The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over (54 page)

When Eleanor heard that the house at the bottom of their hill had been taken by a Sir Frederick and Lady Hardy she was much pleased. It would be nice for Robert to have as a near neighbour someone of his own class. She made enquiries about them from her friends in Cannes. It appeared that Sir Frederick had lately come into the baronetcy on the death of an uncle and was come to the Riviera for two or three years while he was paying off the death duties. He was said to have been very wild in his youth, he was well on in the fifties when he came to Cannes, but now he was respectably married, to a very nice little woman, and had two small boys. It was a pity that Lady Hardy had been an actress, for Robert was apt to be a little stuffy about actresses, but everyone said that she was very well-mannered and ladylike, and you would never have guessed she had been on the stage. The Forestiers met her first at a tea-party to which Sir Frederick did not go, and Robert acknowledged that she seemed a very decent sort of person; so Eleanor, wishing to be neighbourly, invited them both to luncheon. A day was arranged. The Forestiers had asked a good many people to meet them, and the Hardys were rather late. Eleanor took an immediate fancy to Sir Frederick. He looked much younger than she expected, he hadn’t a white hair on his close-cropped head; indeed there was about him something boyish that was rather attractive. He was slightly built, not as tall as she was; and he had bright friendly eyes and a ready smile. She noticed that he wore the same Guards tic that Robert sometimes wore; he was not nearly so well-dressed as Robert, who always looked as though he had stepped out of a show-window, hut he wore his old clothes as though it didn’t much matter what one wore. Eleanor could quite believe he had been a trifle wild as a young man. She was not inclined to blame him.

“I must introduce my husband to you,” she said.

She called him. Robert was talking to some of the other guests on the terrace, and hadn’t noticed the Hardys come in. He came forward and in his affable, hearty way, with a grace that always charmed Eleanor, shook hands with Lady Hardy. Then he turned to Sir Frederick. Sir Frederick gave him a puzzled look.

“Haven’t we met before?” he said.

Robert looked at him coolly.

“I don’t think so.”

“I could have sworn I knew your face.”

Eleanor felt her husband stiffen and at once realised that something was going wrong. Robert laughed.

“It sounds terribly rude, but to the best of my belief I’ve never set eyes on you in my life. We may have run across one another in the war. One met such hosts of fellers, then, didn’t one? Will you have a cocktail, Lady Hardy?”

During luncheon Eleanor noticed that Hardy kept looking at Robert. He was evidently trying to place him. Robert was busy with the women on either side of him and did not catch the glances. He was making efforts to entertain his neighbours; and his loud, ringing laugh rang through the room. He was a wonderful host. Eleanor had always admired his sense of social duty; however dull the women were he was sitting next to he gave them of his best. But when their guests had gone Robert’s gaiety dropped from him like a cloak from his shoulders. She had a feeling that he was upset.

“Was the princess very boring?” she asked kindly.

“She’s a malignant old cat, but otherwise she was all right.” “Funny that Sir Frederick thought he knew you.”

“I’ve never set eyes on him in my life. But I know all about him. I wouldn’t have more to do with him than you can help if I were you, Eleanor. I don’t think he’s quite our mark.”

“But it’s one of the oldest baronetcies in England. We looked it out in
Who’s Who
.”

“He’s a disreputable scamp. I didn’t dream that the Captain Hardy,” Robert corrected himself, “the Fred Hardy I used to know about in the old clays was now Sir Frederick. I would never have allowed you to ask him to my house.”

“Why, Robert? I’m bound to tell you that I thought him very attractive.”

For once Eleanor thought her husband rather unreasonable. “A great many women have found him so, and a pretty penny it’s cost them.”

“You know how people talk. One really can’t believe everything one hears.”

He took one of her hands in his and looked earnestly into her eyes.

“Eleanor, you know I’m not the sort of chap to say anything against another chap behind his back, and I’d rather not tell you what I know about Hardy; I can only ask you to take my word for it that he isn’t a proper person for you to know.”

This was an appeal to which Eleanor was incapable of turning a deaf ear. It thrilled her to know that Robert placed such confidence in her; he knew that in a crisis he had only to call on her loyalty and she would not fail him.

“No one can be better aware than I, Robert,” she answered gravely, “of your perfect integrity; I know that if you could tell me you would, but even if you wanted to now I wouldn’t let you; it would look as if I had less confidence in you than you have in me. I am willing to abide by your judgment. I promise you that the Hardys shall never darken these doors again.” But Eleanor often lunched out without Robert, when he was playing golf, and so frequently met the Hardys. She was very stiff with Sir Frederick, because if Robert disapproved of him, she must too; but he either did not notice or did not care. He went out of his way to be nice to her and she found him easy to get on with. It was difficult to dislike a man who plainly thought that no woman was better than she should be, but very sweet for all that, and who had such delightful manners. It might be that he was an improper man for her to know, but she couldn’t help liking the look in his brown eyes. It was a mocking look, which put you on your guard, and yet so caressing that you could not think he meant you harm. But the more Eleanor heard about him, the more she realised how right Robert was. He was an unprincipled rascal. They mentioned the names of women who had sacrificed everything for his sake and whom he had thrown aside without ceremony the moment he was tired of them. He seemed to have settled down now, and to be de-voted to his wife and children; but can the leopard change his spots? It was only too probable that Lady Hardy had more to put up with than anyone suspected.

Fred Hardy was a bad lot. Pretty women,
chemin de fer,
and an unlucky knack for backing the wrong horse had landed him in the bankruptcy court by the time he was twenty-five, and he had been forced to resign his commission. He had seen no shame then in allowing women no longer in their first youth, who found his charm irresistible, to supply his wants. But the war came, he rejoined his regiment, and got a D.S.O. Then he went out to Kenya, where he found occasion to become co-respondent in a notorious divorce case; he left Kenya over some trouble with a cheque. His ideas of honesty were lax. It was unsafe to buy a car or a horse off him, and you did much better to keep away from the champagnes he warmly recommended to you. When with his persuasive charm he put before you a speculation by which you and he would make a fortune, you could only be sure that whatever he made out of it you would make nothing. He was in turn a motor-salesman, an outside broker, a commission agent and an actor. Were there any justice in the world he should have ended if not in gaol at least in the gutter. But by one of fate’s monstrous tricks, having at last inherited his baronetcy and an adequate income, having married when well over forty a pretty, clever wife to whom were in due course born two healthy and handsome children, the future offered him affluence, position and respectability. He had never taken life any more seriously than he took women, and life had been as kind to him as women. If he thought of his past it was with complacency; he had had a good time, he had enjoyed his ups and downs; and now, with good health and a clear conscience, he was prepared to settle down as a country gentleman, damn it, bring up the kids as kids should be brought up; and when the old buffer who sat for his constituency pegged out, by George, go into Parliament himself.

“I could tell them a thing or two they don’t know,” he said.

He was probably right, but he did not stop to reflect that perhaps they were not things they much wanted to know.

One afternoon, about sunset, Fred Hardy went into one of the bars on the Croisette. He was a sociable creature and did not care to drink alone, so he looked around to see if there were

The Lion’s Skin anyone he knew. He caught sight of Robert, who had been playing golf and was waiting there for Eleanor.

“Hulloa, Bob, what about having a tiddly?”

Robert gave a start. No one on the Riviera called him Bob. When he saw who it was he answered stiffly:

“I’ve got a drink, thanks.”

“Have another. My old lady don’t approve of my drinking between meals, but when I can manage to get away from her I generally slip in and have one about this time. I don’t know what you think about it, but my feeling is that God made six o’clock for man to have a drink at.”

He flung himself into a great leather arm-chair next to the one Robert was sitting in and called a waiter. He gave Robert his good-natured, engaging smile.

“A lot of water has passed under the bridges since first we met, old boy, hasn’t it?”

Robert, frowning a little, shot a look at him which an observer might have described as wary.

“I don’t know exactly what you mean. To the best of my belief we met for the first time three or four weeks ago when you and your wife were good enough to come and have lunch with us.”

“Come off it, Bob. I knew I’d seen you before. I was puzzled at first and then it flashed across me. You were the car-washer at that garage off Bruton Street where I used to keep my car.” Captain Forestier gave a hearty laugh.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve made a mistake. I never heard anything so ridiculous.”

“I’ve got a damned good memory and I never forget a face. I bet you haven’t forgotten me either. Many’s the half-crown I’ve given you for fetching the car away from my flat when I didn’t want to be bothered to bring it round to the garage myself.”

“You’re talking absolute rot. I’d never seen you in my life till you came to my house.”

Hardy grinned cheerfully.

“You know I’ve always been a Kodak-fiend. I’ve got albums of snaps that I’ve taken at one time and another. Would it surprise you to learn that I’ve found a snap of you standing by a two-seater I’d just bought? A damned good-looking fellow you were in those days even though you had overalls on and your face was none too clean. Of course you’ve broadened out, your hair’s grey and you’ve got a moustache, but it’s the same chap. Unmistakably.”

Captain Forestier looked at him coolly.

“You must have been misled by an accidental resemblance. It was somebody else you gave your half-crowns to.”

“Well, where were you then, if you weren’t a car-washer at the Bruton Garage between 1913 and 1914?”

“I was in India.”

“With your regiment?” asked Fred Hardy with another grin. “I was shooting.”

“You liar.”

Robert Hushed deeply.

“This isn’t quite the place to choose for a scrap, but if you think I’m going to stay here to be insulted by a drunken swine like you, you’re mistaken.”

“Wouldn’t you like to hear what else I know about you? You know how things come back to one, and I’ve remembered quite a lot.”

“I’m not in the least interested. I tell you that you’re making an absolute mistake. You’re confusing me with somebody else.” But he made no attempt to go.

“You were a bit of a slacker even in those days. I remember once, when I was going into the country early, I’d told you to have my car washed by nine and it wasn’t ready, so I kicked up a row and old Thompson told me then your father had been a pal of his and he’d taken you on out of charity because you were down and out. Your father had been a wine waiter at one of the clubs, White’s or Brooks’s, I forget which, and you’d been a page-boy there yourself. You enlisted in the Coldstream Guards, if I remember right, anti some chap bought you out and made you his valet.”

“It’s too fantastic,” said Robert scornfully.

“And I remember, when I was home on leave once and went to the garage, old Thompson told me you’d enlisted in the A.S.C. You weren’t going to take any more risks than you could help, were you? You’ve been drawing the long bow a bit, haven’t you, with all those stories I hear of your gallantry in the trenches? I suppose you did get a commission, or is that a fake too?”

“Of course I got a commission.”

“Well, a lot of funny people did in those days, but you know, old boy. if it was in the A.S.C. I wouldn’t wear a Guards tie if I were you.”

Captain Forestier instinctively put his hand up to his tie, and Fred Hardy, watching him with his mocking eyes, was pretty sure that notwithstanding his tan he went white.

“It’s no business of yours what tie I wear.”

“Don’t get snotty, old boy. There’s no reason to get up on your hind legs. I’ve got the goods on you, but I’m not going to give you away, so why don’t you come clean?”

“I’ve got nothing to come clean about. I tell you it’s all an absurd mistake. And I should tell you that if I find that you’ve been spreading these lying stories about me, I shall immediately start proceedings for slander.”

“Stow it, Bob. I’m not going to spread any stories. You don’t think I care? I think the whole thing’s rather a lark. I’ve got no ill-feeling towards you. I’ve been a bit of an adventurer myself; I admire you for carrying off such a stupendous bluff. Starting as a page-boy and then being a trooper, a valet and a car-washer; and there you arc, a fine gentleman, with a grand house, entertaining all the big bugs of the Riviera, winning golf tournaments, vice-president of the Sailing Club, and I don’t know what all. You’re It in Cannes and no mistake. It’s stupendous. I’ve done some pretty rum things in my day, but the nerve you must have; old boy, I take off my hat to you.”