W. Somerset Maugham: Novels, Short Stories, Plays & Travel Sketches (33 Titles In One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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      IX

       Table of Contents

       In the morning Mrs. Parsons was in the hall, arranging flowers, when James passed through to get his hat.

      "Are you going to see Mary now?"

      "Yes, mother."

      "That's a good boy."

      She did not notice that her son's usual gravity was intensified, or that his very lips were pallid, and his eyes careworn and lustreless.

      It was raining. The young fresh leaves, in the colourless day, had lost their verdure, and the massive shapes of the elm trees were obscured in the mist. The sky had so melancholy a tone that it seemed a work of man—a lifeless hue of infinite sorrow, dreary and cheerless.

      James arrived at the Clibborns' house.

      "Miss Mary is in the drawing-room," he was told by a servant, who smiled on him, the accepted lover, with obtrusive friendliness.

      He went in and found her seated at the piano, industriously playing scales. She wore the weather-beaten straw hat without which she never seemed comfortable.

      "Oh, I'm glad you've come," she said. "I'm alone in the house, and I was taking the opportunity to have a good practice." She turned round on the music-stool, and ran one hand chromatically up the piano, smiling the while with pleasure at Jamie's visit. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked. "I don't mind the rain a bit."

      "I would rather stay here, if you don't mind."

      James sat down and began playing with a paper-knife. Still he did not know how to express himself. He was torn asunder by rival emotions; he felt absolutely bound to speak, and yet could not bear the thought of the agony he must cause. He was very tender-hearted; he had never in his life consciously given pain to any living creature, and would far rather have inflicted hurt upon himself.

      "I've been wanting to have a long talk with you alone ever since I came back."

      "Have you? Why didn't you tell me?"

      "Because what I want to say is very difficult, Mary; and I'm afraid it must be very—distressing to both of us."

      "What do you mean?"

      Mary suddenly became grave, James glanced at her, and hesitated; but there was no room for hesitation now. Somehow he must get to the end of what he had to say, attempting only to be as gentle as possible. He stood up and leant against the mantelpiece, still toying with the paper-knife; Mary also changed her seat, and took a chair by the table.

      "Do you know that we've been engaged for over five years now, Mary?"

      "Yes."

      She looked at him steadily, and he dropped his eyes.

      "I want to thank you for all you've done for my sake, Mary. I know how good you have been to my people; it was very kind of you. I cannot think how they would have got along without you."

      "I love them as I love my own father and mother, Jamie. I tried to act towards them as though I was indeed their daughter."

      He was silent for a while.

      "We were both very young when we became engaged," he said at last.

      He looked up quickly, but she did not answer. She stared with frightened eyes, as if already she understood. It was harder even than he thought. James asked himself desperately whether he could not stop there, taking back what he had said. The cup was too bitter! But what was the alternative? He could not go on pretending one thing when he felt another; he could not СКАЧАТЬ