn’t have thought they were interesting enough.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I have an idea that Penelope would find them positively absorbing.
Dickie.
Why don’t you send them to her?
Mrs. Fergusson.
If you have no objection, I think I will.
Dickie.
They will tell her nothing that she doesn’t know already.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Coming back, startled.] You don’t mean to say you’ve told her?
Dickie.
Of course not.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Well?
Dickie.
She’s known it all along.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Known what?
Dickie.
Everything. From the beginning.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Terrified.] How did she find out?
Dickie.
Heaven only knows.
Mrs. Fergusson.
It’s a trap! I might have known she wasn’t such a fool as she seemed. She wants to divorce you, and she’s used me. My husband will never stand that.
Dickie.
I can imagine that even the most affectionate husband would draw the line there.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, don’t try and be funny now.
Dickie.
I wasn’t. The funny part is yet to come.
Mrs. Fergusson.
What?
Dickie.
Well, you needn’t get into a state about i
t. Penelope’s not going to do anything.
Mrs. Fergusson.
But then, why ...?
Dickie.
[With a shrug of the shoulders.] She doesn’t care a hang.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I don’t understand.
Dickie.
Don’t you? It’s very simple. It’s a matter of no importance. She’s glad that I’ve been amused. If she only knew how much amusement I’ve got out of it! She looks upon it in the light of a — of a change of air.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Furiously.] Oh! Oh! Oh! A fortnight’s golf at the seaside, I suppose.
Dickie.
Something like that.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I’d sooner she divorced you.
Dickie.
Thanks, I wouldn’t.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Oh, what a humiliation! I’ve been just a convenience because she had other fish to fry. How sordid it makes the whole thing! And I was yearning for romance. I would never have looked at you if I hadn’t thought she doted on you.
Dickie.
I have an idea that affairs of this sort are only romantic when they happen to other people. When they happen to yourself — well, sordid’s just the word.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Suddenly remembering.] And Mrs. Mack?
Dickie.
She’s known all about that too.
Mrs. Fergusson.
D’you mean that to-day when we ...?
Dickie.
Mingled your tears? I think hers were about as real as yours.
Mrs. Fergusson.
And she led me on to say one thing after another.
Dickie.
I think she’s been pulling both our legs successfully.
Mrs. Fergusson.
How on earth am I going to meet her now?
Dickie.
She’ll be all right. She’ll be just as charming as ever.
Mrs. Fergusson.
You fool! Don’t you see that if she’s charming to me it’s because she thinks she’s prettier than I am, and cleverer than I am, and more fascinating than I am? She doesn’t even despise me, she’s indifferent to me.
[She goes to the glass and looks at herself.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[Furiously.] A change of air.
[The door opens slowly, and Penelope comes in. She has changed into motoring things. Mrs. Fergusson gives a sudden gasp as she sees her and turns her face away. For a moment Penelope stands still, looking at them reflectively. Dickie aimlessly arranges things on a table.
Penelope.
[With a faint smile.] I’m not disturbing you, am I?
Dickie.
Er....
Penelope.
Yes?
Dickie.
Nothing.
[Suddenly, with a sob, Mrs. Fergusson sinks into a chair, and hiding her face bursts into tears. Penelope gives her a look of surprise and goes swiftly up to her. She leans over her, with her hand on Mrs. Fergusson’s shoulder.
Penelope.
[Almost tenderly.] What? Real tears?
Mrs. Fergusson.
[In a broken voice.] I feel so ridiculous.
Penelope.
[With a little smile, as if she were talking to a child.] Don’t. Don’t cry.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I look such a perfect fool.
Penelope.
It’s so tiresome of our little sins to look foolish when they’re found out, instead of wicked.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I shall never respect myself again.
Penelope.
Dry your tears, dear. Uncle Davenport has just come, and he wants to know if it’s respectable to ask you to lunch with him alone.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[With a suspicion of her old manner.] He’s so sympathetic. I’d like to have a heart-to-heart talk with him.
Penelope.
You’ll find the Carlton a most suitable place.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Are my eyes red?
Penelope.
Not a bit. I’ll get you some powder.
[She takes the powder-box off a table, and Mrs. Fergusson meditatively powders her nose.
Mrs. Fergusson.
I like him. He talks of all the duchesses by their Christian names.
[Peyton announces Barlow and goes out.
Peyton.
Mr. Davenport Barlow.
[As he comes in, Mrs. Fergusson finally and entirely regains her usual manner.
Penelope.
[Kissing her uncle.] How d’you do?
Barlow.
[Advancing gallantly to Mrs. Fergusson.] This is a pleasing surprise. I was under the impression you were in Paris.
Mrs. Fergusson.
No, poor Mrs. Mack was suddenly taken much worse.
Barlow.
It is my gain.
Mrs. Fergusson.
It’s too nice of you to say so, but I’m leaving London at once all the same.
Barlow.
But this is very sudden. What shall we do without you?
Mrs. Fergusson.
You must blame Dr. O’Farrell.
Dickie.
[Astonished.] Me?
Mrs. Fergusson.
He tells me that now I’m quite strong enough for a foreign climate, and, of course, nothing will induce me to remain an hour away from my husband if I’m not obliged to.
Barlow.
But I thought he was bravely fighting for his country.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Well, you see, there doesn’t happen to be any fighting for him to do just now, and he’s taken a very nice house at Malta. And I shall start to-morrow.
Barlow.
This is more distressing than I can say. And are you going straight through?
Mrs. Fergusson.
No, I shall stop a day or two in Paris on my way.
Barlow.
How very singular! I had made all arrangements to go to Paris to-morrow myself.
Mrs. Fergusson.
Then would you mind looking after me on the journey? You see, I’m a womanly woman, and I’m quite helpless in the train by myself.
Barlow.
I should look upon it as a privilege. And perhaps we might go to one or two plays while you’re there.
Mrs. Fergusson.
If you’ll promise not to take me to anything risky.
Barlow.
Ha, ha, ha.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[To Penelope.] Well, dear, I must say good-bye to you. I’m afraid we shan’t meet again for some time.
Penelope.
Good-bye.
[They kiss one another affectionately.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[To Dickie.] Good-bye. If you hear of anything good on the Stock Exchange, you might let me know. I think I shall cut my loss on Johannesburg and New Jerusalems.
Dickie.
I would.
Mrs. Fergusson.
[To Barlow.] I have a cab downstairs. Can I give you a lift anywhere?
Barlow.
It would be very kind of you.
[With a nod to Dickie she goes out.
Barlow.
[Shaking hands with Penelope.] Charming creature. So dashing and a thorough gentlewoman.
Penelope.
Now, mind, Uncle Davenport, no pranks.
Barlow.
My dear, I’m not only the soul of honour, but fifty-two.
[Exit.
Penelope.
[As he goes out.] I suppose that does induce a platonic state of mind.
Dickie.
[With a sigh of relief.] Ouf!
[Penelope turns to a glass to arrange her hat. Dickie watches her with a smile.
Well?
Penelope.
[Pretending to be surprised.] I beg your pardon?
Dickie.
You promised to kiss me.
Penelope.
I didn’t. I promis
ed to allow myself to be kissed.
Dickie.
[Taking her in his arms and kissing her.] You little beast.
Penelope.
Finished?
Dickie.
Not nearly.
Penelope.
Then I’m afraid you must go on another time. I’ve got a taxi at the door, and it’s costing twopence a minute.
Dickie.
[Stepping back.] What d’you want a taxi for?
Penelope.
[With a laugh.] I thought that would chill your ardour.
Dickie.
You’re not going on that beastly motor trip now?
Penelope.
Why on earth not?
Dickie.
[Half injured, half surprised.] Pen!
Penelope.
[Looking at the watch on her wrist.] Good gracious, I’m keeping them waiting.
Dickie.
[Taking both her hands.] Now don’t tease me. Go and take those horrid motor things off, and let’s have a comfortable little tea together. And tell Peyton you’re not at home.
Penelope.
I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid I can’t break an engagement.
Dickie.
You’re not serious?
Penelope.
Abnormally.
Dickie.
But, Pen dear, everything’s different now. Don’t you know that I love you?
Penelope.
It’s very nice of you to say so.
Dickie.
Doesn’t it mean anything to you?
Penelope.
Not much.
Dickie.
[Beginning to be rather perplexed.] But, Pen dear, pull yourself together. I love you just as much as you love me.
Penelope.
[With a little smile.] But what makes you think I love you?
Dickie.
[Aghast.] You — you don’t mean to say that you don’t care for me any more?
Penelope.
[Judicially.] I — no longer feel that the world is coming to an end when you go out of the room.
Dickie.
What!... Why don’t you say straight out that you can’t bear the sight of me?
Penelope.
Because it wouldn’t be quite true. I like you very well.
Dickie.
Like me! I don’t want you to like me. I want you to love me.
Penelope.
I wish I could. It would save a lot of bother.
Dickie.
I don’t understand. This is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I always thought you adored me.
Penelope.
Why?
Dickie.
Because I adore you.
Penelope.
Since when?
Dickie.
Always, always, always.
Penelope.
Fancy.
Dickie.
Oh, I know I made a fool of myself. I shall never cease to regret it. D’you think I was happy? D’you think I had a jolly time? Not much.... I suppose it’s that. You can’t forgive me?