Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  The doors were swung open and the butler announced the first arrivals, Mrs. Fitzherbert stepped forward to greet them. Ten minutes later the whole party was seated round the dinner-table.

  Canon Spratte was filled with consternation. It was true that he had not sought to marry Mrs. Fitzherbert for her money, but on the other hand the idea would never have come to him except that he knew she had a handsome income. It had never entered his head that she might hold it on such preposterous terms, and the blow was terrible. The Lord Chancellor had been able to leave him nothing. The bulk of his fortune went of necessity to his successor in the title and the rest to Lady Sophia, who announced her determination to lead a single life. St. Gregory’s was worth a certain amount and the canonry something more, but this from the depreciation of land was slowly diminishing. He had always spent every penny he earned. His children had three hundred a year each, but they were to be married and would naturally take the money with them. Lionel was paid nothing for acting as his father’s curate, but he might soon get a living and another expense would ensue. Lady Sophia had contributed a good deal to the household cost of the vicarage, but would of course make her home elsewhere when the Canon brought home a legitimate mistress. He did not see how on earth he could make both ends meet. Mrs. Fitzherbert, far from making up richly for all he lost, would be a source of vast expenditure. It would be necessary to give up the carriage and the horses of which he was so proud. Every cab that his wife took would be a shilling out of his pocket. A little while before Canon Spratte had ventured on a small flutter in the Stock Exchange, and the shares were not rising with the rapidity his broker had promised. This had seemed a bagatelle, but now grew suddenly into a matter of importance. The Canon’s heart sank. He looked at Mrs. Fitzherbert; and the gown which he had admired on his entrance appeared very expensive. She had none of the airs of an economical woman, and it would be needful to economize. He loathed the idea of counting each sovereign as he spent it. He liked the large gesture of generosity, and had the reputation of a man who spent his money well. Now he must be niggardly.

  But above all he felt sold. It had been his consolation in the loss of the bishopric that the widow’s large means, added to his own, would enable him to cut a figure in London. He proposed to entertain lavishly. He wanted to make St. Gregory’s Vicarage a centre of fashion and intelligence, so that his name should go down to posterity like Sydney Smith’s as the most brilliant parson of his day. Instead he was saddled with a penniless wife.

  But not one of these distressing emotions was visible on the Canon’s face during dinner. He had never needed his self-control more. Perhaps he showed his strength no less admirably than he could have done if, according to his ardent wish, he had been in happier days a great minister of state. The party consisted of eight, which he thought precisely the right number. It was neither so large that the conversation ceased to be general nor so small as to give a good talker an insufficient audience. Mrs. Fitzherbert noticed with admiration that he had never seemed in better spirits, and took a vow that whatever happened she would certainly remain friendly with him. He was invaluable at a dinner-party. It was only from an occasional look of weariness, quickly driven away, from a metallic, unusual ring in his laughter, that she suspected how great was his effort. He made himself the centre of the table, and he was so vivacious that none wished to question his supremacy. His stories had never been better, and he told them with a gusto that added vastly to their humour. He was never at a loss for a repartee; his sallies and quaint turns kept the party so well entertained that Mrs. Fitzherbert was radiant. She had never given a more successful dinner, and had the satisfaction of knowing that her guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves. When they thanked her on leaving, it was with a sincerity which she knew was unusual on similar occasions. She felt grateful to Canon Spratte.

  “And now that every one has gone you must sit down and smoke a cigarette, and we’ll have a quiet chat.”

  “That’s just what I should like. I’ve got something to say to you.”

  “Have you? That’s very odd, because I have too.”

  He seated himself, and she noticed that for the first time in their acquaintance, he was embarrassed. She looked at him with smiling eyes, but to him they seemed disconcertingly ironic.

  “I think we should go back to the conversation we had before dinner,” he said. “Would you think it very odd if I made a suggestion?”

  He waited for a reply, but she gave none, and he was forced to proceed. There was no doubt about it, he was growing exceedingly nervous.

  “Well, I suggested then that we should be married in six weeks. I’m afraid it sounds very ungallant if I propose now that we should wait a little.”

  “How long?” she asked quietly.

  “Oh, I don’t know — perhaps a year, two at the utmost. You see, I’m not exactly hard up, but — —” He hesitated again, for once in his life at a loss for words. “The fact is I don’t see how we can possibly marry till I get a bishopric. I’m practically certain to get one soon — there’s no one with half the claims I have, and I think I can boast of a certain amount of influence.”

  “Two years is a long time at our age,” she smiled. “Especially for a woman. You know, even now, you’re ever so much younger in spirit than I am; I’m afraid that each day will increase the difference between us.”

  He paused for the very shortest space of time.

  “Of course, if you’d rather marry at once, I shall be only too charmed. It will make me the happiest of men. It was only on your account that I hesitated. I’m afraid that you’ll have to do without a good many of the luxuries that you’re used to.”

  “It’s very thoughtful of you,” she murmured.

  “I’m afraid we shan’t be able to have a carriage.”

  “You know, I adore riding on ‘buses,” she answered, with twinkling eyes. “One sits on the front seat and talks to the driver.”

  “And then I’m afraid there’ll be no more little trips to Homburg in the summer or to the Riviera in the winter.”

  “When all’s said and done is there any place in the world so comfortable as London?”

  “It’s charming to think that you’re so easily satisfied.”

  She watched him thoughtfully, while he sought to conceal behind a gallant smile a considerable feeling of dismay.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather break off altogether our short engagement?” she asked, suddenly.

  “Nothing would induce me,” he cried, with the utmost emphasis. “Do you imagine that anything you have said makes you less precious to me? You cannot think so badly of me as to suppose that I no longer wish to marry you, because you are not rich.”

  “You’re an ambitious man, and an opulent wife might have been of great use to you: a poor one can only be a drawback.”

  “You pain me very much,” he answered. “I confess I think it would be wise to delay our union, but it would break my heart to put aside all thought of it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think your heart is such a fragile organ as that. Let us be frank with one another. I venture to flatter myself that you did not want to marry me because of my money, but it’s obvious that a well-regulated passion is not diminished because an attractive widow has five thousand a year. It’s very comprehensible that you shouldn’t wish to marry a pauper.”

  “I flatter myself on the other hand that I’m by way of being a gentleman.”

  “Shall we say no more about it? Shall we forget that you murmured various things the other night which you didn’t quite mean?”

  Mrs. Fitzherbert knew that she was very cruel. It was plain that he wished with all his might to accept his release. He suffered the torture of Tantalus, for escape lay within his easy reach, and he had not the effrontery to take it. He was a man who lived for the noble gesture, and he could not bring himself to make one that was uncommonly prosaic.

  “I assure you no one shall know anything about it,” she added. “I promise you I wil
l be as silent as the grave.”

  He looked at her with an indecision that was almost pitiful.

  “If I accepted your suggestion you’d despise me all your life,” he said.

  There was something in his tone that made Mrs. Fitzherbert think she had gone far enough. He was really suffering this time, and she could not bear to see it. She went up to him quickly, and smiling, put her hands on his shoulders.

  “My dear man, do you suppose for a moment that I had any intention of marrying you? Nothing would have induced me to do it.”

  “What do you mean?” he cried.

  “I’ve reached an age when I can’t imagine that it would be worth while sacrificing five thousand a year for any man. Besides, you’re charming as a friend, but as a husband you’d be quite insufferable. I wouldn’t marry you if I were starving and you had all the wealth of Golconda.”

  “D’you mean to say you’ve been playing with me all the time?”

  “I’m afraid that is precisely what it comes to.”

  He drew away from her, and his face took that rather peevish expression of a spoilt child which it sometimes had.

  “I think it’s very cruel of you,” he said.

  “Let us forget all about it. You’re perfectly free and there’s no need whatever for you to marry me. Let us be friends. And don’t flirt any more with widow-ladies; they’re dreadfully dangerous.”

  “I daresay it’s a very good joke to you, but you’ve exposed me to the most awful humiliation. You ask me to be friends, but I shall never be able to look you in the face again.”

  Mrs. Fitzherbert ceased to smile and her eyes became quite grave.

  “Shall I tell you a secret that I’ve never divulged to any living soul?” she said. “Perhaps you’ll understand why I couldn’t resist the chance you gave me. I daresay you’ve forgotten that five-and-twenty years ago we used to see a great deal of one another. Perhaps you never knew that I was so desperately in love with you then that I would have married you if you hadn’t a penny in the world, and I would have been glad to scrub the floors you walked on.”

  The Canon started and was about to speak. But with a little laugh she stopped him.

  “Oh, please don’t make any observation yet. Even now it makes me feel rather silly to speak about it. I daresay you flirted with a good many other girls as much as you did with me, but I was foolish enough to think you cared for me. And I thought you meant to ask me to marry you. Then you met Dorothy Frampstone, and you married her instead. Well, it’s very possible that she was much nicer than I, but you mustn’t be surprised if my vanity leads me to think there were much more solid reasons. I have an idea you transferred your affections to her chiefly because she had six hundred a year while I was penniless, and she was the daughter of a peer of the realm while I was nobody in particular.”

  “You do me an injustice,” he murmured.

  “Anyhow it doesn’t matter, it’s all very long ago. The important thing is that I did love you then really, so if I’ve made you feel a little ridiculous now, it’s only tit for tat.”

  She held out her hand, smiling, and he warmly grasped it.

  “You’re a wonderful woman, and I was a fool five-and-twenty years ago. The fates have been against me all along.”

  “And now good-night,” she laughed. “It’s growing late, and it’s really very compromising for a lone, lorn widow to remain so long en tête-à-tête with a fascinating person like yourself.”

  “Good-night, then.”

  He bent down, and with the utmost grace kissed her hand. When he left her Mrs. Fitzherbert quietly smiled.

  “I thank my stars I am a lone, lorn woman, and unless I become a perfect lunatic I’ll take care to remain one.”

  XVI

  THE Canon passed an unquiet night; and next morning, feeling in need of fresh air, took a stroll in the Park. The day was very fine, and there was a charming freshness in the air which soon brought back his serenity. He sauntered up the Row looking at the people who were out already to enjoy the earliness of the day after a late night at some gay party. He stopped now and then to observe the flowers, in which he took the horticulturist’s delight: Canon Spratte had an amiable weakness for putting Latin names to the daintiest blossoms of the way-side. He nodded to one or two friends and passed the time of day with a famous politician. The scene had an air of luxury and of fashionable indifference to the cares of life which filled him with satisfaction.

  Presently he saw Gwendolen Durant ride towards him.

  She looked so well on horseback that he wondered more than ever why Lionel could not make up his mind to marry. She stopped and spoke to him. They exchanged the simple banter which serves for wit among the easily pleased, and the Canon expressed his admiration of her seat. She nodded a farewell and put her heel to the horse’s side. But at that moment a motor-car rushed by at a terrific speed and gave a series of loud explosions. Gwendolen’s horse turned round with a sudden leap that almost unseated her, and was on the point of bolting, when the Canon jumped forward and seized the bridle. It was not a very dangerous action, but it required some presence of mind, and he performed it with a breadth of gesture that made it look almost heroic.

  “Thanks, so much,” said Gwendolen, a little out of breath and startled. “If you hadn’t been there he’d have bolted. He’s got a mouth like iron and he simply pulls my arms out.”

  “Are you quite sure you’re safe now?” asked Canon Spratte, anxiously.

  The horse was still nervous and refused to stand still.

  “He’ll probably bolt with me, but I must risk it,” she laughed, trying to show no concern.

  “Let me tighten the curb a little, and then you’ll be as safe as a house.” With deft fingers he undid the chain and altered it. “You know, you really ought not to ride alone.”

  “A groom bores me, and there’s no one else to come.”

  “I shall ride with you to-morrow,” he answered. “I don’t think you should be left to your own devices. Now I think you’re in no danger.”

  She thanked him effusively and trotted quickly off. The Canon resumed his promenade somewhat pleased with the action: he was grateful for the smallest incident that served to restore his diminished self-esteem. He was turning round to go home when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sir John Durant.

  “I’ve just seen Gwendolen. She tells me you saved her from a nasty accident.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. I happened to be near.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “If you’ll allow me to say it, I think it’s somewhat incautious to let her ride alone. I’ve offered to accompany her to-morrow.”

  “Oh, that’s very good of you,” said the brewer. “I’m afraid you’ll find it a great bore.”

  “Not at all; I assure you it will be a great pleasure. My doctor has advised me to take horse-exercise, and I shall be only too glad to have some one to ride with.” The Canon put his arm through the brewer’s in his most friendly fashion. “And how are you, my dear fellow? I trust that your affairs are flourishing.”

  “Well, in point of fact they’re not,” cried the other, suddenly growing serious. “That confounded Government wants to give the local justices power to close a certain proportion of public-houses in their districts.”

  “Ah, yes, I saw something about that in the papers, but I understood it would have no influence on the consumption of liquor. Stonehenge’s idea is that the remaining houses will profit.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” cried Sir John, with much vigour. “Nine times out of ten a man doesn’t drink a glass of beer because he’s thirsty, but because there’s a public-house at his elbow. Each one they shut up will take a good round sum out of our pockets.”

  “The Government seems very strong on the point. I suppose they’ve been got hold of by the faddists.”

  Sir John stopped still and significantly tapped Canon Spratte on the chest. His utterance was full of weight.

  “M
ark my words. The Government doesn’t know how strong we are. If they try to interfere with the liquor interest it’ll be a bad day for the Conservative party. I’ll fight them tooth and nail, and I shall carry the whole trade with me. I’m not a boasting fool, but I tell you this: the Government’s in a damned wobbly state, and if they put my back up I don’t answer for the consequences.”

  Canon Spratte looked at his red-faced friend with the utmost attention. He knew that Sir John Durant was a rich man, but had not realized till this moment that he was a powerful man as well. Events might take such a turn that any one who had the brewer’s ear would command vast influence. He looked at his watch. It was time for him to keep an appointment, and he wanted to think quietly over the consequences of this discovery.

  “Why don’t you come and lunch with me at the club one day?” he asked. “I’m afraid I mayn’t take you to the Athenæum, but they give you capital wine at the Carlton.”

  Sir John accepted with pleasure, and so they parted. He was very thoughtful during the remainder of that morning, but at luncheon announced to his family that he proposed to ride every morning after breakfast. His doctor had recommended exercise, and he knew of no other which combined in such just proportions entertainment with utility.

  “And what about this marriage of yours, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia. “You forget that we are all on tenterhooks.”

  He stared at her for a moment with a very natural show of amazement, and burst into a shout of laughter.

  “It was only a little joke of mine, Sophia. You don’t imagine it’s likely that I should marry at my age.”

  “As you say, we Sprattes have a remarkable sense of humour,” she replied, dryly.

  “I can’t help poking fun at you sometimes, my dear. But, as you rightly observed, no one would be such a fool as to marry an old fossil like your humble servant.”

  But her remarks had brought back to his mind an incident which he would willingly have forgotten. He was still very sore, and the more he thought of it the more foolish he felt himself. It was in no amiable mood, therefore, that he waited for Bertram Railing, who was expected to call that afternoon. Nor was the Canon much pleased with his daughter, and he had mentioned two or three times his annoyance that her wilful disobedience had placed him in an awkward position. Railing was not an easy person to deal with. His plainness and outspoken candour rendered possible a very undignified altercation.