Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

The Scene is the same as in the preceding Act. It is evening, towards seven o’clock, but it is still perfectly light. Grace and Peggy Gann are in the room, both standing. Peggy is a pretty girl, quite young, but very pale, with black rings round her eyes. She is dressed like a housemaid in her going-out things. Grace is evidently much distressed.

  Peggy.

  You will try, mum, won’t you?

  [Peggy’s voice seems to call Grace back with a start from her own thoughts.

  Grace.

  I ought to have been told before. It was wicked to keep it from me.

  Peggy.

  I thought you knew, mum. I wasn’t to know that you ‘adn’t been told anything.

  Grace.

  [With a friendly smile.] I’m not blaming you, Peggy.... Mr. Insoley’s out now, but I’ll talk to him as soon as she come in. You’d better go home and fetch your father.

  Peggy.

  You know what father is, mum. I’m afraid he won’t come.

  Grace.

  Oh, but I think it’s very important. Tell him that....

  [Henry Cobbett comes in, and she stops when she sees him.

  Cobbett.

  Hulloa, am I in the way? Shall I go?

  Grace.

  [Passing her hand wearily across her forehead.] No. I’ve just finished.... Try and get your father to come, Peggy.

  Peggy.

  Well, I’ll do what I can, mum.

  [She goes out. Grace gives a little exclamation, partly of distress, partly of indignation.

  Cobbett.

  What’s the matter? You seem rather put out.

  Grace.

  That’s the daughter of one of the keepers. She came to me just now and asked me to beg Claude to give them a little more time. I hadn’t an idea what she meant. Then she said Claude had told her father he must send her away within twenty-four hours or lose his place.

  Cobbett.

  [Flippantly.] Oh, yes, I know. She seems to be rather a flighty young person. Claude and your brother-in-law were talking about it after lunch in the smoking-room.

  Grace.

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  Cobbett.

  Well, it never struck me you didn’t know. Besides — you haven’t shown any great desire for my society the last day or two.

  Grace.

  [With a quick look at him.] I’ve had other guests to attend to.

  Cobbett.

  [Shrugging his shoulders.] And it seemed rather a sordid little story. I don’t think I can interest myself very much at this time of day in the gamekeeper’s daughter who kicks over the traces.

  Grace.

  [Sarcastically.] It’s so devilish mid-Victorian, isn’t it?

  Cobbett.

  [Surprised at her tone.] It’s not really bothering you, is it?

  Grace.

  [With a sudden vehement outburst.] Don’t you see that wretched girl has done no more than I have?

  Cobbett.

  [With a chuckle.] Great Scott, you haven’t produced an unexpected baby, have you?

  Grace.

  Oh, don’t, don’t.

  Cobbett.

  [Coolly.] In point of fact she’s done a great deal more than you have. She’s been found out.

  Grace.

  How can you be so odiously cynical?

  Cobbett.

  I notice people always call you odiously cynical when you talk plain horse-sense to them.

  Grace.

  Can’t you realise what I’m feeling? She had excuses. She was alone, and little more than a child; she had no education. How could she be expected to resist temptation?

  Cobbett.

  It’s an absolute delusion that the lower classes are less able to resist temptation than their betters. In the first place, they have a much more systematic moral education, and then they’re taught from early youth to look upon virtue as a valuable asset.

  Grace.

  [Going up to him suddenly.] Harry, would you mind very much if I stopped the whole thing?

  Cobbett.

  Of course I should mind.

  Grace.

  Oh, no, don’t say that because it’s the conventional thing to say. I want you to be frank with me.

  Cobbett.

  [Uneasily.] Why do you ask me now?

  Grace.

  [After a look at him, a little unwillingly.] I feel so horribly mean.

  Cobbett.

  Claude?

  Grace.

  [With a sort of appeal, as if she were excusing herself.] He’s so awfully good to me, Harry. Every present he gives me, every kind word is like a stab in my heart. I’m beastly to him sometimes, I can’t help it, but nothing seems to make any difference to him.... Whatever I do, he loves me.

  Cobbett.

  Are you beginning to care for Claude — differently?

  Grace.

  Oh, it’s no use pretending. I never loved him as he loved me. I couldn’t. I was bored by his love. Yes, all the time we’ve been married.... It’s only lately....

  [She pauses abruptly. Cobbett gives her a sidelong glance.

  Cobbett.

  Oh!

  Grace.

  I don’t know what I feel or what to do. I’m so bewildered and wretched.... He bores me still — oh, horribly sometimes. And yet at moments I feel as though I were a good deal more than half in love with him. It’s too absurd. With Claude — after all these years. Something has changed me.... It’s the last thing that ought to have changed me towards him.

  [She flushes hotly, and again Cobbett looks at her, and a rather sulky expression comes into his face.

  Cobbett.

  It’s not a very pleasant position for me, is it?

  Grace.

  I shouldn’t have thought it ever had been a very pleasant position considering what a good friend Claude has been to you.

  Cobbett.

  If you look at it in that way, I dare say it would be better to put an end to the whole thing.

  Grace.

  You have been rather a blackguard, haven’t you?

  Cobbett.

  No. I don’t pretend to be better than anybody else, but I’m quite certain I’m no worse. I’m a perfectly normal man in good health. It’s idiotic to abuse me because I’ve done what any other fellow would have done in my place.

  Grace.

  [Suddenly understanding.] Is that all it was to you?

  Cobbett.

  What d’you mean?

  Grace.

  Wasn’t I anything to you at all? Only a more or less attractive woman who happened to cross your path? If I was only that, why couldn’t you leave me alone? What harm did I ever do you? Oh, it was cruel of you. Cruel!

  Cobbett.

  [Quietly.] No man’s able to have an affair all by himself, you know.

  Grace.

  What d’you mean by that?

  Cobbett.

  Well, most fellows are very shy, and they’re dreadfully frightened of a rebuff. A man doesn’t take much risk until — well, until he finds there’s not much risk to take.

  Grace.

  D’you mean to say I gave you to understand.... Oh, how can you humiliate me like that?

  Cobbett.

  Isn’t there a certain amount of truth in it?

  Grace.

  [Looking as it were into her own soul.] Yes.... Oh, I’m so ashamed.

  Cobbett.

  The world would be a jolly sight easier place to live in if people weren’t such humbugs.

  Grace.

  [Hardly able to believe the truth that presents itself to her, yet eager to probe it.] D’you think it was only curiosity on my side and nothing more than opportunity on yours?

  Cobbett.

  That’s the foundation of nine love affairs out of ten, you know.

  Grace.

  [Trying to justify herself in her own eyes.] I was so bored — so lonely. I never felt at home with the people I had to live with. They humiliated me. And you seemed the same sort of person as I was. I
felt at my ease with you. At first I thought you cared for the things I cared for — music and books and pictures: it took me quite a time to discover that you didn’t know the difference between a fiddle and a jews’ harp.... I wonder why you troubled to take me in.

  Cobbett.

  I naturally talked about what I thought would please you.

  Grace.

  I remember at first I felt as if I were just stepping out of a prison into the fresh air. It seemed to me as if — oh, I don’t know how to put it — as if spring flowers were suddenly blossoming in my heart.

  Cobbett.

  I’m afraid you were asking more from me than I was able to give you.

  Grace.

  Oh, I don’t blame you. You’re quite right: it’s I who am to blame. [With sudden vehemence.] Oh, how I envy that wretched girl! If she fell it was because she loved. I asked her who the man was, and she wouldn’t tell me. She said she didn’t want to get him into trouble. She must love him still.

  Cobbett.

  [Moved by the pain which he sees she is suffering.] I hope you don’t think me an awful skunk, Grace. I’m sorry we’ve made such a hash of things.

  Grace.

  [Going on with her own thoughts.] It would be horrible if that wretched girl were punished while I go scot-free. I can’t let her be turned away like a leper. I should never rest in peace again.

  Cobbett.

  Claude’s not very fond of going back on his word. He seems to have delivered an ultimatum, and I expect he’ll stick to it.

  Grace.

  It means so much to me. I feel somehow that if I can only save that poor child it’ll make up in a way — oh, very little — for all the harm I’ve done.... D’you think I’m perfectly absurd?

  Cobbett.

  Life seems devilish complicated sometimes, doesn’t it?

  Grace.

  [With a smile.] Devilish.

  [The sound is heard of a carriage stopping outside.

  Cobbett.

  Hulloa, what’s that?

  Grace.

  It’s my mother-in-law. She’s been out for her drive. [With a glance at her watch.] Claude ought to be in soon.

  Cobbett.

  What are you going to do?

  Grace.

  I’m going to use every means in my power to persuade him to change his mind.

  Cobbett.

  You’re not going to do anything foolish, Grace?

  Grace.

  How d’you mean? [His meaning suddenly strikes her.] You don’t think I might have to.... Oh, that would be too much to ask me.... D’you think I might have to tell him?

  Cobbett.

  Whatever you do, Grace, I want you to know that if anything happens I’m willing to do the straight thing.

  Grace.

  [Shaking her head.] No, I should never ask you to marry me. Now we both know how things are between us — how they’ve always been....

  Cobbett.

  I’m awfully sorry, Grace.

  Grace.

  There’s no need to be. I’m glad to know the truth. There was nothing that held us together before but my cowardice. I was so afraid of going back to that dreary loneliness. But you’ve given me courage.

  Cobbett.

  Is there nothing left of it at all?

  Grace.

  So far as I’m concerned nothing at all — but shame.

  [Edith Lewis comes in. Grace, recovering herself quickly, throws off her seriousness and greets the girl with a pleasant smile.

  Edith.

  We’ve had such a lovely drive.

  Grace.

  And d’you think the country’s as beautiful as ever?

  Edith.

  [Gaily.] Oh, I didn’t look at the country. I was much too excited. Mrs. Insoley has been telling me the dreadful pasts of all the families in the neighbourhood. It appears the further they go back the more shocking their behaviour has been.

  Cobbett.

  I notice that even the grossest immorality becomes respectable when it’s a hundred years old.

  Grace.

  [Ironically.] It’s very hard, isn’t it? Mrs. Grundy has no mercy. She’ll take even you to her bosom before you know where you are.

  [Enter Mrs. Insoley, followed by Miss Vernon and Miss Hall. Miss Hall is carrying Mrs. Insoley’s lap-dog.

  Grace.

  I hope you enjoyed your drive.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I didn’t go for my enjoyment, Grace; I went to exercise the horses.

  Grace.

  [Smiling.] Meanwhile, I hear you took the opportunity of enlarging Edith’s young mind.

  Miss Vernon.

  [To Edith.] When you come to Foley you must remind me to show you the portraits of my great-grandmother, Mary Vernon. She had a tremendous affair with the Regent, you know.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Pleasantly.] My dear Helen, I have the greatest affection for you, but I cannot allow a statement like that to go unchallenged. There is no evidence whatever of the truth of it.

  Miss Vernon.

  I don’t know how you can say that, Mrs. Insoley, considering that I have all my great-grandmother’s letters to the Regent.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [With a chuckle.] Where are his letters to your great-grandmother?

  Miss Vernon.

  She gave them back at the time he returned hers, naturally.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I can see her. If she had any letters she would have kept them. Any woman would.

  Miss Vernon.

  [Bridling a little.] I can’t imagine why you should suddenly throw doubts on a story that the whole county has believed for a hundred years. Every one knew all about Mary Vernon.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Chaffing her.] I am aware that your great-grandmother was an abandoned hussy, but that in itself is no proof that she ever had anything to do with the Regent.

  Miss Vernon.

  You can’t deny that he slept at Foley, Mrs. Insoley.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Only one night.

  Miss Vernon.

  Well?

  Mrs. Insoley.

  It’s notorious that at that very time he was on terms of the greatest intimacy with Pamela Bainbridge. [To Edith Lewis.] I am not an Insoley, thank God; I am a Bainbridge. And whenever he came to this part of the country he stayed with us.

  Miss Vernon.

  I know you’ve always flattered yourself that there was something between them.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [With complete self-assurance.] And well I may, considering that I still have a lock of hair which he gave my grandmother.

  Miss Vernon.

  Half the families in the country have a greasy lock of hair which they tell you was the Regent’s. Personally, I think it’s rather snobbish to make a claim of that sort unless one’s perfectly sure.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Bridling in her turn.] I think you’re extremely rude, Helen. In the presence of a man I can’t go into details, but I have proof of every word I say. You know what I mean, Louisa?

  Miss Hall.

  I believed the worst from the beginning, Mrs. Insoley.

  Miss Vernon.

  I have no doubt you firmly believe what you say, Mrs. Insoley; but if you don’t mind my saying so, one has only to look at the portrait of Pamela Bainbridge to know the whole thing’s absurd.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Frigidly.] We won’t argue the point, Helen; I know I’m right, and there’s an end of it.... Put the dog on that chair, Louisa.

  Miss Hall.

  That’s Mr. Cobbett’s chair, Mrs. Insoley.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [Still a little out of temper.] Has Mr. Cobbett bought it?

  Cobbett.

  No, but Mr. Cobbett’s been sitting in it.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  And may no one use a chair that Mr. Cobbett has been sitting in?

  Cobbett.

  Certainly. But it so happens that Mr. Cobbett is
just going to sit in it again.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  [With a grim smile.] Mr. Cobbett has legs.

  Cobbett.

  Only two, and if a merciful Providence had intended him to stand on them it would undoubtedly have provided him with four.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Mr. Cobbett seems to be better acquainted with the designs of Providence than I should have expected.... Louisa, give me the dog. He shall sit on my lap.

  Cobbett.

  [Chaffing her.] Ah, if you’d only told me that was the alternative, of course I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I think you are very vulgar, sir.... I’m surprised that you should laugh at such an inane joke, Grace.

  Grace.

  You forget that I have a naturally vulgar nature.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I try to, but you take great pains to remind me.

  [Claude comes in with Archibald.

  Claude.

  Well, did you enjoy your drive, mother?

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I didn’t go for my enjoyment, Claude; I went to exercise the horses.

  Archibald.

  We’ve been to a parish meeting.

  Claude.

  [Rather peevishly.] It’s getting almost impossible to do anything for these Somersetshire people. They’re such an obstinate, pig-headed lot.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  I prophesied it forty years ago. When they first introduced all this nonsense about education, I said it was a serious matter.

  Archibald.

  [With a twinkle in his eye.] Like all good prophets you apparently took care to be rather vague about it, mother.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  Considering you weren’t born I don’t see what you can know about it, Archibald. I said this would happen. I said they would make the lower classes so independent that no one would be able to do anything with them. I went for a walk in the village this morning and nobody took any notice of me. Isn’t that so, Louisa?

  Miss Hall.

  No, Mrs. Insoley.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  What do you mean by no, Louisa?

  Miss Hall.

  [Hastily.] I beg your pardon. I mean yes, Mrs. Insoley.

  Mrs. Insoley.

  A few old men touched their hats, and one old woman curtsied, but that was all.

  Claude.

  [With a little nod.] Of course it’s not important in itself, but it’s the sign of a change. The long and short of it is that they don’t look up to their betters as they used to.

  Grace.

  [Ironically.] Perhaps they’ve ceased to realise that we are their betters.

  Claude.

  It’s not too late to teach them their mistake. Personally I mean to be master in my own house.