Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘There’s no reason why we should all look as if we’d just come from a funeral,’ she said. ‘Harold’s been dead eight months.’

  To Mrs Skinner it seemed rather unfeeling to talk like that. Millicent was strange since her return from Borneo.

  ‘You’re not going to leave off your weeds yet, darling?’ she asked.

  Millicent did not give a direct answer.

  ‘People don’t wear mourning in the way they used,’ she said. She paused a little and when she went on there was a tone in her voice which Mrs Skinner thought quite peculiar. It was plain that Kathleen noticed it too, for she gave her sister a curious look. ‘I’m sure Harold wouldn’t wish me to wear mourning for him indefinitely.’

  ‘I dressed early because I wanted to say something to Millicent,’ said Kathleen in reply to her mother’s observation.

  ‘Oh?’

  Kathleen did not explain. But she put her lists aside and with knitted brows read for the second time a letter from a lady who complained that the committee had most unfairly marked down her handicap from twenty–four to eighteen. It requires a good deal of tact to be honorary secretary to a ladies’ golf club. Mrs Skinner began to put on her new gloves. The sun–blinds kept the room cool and dark. She looked at the great wooden hornbill, gaily painted, which Harold had left in her safekeeping; and it seemed a little odd and barbaric to her, but he had set much store on it. It had some religious significance and Canon Heywood had been greatly struck by it. On the wall, over the sofa, were Malay weapons, she forgot what they were called, and here and there on occasional tables pieces of silver and brass which Harold at various times had sent to them. She had liked Harold and involuntarily her eyes sought his photograph which stood on the piano with photographs of her two daughters, her grandchild, her sister, and her sister’s son.

  ‘Why, Kathleen, where’s Harold’s photograph?’ she asked.

  Kathleen looked round. It no longer stood in its place.

  ‘Someone’s taken it away,’ said Kathleen.

  Surprised and puzzled, she got up and went over to the piano. The photographs had been rearranged so that no gap should show.

  ‘Perhaps Millicent wanted to have it in her bedroom,’ said Mrs Skinner.

  ‘I should have noticed it. Besides, Millicent has several photographs of Harold. She keeps them locked up.’

  Mrs Skinner had thought it very peculiar that her daughter should have no photographs of Harold in her room. Indeed she had spoken of it once, but Millicent had made no reply. Millicent had been strangely silent since she came back from Borneo, and had not encouraged the sympathy Mrs Skinner would have been so willing to show her. She seemed unwilling to speak of her great loss. Sorrow took people in different ways. Her husband had said the best thing was to leave her alone. The thought of him turned her ideas to the party they were going to.

  ‘Father asked if I thought he ought to wear a top–hat,’ she said. ‘I said I thought it was just as well to be on the safe side.’

  It was going to be quite a grand affair. They were having ices, strawberry and vanilla, from Boddy, the confectioner, but the Hey woods were making the iced coffee at home. Everyone would be there. They had been asked to meet the Bishop of Hong Kong, who was staying with the Canon, an old college friend of his, and he was going to speak on the Chinese missions. Mrs Skinner, whose daughter had lived in the East for eight years and whose son–in–law had been Resident of a district in Borneo, was in a flutter of interest. Naturally it meant more to her than to people who had never had anything to do with the Colonies and that sort of thing.

  ‘What can they know of England who only England know?’ as Mr Skinner said.

  He came into the room at that moment. He was a lawyer, as his father had been before him, and he had offices in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He went up to London every morning and came down every evening. He was only able to accompany his wife and daughters to the Canon’s garden–party because the Canon had very wisely chosen a Saturday to have it on. Mr Skinner looked very well in his tail–coat and pepper–and–salt trousers. He was not exactly dressy, but he was neat. He looked like a respectable family solicitor, which indeed he was; his firm never touched work that was not perfectly above board, and if a client went to him with some trouble that was not quite nice, Mr Skinner would look grave.

  ‘I don’t think this is the sort of case that we very much care to undertake,’ he said. ‘I think you’d do better to go elsewhere.’

  He drew towards him his writing–block and scribbled a name and address on it. He tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to his client.

  ‘If I were you I think I would go and see these people. If you mention my name I believe they’ll do anything they can for you.’

  Mr Skinner was clean–shaven and very bald. His pale lips were tight and thin, but his blue eyes were shy. He had no colour in his cheeks and his face was much lined.

  ‘I see you’ve put on your new trousers,’ said Mrs Skinner.

  ‘I thought it would be a good opportunity,’ he answered. ‘I was wondering if I should wear a buttonhole.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, father,’ said Kathleen. ‘I don’t think it’s awfully good form.’

  ‘A lot of people will be wearing them,’ said Mrs Skinner.

  ‘Only clerks and people like that,’ said Kathleen. ‘The Heywoods have had to ask everybody, you know. And besides, we are in mourning.’

  ‘I wonder if there’ll be a collection after the Bishop’s address,’ said Mr Skinner.

  ‘I should hardly think so,’ said Mrs Skinner.

  ‘I think it would be rather bad form,’ agreed Kathleen.

  ‘It’s as well to be on the safe side,’ said Mr Skinner. ‘I’ll give for all of us. I was wondering if ten shillings would be enough or if I must give a pound.’

  ‘If you give anything I think you ought to give a pound, father,’ said Kathleen.

  ‘I’ll see when the time comes. I don’t want to give less than anyone else, but on the other hand I see no reason to give more than I need.’

  Kathleen put away her papers in the drawer of the writing–table and stood up. She looked at her wrist–watch.

  ’Is Millicent ready?’ asked Mrs Skinner.

  ‘There’s plenty of time. We’re only asked at four, and I don’t think we ought to arrive much before half past. I told Davis to bring the car round at four–fifteen.’

  Generally Kathleen drove the car, but on grand occasions like this Davis, who was the gardener, put on his uniform and acted as chauffeur. It looked better when you drove up, and naturally Kathleen didn’t much want to drive herself when she was wearing her new jumper. The sight of her mother forcing her fingers one by one into her new gloves reminded her that she must put on her own. She smelt them to see if any odour of the cleaning still clung to them. It was very slight. She didn’t believe anyone would notice.

  At last the door opened and Millicent came in. She wore her widow’s weeds. Mrs Skinner never could get used to them, but of course she knew that Millicent must wear them for a year. It was a pity they didn’t suit her; they suited some people. She had tried on Millicent’s bonnet once, with its white band and long veil, and thought she looked very well in it. Of course she hoped dear Alfred would survive her, but if he didn’t she would never go out of weeds. Queen Victoria never had. It was different for Millicent; Millicent was a much younger woman; she was only thirty–six: it was very sad to be a widow at thirty–six. And there wasn’t much chance of her marrying again. Kathleen wasn’t very likely to marry now, she was thirty–five; last time Millicent and Harold had come home she had suggested that they should have Kathleen to stay with them; Harold had seemed willing enough, but Millicent said it wouldn’t do. Mrs Skinner didn’t know why not. It would give her a chance. Of course they didn’t want to get rid of her, but a girl ought to marry, and somehow all the men they knew at home were married already. Millicent said the climate was trying. It was true she was a bad colour. No one would th
ink now that Millicent had been the prettier of the two. Kathleen had fined down as she grew older, of course some people said she was too thin, but now that she had cut her hair, with her cheeks red from playing golf in all weathers, Mrs Skinner thought her quite pretty. No one could say that of poor Millicent; she had lost her figure completely; she had never been tall, and now that she had filled out she looked stocky. She was a good deal too fat; Mrs Skinner supposed it was due to the tropical heat that prevented her from taking exercise. Her skin was sallow and muddy; and her blue eyes, which had been her best feature, had gone quite pale.

  ‘She ought to do something about her neck,’ Mrs Skinner reflected. ‘She’s becoming dreadfully jowly.’

  She had spoken of it once or twice to her husband. He remarked that Millicent wasn’t as young as she was; that might be, but she needn’t let herself go altogether. Mrs Skinner made up her mind to talk to her daughter seriously, but of course she must respect her grief, and she would wait till the year was up. She was just as glad to have this reason to put off a conversation the thought of which made her slightly nervous. For Millicent was certainly changed. There was something sullen in her face which made her mother not quite at home with her. Mrs Skinner liked to say aloud all the thoughts that passed through her head, but Millicent when you made a remark (just to say something, you know) had an awkward habit of not answering, so that you wondered whether she had heard. Sometimes Mrs Skinner found it so irritating, that not to be quite sharp with Millicent she had to remind herself that poor Harold had only been dead eight months.

  The light from the window fell on the widow’s heavy face as she advanced silently, but Kathleen stood with her back to it. She watched her sister for a moment.

  ‘Millicent, there’s something I want to say to you,’ she said. ‘I was playing golf with Gladys Hey wood this morning.’

  ‘Did you beat her?’ asked Millicent.

  Gladys Hey wood was the Canon’s only unmarried daughter.

  ‘She told me something about you which I think you ought to know.’

  Millicent’s eyes passed beyond her sister to the little girl watering flowers in the garden.

  ‘Have you told Annie to give Joan her tea in the kitchen, mother?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, she’ll have it when the servants have theirs.’ Kathleen looked at her sister coolly.

  ‘The Bishop spent two or three days at Singapore on his way home,’ she went on. ‘He’s very fond of travelling. He’s been to Borneo, and he knows a good many of the people that you know.’

  ‘He’ll be interested to see you, dear,’ said Mrs Skinner. ‘Did he know poor Harold?’

  ‘Yes, he met him at Kuala Solor. He remembers him very well. He says he was shocked to hear of his death.’

  Millicent sat down and began to put on her black gloves. It seemed strange to Mrs Skinner that she received these remarks with complete silence.

  ‘Oh, Millicent,’ she said, ‘Harold’s photo has disappeared. Have you taken it?’

  ‘Yes, I put it away.’

  ‘I should have thought you’d like to have it out.’

  Once more Millicent said nothing. It really was an exasperating habit.

  Kathleen turned slightly in order to face her sister.

  ‘Millicent, why did you tell us that Harold died of fever?’

  The widow made no gesture, she looked at Kathleen with steady eyes, but her sallow skin darkened with a flush. She did not reply.

  ‘What do you mean, Kathleen?’ asked Mr Skinner, with surprise.

  ‘The Bishop says that Harold committed suicide.’

  Mrs Skinner gave a startled cry, but her husband put out a deprecating hand.

  ’Is it true, Millicent?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell us?’

  Millicent paused for an instant. She fingered idly a piece of Brunei brass which stood on the table by her side. That too had been a present from Harold.

  ‘I thought it better for Joan that her father should be thought to have died of fever. I didn’t want her to know anything about it.’

  ‘You’ve put us in an awfully awkward position,’ said Kathleen, frowning a little. ‘Gladys Hey wood said she thought it rather nasty of me not to have told her the truth. I had the greatest difficulty in getting her to believe that I knew absolutely nothing about it. She said her father was rather put out. He says, after all the years we’ve known one another, and considering that he married you, and the terms we’ve been on, and all that, he does think we might have had confidence in him. And at all events, if we didn’t want to tell him the truth we needn’t have told him a lie.’

  ‘I must say I sympathize with him there,’ said Mr Skinner, acidly.

  ‘Of course I told Gladys that we weren’t to blame. We only told them what you told us.’

  ‘I hope it didn’t put you off your game,’ said Millicent.

  ‘Really, my dear, I think that is a most improper observation,’ exclaimed her father.

  He rose from his chair, walked over to the empty fireplace, and from force of habit stood in front of it with parted coat–tails.

  ‘It was my business,’ said Millicent, ‘and if I chose to keep it to myself I didn’t see why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as if you had any affection for your mother if you didn’t even tell her,’ said Mrs Skinner.

  Millicent shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘You might have known it was bound to come out,’ said Kathleen.

  ‘Why? I didn’t expect that two gossiping old parsons would have nothing else to talk about than me.’

  ‘When the Bishop said he’d been to Borneo it’s only natural that the Hey woods should ask him if he knew you and Harold.’

  ‘All that’s neither here nor there,’ said Mr Skinner. ‘I think you should certainly have told us the truth, and we could have decided what was the best thing to do. As a solicitor I can tell you that in the long run it only makes things worse if you attempt to hide them.’

  ‘Poor Harold,’ said Mrs Skinner, and the tears began to trickle down her raddled cheeks. ‘It seems dreadful. He was always a good son–in–law to me. Whatever induced him to do such a dreadful thing?’

  ‘The climate.’

  ‘I think you’d better give us all the facts, Millicent,’ said her father.

  ‘Kathleen will tell you.’

  Kathleen hesitated. What she had to say really was rather dreadful. It seemed terrible that such things should happen to a family like theirs.

  ‘The Bishop says he cut his throat.’

  Mrs Skinner gasped and she went impulsively up to her bereaved daughter. She wanted to fold her in her arms.

  ‘My poor child,’ she sobbed.

  But Millicent withdrew herself.

  ‘Please don’t fuss me, mother. I really can’t stand being mauled about.’

  ‘Really, Millicent,’ said Mr Skinner, with a frown.

  He did not think she was behaving very nicely.

  Mrs Skinner dabbed her eyes carefully with her handkerchief and with a sigh and a little shake of the head returned to her chair. Kathleen fidgeted with the long chain she wore round her neck.

  ‘It does seem rather absurd that I should have to be told the details of my brother–in–law’s death by a friend. It makes us all look such fools. The Bishop wants very much to see you, Millicent; he wants to tell you how much he feels for you.’ She paused, but Millicent did not speak. ‘He says that Millicent had been away with Joan and when she came back she found poor Harold lying dead on his bed.’

  ‘It must have been a great shock,’ said Mr Skinner.

  Mrs Skinner began to cry again, but Kathleen put her hand gently on her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t cry, mother,’ she said. ‘It’ll make your eyes red and people will think it so funny.’

  They were all silent while Mrs Skinner, drying her eyes, made a successful effort to control herself. It seemed very strange to her that this very moment s
he should be wearing in her toque the ospreys that poor Harold had given her.

  ‘There’s something else I ought to tell you,’ said Kathleen.

  Millicent looked at her sister again, without haste, and her eyes were steady, but watchful. She had the look of a person who is waiting for a sound which he is afraid of missing.

  ‘I don’t want to say anything to wound you, dear,’ Kathleen went on, ‘but there’s something else and I think you ought to know it. The Bishop says that Harold drank.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, how dreadful!’ cried Mrs Skinner. ‘What a shocking thing to say. Did Gladys Heywood tell you? What did you say?’

  ‘I said it was entirely untrue.’

  ‘This is what comes of making secrets of things,’ said Mr Skinner, irritably. ‘It’s always the same. If you try and hush a thing up all sorts of rumours get about which are ten times worse than the truth.’

  ‘They told the Bishop in Singapore that Harold had killed himself while he was suffering from delirium tremens. I think for all our sakes you ought to deny that, Millicent.’

  ‘It’s such a dreadful thing to have said about anyone who’s dead,’ said Mrs Skinner. ‘And it’ll be so bad for Joan when she grows up.’

  ‘But what is the foundation of this story, Millicent?’ asked her father. ‘Harold was always very abstemious.’

  ‘Here,’ said the widow.

  ‘Did he drink?’

  ‘Like a fish.’

  The answer was so unexpected, and the tone so sardonic, that all three of them were startled.

  ‘Millicent, how can you talk like that of your husband when he’s dead?’ cried her mother, clasping her neatly gloved hands. ‘I can’t understand you. You’ve been so strange since you came back. I could never have believed that a girl of mine could take her husband’s death like that.’

  ‘Never mind about that, mother,’ said Mr Skinner. ‘We can go into all that later.’

  He walked to the window and looked out at the sunny little garden, and then walked back into the room. He took his pince–nez out of his pocket, and though he had no intention of putting them on, wiped them with his handkerchief. Millicent looked at him and in her eyes, unmistakably, was a look of irony which was quite cynical. Mr Skinner was vexed. He had finished his week’s work and he was a free man till Monday morning. Though he had told his wife that this garden–party was a great nuisance and he would much sooner have tea quietly in his own garden, he had been looking forward to it. He did not care very much about Chinese missions, but it would be interesting to meet the Bishop. And now this! It was not the kind of thing he cared to be mixed up in; it was most unpleasant to be told on a sudden that his son–in–law was a drunkard and a suicide. Millicent was thoughtfully smoothing her white cuffs. Her coolness irritated him; but instead of addressing her he spoke to his younger daughter.