Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 379
Grace.
My dear, I’m so dreadfully sorry for you.
Peggy.
It’s so ‘ard on me, mum, and so ‘ard on father. Wasn’t there something more you could do, mum?
Grace.
[With a little gasp of anguish.] I did all I could. I couldn’t do anything more. I couldn’t really.... [Almost to herself.] It’s too much to ask anyone.
Peggy.
I’ve got to go then, and there’s an end of it. You won’t let father be turned away, will you, mum? That’s all I care about now. It ‘ud just break his ‘eart.
Grace.
[With a ray of hope.] D’you think he’ll let you go? I think it’s the best thing after all, Peggy. I’ve done — I’ve done all I could.
Peggy.
No, he won’t hear of it. But I shall go all the same — somewhere he can’t find me.
Grace.
[Anxious now to make the best of it.] I dare say it won’t be for very long, Peggy. Have you as much money as you want? I should like to do something for you.
Peggy.
I shan’t want anything, thank you, mum. And thank you for all you’ve done. And if anything come to ‘appen to me, you’d see as the baby wasn’t sent to the workhouse, wouldn’t you, mum?
Grace.
How d’you mean? I don’t understand.
Peggy.
I’m not going to take the baby with me, mum. It would only be a hindrance.
Grace.
[With a sigh of relief.] Oh, I was so afraid you meant....
Peggy.
Is there anything else you want me for, mum?
Grace.
No, Peggy.
Peggy.
Then I’ll say good evening, mum.
Grace.
Good evening, Peggy.
[She watches Peggy go out, then she gives a little moan of despair.
Grace.
No, I couldn’t, I couldn’t.
Edith Lewis comes in gaily.
Edith Lewis.
There you are! I thought you were in your room. Your maid said you hadn’t come up yet.
Grace.
[Wearily.] I was just going.
Edith Lewis.
[With a smile.] I’ve got something dreadfully important to ask you.
Grace.
[Forcing a smile.] What is it?
Edith Lewis.
Well, I want to know if you’re going to wear the grey satin you wore on Saturday. You see, I only brought three dinner dresses down with me, and one of them’s a grey, only it’s much more slaty than yours, and it’ll look so cold beside it. So I shan’t put it on if you’re going to wear yours.
Grace.
[Dully.] No, I won’t wear my grey satin.
Edith Lewis.
What are you going to wear?
Grace.
I don’t know.
Edith Lewis.
But you must know.
Grace.
Does it matter?
Edith Lewis.
I don’t want to clash with you.
Grace.
[Clenching her hands to prevent herself from screaming.] I won’t put on anything that’ll interfere with your grey.
Edith Lewis.
Thank you. Now I can be quite happy. I say, we shall be so late.
[She runs off. Grace gives a little answering laugh to hers; and as Edith Lewis goes out, it lengthens into a mirthless, low, hysterical peal, broken with sobs.
END OF THE SECOND ACT
THE THIRD ACT
[The dining-room at Kenyon Fulton. It is a fine room with French windows leading into the garden. On the walls are departed Insoleys of the last two or three generations, stiff ladies and gentlemen of the Victorian era, military-looking fellows in the uniform of the early nineteenth century, and ungainly Georgian squires with their wives in powdered hair. Between the windows, standing well away from the wall, rather far back, is a round table laid out for breakfast. On the Sheraton sideboard is a cloth, a stand for keeping dishes warm, a large ham, and plates and forks and spoons. Against the wall opposite the sideboard are a row of chairs, and there are half a dozen chairs round the table. There are doors right and left.
It is the morning after the events which occur in the Second Act, and when the curtain rises prayers have just finished. Claude is seated at the table with an immense prayer-book and a still larger Bible in front of him. The rest of the party are rising to their feet. They have been kneeling against various chairs. They consist of Mrs. Insoley, Miss Hall, and Miss Vernon. Well away from them, emphasising the fact that even the Almighty must recognise the difference between the gentry and their inferiors, have been praying the servants. They have been kneeling against the row of chairs that line the wall, according to their precedence, ranging from the Cook at one end to the Butler at the other; and they consist of the Cook, obese, elderly and respectable, Mrs. Insoley’s Maid, two Housemaids, the Kitchenmaid, the Footman, and Moore the butler. When they have scrambled to their feet they pause for a moment to gather themselves together, and, headed by the Cook, walk out. The Butler takes the Bible and the prayer-book off the table and carries them away. Claude gets up. He takes up his letters and the Times, which he puts under his arm.
Mrs. Insoley.
I didn’t see Grace’s maid, Claude.
Claude.
I dare say Grace couldn’t spare her.
Mrs. Insoley.
If Grace were more punctual she wouldn’t be obliged to deprive her maid of the pleasure and the duty of attending morning prayers.
Miss Hall.
I didn’t see your maid either, Miss Vernon.
Miss Vernon.
She’s a Roman Catholic.
Mrs. Insoley.
A Papist, Helen? Isn’t that very risky?
Miss Vernon.
Good gracious me, why?
Mrs. Insoley.
Aren’t you afraid she’ll corrupt the other servants?
Miss Vernon.
[With a smile.] She’s a highly respectable person of well over forty.
Mrs. Insoley.
She must be very flighty. I would as soon have an atheist.
Miss Hall.
I would never dream of having a Romish maid myself.
Mrs. Insoley.
Is there any likelihood of your having a maid at all, Louisa?
Miss Hall.
No, Mrs. Insoley.
Mrs. Insoley.
In that case I can’t quite see what is the use of your having an opinion on the subject.
Claude.
[Looking up from his letters, with a smile.] Miss Hall was only making a general reflection.
Mrs. Insoley.
I don’t like general reflections at the breakfast table.
[During the next few speeches the Butler and the Footman come in with covered entrée dishes which they put on the sideboard, coffee and milk in silver pots, and tea. They go out. Claude retires to the window to read his letters.
Mrs. Insoley.
I suppose you have prayers at Foley, Helen?
Miss Vernon.
I’m afraid I don’t. It makes me feel rather shy to read them.
Mrs. Insoley.
I don’t see why it should. It doesn’t make me feel shy.
Miss Hall.
You read them so well, Mrs. Insoley.
Mrs. Insoley.
I never forget while I’m reading them that I’m a woman of birth and a woman of property.
Miss Vernon.
And then I always think the servants hate them.
Mrs. Insoley.
The more they hate them, the better it is for them. That is life, my dear Helen. It’s a very good thing to begin the day by making it distinctly understood that masters are masters and servants are servants.
Miss Hall.
And I think servants like that, Mrs. Insoley.
Mrs. Insoley.
It is not a matter of interest to me if they like it or not,
Louisa. I have the authority of my maker for it, and that is quite enough for me.
Henry Cobbett comes in.
Cobbett.
I’m sorry I’m late.
Mrs. Insoley.
When breakfast’s at ten o’clock I cannot imagine why people shouldn’t be punctual.
Cobbett.
Neither can I. [Going to the sideboard.] Let’s have a look at the food.
Mrs. Insoley.
See if there’s anything I’d like, Louisa.
Cobbett.
[Taking off the covers.] There’s fried sole — eggs and bacon.
Mrs. Insoley.
The staple of every middle-class hotel in the kingdom.
Cobbett.
And devilled kidneys.
Mrs. Insoley.
I’ll begin with fried sole, and then I’ll have eggs and bacon, Louisa.
Claude.
[Coming forward.] Oh, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can get you?
Mrs. Insoley.
[Chaffing her fellow-guest.] And then, if Mr. Cobbett has left any, perhaps I’ll see if I can eat a devilled kidney.
Cobbett.
[With a chuckle.] Mr. Cobbett thinks he’ll have to look nippy to get anything at all.
Claude.
[To Miss Vernon.] I wonder what I can tempt you with?
Miss Vernon.
I think I’ll have some fried sole.
Claude.
That’s the beauty of the country. One does relish one’s breakfast, doesn’t one?
[He hands a plate to Miss Vernon, and sits down with another for himself. As he does this he takes the Times from under his arm and sits on it.
Miss Vernon.
[With a smile at his peculiarity.] Is there anything in the Times, Claude?
Claude.
I haven’t read it yet.
Mrs. Insoley.
In some ways you’re much more of a Bainbridge than an Insoley, Claude. My father used always to sit on the Times so that no one should read it before him.
Claude.
I must say I don’t like to have my paper messed about by a lot of people before I’ve had a chance of looking at it. Half the pleasure of reading the Times is reading it first. Besides, the Morning Post and the Mail are on the sideboard for anyone who wants them.
Edith Lewis comes in.
Edith.
Oh, I know I’m dreadfully late. Everybody’s going to scold me. And I’m so sorry.
Cobbett.
[Imitating Mrs. Insoley.] When breakfast’s at ten o’clock I cannot imagine why people shouldn’t be punctual.
Edith.
[Smiling.] Isn’t Grace down yet? [To Claude, who rises to give her something to eat.] No, don’t bother. I’ll help myself.
Mrs. Insoley.
When I was mistress of this house breakfast was served punctually at eight o’clock every morning.
Cobbett.
[Flippantly.] It must have seemed just like supper. Did you have it the last thing before going to bed?
Mrs. Insoley.
I made no exceptions. The day after my cousin James broke his neck in the hunting-field and was brought to this very house on a stretcher, I came down as the clock struck. And a very hearty breakfast I ate too.
Cobbett.
Perhaps he didn’t leave you anything.
Mrs. Insoley.
[With a chuckle.] On the contrary, he left me all his debts.
Enter Grace.
Grace.
Good morning.
Mrs. Insoley.
Good afternoon, Grace.
Grace.
Am I late? I think punctuality’s the most detestable of all the virtues.
Mrs. Insoley.
It’s a royal virtue, my dear.
Grace.
In that case, as a member of the middle classes, it’s not surprising that I don’t practise it.
Claude.
What can I get you, darling?
Grace.
Is there anything nice to eat?
Mrs. Insoley.
[With a grim smile.] That is a matter of opinion.
Claude.
There’s fried sole and eggs and bacon.
Grace.
Oh, I don’t think I’ll have anything. I’ll just have some tea and toast.
Claude.
My dear, you’re not off your feed, are you?
Mrs. Insoley.
Grace has probably been stuffing herself with bread and butter in her room. I have no patience with the new-fangled custom of giving people tea when they wake up. I never give it to my guests.
Cobbett.
Then don’t ask me to come and stay with you.
Mrs. Insoley.
[Delighted with the opportunity he has given her.] It may surprise you, but I have no intention of doing so.
Cobbett.
[Cheerfully.] There now. And I thought I’d made such an impression on you, Mrs. Insoley.
Mrs. Insoley.
That’s why I couldn’t risk asking you to stay with me. Perhaps at my age I am safe from your blandishments, but Louisa is extremely susceptible.
Miss Hall.
Oh, Mrs. Insoley, how can you! Why, Mr. Cobbett must be ten years younger than I am.
Mrs. Insoley.
I should put it at fifteen.
Cobbett.
Don’t dash my hopes to the ground, Miss Hall. I was flattering myself you didn’t look upon me altogether with indifference.
[Archibald Insoley comes in from the garden.
Archibald.
Ah, I thought I’d find you still at breakfast.
Claude.
We’re a lazy lot. I suppose you’ve been up and about for the last two hours.
Grace.
[Looking at him.] Is anything the matter?
Archibald.
Yes.
Claude.
I thought you looked a bit odd.
Archibald.
A most awful thing has happened. I’ve only just heard of it.
Claude.
[Getting up from his chair.] What is it, old man?
[By this time the breakfasters are disturbed; there is a certain embarrassment about them; they are suffering from the awkwardness people feel when they see some one in a condition of distress, but do not suppose it has anything to do with themselves.
Archibald.
You’d better come along with me to the smoking-room.
Grace.
It’s too late to make a secret of it, Archibald. You’d better tell us all.
Claude.
Fire away, old man.
Archibald.
[After a moment’s hesitation.] Peggy Gann has killed herself.
[Grace springs to her feet with a cry.
Claude.
[Looking at Grace.] My God.
[Grace comes forward, horror on her face, and walks unsteadily to a chair. She sinks into it and stares in front of her.
Claude.
Why on earth did she do it?
Grace.
How horrible!
Claude.
[Going up to her, about to put his hand on her shoulder.] Grace.
Grace.
[With a shiver.] Don’t touch me.
[He stops and looks at her, puzzled and unhappy.
Archibald.
You’d better come along.
Claude.
[With his eyes on Grace.] I feel I ought to do something. I don’t know what to do.
Archibald.
I’m afraid there’s nothing much that can be done.
Claude.
I’d better go and see Gann, hadn’t I?
Mrs. Insoley.
Won’t you finish your breakfast before you go, Claude?
Claude.
Oh, I can’t eat anything more.
[He goes out with Archibald.
Miss Hall.
What a dreadful thing.
[Grace gets up and goes to the window.
Mrs. Insoley.
Where are you going, Grace?
Grace.
[Almost beside herself.] For heaven’s sake, leave me alone.
[She stands with her back to the rest of the party, looking out of the window. There is a little awkward pause.
Mrs. Insoley.
Louisa, get me some of those devilled kidneys that Mr. Cobbett has been making so much fuss about.
Cobbett.
Let me.
Mrs. Insoley.
Louisa will get them. She likes to wait on me herself. Don’t you, Louisa?
Miss Hall.
Yes, Mrs. Insoley.
[Miss Vernon pushes back her chair.
Mrs. Insoley.
Have you finished, Helen?
Miss Vernon.
Yes.
Mrs. Insoley.
You’ve eaten nothing.
Miss Vernon.
I couldn’t.
[Miss Vernon looks as if she were going to speak to Grace, but she changes her mind and merely sits down in another chair. Every now and then she looks up at Grace.
Mrs. Insoley.
I cannot imagine why anyone should be upset because an abandoned hussy has been so wicked as to destroy herself.
Cobbett.
Well, it hasn’t taken my appetite away, at all events.
Mrs. Insoley.
If we were honest with ourselves, Mr. Cobbett, we should acknowledge that nobody’s death is important enough to interfere with one’s appetite.
Miss Hall.
Oh, Mrs. Insoley, how can you say such a thing?
Mrs. Insoley.
Louisa, I’ve been like a mother to you for ten years. Would you eat one potato less for your dinner if I were found dead in my bed to-morrow morning?
Miss Hall.
[Taking out her handkerchief.] Oh, yes, Mrs. Insoley. I really, really would.
Mrs. Insoley.
[Touched.] You are a good girl, Louisa, and you may have that black lace shawl of mine. If you mend it carefully, it’ll last you for years.
Miss Hall.
Oh, thank you, Mrs. Insoley. You are so kind to me.
Edith.
D’you think I ought to offer to go away to-day? I was going to stay till to-morrow.
Cobbett.
I was going to-day in any case. I’m due to stay with some people in Wiltshire.
Mrs. Insoley.
You seem to be in great demand.
Cobbett.
I have a very pleasant fund of small talk.
Mrs. Insoley.
I’m afraid this is not an occasion upon which you’ll find it of any use.
[There is a moment’s pause.
Edith.
I’m going into the garden.
Cobbett.
Come on. I’m dying for a smoke.