Somerset Maugham - The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition)

“Quite right, Fanny! This isn’t the ’ouse that a lady would stay in, and I pity you, my dear, for ’aving a master like my son-in-law. You can tell ’im with my compliments that ’e’s no gentleman.”

Jenny, who was asleep, woke at the slamming of the front-door.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Your mother has gone away, dearest. D’you mind?”

She looked at him quickly, divining from knowledge of her parent’s character that some quarrel had occurred and anxious to see that Basil was not annoyed. She gave him her hand.

“No, I’m glad. I want to be alone with you. I don’t want any one to come between us.”

He bent down and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck.

“You’re not angry with me because the baby died?”

“My darling, how could I be?”

“Say that you don’t regret having married me.”

Jenny, realising by now that Basil had married her only on account of the child, was filled with abject terror; his interests were so different from hers (and she had but gradually come to understand how great was the separation between them) that the longed-for son alone seemed able to preserve to her Basil’s affection. It was the mother he loved, and now he might bitterly repent his haste, for it seemed she had forced marriage upon him by false pretenses. The chief tie that bound them was severed, and though with meek gratitude accepting the attentions suggested by his kindness, she asked herself with aching heart what would happen on her recovery.

Time passed, and Jenny, though ever pale and listless, grew strong enough to leave her room. It was proposed that in a little while she should go with her sister for a month to Brighton; Basil’s work prevented him from leaving London for long, but he promised to run down for the week-end. One afternoon he came home in high spirits, having just received from his publishers a letter to say that his book had found favour and would be issued in the coming spring. It seemed the first step to the renown he sought. He found James Bush, his brother-in-law, seated with Jenny, and, in his elation, greeted him with unusual cordiality; but James lacked his usual facetious flow of conversation, and wore indeed a hang-dog air, which at another time would have excited Basil’s attention. He took his leave at once, and then Basil noticed that Jenny was much disturbed. Though he knew nothing for certain, he had an idea that the family of Bush came to his wife when they were in financial straits, but from the beginning had decided that such inevitable claims must be satisfied; he preferred, however, to ignore the help which Jenny gave, and, when she asked for some small sum beyond her allowance, handed it without question.

“Why was Jimmie here at this hour?” he asked, carelessly, thinking him bound on some such errand. “I thought he didn’t leave his office till six.”

“Oh, Basil, something awful has happened! I don’t know how to tell you; he’s sacked.”

“I hope he doesn’t want us to keep him,” answered Basil, coldly. “I’m very hard up this year, and all the money I have I want for you.”

Jenny braced herself for a painful effort. She looked away and her voice trembled.

“I don’t know what’s to be done. He’s got into trouble. Unless he can find a hundred and fifteen pounds in a week, his firm are going to prosecute.”

“What on earth d’you mean, Jenny?”

“Oh, Basil, don’t be angry! I was so ashamed to tell you, I’ve been hiding it for a month; but now I can’t any more. Something went wrong with his accounts.”

“D’you mean to say he’s been stealing?” asked Basil, sternly; and a feeling of utter horror and disgust came over him.

“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that!” she cried, for his eyes, his firm-set mouth, made her feel a culprit confessing on her own account some despicable crime. “He didn’t mean to be dishonest. I don’t exactly understand, but he can tell you how it all was. Oh, Basil, you won’t let him be sent to prison! Couldn’t he have the money instead of my going away?”

Basil sat down at his desk to think out the matter, and, resting his face thoughtfully on his hands, sought to avoid Jenny’s fixed, appealing gaze; he did not want her to see the consternation, the abject shame, with which her news oppressed him. But all the same she saw.

“What are you thinking about, Basil?”

“Nothing particular. I was wondering how to raise the money.”

“You don’t think because he’s my brother I must be tarred with the same brush?”

He looked at her without answering; it was certainly unfortunate that his wife’s mother should drink more than was seemly and her brother have but primitive ideas about property.

“It’s not my fault,” she cried, with bitter pain, interrupting his silence. “Don’t think too hardly of me.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” he answered, with involuntary coldness. “You must go away to Brighton all the same, but I’m afraid it means no holiday in the summer.”

He wrote a cheque and then a letter to his bank begging them to advance a hundred pounds on securities they held.

“There he is,” cried Jenny, hearing a ring. “I told him to come back in half an hour.”

Basil got up.

“You’d better give the cheque to your brother at once. Say that I don’t wish to see him.”

“Isn’t he to come here any more, Basil?”

“That is as you like, Jenny. If you wish, we’ll pretend he was unfortunate rather than—dishonest; but I’d rather he didn’t refer to the matter. I want neither his thanks nor his excuses.”

Without answering, Jenny took the cheque. She would have given a great deal to fling her arms gratefully round Basil’s neck, begging him to forgive, but there was a hardness in his manner which frightened her. All the evening he sat in moody silence, and Jenny dare not speak; his kiss when he bade her good-night had never been so frigid, and, unable to sleep, she cried bitterly. She could not understand the profound abhorrence with which he looked upon the incident; to her mind, it was little more than a mischance occasioned by Jimmie’s excessive sharpness, and she was disposed to agree with her brother that only luck had been against him. She somewhat resented Basil’s refusal to hear any defence and his complete certainty that the very worst must be true.

A few days later, coming unexpectedly, Kent found Jenny in earnest conversation with her brother, who had quite regained his jaunty air and betrayed no false shame at Basil’s knowledge of his escapade.

“Well met, ‘Oratio!” he cried, holding out his hand. “I just come in on the chance of seeing you. I wanted to thank you for that loan.”

“I’d rather you didn’t speak of it.”

“Why, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I ’ad a bit of bad luck, that’s all. I’ll pay you back, you know; you needn’t fear about that.”

He gave a voluble account of the affair, proving how misfortune may befall the deserving, and what a criminal complexion the most innocent acts may wear. Basil, against his will admiring the fellow’s jocose effrontery, listened with chilling silence.

“You need not excuse yourself,” he said, at length. “My reasons for helping you were purely selfish. Except for Jenny, it would have been a matter of complete indifference to me if you had been sent to prison or not.”

“Oh, that was all kid! They wouldn’t have prosecuted. Don’t I tell you they had no case. You believe me, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What d’you mean by that?” asked James, angrily.

“We won’t discuss it.”

The other did not answer, but shot at Basil a glance of singular malevolence.

“You can whistle for your money, young feller,” he muttered, under his breath. “You won’t get much out of me.”