Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Next day he wired again.

  Regret, unable to come. Will write.

  Mildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he would not tell her that the hour was inconvenient. After all she came first. He waited for her impatiently. He watched for her at the window and opened the front-door himself.

  “Well? Did you see Nixon?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “He said it wasn’t any good. Nothing’s to be done. I must just grin and bear it.”

  “But that’s impossible,” cried Philip.

  She sat down wearily.

  “Did he give any reasons?” he asked.

  She gave him a crumpled letter.

  “There’s your letter, Philip. I never took it. I couldn’t tell you yesterday, I really couldn’t. Emil didn’t marry me. He couldn’t. He had a wife already and three children.”

  Philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. It was almost more than he could bear.

  “That’s why I couldn’t go back to my aunt. There’s no one I can go to but you.”

  “What made you go away with him?” Philip asked, in a low voice which he struggled to make firm.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know he was a married man at first, and when he told me I gave him a piece of my mind. And then I didn’t see him for months, and when he came to the shop again and asked me I don’t know what came over me. I felt as if I couldn’t help it. I had to go with him.”

  “Were you in love with him?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t hardly help laughing at the things he said. And there was something about him — he said I’d never regret it, he promised to give me seven pounds a week — he said he was earning fifteen, and it was all a lie, he wasn’t. And then I was sick of going to the shop every morning, and I wasn’t getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to treat me as a servant instead of a relation, said I ought to do my own room, and if I didn’t do it nobody was going to do it for me. Oh, I wish I hadn’t. But when he came to the shop and asked me I felt I couldn’t help it.”

  Philip moved away from her. He sat down at the table and buried his face in his hands. He felt dreadfully humiliated.

  “You’re not angry with me, Philip?” she asked piteously.

  “No,” he answered, looking up but away from her, “only I’m awfully hurt.”

  “Why?”

  “You see, I was so dreadfully in love with you. I did everything I could to make you care for me. I thought you were incapable of loving anyone. It’s so horrible to know that you were willing to sacrifice everything for that bounder. I wonder what you saw in him.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, Philip. I regretted it bitterly afterwards, I promise you that.”

  He thought of Emil Miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his shifty blue eyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he always wore bright red knitted waistcoats. Philip sighed. She got up and went to him. She put her arm round his neck.

  “I shall never forget that you offered to marry me, Philip.”

  He took her hand and looked up at her. She bent down and kissed him.

  “Philip, if you want me still I’ll do anything you like now. I know you’re a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

  His heart stood still. Her words made him feel slightly sick.

  “It’s awfully good of you, but I couldn’t.”

  “Don’t you care for me any more?”

  “Yes, I love you with all my heart.”

  “Then why shouldn’t we have a good time while we’ve got the chance? You see, it can’t matter now.”

  He released himself from her.

  “You don’t understand. I’ve been sick with love for you ever since I saw you, but now — that man. I’ve unfortunately got a vivid imagination. The thought of it simply disgusts me.”

  “You are funny,” she said.

  He took her hand again and smiled at her.

  “You mustn’t think I’m not grateful. I can never thank you enough, but you see, it’s just stronger than I am.”

  “You are a good friend, Philip.”

  They went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar companionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that they should dine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted some persuasion, for she had an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it did not accord with her distressed condition to go to a place of entertainment. At last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and when she could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. She had a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip. She asked him to take her to the little restaurant in Soho to which they had so often been; he was infinitely grateful to her, because her suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to it. She grew much more cheerful as dinner proceeded. The Burgundy from the public house at the corner warmed her heart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance. Philip thought it safe to speak to her of the future.

  “I suppose you haven’t got a brass farthing, have you?” he asked, when an opportunity presented itself.

  “Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady three pounds of that.”

  “Well, I’d better give you a tenner to go on with. I’ll go and see my solicitor and get him to write to Miller. We can make him pay up something, I’m sure. If we can get a hundred pounds out of him it’ll carry you on till after the baby comes.”

  “I wouldn’t take a penny from him. I’d rather starve.”

  “But it’s monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like this.”

  “I’ve got my pride to consider.”

  It was a little awkward for Philip. He needed rigid economy to make his own money last till he was qualified, and he must have something over to keep him during the year he intended to spend as house physician and house surgeon either at his own or at some other hospital. But Mildred had told him various stories of Emil’s meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate with her in case she accused him too of want of generosity.

  “I wouldn’t take a penny piece from him. I’d sooner beg my bread. I’d have seen about getting some work to do long before now, only it wouldn’t be good for me in the state I’m in. You have to think of your health, don’t you?”

  “You needn’t bother about the present,” said Philip. “I can let you have all you want till you’re fit to work again.”

  “I knew I could depend on you. I told Emil he needn’t think I hadn’t got somebody to go to. I told him you was a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

  By degrees Philip learned how the separation had come about. It appeared that the fellow’s wife had discovered the adventure he was engaged in during his periodical visits to London, and had gone to the head of the firm that employed him. She threatened to divorce him, and they announced that they would dismiss him if she did. He was passionately devoted to his children and could not bear the thought of being separated from them. When he had to choose between his wife and his mistress he chose his wife. He had been always anxious that there should be no child to make the entanglement more complicated; and when Mildred, unable longer to conceal its approach, informed him of the fact, he was seized with panic. He picked a quarrel and left her without more ado.

  “When d’you expect to be confined?” asked Philip.

  “At the beginning of March.”

  “Three months.”

  It was necessary to discuss plans. Mildred declared she would not remain in the rooms at Highbury, and Philip thought it more convenient too that she should be nearer to him. He promised to look for something next day. She suggested the Vauxhall Bridge Road as a likely neighbourhood.

  “And it would be near for afterwards,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I should only be able to stay there about two months or a little more, and then I should have to go into a house. I know a very respectable place, where they have a most superior class of people, and they ta
ke you for four guineas a week and no extras. Of course the doctor’s extra, but that’s all. A friend of mine went there, and the lady who keeps it is a thorough lady. I mean to tell her that my husband’s an officer in India and I’ve come to London for my baby, because it’s better for my health.”

  It seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this way. With her delicate little features and her pale face she looked cold and maidenly. When he thought of the passions that burnt within her, so unexpected, his heart was strangely troubled. His pulse beat quickly.

  LXX

  Philip expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to his rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following morning. The silence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. They had seen one another every day he had been in London since the previous June; and it must seem odd to her that he should let two days go by without visiting her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an unlucky chance she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think that she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because he had allowed himself to get on such intimate terms with her. The thought of continuing them filled him with disgust.

  He found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she liked the rattle of traffic under her windows.

  “I don’t like a dead and alive street where you don’t see a soul pass all day,” she said. “Give me a bit of life.”

  Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that he was treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her frankly that Mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as violent as it had ever been; he was very sorry, but he had nothing to offer Norah any more. Then he thought of her anguish, for he knew she loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but now it was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain upon her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across his mind. He knocked at the door. He felt that he was pale, and wondered how to conceal his nervousness.

  She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he entered.

  “I recognised your step,” she cried. “Where have you been hiding yourself, you naughty boy?”

  She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. She was delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give himself countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the fire to make the kettle boil.

  “I’ve been awfully busy,” he said lamely.

  She began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new commission she had to provide a novelette for a firm which had not hitherto employed her. She was to get fifteen guineas for it.

  “It’s money from the clouds. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll stand ourselves a little jaunt. Let’s go and spend a day at Oxford, shall we? I’d love to see the colleges.”

  He looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach in her eyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was overjoyed to see him. His heart sank. He could not tell her the brutal truth. She made some toast for him, and cut it into little pieces, and gave it him as though he were a child.

  “Is the brute fed?” she asked.

  He nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as she loved to do, she came and sat on his knees. She was very light. She leaned back in his arms with a sigh of delicious happiness.

  “Say something nice to me,” she murmured.

  “What shall I say?”

  “You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked me.”

  “You know I do that.”

  He had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace at all events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her. That would be easier. He could not bear to think of her crying. She made him kiss her, and as he kissed her he thought of Mildred and Mildred’s pale, thin lips. The recollection of Mildred remained with him all the time, like an incorporated form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight continually distracted his attention.

  “You’re very quiet today,” Norah said.

  Her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered:

  “You never let me get a word in, and I’ve got out of the habit of talking.”

  “But you’re not listening, and that’s bad manners.”

  He reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of his secret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. The weight of her irked him this afternoon, and he did not want her to touch him.

  “My foot’s gone to sleep,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry,” she cried, jumping up. “I shall have to bant if I can’t break myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen’s knees.”

  He went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and walking about. Then he stood in front of the fire so that she should not resume her position. While she talked he thought that she was worth ten of Mildred; she amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and she had a much nicer nature. She was a good, brave, honest little woman; and Mildred, he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. If he had any sense he would stick to Norah, she would make him much happier than he would ever be with Mildred: after all she loved him, and Mildred was only grateful for his help. But when all was said the important thing was to love rather than to be loved; and he yearned for Mildred with his whole soul. He would sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole afternoon with Norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all Norah could give him.

  “I can’t help myself,” he thought. “I’ve just got her in my bones.”

  He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the one than happiness with the other.

  When he got up to go Norah said casually:

  “Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan’t I?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  He knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to help Mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say so. He made up his mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw the rooms in the morning, was satisfied with them, and after luncheon Philip went up with her to Highbury. She had a trunk for her clothes and another for the various odds and ends, cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or three large cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no more than could be put on the roof of a four-wheeler. As they drove through Victoria Street Philip sat well back in the cab in case Norah should happen to be passing. He had not had an opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post office in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, since she would wonder what he was doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could have no excuse for not going into the neighbouring square where she lived. He made up his mind that he had better go in and see her for half an hour; but the necessity irritated him: he was angry with Norah, because she forced him to vulgar and degrading shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It amused him to help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming sense of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had found and was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It was a pleasure to do things for her, and she had no desire to do what somebody else seemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked her clothes and put them away. She was not proposing to go out again, so he got her slippers and took off her boots. It delighted him to perform menial offices.

  “You do spoil me,” she said, running her fingers affectionately through his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her boots.

  He took her hands and kissed them.

 
; “It is nipping to have you here.”

  He arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had several jars of green earthenware.

  “I’ll get you some flowers for them,” he said.

  He looked round at his work proudly.

  “As I’m not going out any more I think I’ll get into a tea-gown,” she said. “Undo me behind, will you?”

  She turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His sex meant nothing to her. But his heart was filled with gratitude for the intimacy her request showed. He undid the hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers.

  “That first day I came into the shop I never thought I’d be doing this for you now,” he said, with a laugh which he forced.

  “Somebody must do it,” she answered.

  She went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown decorated with a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled her on a sofa and made tea for her.

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay and have it with you,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a beastly appointment. But I shall be back in half an hour.”

  He wondered what he should say if she asked him what the appointment was, but she showed no curiosity. He had ordered dinner for the two of them when he took the rooms, and proposed to spend the evening with her quietly. He was in such a hurry to get back that he took a tram along the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He thought he had better break the fact to Norah at once that he could not stay more than a few minutes.

  “I say, I’ve got only just time to say how d’you do,” he said, as soon as he got into her rooms. “I’m frightfully busy.”

  Her face fell.

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  It exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and he knew that he reddened when he answered that there was a demonstration at the hospital which he was bound to go to. He fancied that she looked as though she did not believe him, and this irritated him all the more.