Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “I am anxious to do my duty, Mary. I have promised to marry you. I do not wish to break my word. I don’t ask you to release me. Will you take what I can offer? I will be a good husband to you. I will do all I can to make you happy. I can give you affection and confidence — friendship; but I can’t give you love. It is much better that I should tell you than that you should find out painfully by yourself — perhaps when it is too late.”

  “You came to ask me to release you. Why do you hesitate now? Do you think I shall refuse?”

  James was silent.

  “You cannot think that I will accept a compromise. Do you suppose that because I am a woman I am not made of flesh and blood? You said you wished to be frank.”

  “I had not thought of the other way till just now.”

  “Do you imagine that it softens the blow? How could I live with you as your wife, and yet not your wife? What are affection and esteem to me without love? You must think me a very poor creature, James, when you want to make me a sort of legal housekeeper.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would look upon it as an impertinence. I didn’t mean to say anything offensive. It struck me as a possible way out of the difficulty. You would, at all events, be happier than you are here.”

  “It is you who despise me now!”

  “Mary!”

  “I can bear pain. It’s not the first humiliation I have suffered. It is very simple, and there’s no reason why we should make a fuss about it. You thought you loved me, and you asked me to marry you. I don’t know whether you ever really loved me; you certainly don’t now, and you wish me to release you. You know that I cannot and will not refuse.”

  “I see no way out of it, Mary,” he said, hoarsely. “I wish to God I did! It’s frightfully cruel to you.”

  “I can bear it. I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault. God will give me strength.” Mary thought of her mother’s cruel sympathy. Her parents would have to be told that James had cast her aside like a plaything he was tired of. “God will give me strength.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mary,” cried James, kneeling by her side. “You’ll have to suffer dreadfully; and I can’t think how to make it any better for you.”

  “There is no way. We must tell them the whole truth, and let them say what they will.”

  “Would you like me to go away from Primpton?”

  “Why?”

  “It might make it easier for you.”

  “Nothing can make it easier. I can face it out. And I don’t want you to run away and hide yourself as if you had done something to be ashamed of. And your people want you. Oh, Jamie, you will be as gentle with them as you can, won’t you? I’m afraid it will — disappoint them very much.”

  “They had set their hearts upon our marriage.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll feel it a good deal. But it can’t be helped. Anything is better than a loveless marriage.”

  James was profoundly touched that at the time of her own bitter grief, Mary could think of the pain of others.

  “I wish I had your courage, Mary. I’ve never seen such strength.”

  “It’s well that I have some qualities. I haven’t the power to make you love me, and I deserve something to make up.”

  “Oh, Mary, don’t speak like that! I do love you! There’s no one for whom I have a purer, more sincere affection. Why won’t you take me with what I can offer? I promise that you will never regret it. You know exactly what I am now — weak, but anxious to do right. Why shouldn’t we be married? Perhaps things may change. Who can tell what time may bring about?”

  “It’s impossible. You ask me to do more than I can. And I know very well that you only make the offer out of charity. Even from you I cannot accept charity.”

  “My earnest wish is to make you happy.”

  “And I know you would sacrifice yourself willingly for that; but I can sacrifice myself, too. You think that if we got married love might arise; but it wouldn’t. You would feel perpetually that I was a reproach to you; you would hate me.”

  “I should never do that.”

  “How can you tell? We are the same age now, but each year I should seem older. At forty I should be an old woman, and you would still be a young man. Only the deepest love can make that difference endurable; but the love would be all on my side — if I had any then. I should probably have grown bitter and ill-humoured. Ah, no, Jamie, you know it is utterly impracticable. You know it as well as I do. Let us part altogether. I give you back your word. It is not your fault that you do not love me. I don’t blame you. One gets over everything in this world eventually. All I ask you is not to trouble too much about me; I shan’t die of it.”

  She stretched out her hand, and he took it, his eyes all blurred, unable to speak.

  “And I thank you,” she continued, “for having come to me frankly and openly, and told me everything. It is still something that you have confidence in me. You need never fear that I shall feel bitter towards you. I can see that you have suffered — perhaps more than you have made me suffer. Good-bye!”

  “Is there nothing I can do, Mary?”

  “Nothing,” she said, trying to smile, “except not to worry.”

  “Good-bye,” he said. “And don’t think too ill of me.”

  She could not trust herself to answer. She stood perfectly quiet till he had gone out of the room; then with a moan sank to the floor and hid her face, bursting into tears. She had restrained herself too long; the composure became intolerable. She could have screamed, as though suffering some physical pain that destroyed all self-control. The heavy sobs rent her chest, and she did not attempt to stop them. She was heart-broken.

  “Oh, how could he!” she groaned. “How could he!”

  Her vision of happiness was utterly gone. In James she had placed the joy of her life; in him had found strength to bear every displeasure. Mary had no thought in which he did not take part; her whole future was inextricably mingled with his. But now the years to come, which had seemed so bright and sunny, turned suddenly grey as the melancholy sky without. She saw her life at Little Primpton, continuing as in the past years, monotonous and dull — a dreary round of little duties, of little vexations, of little pleasures.

  “Oh, God help me!” she cried.

  And lifting herself painfully to her knees, she prayed for strength to bear the woeful burden, for courage to endure it steadfastly, for resignation to believe that it was God’s will.

  X

  James felt no relief. He had looked forward to a sensation of freedom such as a man might feel when he had escaped from some tyrannous servitude, and was at liberty again to breathe the buoyant air of heaven. He imagined that his depression would vanish like an evil spirit exorcised so soon as ever he got from Mary his release; but instead it sat more heavily upon him. Unconvinced even yet that he had acted rightly, he went over the conversation word for word. It seemed singularly ineffectual. Wishing to show Mary that he did not break with her from caprice or frivolous reason, but with sorrowful reluctance, and full knowledge of her suffering, he had succeeded only in being futile and commonplace.

  He walked slowly towards Primpton House. He had before him the announcement to his mother and father; and he tried to order his thoughts.

  Mrs. Parsons, her household work finished, was knitting the inevitable socks; while the Colonel sat at the table, putting new stamps into his album. He chattered delightedly over his treasures, getting up now and then gravely to ask his wife some question or to point out a surcharge; she, good woman, showed interest by appropriate rejoinders.

  “There’s no one in Tunbridge Wells who has such a fine collection as I have.”

  “General Newsmith showed me his the other day, but it’s not nearly so good as yours, Richmond.”

  “I’m glad of that. I suppose his Mauritius are fine?” replied the Colonel, with some envy, for the general had lived several years on the island.

  “They’re fair,” said Mrs. Parsons, reassuringly; “but
not so good as one would expect.”

  “It takes a clever man to get together a good collection of stamps, although I shouldn’t say it.”

  They looked up when James entered.

  “I’ve just been putting in those Free States you brought me, Jamie. They look very well.”

  The Colonel leant back to view them, with the satisfied look with which he might have examined an old master.

  “It was very thoughtful of Jamie to bring them,” said Mrs. Parsons.

  “Ah, I knew he wouldn’t forget his old father. Don’t you remember, Frances, I said to you, ‘I’ll be bound the boy will bring some stamps with him.’ They’ll be valuable in a year or two. That’s what I always say with regard to postage stamps; you can’t waste your money. Now jewellery, for instance, gets old-fashioned, and china breaks; but you run no risk with stamps. When I buy stamps, I really feel that I’m as good as investing my money in consols.”

  “Well, how’s Mary this morning?”

  “I’ve been having a long talk with her.”

  “Settled the day yet?” asked the Colonel, with a knowing little laugh.

  “No!”

  “Upon my word, Frances, I think we shall have to settle it for them. Things weren’t like this when we were young. Why, Jamie, your mother and I got married six weeks after I was introduced to her at a croquet party.”

  “We were married in haste, Richmond,” said Mrs. Parsons, laughing.

  “Well, we’ve taken a long time to repent of it, my dear. It’s over thirty years.”

  “I fancy it’s too late now.”

  The Colonel took her hand and patted it.

  “If you get such a good wife as I have, Jamie, I don’t think you’ll have reason to complain. Will he, my dear?”

  “It’s not for me to say, Richmond,” replied Mrs. Parsons, smiling contentedly.

  “Do you want me to get married very much, father?”

  “Of course I do. I’ve set my heart upon it. I want to see what the new generations of Parsons are like before I die.”

  “Listen, Richmond, Jamie has something to tell us.”

  Mrs. Parsons had been looking at her son, and was struck at last by the agony of his expression.

  “What is it, Jamie?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be dreadfully disappointed. I’m so sorry — Mary and I are no longer engaged to be married.”

  For a minute there was silence in the room. The old Colonel looked helplessly from wife to son.

  “What does he mean, Frances?” he said at last.

  Mrs. Parsons did not answer, and he turned to James.

  “You’re not in earnest, Jamie? You’re joking with us?”

  James went over to his father, as the weaker of the two, and put his arm round his shoulders.

  “I’m awfully sorry to have to grieve you, father. It’s quite true — worse luck! It was impossible for me to marry Mary.”

  “D’you mean that you’ve broken your engagement with her after she’s waited five years for you?” said Mrs. Parsons.

  “I couldn’t do anything else. I found I no longer loved her. We should both have been unhappy if we had married.”

  The Colonel recovered himself slowly, he turned round and looked at his son.

  “Jamie, Jamie, what have you done?”

  “Oh, you can say nothing that I’ve not said to myself. D’you think it’s a step I should have taken lightly? I feel nothing towards Mary but friendship. I don’t love her.”

  “But—” the Colonel stopped, and then a light shone in his face, and he began to laugh. “Oh, it’s only a lovers’ quarrel, Frances. They’ve had a little tiff, and they say they’ll never speak to one another again. I warrant they’re both heartily sorry already, and before night they’ll be engaged as fast as ever.”

  James, by a look, implored his mother to speak. She understood, and shook her head sadly.

  “No, Richmond, I’m afraid it’s not that. It’s serious.”

  “But Mary loves him, Frances.”

  “I know,” said James. “That’s the tragedy of it. If I could only persuade myself that she didn’t care for me, it would be all right.”

  Colonel Parsons sank into his chair, suddenly collapsing. He seemed smaller than ever, wizened and frail; the wisp of white hair that concealed his baldness fell forward grotesquely. His face assumed again that expression, which was almost habitual, of anxious fear.

  “Oh, father, don’t look like that! I can’t help it! Don’t make it harder for me than possible. You talk to him, mother. Explain that it’s not my fault. There was nothing else I could do.”

  Colonel Parsons sat silent, with his head bent down, but Mrs. Parsons asked:

  “What did you say to Mary this morning?”

  “I told her exactly what I felt.”

  “You said you didn’t love her?”

  “I had to.”

  “Poor thing!”

  They all remained for a while without speaking, each one thinking his painful thoughts.

  “Richmond,” said Mrs. Parsons at last, “we mustn’t blame the boy. It’s not his fault. He can’t help it if he doesn’t love her.”

  “You wouldn’t have me marry her without love, father?”

  The question was answered by Mrs. Parsons.

  “No; if you don’t love her, you mustn’t marry her. But what’s to be done, I don’t know. Poor thing, poor thing, how unhappy she must be!”

  James sat with his face in his hands, utterly wretched, beginning already to see the great circle of confusion that he had caused. Mrs. Parsons looked at him and looked at her husband. Presently she went up to James.

  “Jamie, will you leave us for a little? Your father and I would like to talk it over alone.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  James got up, and putting her hands on his shoulders, she kissed him.

  When James had gone, Mrs. Parsons looked compassionately at her husband; he glanced up, and catching her eye, tried to smile. But it was a poor attempt, and it finished with a sigh.

  “What’s to be done, Richmond?”

  Colonel Parsons shook his head without answering.

  “I ought to have warned you that something might happen. I saw there was a difference in Jamie’s feelings, but I fancied it would pass over. I believed it was only strangeness. Mary is so fond of him, I thought he would soon love her as much as ever.”

  “But it’s not honourable what he’s done, Frances,” said the old man at last, his voice trembling with emotion. “It’s not honourable.”

  “He can’t help it if he doesn’t love her.”

  “It’s his duty to marry her. She’s waited five years; she’s given him the best of her youth — and he jilts her. He can’t, Frances; he must behave like a gentleman.”

  The tears fell down Mrs. Parsons’ careworn cheeks — the slow, sparse tears of the woman who has endured much sorrow.

  “Don’t let us judge him, Richmond. We’re so ignorant of the world. You and I are old-fashioned.”

  “There are no fashions in honesty.”

  “Let us send for William. Perhaps he’ll be able to advise us.”

  William was Major Forsyth, the brother of Mrs. Parsons. He was a bachelor, living in London, and considered by his relatives a typical man of the world.

  “He’ll be able to talk to the boy better than we can.”

  “Very well, let us send for him.”

  They were both overcome by the catastrophe, but as yet hardly grasped the full extent of it. All their hopes had been centred on this marriage; all their plans for the future had been in it so intricately woven that they could not realise the total over-throw. They felt as a man might feel who was crippled by a sudden accident, and yet still pictured his life as though he had free use of his limbs.... Mrs. Parsons wrote a telegram, and gave it to the maid. The servant went out of the room, but as she did so, stepped back and announced:

  “Miss Clibborn, ma’am.”

 
“Mary!”

  The girl came in, and lifted the veil which she had put on to hide her pallor and her eyes, red and heavy with weeping.

  “I thought I’d better come round and see you quietly,” she said. “I suppose you’ve heard?”

  “Mary, Mary!”

  Mrs. Parsons took her in her arms, kissing her tenderly. Mary pretended to laugh, and hastily dried the tears which came to her eyes.

  “You’ve been crying, Mrs. Parsons. You mustn’t do that.... Let us sit down and talk sensibly.”

  She took the Colonel’s hand, and gently pressed it.

  “Is it true, Mary?” he asked. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Yes, it’s quite true. We’ve decided that we don’t wish to marry one another. I want to ask you not to think badly of Jamie. He’s very — cut up about it. He’s not to blame.”

  “We’re thinking of you, my dear.”

  “Oh, I shall be all right. I can bear it.”

  “It’s not honourable what he’s done, Mary,” said the Colonel.

  “Oh, don’t say that, please! That is why I came round to you quickly. I want you to think that Jamie did what he considered right. For my sake, don’t think ill of him. He can’t help it if he doesn’t love me. I’m not very attractive; he must have known in India girls far nicer than I. How could I hope to keep him all these years? I was a fool to expect it.”

  “I am so sorry, Mary!” cried Mrs. Parsons. “We’ve looked forward to your marriage with all our hearts. You know Jamie’s been a good son to us; he’s never given us any worry. We did want him to marry you. We’re so fond of you, and we know how really good you are. We felt that whatever happened after that — if we died — Jamie would be safe and happy.”

  “It can’t be helped. Things never turn out in this world as one wants them. Don’t be too distressed about it, and, above all things, don’t let Jamie see that you think he hasn’t acted — as he might have done.”

  “How can you think of him now, when your heart must be almost breaking?”