The Essential W. Somerset Maugham Collection. W. Somerset Maugham
upon her entirely, and trust her; he admired her rectitude and her truthfulness. She reminded him of a granite cross standing alone in a desolate Scotch island, steadfast to wind and weather, unyielding even to time, erect and stern, and yet somehow pathetic in its solemn loneliness.
Was it a lot of nonsense that he had thought about the immaculacy of the flesh? The world in general found his theories ridiculous or obscene. The world might be right. After all, the majority is not necessarily wrong. Jamie's illness interfered like a blank space between his present self and the old one, with its strenuous ideals of a purity of body which vulgar persons knew nothing of. Weak and ill, dependent upon the strength of others, his former opinions seemed singularly uncertain. How much more easy and comfortable was it to fall back upon the ideas of all and sundry? One cannot help being a little conscience-stricken sometimes when one thinks differently from others. That is why society holds together; conscience is its most efficient policeman. But when one shares common opinions, the whole authority of civilisation backs one up, and the reward is an ineffable self-complacency. It is the easiest thing possible to wallow in the prejudices of all the world, and the most eminently satisfactory. For nineteen hundred years we have learnt that the body is shameful, a pitfall and a snare to the soul. It is to be hoped we have one, for our bodies, since we began worrying about our souls, leave much to be desired. The common idea is that the flesh is beastly, the spirit divine; and it sounds reasonable enough. If it means little, one need not care, for the world has turned eternally to one senseless formula after another. All one can be sure about is that in the things of this world there is no absolute certainty.
James, in his prostration, felt only indifference; and his old strenuousness, with its tragic despair, seemed not a little ridiculous. His eagerness to keep clean from what he thought prostitution was melodramatic and silly, his idea of purity mere foolishness. If the body was excrement, as from his youth he had been taught, what could it matter how one used it! Did anything matter, when a few years would see the flesh he had thought divine corrupt and worm-eaten? James was willing now to float along the stream, sociably, with his fellows, and had no doubt that he would soon find a set of high-sounding phrases to justify his degradation. What importance could his actions have, who was an obscure unit in an ephemeral race? It was much better to cease troubling, and let things come as they would. People were obviously right when they said that Mary must be an excellent helpmate. How often had he not told himself that she would be all that a wife should--kind, helpful, trustworthy. Was it not enough?
And his marriage would give such pleasure to his father and mother, such happiness to Mary. If he could make a little return for all her goodness, was he not bound to do so? He smiled with bitter scorn at his dead, lofty ideals. The workaday world was not fit for them; it was much safer and easier to conform oneself to its terrestrial standard. And the amusing part of it was that these new opinions which seemed to him a falling away, to others meant precisely the reverse. They thought it purer and more ethereal that a man should marry because a woman would be a housekeeper of good character than because the divine instincts of Nature irresistibly propelled him.
James shrugged his shoulders, and turned to look at Mary, who was coming towards him with letters in her hand.
"Three letters for you, Jamie!"
"Whom are they from?"
"Look." She handed him one.
"That's a bill, I bet," he said. "Open it and see."
She opened and read out an account for boots.
"Throw it away."
Mary opened her eyes.
"It must be paid, Jamie."
"Of course it must; but not for a long time yet. Let him send it in a few times more. Now the next one."
He looked at the envelope, and did not recognise the handwriting.
"You can open that, too."
It was from the Larchers, repeating their invitation to go and see them.
"I wonder if they're still worrying about the death of their boy?"
"Oh, well, it's six months ago, isn't it?" replied Mary.
"I suppose in that time one gets over most griefs. I must go over some day. Now the third."
He reddened slightly, recognising again the handwriting of Mrs. Wallace. But this time it affected him very little; he was too weak to care, and he felt almost indifferent.
"Shall I open it?" said Mary.
James hesitated.
"No," he said; "tear it up." And then in reply to her astonishment, he added, smiling: "It's all right, I'm not off my head. Tear it up, and don't ask questions, there's a dear!"
"Of course, I'll tear it up if you want me to," said Mary, looking rather perplexed.
"Now, go to the hedge and throw the pieces in the field."
She did so, and sat down again.
"Shall I read to you?"
"No, I'm sick of the 'Antiquary.' Why the goodness they can't talk English like rational human beings, Heaven only knows!"
"Well, we must finish it now we've begun."
"D'you think something dreadful will happen to us if we don't?"
"If one begins a book I think one should finish it, however dull it is. One is sure to get some good out of it."
"My dear, you're a perfect monster of conscientiousness."
"Well, if you don't want me to read, I shall go on with my knitting."
"I don't want you to knit either. I want you to talk to me."
Mary looked almost charming in the subdued light of the sun as it broke through the leaves, giving a softness of expression and a richness of colour that James had never seen in her before. And the summer frock she wore made her more girlish and irresponsible than usual.
"You've been very, very good to me all this time, Mary," said James, suddenly.
Mary flushed. "I?"
"I can never thank you enough."
"Nonsense! Your father has been telling you a lot of rubbish, and he promised he wouldn't."
"No, he's said nothing. Did you make him promise? That was very nice, and just like you."
"I was afraid he'd say more than he ought."
"D'you think I haven't been able to see for myself? I owe my life to you."
"You owe it to God, Jamie."
He smiled, and took her hand.
"I'm very, very grateful!"
"It's been a pleasure to nurse you, Jamie. I never knew you'd make such a good patient."
"And for all you've done, I've made you wretched and miserable. Can you ever forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive, dear. You know I always think of you as a brother."
"Ah, that's what you told the curate!" cried James, laughing.
Mary reddened.
"How d'you know?"
"He told Mrs. Jackson, and she told father."
"You're not angry with me?"
"I think you might have made it second cousin," said James, with a smile.
Mary did not answer, but tried to withdraw her hand. He held it fast.
"Mary, I've treated you