The Essential Somerset Maugham: 33 Books in One Edition. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

      "I've stayed an unconscionable time."

      "Have you? I've not noticed it."

      Did she care for him? He took her hand to say good-bye, and the pressure sent the blood racing through his veins. He remembered vividly the passionate embrace of their last farewell. He thought then that he should never see her again, and it was Fate which had carried him to her feet. Oh, how he longed now to take her in his arms and to cover her soft mouth with his kisses!

      "What are you doing this evening?" she said.

      "Nothing."

      "Would you like to take me to the Carlton? You remember you promised."

      "Oh, that is good of you! Of course I should like it!"

      At last he could not hide the fire in his heart, and the simple words were said so vehemently that Mrs. Wallace looked up in surprise. She withdrew the hand which he was still holding.

      "Very well. You may fetch me at a quarter to eight."

       After taking Mrs. Wallace home, James paced the streets for an hour in a turmoil of wild excitement. They had dined at the Carlton expensively, as was her wish, and then, driving to the Empire, James had taken a box. Through the evening he had scarcely known how to maintain his calm, how to prevent himself from telling her all that was in his heart. After the misery he had gone through, he snatched at happiness with eager grasp, determined to enjoy to the full every single moment of it. He threw all scruples to the wind. He was sick and tired of holding himself in; he had checked himself too long, and now, at all hazards, must let himself go. Bridle and curb now were of no avail. He neither could nor would suppress his passion, though it devoured him like a raging fire. He thought his conscientiousness absurd. Why could he not, like other men, take the brief joy of life? Why could he not gather the roses without caring whether they would quickly fade? "Let me eat, drink, and be merry," he cried, "for to-morrow I die!"

      It was Wednesday, and on the Saturday he had promised to return to Little Primpton. But he put aside all thought of that, except as an incentive to make the most of his time. He had wrestled with temptation and been overcome, and he gloried in his defeat. He would make no further effort to stifle his love. His strength had finally deserted him, and he had no will to protect himself; he would give himself over entirely to his passion, and the future might bring what it would.

      "I'm a fool to torment myself!" he cried. "After all, what does anything matter but love?"

      Mrs. Wallace was engaged for the afternoon of the next day, but she had invited him to dine with her.

      "They feed you abominably at my place," she said, "but I'll do my best. And we shall be able to talk."

      Until then he would not live; and all sorts of wild, mad thoughts ran through his head.

      "Is there a greater fool on earth than the virtuous prig?" he muttered, savagely.

      He could not sleep, but tossed from side to side, thinking ever of the soft hands and the red lips that he so ardently wished to kiss. In the morning he sent to Half Moon Street a huge basket of flowers.

       "It was good of you," said Mrs. Wallace, when he arrived, pointing to the roses scattered through the room. She wore three in her hair, trailing behind one ear in an exotic, charming fashion.

      "It's only you who could think of wearing them like that."

      "Do they make me look very barbaric?" She was flattered by the admiration in his eyes. "You certainly have improved since I saw you last."

      "Now, shall we stay here or go somewhere?" she asked after dinner, when they were smoking cigarettes.

      "Let us stay here."

      Mrs. Wallace began talking the old nonsense which, in days past, had delighted James; it enchanted him to hear her say, in the tone of voice he knew so well, just those things which he had a thousand times repeated to himself. He looked at her with a happy smile, his eyes fixed upon her, taking in every movement.

      "I don't believe you're listening to a word I'm saying!" she cried at last. "Why don't you answer?"

      "Go on. I like to see you talk. It's long since I've had the chance."

      "You spoke yesterday as though you hadn't missed me much."

      "I didn't mean it. You knew I didn't mean it."

      She smiled mockingly.

      "I thought it doubtful. If it had been true, you could hardly have said anything so impolite."

      "I've thought of you always. That's why I feel I know you so much better now. I don't change. What I felt once, I feel always."

      "I wonder what you mean by that?"

      "I mean that I love you as passionately as when last I saw you. Oh, I love you ten times more!"

      "And the girl with the bun and the strenuous look? You were engaged when I knew you last."

      James was silent for a moment.

      "I'm going to be married to her on the 10th of October," he said finally, in an expressionless voice.

      "You don't say that as if you were wildly enthusiastic."

      "Why did you remind me?" cried James. "I was so happy. Oh, I hate her!"

      "Then why on earth are you marrying her?"

      "I can't help it; I must. You've brought it all back. How could you be so cruel! When I came back from the Cape, I broke the engagement off. I made her utterly miserable, and I took all the pleasure out of my poor father's life. I knew I'd done right; I knew that unless I loved her it was madness to marry; I felt even that it was unclean. Oh, you don't know how I've argued it all out with myself time after time! I was anxious to do right, and I felt such a cad. I can't escape from my bringing-up. You can't imagine what are the chains that bind us in England. We're wrapped from our infancy in the swaddling-clothes of prejudice, ignorance, and false ideas; and when we grow up, though we know they're all absurd and horrible, we can't escape from them; they've become part of our very flesh. Then I grew ill—I nearly died; and Mary nursed me devotedly. I don't know what came over me, I felt so ill and weak. I was grateful to her. The old self seized me again, and I was ashamed of what I'd done. I wanted to make them all happy. I asked her again to marry me, and she said she would. I thought I could love her, but I can't—I can't, God help me!"

      Jamie's passion was growing uncontrollable. He walked up and down the room, and then threw himself heavily on a chair.

      "Oh, I know it was weakness! I used to pride myself on my strength of mind, but I'm weak. I'm weaker than a woman. I'm a poor reed—vacillating, uncertain, purposeless. I don't know my own mind. I haven't the courage to act according to my convictions. I'm afraid to give pain. They all think I'm brave, but I'm simply a pitiful coward...."

      "I feel that Mary has entrapped me, and I hate her. I know she has good qualities—heaps of them—but I can't see them. I only know that the mere touch of her hand curdles my blood. She excites absolute physical repulsion in me; I can't help it. I know it's madness to marry her, but I can't do anything else. I daren't inflict a second time the humiliation and misery upon her, or the unhappiness upon my people."

      Mrs. Wallace now was serious.

      "And do you really care for anyone else?"

      He turned savagely upon her.

      "You know I do. You know I love you with all my heart and soul. You know I've loved you passionately from the first day I saw you. Didn't you feel, even when we were separated, that my love was inextinguishable? Didn't you feel it always with you? Oh, my dear, my dear, you must have known that death was too weak to touch my love! I tried to crush it, because neither you nor I was free. Your husband was my friend. I couldn't do anything blackguardly. I ran away from you. What a fool you must have thought me! And now I know that at last we were both free, I might have made you love me. I had my chance of happiness at last; what I'd longed for, cursing myself for treachery, had come to pass. But I never knew. In my weakness I surrendered my freedom. O God! what