The Magician - W. Somerset Maugham (good romance books to read .txt) 📗

id="chapter-8" epub:type="chapter bodymatter z3998:fiction"> VIII

Susie could not persuade herself that Haddo’s regret was sincere. The humility of it aroused her suspicion. She could not get out of her mind the ugly slyness of that smile which succeeded on his face the first passionate look of deadly hatred. Her fancy suggested various dark means whereby Oliver Haddo might take vengeance on his enemy, and she was at pains to warn Arthur. But he only laughed.

“The man’s a funk,” he said. “Do you think if he’d had anything in him at all he would have let me kick him without trying to defend himself?”

Haddo’s cowardice increased the disgust with which Arthur regarded him. He was amused by Susie’s trepidation.

“What on earth do you suppose he can do? He can’t drop a brickbat on my head. If he shoots me he’ll get his head cut off, and he won’t be such an ass as to risk that!”

Margaret was glad that the incident had relieved them of Oliver’s society. She met him in the street a couple of days later, and since he took off his hat in the French fashion without waiting for her to acknowledge him, she was able to make her cut more pointed.

She began to discuss with Arthur the date of their marriage. It seemed to her that she had got out of Paris all it could give her, and she wished to begin a new life. Her love for Arthur appeared on a sudden more urgent, and she was filled with delight at the thought of the happiness she would give him.

A day or two later Susie received a telegram. It ran as follows:

“Please meet me at the Gare du Nord, 2:40.

“Nancy Clerk.”

It was an old friend, who was apparently arriving in Paris that afternoon. A photograph of her, with a bold signature, stood on the chimneypiece, and Susie gave it an inquisitive glance. She had not seen Nancy for so long that it surprised her to receive this urgent message.

“What a bore it is!” she said. “I suppose I must go.”

They meant to have tea on the other side of the river, but the journey to the station was so long that it would not be worth Susie’s while to come back in the interval; and they arranged therefore to meet at the house to which they were invited. Susie started a little before two.

Margaret had a class that afternoon and set out two or three minutes later. As she walked through the courtyard she started nervously, for Oliver Haddo passed slowly by. He did not seem to see her. Suddenly he stopped, put his hand to his heart, and fell heavily to the ground. The concierge, the only person at hand, ran forward with a cry. She knelt down and, looking round with terror, caught sight of Margaret.

“Oh, mademoiselle, venez vite!” she cried.

Margaret was obliged to go. Her heart beat horribly. She looked down at Oliver, and he seemed to be dead. She forgot that she loathed him. Instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. He opened his eyes. An expression of terrible anguish came into his face.

“For the love of God, take me in for one moment,” he sobbed. “I shall die in the street.”

Her heart was moved towards him. He could not go into the poky den, evil-smelling and airless, of the concierge. But with her help Margaret raised him to his feet, and together they brought him to the studio. He sank painfully into a chair.

“Shall I fetch you some water?” asked Margaret.

“Can you get a pastille out of my pocket?”

He swallowed a white tabloid, which she took out of a case attached to his watch-chain.

“I’m very sorry to cause you this trouble,” he gasped. “I suffer from a disease of the heart, and sometimes I am very near death.”

“I’m glad that I was able to help you,” she said.

He seemed able to breathe more easily. She left him to himself for a while, so that he might regain his strength. She took up a book and began to read. Presently, without moving from his chair, he spoke.

“You must hate me for intruding on you.”

His voice was stronger, and her pity waned as he seemed to recover. She answered with freezing indifference.

“I couldn’t do any less for you than I did. I would have brought a dog into my room if it seemed hurt.”

“I see that you wish me to go.”

He got up and moved towards the door, but he staggered and with a groan tumbled to his knees. Margaret sprang forward to help him. She reproached herself bitterly for those scornful words. The man had barely escaped death, and she was merciless.

“Oh, please stay as long as you like,” she cried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He dragged himself with difficulty back to the chair, and she, conscience-stricken, stood over him helplessly. She poured out a glass of water, but he motioned it away as though he would not be beholden to her even for that.

“Is there nothing I can do for you at all?” she exclaimed, painfully.

“Nothing, except allow me to sit in this chair,” he gasped.

“I hope you’ll remain as long as you choose.”

He did not reply. She sat down again and pretended to read. In a little while he began to speak. His voice reached her as if from a long way off.

“Will you never forgive me for what I did the other day?”

She answered without looking at him, her back still turned.

“Can it matter to you if I forgive or not?”

“You have not pity. I told you then how sorry I was that a sudden uncontrollable pain drove me to do a thing which immediately I bitterly regretted. Don’t you think it must have been hard for me, under the actual circumstances, to confess my fault?”

“I wish you not to speak of it. I don’t want to think of that horrible scene.”

“If you knew how lonely