Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “Let’s keep the cab,” said Philip, when they reached the house in which

  Mildred was lodging. “I’m too tired to walk home.”

  On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the fact that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he must notice that something was the matter. Philip’s silence at last grew too significant to struggle against, and Griffiths, suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip wanted to say something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself to, and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost. It was best to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to speak.

  “Are you in love with Mildred?” he asked suddenly.

  “I?” Griffiths laughed. “Is that what you’ve been so funny about this evening? Of course not, my dear old man.”

  He tried to slip his hand through Philip’s arm, but Philip drew himself away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring himself to force Griffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl’s hand. He suddenly felt very weak and broken.

  “It doesn’t matter to you, Harry,” he said. “You’ve got so many women — don’t take her away from me. It means my whole life. I’ve been so awfully wretched.”

  His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from him.

  He was horribly ashamed of himself.

  “My dear old boy, you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. I’m far too fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool. If I’d known you were going to take it like that I’d have been more careful.”

  “Is that true?” asked Philip.

  “I don’t care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of honour.”

  Philip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door.

  LXXV

  Next day Philip was in a good temper. He was very anxious not to bore Mildred with too much of his society, and so had arranged that he should not see her till dinner-time. She was ready when he fetched her, and he chaffed her for her unwonted punctuality. She was wearing a new dress he had given her. He remarked on its smartness.

  “It’ll have to go back and be altered,” she said. “The skirt hangs all wrong.”

  “You’ll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take it to

  Paris with you.”

  “It’ll be ready in time for that.”

  “Only three more whole days. We’ll go over by the eleven o’clock, shall we?”

  “If you like.”

  He would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. His eyes rested on her with hungry adoration. He was able to laugh a little at his own passion.

  “I wonder what it is I see in you,” he smiled.

  “That’s a nice thing to say,” she answered.

  Her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. Her chest was as flat as a boy’s. Her mouth, with its narrow pale lips, was ugly, and her skin was faintly green.

  “I shall give you Blaud’s Pills in quantities when we’re away,” said

  Philip, laughing. “I’m going to bring you back fat and rosy.”

  “I don’t want to get fat,” she said.

  She did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were dining Philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and his power over her, said:

  “It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry last night?”

  “I told you I was in love with him,” she laughed.

  “I’m glad to know that he’s not in love with you.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “I asked him.”

  She hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam came into her eyes.

  “Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?”

  She handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths’ bold, legible writing. There were eight pages. It was well written, frank and charming; it was the letter of a man who was used to making love to women. He told Mildred that he loved her passionately, he had fallen in love with her the first moment he saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond Philip was of her, but he could not help himself. Philip was such a dear, and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was not his fault, he was just carried away. He paid her delightful compliments. Finally he thanked her for consenting to lunch with him next day and said he was dreadfully impatient to see her. Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night before; Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had taken the trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he was in bed.

  He read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave no outward sign of surprise. He handed it back to Mildred with a smile, calmly.

  “Did you enjoy your lunch?”

  “Rather,” she said emphatically.

  He felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the table.

  “You mustn’t take Griffiths too seriously. He’s just a butterfly, you know.”

  She took the letter and looked at it again.

  “I can’t help it either,” she said, in a voice which she tried to make nonchalant. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “It’s a little awkward for me, isn’t it?” said Philip.

  She gave him a quick look.

  “You’re taking it pretty calmly, I must say.”

  “What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to tear out my hair in handfuls?”

  “I knew you’d be angry with me.”

  “The funny thing is, I’m not at all. I ought to have known this would happen. I was a fool to bring you together. I know perfectly well that he’s got every advantage over me; he’s much jollier, and he’s very handsome, he’s more amusing, he can talk to you about the things that interest you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that. If I’m not clever I can’t help it, but I’m not the fool you think I am, not by a long way, I can tell you. You’re a bit too superior for me, my young friend.”

  “D’you want to quarrel with me?” he asked mildly.

  “No, but I don’t see why you should treat me as if I was I don’t know what.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to talk things over quietly. We don’t want to make a mess of them if we can help it. I saw you were attracted by him and it seemed to me very natural. The only thing that really hurts me is that he should have encouraged you. He knew how awfully keen I was on you. I think it’s rather shabby of him to have written that letter to you five minutes after he told me he didn’t care twopence about you.”

  “If you think you’re going to make me like him any the less by saying nasty things about him, you’re mistaken.”

  Philip was silent for a moment. He did not know what words he could use to make her see his point of view. He wanted to speak coolly and deliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of emotion that he could not clear his thoughts.

  “It’s not worth while sacrificing everything for an infatuation that you know can’t last. After all, he doesn’t care for anyone more than ten days, and you’re rather cold; that sort of thing doesn’t mean very much to you.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  She made it more difficult for him by adopting a cantankerous tone.

  “If you’re in love with him you can’t help it. I’ll just bear it as best I can. We get on very well together, you and I, and I’ve not behaved badly to you, have I? I’ve always known that you’re not in love with me, but you like me all right, and when we get over to Paris you’ll forget about Griffiths. If you make up your mind to put him out of your thoughts you won’t find it so hard as all that, and I’ve deserved that you should do something for me.”

  She did not answer, and they went on eating their dinner. When the silence grew oppressive Philip began to talk of indifferent things. He pretended not to notice that Mildred was inattentive. Her answers were perfunctory, and she volunteered no remarks of her own. At last she interrupted abr
uptly what he was saying:

  “Philip, I’m afraid I shan’t be able to go away on Saturday. The doctor says I oughtn’t to.”

  He knew this was not true, but he answered:

  “When will you be able to come away?”

  She glanced at him, saw that his face was white and rigid, and looked nervously away. She was at that moment a little afraid of him.

  “I may as well tell you and have done with it, I can’t come away with you at all.”

  “I thought you were driving at that. It’s too late to change your mind now. I’ve got the tickets and everything.”

  “You said you didn’t wish me to go unless I wanted it too, and I don’t.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to have any more tricks played with me. You must come.”

  “I like you very much, Philip, as a friend. But I can’t bear to think of anything else. I don’t like you that way. I couldn’t, Philip.”

  “You were quite willing to a week ago.”

  “It was different then.”

  “You hadn’t met Griffiths?”

  “You said yourself I couldn’t help it if I’m in love with him.”

  Her face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. Philip was white with rage. He would have liked to hit her in the face with his clenched fist, and in fancy he saw how she would look with a black eye. There were two lads of eighteen dining at a table near them, and now and then they looked at Mildred; he wondered if they envied him dining with a pretty girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his shoes. It was Mildred who broke the silence.

  “What’s the good of our going away together? I’d be thinking of him all the time. It wouldn’t be much fun for you.”

  “That’s my business,” he answered.

  She thought over all his reply implicated, and she reddened.

  “But that’s just beastly.”

  “What of it?”

  “I thought you were a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

  “You were mistaken.”

  His reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said it.

  “For God’s sake don’t laugh,” she cried. “I can’t come away with you, Philip. I’m awfully sorry. I know I haven’t behaved well to you, but one can’t force themselves.”

  “Have you forgotten that when you were in trouble I did everything for you? I planked out the money to keep you till your baby was born, I paid for your doctor and everything, I paid for you to go to Brighton, and I’m paying for the keep of your baby, I’m paying for your clothes, I’m paying for every stitch you’ve got on now.”

  “If you was a gentleman you wouldn’t throw what you’ve done for me in my face.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, shut up. What d’you suppose I care if I’m a gentleman or not? If I were a gentleman I shouldn’t waste my time with a vulgar slut like you. I don’t care a damn if you like me or not. I’m sick of being made a blasted fool of. You’re jolly well coming to Paris with me on Saturday or you can take the consequences.”

  Her cheeks were red with anger, and when she answered her voice had the hard commonness which she concealed generally by a genteel enunciation.

  “I never liked you, not from the beginning, but you forced yourself on me, I always hated it when you kissed me. I wouldn’t let you touch me now not if I was starving.”

  Philip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but the muscles of his throat refused to act. He gulped down something to drink and lit a cigarette. He was trembling in every part. He did not speak. He waited for her to move, but she sat in silence, staring at the white tablecloth. If they had been alone he would have flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately; he fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he pressed upon her mouth with his lips. They passed an hour without speaking, and at last Philip thought the waiter began to stare at them curiously. He called for the bill.

  “Shall we go?” he said then, in an even tone.

  She did not reply, but gathered together her bag and her gloves. She put on her coat.

  “When are you seeing Griffiths again?”

  “Tomorrow,” she answered indifferently.

  “You’d better talk it over with him.”

  She opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of paper in it. She took it out.

  “Here’s the bill for this dress,” she said hesitatingly.

  “What of it?”

  “I promised I’d give her the money tomorrow.”

  “Did you?”

  “Does that mean you won’t pay for it after having told me I could get it?”

  “It does.”

  “I’ll ask Harry,” she said, flushing quickly.

  “He’ll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds at the moment, and he pawned his microscope last week, because he was so broke.”

  “You needn’t think you can frighten me by that. I’m quite capable of earning my own living.”

  “It’s the best thing you can do. I don’t propose to give you a farthing more.”

  She thought of her rent due on Saturday and the baby’s keep, but did not say anything. They left the restaurant, and in the street Philip asked her:

  “Shall I call a cab for you? I’m going to take a little stroll.”

  “I haven’t got any money. I had to pay a bill this afternoon.”

  “It won’t hurt you to walk. If you want to see me tomorrow I shall be in about tea-time.”

  He took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked round in a moment and saw that she was standing helplessly where he had left her, looking at the traffic. He went back and with a laugh pressed a coin into her hand.

  “Here’s two bob for you to get home with.”

  Before she could speak he hurried away.

  LXXVI

  Next day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room and wondered whether Mildred would come. He had slept badly. He had spent the morning in the club of the Medical School, reading one newspaper after another. It was the vacation and few students he knew were in London, but he found one or two people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out the tedious hours. After luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so, that he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel. He had not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned the night before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into Philip’s room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip heard him go out early. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him. Suddenly there was a light tap at his door. Philip sprang to his feet and opened it. Mildred stood on the threshold. She did not move.

  “Come in,” said Philip.

  He closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to begin.

  “Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s all right.”

  She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid, ingratiating look of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and wants to reconcile himself with his master.

  “I’ve been lunching with Harry,” she said.

  “Have you?”

  “If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip, I’ll come.”

  A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a sensation that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion.

  “Because of the money?” he asked.

  “Partly,” she answered simply. “Harry can’t do anything. He owes five weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor’s pressing him for money. He’d pawn anything he could, but he’s pawned everything already. I had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on Saturday there’s the book at my lodgings, and I can’t get work in five minutes. It always means waiting some little time till there’s a vacancy.”

  She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the natural order of things.
Philip did not answer. He knew what she told him well enough.

  “You said partly,” he observed at last.

  “Well, Harry says you’ve been a brick to both of us. You’ve been a real good friend to him, he says, and you’ve done for me what p’raps no other man would have done. We must do the straight thing, he says. And he said what you said about him, that he’s fickle by nature, he’s not like you, and I should be a fool to throw you away for him. He won’t last and you will, he says so himself.”

  “D’you WANT to come away with me?” asked Philip.

  “I don’t mind.”

  He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have his way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. She looked at him quickly, but did not speak.

  “I’ve looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and I thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going to be happy…”

  He did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a sudden, without warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears. She was sitting in the chair in which Norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her face on the back of it, towards the side where there was a little bump formed by the sagging in the middle, where the head had rested.

  “I’m not lucky with women,” thought Philip.

  Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a woman cry with such an utter abandonment. It was horribly painful, and his heart was torn. Without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his arms round her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself to his comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace. He scarcely knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly.

  “Are you awfully unhappy?” he said at last.

  “I wish I was dead,” she moaned. “I wish I’d died when the baby come.”

  Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He placed her head more comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at the table and looked at her.

  “It is awful, love, isn’t it?” he said. “Fancy anyone wanting to be in love.”

  Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the chair, exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her side. She had the grotesque look of one of those painters’ dummies used to hang draperies on.