Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “I’d better go and see what he wants, hadn’t I?” said Guy.

  “Yes, do go; and be as rude to him as you possibly can. Treat him like the cad he is. If you get the ghost of a chance, kick him downstairs.”

  Guy laughed, and was proceeding to carry out the lady’s gentle wish, when she stopped him.

  “No, don’t go: I want to be rude to him myself. He was simply insolent when I called on him.”

  “Well, I’ll get out of the way,” said Guy.

  “No, stop here and read the paper. Take no notice either of him or me,” she replied, touching the bell for the captain to be sent up.

  Lady Habart sat down at a writing-table, and began writing a note to a duchess of her acquaintance. The expression on her face was not amiable. The door was opened, and the butler announced the name. Captain Smithson stalked forward with his fashionable gesture, holding the shiniest of top-hats. He stopped as Lady Habart did not rise to take his outstretched hand, and for once was a little embarrassed. Laby Habart had been right in supposing Guy’s presence would add to the humiliation. A man can sometimes bear a woman’s snub, but never if a second man is present. Guy went on reading his paper and Lady Habart continued her letter.

  “Er — Lady Habart”; he thought that they possibly had not heard his entrance.

  Lady Habart half-turned her head. “Oh, is that you, Smithson?” she said. “I’ll attend to you in one minute.”

  Captain Smithson looked at her quickly and then glanced at Guy; he could not understand. They did not offer him a chair, but he sat down to show he was at his ease; but then, sitting away from the others, he felt himself ridiculous, and he marched up to Guy.

  “Anything in the paper?” he asked in as natural a tone as he could assume.

  “What?” said Guy, looking up.

  Captain Smithson repeated his question.

  “Absolutely nothing,” answered Guy, and at once buried his head behind it again. Captain Smithson frowned; he was not a patient man and he was quite unused to such treatment.

  “I would be obliged if you could give me your attention immediately, Lady Habart; I’m very busy.”

  “Really?” said Lady Habart, looking at him for one moment, contemptuously.

  He could think of nothing further to say and he waited. He swore he would make her pay for her behaviour; of course, she had the money, otherwise she would never have altered her behaviour so markedly. Lady Habart finished the letter with great deliberation.

  “Now, my good man, what can I do for you?” she said at last. She left him standing, as being more menial and humiliating. Captain Smithson was in rather an awkward position. He had come to her with a proposition to delay calling in his money for another three months, on terms extremely advantageous to himself. He knew that if the worst came to worst the present holder of the title would pay the lady’s debts and there was no need to press her too hard. But evidently she had the money and his errand had lost its object. Lady Habart impatiently tapped the ground with her foot.

  “Please state your business at once.”

  “I came to see you about our conversation of yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh, indeed!”

  “Well, the fact is—”

  “But really, I don’t understand what right you have to come to my house and insist on being shown in. I look upon it as a piece of the grossest impertinence.”

  “You forget that you invited me to take tea with you, Lady Habart,” he said, flushing.

  “I?” said Lady Habart indignantly. “The man’s mad. Did you ever hear such a thing, Guy!”

  Guy raised his eyebrows and looked at the money-lender as if he were some wonderful beast.

  “Your Ladyship has a very bad memory,” said the captain sarcastically.

  “You are very impertinent. Please ring the bell, Guy.”

  “You know what to expect if you don’t pay me my money, Lady Habart.”

  “I am under the impression that it is not due till Monday. Oh, Russell,” she added to the butler, “you will show this man to the door, and if he comes again you will call the police.”

  Captain Smithson was going to speak, but there were three pairs of eyes upon him; also Guy was obviously athletic and would love an opportunity to throw him downstairs. He walked out like a lamb. When the door was closed behind him, Lady Habart smiled and kissed her brother.

  PRO PATRIA

  I

  Mr. John Porter-Smith was a “carpet-bagger” — which means, of course, a candidate who has no connection with the place he wishes to represent; and arrives to catch the electors’ votes with no more unwieldy luggage than a carpet bag. But Mr. PorterSmith, though his constituency had certainly heard nothing of him till he was sent down from headquarters to contest the seat, came by no means with exiguous baggage. On the contrary, he brought with him a reassuring quantity of personal effects, a motor-car, and postilions in handsome red coats. These, it should be added, he did not use with the motor-car, but in a magnificent and highly varnished carriage, which dashed continually up and down the streets behind four equally magnificent horses. An election is perhaps the only occasion on which an ordinarily modest Englishman may give rein to his tastes for eccentricity and grandiloquence; and these are qualities which fifty years of repression have done little to extinguish. It is only the mortal fear of ridicule which has bullied the Briton of to-day out of the bottle-green frock-coat of Disraeli and the pompous phrases of Bulwer-Lytton: when he can offer his patriotism as an excuse, even the quietest will rival the Salvation Army in the gaudiness of his costume and of his rhetoric. Mr. Porter-Smith, indeed, went on further than to exhibit in every shop-window his photograph as an Imperial Yeoman, but outriders and postilions sufficiently made up for the deficiency; and his speeches were models of rodomontade. The fact that he was perfectly unknown to the electors was counterbalanced by the happy circumstance that Mr. Porter-Smith had not only fought for his king in South Africa, but had even shed his red blood for that gracious personage. He had been scratched on the hand and obliged for three days to wear a bandage; but the exact nature of his injury was by himself and by his more enthusiastic supporters rightly considered a matter of no consequence. The latter drew lurid pictures of Mr. Porter-Smith lying wounded on the field of battle, silent, uncomplaining, heroic, bleeding his life’s blood, ready to die for his country; and when the candidate himself unassumingly said it was nothing, that he had only done his duty, the electors cheered to the echo at such a noble mingling of manly sentiment and of intrepid modesty.

  II

  A couple of days before the election Mr. Porter-Smith went to his committee-rooms in the morning, overflowing with high spirits. He had driven up with his four horses; and the attention he created, with the scarlet outriders and the postilions, always elated him.

  “Well,” said he, “they seem more enthusiastic than ever.”

  “Enthusiasm be hanged!” said Major Long, a jovial, red-faced man, who, with the Reverend Septimus Cameron, was Porter-Smith’s most influential supporter.

  And the agent, who was sitting with him, looked as if he fully agreed with the rather forcible expression.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Porter-Smith, looking with surprise at their gloomy faces.

  “Cameron has been here.”

  “What, the worthy Septimus?” replied the candidate, flippantly. “Has he had his hair cut?”

  The Rev. Septimus Cameron was the leader of the Low Church Party in the constituency; and a man not only of irreproachable character, which might have been unimportant, but of overpowering influence as well, which made his principles things to be treated with respect. The Radical candidate was a Roman Catholic, and the Rev. Septimus looked upon him consequently as little better than Satan. Porter-Smith, who knew nothing about the questions which agitated the Low Church Party and the Nonconformists, and cared less, cheerfully pledged himself to support the measures favoured by those respectable factions. Likewise, when they set him a lo
ng string of questions about his beliefs and his attitude towards certain matters, he did not hesitate to answer them all in the way his agent suggested.

  “If you get the Low Church vote and the Nonconformists, the election is yours,” said the agent: and that for Mr. Porter-Smith settled the matter.

  But this morning neither the agent nor Major Long was inclined to take things lightly.

  “The fact is,” said the agent, “that Mr. Cameron has been here this morning to say he can’t vote for you. He’s going over to the other side. He’ll take all the Low Churchmen, and the Dissenters will go with him.”

  “And you won’t have a ghost of a chance of getting in,” added Long.

  Porter-Smith for a moment was speechless. “Good Lord,” he said, “the old chap must be off his head! Haven’t I given enough pledges? What does he want now? I’ll give him more pledges, if he likes.”

  “It’s not pledges he’s after now,” said Major Long, “it’s morals.”

  “Well, ain’t I moral enough?” said Porter-Smith. “After all, I have fought for my country, and been wounded. For us who have lain on the field of battle—”

  “Yes, I know, I know,” interrupted Long impatiently, recognising the candidate’s favourite point with an unruly audience. “Where’s your wife, man?”

  “My wife? What does old Cameron want with my wife?”

  “I think you should know that certain reports are being circulated,” said the agent.

  “And they’ve got to old Cameron; and he came here in a towering rage, said you’d deceived him, and that you weren’t fit to go into Parliament. And he’s going to write a public letter to you explaining his reasons for not voting for you. And it’s something about a governess.”

  “It’s an infernal lie!” said Porter-Smith, indignantly.

  “That’s what we told him; and he promised to wait till to-night to give you a chance of clearing yourself.”

  There was to be a great meeting that evening in the Town Hall, and it was for this, apparently, that the excellent clergyman was laying his plans.

  “How the dickens am I to clear myself?” said Porter-Smith, walking up and down. “I think it’s disgusting to bring personalities into elections; besides, there’s no truth in the story.”

  “Well, now, how are you going to prove that?”

  Porter-Smith looked at his supporter helplessly. “The fact is,” he said at last, “there is a certain amount of truth.”

  “Ah!” said the agent and Major Long in one breath.

  “You needn’t look as if you knew it all along. And besides, I did nothing I’m ashamed of. It was only a little mistake.”

  “If it loses us the election, you’ll find it a very big mistake,” said Long, grimly.

  “It wasn’t my fault at all.” Porter-Smith looked from one of his auditors to the other; then, in a burst of confidence: “The fact is, my wife and I were staying at her sister’s, and she had a governess. Well, one day when I was taking a stroll with the governess she slipped, and I put out my arm — to save her from falling. And somehow she fell into my arms, and then, without thinking what I was doing, I kissed her. My wife happened to come along at the very moment, and of course she misconstrued the whole thing. She wouldn’t let me explain. I told her it was the first time, but he said it was very unlikely.”

  “It was — very. It sounds fishy.”

  “It’s an accident that might happen to any one,” said Porter-Smith, in an aggrieved tone. “It was idiotic of her to go up to London and say she wasn’t coming back. I said I was sorry, and that it shouldn’t occur again. Women are so beastly unreasonable.”

  “How old was the governess — middle-aged?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “And how long ago did this take place?”

  “Why, just before the war. I thought if I volunteered it would bring Fanny to her knees. But I don’t believe she cared a straw. I shall never forgive her now.”

  The agent considered a moment. “There’s only one thing Mr. Porter-Smith can do. He must produce his wife, and she must deny the whole story.”

  “Oh, but that’s impossible,” the candidate said hurriedly. “Where’s your wife?” asked Major Long.

  “I don’t know. Besides, I refuse to bring private matters into the contest. What have my relations with my wife got to do with the beastly voters? I’ve not seen my wife for more than a year; and she’s behaved shamefully to me.”

  “If you don’t contradict the story authoritatively this evening, you may as well pack up your things and retire,” said the agent. “And you might have consideration upon us! How many meetings have I harrowed by saying that you separated yourself from all you loved — even from your wife — to fight the enemies of your country; and now you tell us that you and your wife are not upon speaking terms! You must go and see her at once, and bring her down here.”

  “She won’t come,” said Porter-Smith irritably. “You don’t know her; and I tell you I don’t know where she is.”

  “You say she went to her mother’s; she’s probably there still. You must go up and eat humble pie, and ask her to forgive you.”

  “I wouldn’t for a thousand pounds,” cried Porter-Smith.

  “It will cost you more than that if you don’t,” said the agent. “You’re very much mistaken if you think you’ll get out of the election under fifteen hundred.”

  “Parliamentary candidates shouldn’t kiss governesses,” said Major Long.

  Meanwhile the indispensable agent had been looking out the trains, and announced that Mr. Porter-Smith could catch one to London within half an hour. Major Long elicited the address of Mrs. Porter-Smith’s mother, and wrote out a telegram: Must see wife, matter of life and death, arriving 2.30. And between them they bustled the unlucky husband to the station; for greater safety Long accompanied him to town.

  “You might have given me time to change my clothes,” said Porter-Smith, looking at his irreproachable suit: “I’m not fit to be seen.”

  “Nonsense! You look as if you’d come out of a bandbox.”

  “I wish the train didn’t go so quickly,” said Porter-Smith presently; then, looking nervously at his supporter: “I say, Long, you won’t leave me, will you?”

  “Bless you, I’ll put a string on to you if you like.”

  III

  They arrived at the house of the candidate’s mother-in-law, a well-set-up mansion in South Kensington, exuding respectability from every brick. The peccant husband was as white as a sheet, and all his jauntiness had deserted him.

  “She won’t even see me,” he said, standing irresolutely on the doorstep.

  “Don’t be a fool!” said Long, brushing past and ringing the bell.

  They were shown into the drawing-room, and Porter-Smith introduced his friend to a tall, buxom woman of fifty, with fair hair and a comfortable smile.

  “Major Long — Mrs. Mahon.”

  Porter-Smith had usually a ready flow of conversation, but at the present moment his brain was painfully blank; and he looked at his supporter with beseeching eyes.

  “Is Mrs. Porter-Smith quite well?” asked Long.

  “Quite well.”

  “I hope she’ll be able to see us.”

  “She declares that nothing on earth shall induce her to do so,” replied Mrs. Mahon, smiling. “And she’s gone to put a new frock on!”

  Major Long then explained the circumstances to Mrs. Mahon, who replied that she had no influence on her daughter.

  “I knew she wouldn’t see me,” said Porter-Smith.

  “I only know that she says she won’t see you,” replied Mrs. Mahon.

  “She never changes her mind,” said the husband.

  “Then she’s the most extraordinary woman in the world,” said the mother.

  At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Porter-Smith came in: quite a ravishing person, slender, delicate, dressed with the utmost care. She made a slight bow to her husband, and sat down with an assumption
of complete indifference. Major Long and the mother noticed that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. There was a momentary silence, and Mrs. Mahon suggested: “Major Long and I will go and look at the conservatory; I dare say you two have plenty to talk about.”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary at all,” said the married couple with one breath; and while Mrs. Porter-Smith suddenly became perfectly white, her husband blushed a deep and healthy red.

  “I’m sure John and I have nothing to say to one another that can’t be said before witnesses.”

  Long and Mrs. Mahon resumed their seats. Mrs. Porter-Smith sat as far as possible from her husband, and, although she pretended not to look at him, turned to his inspection the best side of her face. She knew he had always admired her profile; and the position gave her the opportunity of looking at him very carefully without the least appearance of so doing. Mrs. Mahon now took up the matter, and explained to her daughter the circumstances.

  “When people do shameful things,” said Mrs. Porter-Smith, “they mustn’t complain when they’re found out.”

  The candidate opened his mouth to make a somewhat heated rejoinder, when Long broke in with a long plea; but Mrs. Porter-Smith interrupted him.

  “Do you mean to say you want me to go down and tell this Cameron man that the story isn’t true?”

  “Precisely!”

  “I shall do no such thing,” replied the lady, rising from her chair.

  “Don’t be unreasonable, Fanny,” said her mother.

  “Mamma,” replied Mrs. Porter-Smith, indignantly, “he’s asking me to tell a lie!”

  “Only a very little one,” interrupted Major Long, impetuously. “And for a good cause. Think of your husband going out to fight for his country. Don’t you think that he has made up for a momentary lapse? He was severely wounded, you know.”

  “It said ‘slightly’ in the paper,” replied Mrs. Porter-Smith, stiffly.

  “It bled a great deal,” said the candidate.

  Mrs. Porter-Smith looked at him sideways, from under her long eyelashes, and she really thought that he looked uncommonly pale and thin. Major Long caught the glance, and pursued his advantage.