Read Online 65 Short Stories by W. Somerset Maugham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: W. Somerset Maugham
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of a log fire and Isabel looked at him with calm grave eyes.
‘Now what have you to say to me?’ she asked.
‘I hardly know how to begin.’
‘Is Edward Barnard coming back?’
‘No.’
There was a long silence before Bateman spoke again, and with each of them it was filled with many thoughts. It was a difficult story he had to tell, for there were things in it which were so offensive to her sensitive ears that he could not bear to tell them, and yet in justice to her, no less than in justice to himself, he must tell her the whole truth.
It had all begun long ago when he and Edward Barnard, still at college, had met Isabel Longstaffe at the tea-party given to introduce her to society. They had both known her when she was a child and they long-legged boys, but for two years she had been in Europe to finish her education and it was with a surprised delight that they renewed acquaintance with the lovely girl who returned. Both of them fell desperately in love with her, but Bateman saw quickly that she had eyes only for Edward, and, devoted to his friend, he resigned himself to the role of confidant. He passed bitter moments, but he could not deny that Edward was worthy of his good fortune, and, anxious that nothing should impair the friendship he so greatly valued, he took care never by a hint to disclose his own feelings. In six months the young couple were engaged. But they were very young and Isabel’s father decided that they should not marry at least till Edward graduated. They had to wait a year. Bateman remembered the winter at the end of which Isabel and Edward were to be married, a winter of dances and theatre-parties and of informal gaieties at which he, the constant third, was always present. He loved her no less because she would shortly be his friend’s wife; her smile, a gay word she flung him, the confidence of her affection, never ceased to delight him; and he congratulated himself, somewhat complacently, because he did not envy them their happiness. Then an accident happened. A great bank failed, there was a panic on the exchange, and Edward Barnard’s father found himself a ruined man. He came home one night, told his wife he was penniless, and after dinner, going into his study, shot himself
A week later, Edward Barnard, with a tired, white face, went to Isabel and asked her to release him. Her only answer was to throw her arms round his neck and burst into tears.
‘Don’t make it harder for me, sweet,’ he said.
‘Do you think I can let you go now? I love you.’
‘How can I ask you to marry me? The whole thing’s hopeless. Your father would never let you. I haven’t a cent.’
‘What do I care? I love you.’
He told her his plans. He had to earn money at once, and George Braunschmidt, an old friend of his family, had offered to take him into his own business. He was a South Sea merchant, and he had agencies in many of the islands of the Pacific. He had suggested that Edward should go to Tahiti for a year or two, where under the best of his managers he could learn the details of that varied trade, and at the end of that time he promised the young man a position in Chicago. It was a wonderful opportunity, and when he had finished his explanations Isabel was once more all smiles.
‘You foolish boy, why have you been trying to make me miserable?’ His face lit up at her words and his eyes flashed.
‘Isabel, you don’t mean to say you’ll wait for me?’
‘Don’t you think you’re worth it?’ she smiled.
Ah, don’t laugh at me now I beseech you to be serious. It may be for two years.’
‘Have no fear. I love you, Edward. When you come back I will marry you.’ Edward’s employer was a man who did not like delay and he had told him that if he took the post he offered he must sail that day week from San Francisco. Edward spent his last evening with Isabel. It was after dinner that Mr Longstaffe, saying he wanted a word with Edward, took him into the smoking-room. Mr Longstaffe had
‘Now what have you to say to me?’ she asked.
‘I hardly know how to begin.’
‘Is Edward Barnard coming back?’
‘No.’
There was a long silence before Bateman spoke again, and with each of them it was filled with many thoughts. It was a difficult story he had to tell, for there were things in it which were so offensive to her sensitive ears that he could not bear to tell them, and yet in justice to her, no less than in justice to himself, he must tell her the whole truth.
It had all begun long ago when he and Edward Barnard, still at college, had met Isabel Longstaffe at the tea-party given to introduce her to society. They had both known her when she was a child and they long-legged boys, but for two years she had been in Europe to finish her education and it was with a surprised delight that they renewed acquaintance with the lovely girl who returned. Both of them fell desperately in love with her, but Bateman saw quickly that she had eyes only for Edward, and, devoted to his friend, he resigned himself to the role of confidant. He passed bitter moments, but he could not deny that Edward was worthy of his good fortune, and, anxious that nothing should impair the friendship he so greatly valued, he took care never by a hint to disclose his own feelings. In six months the young couple were engaged. But they were very young and Isabel’s father decided that they should not marry at least till Edward graduated. They had to wait a year. Bateman remembered the winter at the end of which Isabel and Edward were to be married, a winter of dances and theatre-parties and of informal gaieties at which he, the constant third, was always present. He loved her no less because she would shortly be his friend’s wife; her smile, a gay word she flung him, the confidence of her affection, never ceased to delight him; and he congratulated himself, somewhat complacently, because he did not envy them their happiness. Then an accident happened. A great bank failed, there was a panic on the exchange, and Edward Barnard’s father found himself a ruined man. He came home one night, told his wife he was penniless, and after dinner, going into his study, shot himself
A week later, Edward Barnard, with a tired, white face, went to Isabel and asked her to release him. Her only answer was to throw her arms round his neck and burst into tears.
‘Don’t make it harder for me, sweet,’ he said.
‘Do you think I can let you go now? I love you.’
‘How can I ask you to marry me? The whole thing’s hopeless. Your father would never let you. I haven’t a cent.’
‘What do I care? I love you.’
He told her his plans. He had to earn money at once, and George Braunschmidt, an old friend of his family, had offered to take him into his own business. He was a South Sea merchant, and he had agencies in many of the islands of the Pacific. He had suggested that Edward should go to Tahiti for a year or two, where under the best of his managers he could learn the details of that varied trade, and at the end of that time he promised the young man a position in Chicago. It was a wonderful opportunity, and when he had finished his explanations Isabel was once more all smiles.
‘You foolish boy, why have you been trying to make me miserable?’ His face lit up at her words and his eyes flashed.
‘Isabel, you don’t mean to say you’ll wait for me?’
‘Don’t you think you’re worth it?’ she smiled.
Ah, don’t laugh at me now I beseech you to be serious. It may be for two years.’
‘Have no fear. I love you, Edward. When you come back I will marry you.’ Edward’s employer was a man who did not like delay and he had told him that if he took the post he offered he must sail that day week from San Francisco. Edward spent his last evening with Isabel. It was after dinner that Mr Longstaffe, saying he wanted a word with Edward, took him into the smoking-room. Mr Longstaffe had
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