Part 39 (2/2)
”I'm ready to go back now,” she said.
Her voice was hard and steady. Dr Macphail could not understand the look in her eyes. Her pale face was very stern. They walked back slowly, never saying a word, and at last they came round the bend on the other side of which stood their house. Mrs Davidson gave a gasp, and for a moment they stopped still. An incredible sound a.s.saulted their ears. The gramophone which had been silent for so long was playing, playing ragtime loud and harsh.
”What's that?” cried Mrs Macphail with horror.
”Let's go on,” said Mrs Davidson.
They walked up the steps and entered the hall. Miss Thompson was standing at her door, chatting with a sailor. A sudden change had taken place in her. She was no longer the cowed drudge of the last days. She was dressed in all her finery, in her white dress, with the high s.h.i.+ny boots over which her fat legs bulged in their cotton stockings; her hair was elaborately arranged; and she wore that enormous hat covered with gaudy flowers. Her face was painted, her eyebrows were boldly black, and her lips were scarlet. She held herself erect. She was the flaunting quean that they had known at first. As they came in she broke into a loud, jeering laugh; and then, when Mrs Davidson involuntarily stopped, she collected the spittle in her mouth and spat. Mrs Davidson cowered back, and two red spots rose suddenly to her cheeks. Then, covering her face with her hands, she broke away and ran quickly up the stairs. Dr Macphail was outraged. He pushed past the woman into her room.
”What the devil are you doing?” he cried. ”Stop that d.a.m.ned machine.”
He went up to it and tore the record off. She turned on him.
”Say, doc, you can that stuff with me. What the h.e.l.l are you doin' in my room?”
”What do you mean?” he cried. ”What d'you mean?”
She gathered herself together. No one could describe the scorn of her expression or the contemptuous hatred she put into her answer.
”You men! You filthy, dirty pigs! You're all the same, all of you. Pigs!
Pigs!”
Dr Macphail gasped. He understood.
VIII
_Envoi_
When your s.h.i.+p leaves Honolulu they hang _leis_ round your neck, garlands of sweet smelling flowers. The wharf is crowded and the band plays a melting Hawaiian tune. The people on board throw coloured streamers to those standing below, and the side of the s.h.i.+p is gay with the thin lines of paper, red and green and yellow and blue. When the s.h.i.+p moves slowly away the streamers break softly, and it is like the breaking of human ties. Men and women are joined together for a moment by a gaily coloured strip of paper, red and blue and green and yellow, and then life separates them and the paper is sundered, so easily, with a little sharp snap. For an hour the fragments trail down the hull and then they blow away. The flowers of your garlands fade and their scent is oppressive. You throw them overboard.
THE END
BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
OF HUMAN BONDAGE THE MOON AND SIXPENCE THE TREMBLING OF A LEAF MRS. CRADDOCK THE EXPLORER THE MAGICIAN
NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
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