Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “I should have thought Thompson could do something,” said Edward.

  “’E says the butcher’s the only thing for ‘er,” said the other, with great contempt.

  Edward snorted indignantly. “Butcher indeed! I’d like to butcher him if I got the chance.”

  He went into the farmhouse, which for years had been his home; but he was a practical, sensible fellow and it brought him no memories, no particular emotion.

  “Well, Mrs. Jones,” he said to the tenant’s wife. “How’s yourself?”

  “Middlin’, sir. And ‘ow are you and Mrs. Craddock?”

  “I’m all right — the Missus is having a baby, you know.”

  He spoke in the jovial, careless way which necessarily endeared him to the whole world.

  “Bless my soul, is she indeed, sir — and I knew you when you was a boy! When d’you expect it?”

  “I expect it every minute. Why, for all I know, I may be a happy father when I get back to tea.”

  “You take it pretty cool, governor,” said Farmer Jones, who had known Edward in the days of his poverty.

  “Me?” cried Edward, laughing. “I know all about this sort of thing, you see. Why, look at all the calves I’ve had — and mind you, I’ve not had an accident with a cow above twice, all the time I’ve gone in for breeding.... But I’d better be going to see how the Missus is getting on. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Now what I like about the squire,” said Mrs. Jones, “is that there’s no ‘aughtiness in ’im. ’E ain’t too proud to take a cup of tea with you, although ’e is the squire now.”

  “‘E’s the best squire we’ve ‘ad for thirty years,” said Farmer Jones, “and, as you say, my dear, there’s not a drop of ‘aughtiness in ’im — which is more than you can say for his missus.”

  “Oh well, she’s young-like,” replied his wife. “They do say as ‘ow ‘e’s the master, and I dare say ‘e’ll teach ‘er better.”

  “Trust ’im for makin’ ’is wife buckle under; ‘e’s not a man to stand nonsense from anybody.”

  Edward swung along the road, whirling his stick round, whistling, and talking to the dogs that accompanied him. He was of a hopeful disposition, and did not think it would be necessary to slaughter his best cow. He did not believe in the vet. half so much as in himself, and his firm opinion was that she would recover. He walked up the avenue of Court Leys, looking at the young elms he had planted to fill the gaps; they were pretty healthy on the whole, and he was pleased with his work.

  He went to Bertha’s room and knocked at the door. Dr. Ramsay opened it, but with his burly frame barred the passage.

  “Oh, don’t be afraid,” said Edward, “I don’t want to come in. I know when I’m best out of the way.... How is she getting on?”

  “Well, I’m afraid it won’t be such an easy job as I thought,” whispered the doctor; “but there’s no reason to get alarmed.”

  “I shall be downstairs if you want me for anything.”

  “She was asking for you a good deal just now, but nurse told her it would upset you if you were there; so then she said, ‘Don’t let him come; I’ll bear it alone.’”

  “Oh, that’s all right. In a time like this the husband is much better out of the way, I think.”

  Dr. Ramsay shut the door upon him.

  “Sensible chap that,” he said. “I like him better and better. Why, most men would be fussing about and getting hysterical, and Lord knows what.”

  “Was that Eddie?” asked Bertha, her voice trembling with recent agony.

  “Yes; he came to see how you were.”

  “He isn’t very much upset, is he? Don’t tell him I’m very bad — it’ll make him wretched. I’ll bear it alone.”

  Edward, downstairs, told himself it was no use getting into a state, which was quite true, and taking the most comfortable chair in the room, settled down to read his paper. Before dinner he went to make more inquiries. Dr. Ramsay came out saying he had given Bertha opium, and for a while she was quiet.

  “It’s lucky you did it just at dinner time,” said Edward, with a laugh. “We’ll be able to have a snack together.”

  They sat down and began to eat. They rivalled one another in their appetites; and the doctor, liking Edward more and more, said it did him good to see a man who could eat well. But before they had reached the pudding, a message came from the nurse to say that Bertha was awake, and Dr. Ramsay regretfully left the table. Edward went on eating steadfastly. At last, with the happy sigh of the man conscious of virtue and a satisfied stomach, he lit his pipe and again settling himself in the armchair, shortly began to doze. The evening, however, was long, and he felt bored.

  “It ought to be all over by now,” he said. “I wonder if I need stay up?”

  Dr. Ramsay seemed a little worried when Edward went to him a third time.

  “I’m afraid it’s a difficult case,” he said. “It’s most unfortunate. She’s been suffering a good deal, poor thing.”

  “Well, is there anything I can do?” asked Edward.

  “No, except to keep calm and not make a fuss.”

  “Oh, I shan’t do that; you needn’t fear. I will say that for myself, I have got nerve.”

  “You’re splendid,” said Dr. Ramsay. “I tell you I like to see a man keep his head so well through a job like this.”

  “Well, what I came to ask you was — is there any good in my sitting up? Of course I’ll do it if anything can be done; but if not I may as well go to bed.”

  “Yes, I think you’d much better; I’ll call you if you’re wanted. I think you might come in and say a word or two to Bertha; it will encourage her.”

  Edward entered. Bertha was lying with staring, terrified eyes — eyes that seemed to have lately seen entirely new things, they shone glassily. Her face was whiter than ever, the blood had fled from her lips, and her cheeks were sunken: she looked as if she were dying. She greeted Edward with the faintest smile.

  “How are you, little woman?” he asked.

  His presence seemed to call her back to life, and a faint colour lit up her cheeks.

  “I’m all right,” she said, making an effort. “You mustn’t worry yourself, dear.”

  “Been having a bad time?”

  “No,” she said, bravely. “I’ve not really suffered much — there’s nothing for you to upset yourself about.”

  He went out, and she called Dr. Ramsay. “You haven’t told him what I’ve gone through, have you? I don’t want him to know.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ve told him to go to bed.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. He can’t bear not to get his proper night’s rest.... How long d’you think it will last — already I feel as if I’d been tortured for ever, and it seems endless.”

  “Oh, it’ll soon be over now, I hope.”

  “I’m sure I’m going to die,” she whispered; “I feel that life is being gradually drawn out of me — I shouldn’t mind if it weren’t for Eddie. He’ll be so cut up.”

  “What nonsense!” said the nurse, “you all say you’re going to die.”

  Edward — dear, manly, calm, and pure-minded fellow as he was — went to bed quietly and soon was fast asleep. But his slumbers were somewhat troubled: generally he enjoyed the heavy dreamless sleep of the man who has no nerves and plenty of exercise. To-night, however, he dreamt. He dreamt not only that one cow was sick, but that all his cattle had fallen ill — the cows stood about with gloomy eyes and humpbacks, surly and dangerous, evidently with their livers totally deranged; the oxen were “blown,” and lay on their backs with legs kicking feebly in the air.

  “You must send them all to the butcher’s,” said the vet.; “there’s nothing to be done with them.”

  “Good Lord deliver us,” said Edward; “I shan’t get four bob a stone for them.”

  But his dream was disturbed by a knock at the door, and Edward awoke to find Dr. Ramsay shaking him.

  “Wake up, man — get up and dress quickly.”<
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  “What’s the matter?” cried Edward, jumping out of bed and seizing his clothes. “What’s the time?”

  “It’s half-past four.... I want you to go into Tercanbury for Dr. Spocref; Bertha is very bad.”

  “All right, I’ll bring him back with me.” Edward rapidly dressed himself.

  “I’ll go round and wake up the man to put the horse in.”

  “No, I’ll do that myself; it’ll take me half the time.” He methodically laced his boots.

  “Bertha is in no immediate danger. But I must have a consultation. I still hope we shall bring her through it.”

  “By Jove,” said Edward, “I didn’t know it was so bad as that.”

  “You need not get alarmed yet — the great thing is for you to keep calm and bring Spocref along as quickly as possible. It’s not hopeless yet.”

  Edward, with all his wits about him, was soon ready and with equal rapidity set to harnessing the horse; he carefully lit the lamps, as the proverb, more haste, less speed, passed through his mind. In two minutes he was on the main road, and whipped up the horse. He went with a quick, steady trot through the silent night.

  Dr. Ramsay, returning to the sick-room, thought what a splendid object was a man who could be relied upon to do anything, who never lost his head nor got excited. His admiration for Edward was growing by leaps and bounds.

  Chapter XVII

  EDWARD CRADDOCK was a strong man, also unimaginative. Driving through the night to Tercanbury he did not give way to distressing thoughts, but easily kept his anxiety within proper bounds, and gave his whole attention to conducting the horse; he kept his eyes on the road in front of him, and the beast stepped out with swift, regular stride, rapidly passing the milestones. Edward rang Dr. Spocref up and gave him the note he carried. The doctor presently came down, an undersized man with a squeaky voice and a gesticulative manner. He looked upon Edward with suspicion.

  “I suppose you’re the husband?” he said, as they clattered down the street. “Would you like me to drive? I dare say you’re rather upset.”

  “No — and don’t want to be,” answered Edward, with a laugh. He looked down a little upon people who lived in towns, and never trusted a man who was less than six feet high and burly in proportion!

  “I’m rather nervous of anxious husbands who drive me at a breakneck pace in the middle of the night,” said the doctor. “The ditches have an almost irresistible attraction for them.”

  “Well, I’m not nervous, doctor, so it doesn’t matter twopence if you are.”

  When they reached the open country, Edward set the horse going at its fastest; he was somewhat amused at the doctor’s desire to drive — absurd little man!

  “Are you holding on tight?” he asked, with good-natured scorn.

  “I see you can drive,” said the doctor.

  “It is not the first time I’ve had reins in my hands,” replied Edward, modestly. “Here we are!”

  He showed the specialist to the bedroom, and asked whether Dr. Ramsay required him further.

  “No, I don’t want you just now; but you’d better stay up to be ready, if anything happens.... I’m afraid Bertha is very bad indeed — you must be prepared for everything.”

  Edward retired to the next room and sat down. He was genuinely disturbed, but even now could not realise that Bertha was dying — his mind was sluggish, and he was unable to imagine the future. A more emotional man would have been white with fear, his heart beating painfully and his nerves quivering with a hundred anticipated terrors. He would have been quite useless; while Edward was fit for any emergency — he could have been trusted to drive another ten miles in search of some appliance, and, with perfect steadiness, to help in any necessary operation.

  “You know,” he said to Dr. Ramsay, “I don’t want to get in your way; but if I should be any use in the room, you can trust me not to get flurried.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything you can do; the nurse is very trustworthy and capable.”

  “Women,” said Edward, “get so excited; they always make fools of themselves if they possibly can.”

  But the night air had made Craddock sleepy, and after half-an-hour in the chair, trying to read a book, he dozed off. Presently, however, he awoke, and the first light of day filled the room with a gray coldness. He looked at his watch.

  “By Jove, it’s a long job,” he said.

  There was a knock at the door, and the nurse came in.

  “Will you please come.”

  Dr. Ramsay met him in the passage. “Thank God, it’s over. She’s had a terrible time.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I think she’s in no danger now — but I’m sorry to say we couldn’t save the child.”

  A pang went through Edward’s heart. “Is it dead?”

  “It was still-born. I was afraid it was hopeless. You’d better go to Bertha now — she wants you. She doesn’t know about the child.”

  Bertha was lying in an attitude of complete exhaustion: she lay on her back, with arms stretched in utter weakness by her sides. Her face was gray with past anguish, her eyes dull and lifeless, half closed; and her jaw hung almost as hangs the jaw of a corpse. She tried to form a smile as she saw Edward, but in her feebleness the lips scarcely moved.

  “Don’t try to speak, dear,” said the nurse, seeing that Bertha was attempting words.

  Edward bent down and kissed her, the faintest blush coloured her cheeks, and she began to cry; the tears stealthily glided down her cheeks.

  “Come nearer to me, Eddie,” she whispered.

  He knelt beside her, suddenly touched. He took her hand, and the contact had a vivifying effect; she drew a long breath, and her lips formed a weary, weary smile.

  “Thank God, it’s over,” she groaned, half whispering. “Oh, Eddie, darling, you can’t think what I’ve gone through.”

  “Well, it’s all over now.”

  “And you’ve been worrying too, Eddie. It encouraged me to think that you shared my trouble. You must go to sleep now. It was good of you to drive to Tercanbury for me.”

  “You mustn’t talk,” said Dr. Ramsay, coming back into the room, after seeing the specialist sent off.

  “I’m better now,” said Bertha, “since I’ve seen Eddie.”

  “Well, you must go to sleep.”

  “You’ve not told me yet if it’s a boy or a girl; tell me, Eddie, you know.”

  Edward looked uneasily at the doctor.

  “It’s a boy,” said Dr. Ramsay.

  “I knew it would be,” she murmured. An expression of ecstatic pleasure came into her face, chasing away the grayness of death. “I’m so glad. Have you seen it, Eddie?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s our child, isn’t it? It’s worth going through the pain to have a baby. I’m so happy.”

  “You must go to sleep now.”

  “I’m not a bit sleepy — and I want to see my boy.”

  “No, you can’t see him now,” said Dr. Ramsay, “he’s asleep, and you mustn’t disturb him.”

  “Oh, I should like to see him, just for one minute. You needn’t wake him.”

  “You shall see him after you’ve been asleep,” said the doctor, soothingly. “It’ll excite you too much.”

  “Well, you go in and see him, Eddie, and kiss him, and then I’ll go to sleep.”

  She seemed so anxious that at least its father should see his child, that the nurse led Edward into the next room. On a chest of drawers was lying something covered with a towel. This the nurse lifted, and Edward saw his child; it was naked and very small, hardly human, repulsive, yet very pitiful. The eyes were closed, the eyes that had never been opened. Edward looked at it for a minute.

  “I promised I’d kiss it,” he whispered.

  He bent down and touched with his lips the white forehead; the nurse drew the towel over the body, and they went back to Bertha.

  “Is he sleeping?” she asked.

  “Yes.”


  “Did you kiss him?”

  “Yes.”

  Bertha smiled. “Fancy your kissing baby before me.”

  But Dr. Ramsay’s draught was taking its effect, and almost immediately Bertha fell into a pleasant sleep.

  “Let’s take a turn in the garden,” said Dr. Ramsay. “I think I ought to be here when she wakes.”

  The air was fresh, scented with the spring flowers and the odour of the earth. Both men inspired it with relief after the close atmosphere of the sick-room. Dr. Ramsay put his arm in Edward’s.

  “Cheer up, my boy,” he said. “You’ve borne it all magnificently. I’ve never seen a man go through a night like this better than you; and upon my word, you’re as fresh as paint this morning.”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” said Edward. “What’s to be done about — about the baby?”

  “I think she’ll be able to bear it better after she’s had a sleep. I really didn’t dare say it was still-born. The shock would have been too much for her.”

  They went in and washed and ate, then waited for Bertha to wake. At last the nurse called them.

  “You poor things,” cried Bertha, as they entered the room. “Have you had no sleep at all?... I feel quite well now, and I want my baby. Nurse says it’s sleeping and I can’t have it — but I will. I want it to sleep with me, I want to look at my son.”

  Edward and the nurse looked at Dr. Ramsay, who for once was disconcerted.

  “I don’t think you’d better have him to-day, Bertha,” he said. “It would upset you.”

  “Oh, but I must have my baby. Nurse, bring him to me at once.”

  Edward knelt down again by the bedside and took her hands. “Now, Bertha, you musn’t be alarmed, but the baby’s not well, and — —”

  “What d’you mean?” Bertha suddenly sprang up in the bed.

  “Lie down. Lie down,” cried Dr. Ramsay and the nurse, forcing her back on the pillow.

  “What’s the matter with him, doctor,” she cried, in sudden terror.

  “It’s as Edward says, he’s not well.”