OF HUMAN BONDAGE by W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

"Well, you'd better let me take your temperature," said Griffiths.
"It's quite unnecessary," answered Philip irritably.
"Come on."
Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the side of the
bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and looked at
it.
"Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I'll bring old Deacon
in to have a look at you."
"Nonsense," said Philip. "There's nothing the matter. I wish you wouldn't
bother about me."
"But it isn't any bother. You've got a temperature and you must stay in
bed. You will, won't you?"
There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and
kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.
"You've got a wonderful bed-side manner," Philip murmured, closing his
eyes with a smile.
Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the
bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip's sitting-room to look
for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He
drew down the blind.
"Now, go to sleep and I'll bring the old man round as soon as he's done
the wards."
It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would
split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then
there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and
cheerful, came in.
"Here's Doctor Deacon," he said.
The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom
Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the
diagnosis.
"What d'you make it?" he asked Griffiths, smiling.
"Influenza."
"Quite right."
Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.
"Wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? They'll put you in a private
ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here."
"I'd rather stay where I am," said Philip.
He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new
surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary
cleanliness of the hospital.
"I can look after him, sir," said Griffiths at once.
"Oh, very well."
He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.
"Now you've got to do exactly as I tell you," said Griffiths. "I'm
day-nurse and night-nurse all in one."
"It's very kind of you, but I shan't want anything," said Philip.
Griffiths put his hand on Philip's forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and
the touch seemed to him good.
"I'm just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up,
and then I'll come back."
In a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a dose. Then he
went upstairs to fetch his books.
"You won't mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?" he
said, when he came down. "I'll leave the door open so that you can give me
a shout if you want anything."
Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in his
sitting-room. A friend had come in to see Griffiths.
"I say, you'd better not come in tonight," he heard Griffiths saying.
And then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and
expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there. Philip heard him
explain.
"I'm looking after a second year's man who's got these rooms. The wretched
blighter's down with influenza. No whist tonight, old man."
Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.
"I say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are you?" he asked.
"Not on your account. I must work at my surgery."
"Don't put it off. I shall be all right. You needn't bother about me."
"That's all right."
Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but
towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths get out
of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece
after piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row."
"Why aren't you in bed? What's the time?"
"About five. I thought I'd better sit up with you tonight. I brought an
arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so
soundly that I shouldn't hear you if you wanted anything."
"I wish you wouldn't be so good to me," groaned Philip. "Suppose you catch
it?"
"Then you shall nurse me, old man," said Griffiths, with a laugh.
In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired after
his night's watch, but was full of spirits.
"Now, I'm going to wash you," he said to Philip cheerfully.
"I can wash myself," said Philip, ashamed.
"Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I can
do it just as well as a nurse."
Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his
hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming
tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he
changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow,
and arranged the bed-clothes.
"I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up. Deacon's
coming in to see you early."
"I can't imagine why you should be so good to me," said Philip.
"It's good practice for me. It's rather a lark having a patient."
Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have
something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of
grapes and a few flowers.
"You are awfully kind," said Philip.
He was in bed for five days.
Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths was the same
age as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. He was
a thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his greatest quality was
a vitality which seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in
contact. Philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from
mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of
this strong young man. Philip grew better. Then Griffiths, sitting idly in
Philip's room, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. He was a
flirtatious creature, capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a
time; and his account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out
of difficulties made excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing a
romantic glamour over everything that happened to him. He was crippled
with debts, everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed
always to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by
nature. He loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and
his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was
enormous. Loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles,
difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting
his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound notes. He was
ploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully,
and submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations
that his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart to be
seriously angry with him.
"I'm an awful fool at books," he said cheerfully, "but I CAN'T work."
Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got through the
exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a
tremendous success in practice. He would cure people by the sheer charm of
his manner.
Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who were tall
and straight and high of spirits. By the time he was well they were fast
friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to Philip that Griffiths
seemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting Philip's time with
his amusing chatter and smoking innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him
sometimes to the tavern off Regent Street. Hayward found him stupid, but
Lawson recognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a
picturesque figure with his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. Often
they discussed things he knew nothing about, and then he sat quietly, with
a good-natured smile on his handsome face, feeling quite rightly that his
presence was sufficient contribution to the entertainment of the company.
When he discovered that Macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for
tips; and Macalister, with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he
could have made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. It made
Philip's mouth water, for in one way and another he was spending more than
he had expected, and it would have suited him very well to make a little
money by the easy method Macalister suggested.
"Next time I hear of a really good thing I'll let you know," said the
stockbroker. "They do come along sometimes. It's only a matter of biding
one's time."
Philip could not help thinking how delightful it would be to make fifty
pounds, so that he could give Norah the furs she so badly needed for the
winter. He looked at the shops in Regent Street and picked out the
articles he could buy for the money. She deserved everything. She made his
life very happy
LXIX
One afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from the hospital to wash
and tidy himself before going to tea as usual with Norah, as he let
himself in with his latch-key, his landlady opened the door for him.
"There's a lady waiting to see you," she said.
"Me?" exclaimed Philip.
He was surprised. It would only be Norah, and he had no idea what had
brought her.
"I shouldn't 'ave let her in, only she's been three times, and she seemed
that upset at not finding you, so I told her she could wait."
He pushed past the explaining landlady and burst into the room. His heart
turned sick. It was Mildred. She was sitting down, but got up hurriedly as
he came in. She did not move towards him nor speak. He was so surprised
that he did not know what he was saying.
"What the hell d'you want?" he asked.
She did not answer, but began to cry. She did not put her hands to her
eyes, but kept them hanging by the side of her body. She looked like a
housemaid applying for a situation. There was a dreadful humility in her
bearing. Philip did not know what feelings came over him. He had a sudden
impulse to turn round and escape from the room.
"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he said at last.
"I wish I was dead," she moaned.
Philip left her standing where she was. He could only think at the moment
of steadying himself. His knees were shaking. He looked at her, and he
groaned in despair.
"What's the matter?" he said.
"He's left me--Emil."
Philip's heart bounded. He knew then that he loved her as passionately as
ever. He had never ceased to love her. She was standing before him humble
and unresisting. He wished to take her in his arms and cover her
tear-stained face with kisses. Oh, how long the separation had been! He
did not know how he could have endured it.
"You'd better sit down. Let me give you a drink."
He drew the chair near the fire and she sat in it. He mixed her whiskey
and soda, and, sobbing still, she drank it. She looked at him with great,
mournful eyes. There were large black lines under them. She was thinner
and whiter than when last he had seen her.
"I wish I'd married you when you asked me," she said.
Philip did not know why the remark seemed to swell his heart. He could not
keep the distance from her which he had forced upon himself. He put his
hand on her shoulder.
"I'm awfully sorry you're in trouble."
She leaned her head against his bosom and burst into hysterical crying.
Her hat was in the way and she took it off. He had never dreamt that she
was capable of crying like that. He kissed her again and again. It seemed
to ease her a little.
"You were always good to me, Philip," she said. "That's why I knew I could
come to you."
"Tell me what's happened."
"Oh, I can't, I can't," she cried out, breaking away from him.
He sank down on his knees beside her and put his cheek against hers.
"Don't you know that there's nothing you can't tell me? I can never blame
you for anything."
She told him the story little by little, and sometimes she sobbed so much
that he could hardly understand.
"Last Monday week he went up to Birmingham, and he promised to be back on
Thursday, and he never came, and he didn't come on the Friday, so I wrote
to ask what was the matter, and he never answered the letter. And I wrote
and said that if I didn't hear from him by return I'd go up to Birmingham,
and this morning I got a solicitor's letter to say I had no claim on him,
and if I molested him he'd seek the protection of the law."
"But it's absurd," cried Philip. "A man can't treat his wife like that.
Had you had a row?"
"Oh, yes, we'd had a quarrel on the Sunday, and he said he was sick of me,
but he'd said it before, and he'd come back all right. I didn't think he
meant it. He was frightened, because I told him a baby was coming. I kept
it from him as long as I could. Then I had to tell him. He said it was my
fault, and I ought to have known better. If you'd only heard the things he
said to me! But I found out precious quick that he wasn't a gentleman. He
left me without a penny. He hadn't paid the rent, and I hadn't got the
money to pay it, and the woman who kept the house said such things to
me--well, I might have been a thief the way she talked."
"I thought you were going to take a flat."
"That's what he said, but we just took furnished apartments in Highbury.
He was that mean. He said I was extravagant, he didn't give me anything to
be extravagant with."
She had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial with the important.
Philip was puzzled. The whole thing was incomprehensible.
"No man could be such a blackguard."
"You don't know him. I wouldn't go back to him now not if he was to come
and ask me on his bended knees. I was a fool ever to think of him. And he
wasn't earning the money he said he was. The lies he told me!"
Philip thought for a minute or two. He was so deeply moved by her distress
that he could not think of himself.
"Would you like me to go to Birmingham? I could see him and try to make
things up."
"Oh, there's no chance of that. He'll never come back now, I know him."
"But he must provide for you. He can't get out of that. I don't know
anything about these things, you'd better go and see a solicitor."
"How can I? I haven't got the money."
"I'll pay all that. I'll write a note to my own solicitor, the sportsman
who was my father's executor. Would you like me to come with you now? I
expect he'll still be at his office."
"No, give me a letter to him. I'll go alone."
She was a little calmer now. He sat down and wrote a note. Then he
remembered that she had no money. He had fortunately changed a cheque the
day before and was able to give her five pounds.
"You are good to me, Philip," she said.
"I'm so happy to be able to do something for you."
"Are you fond of me still?"
"Just as fond as ever."
She put up her lips and he kissed her. There was a surrender in the action
which he had never seen in her before. It was worth all the agony he had
suffered.
She went away and he found that she had been there for two hours. He was
extraordinarily happy.
"Poor thing, poor thing," he murmured to himself, his heart glowing with
a greater love than he had ever felt before.
He never thought of Norah at all till about eight o'clock a telegram came.
He knew before opening it that it was from her.
Is anything the matter? Norah.
He did not know what to do nor what to answer. He could fetch her after
the play, in which she was walking on, was over and stroll home with her
as he sometimes did; but his whole soul revolted against the idea of
seeing her that evening. He thought of writing to her, but he could not
bring himself to address her as usual, dearest Norah. He made up his
mind to telegraph.
Sorry. Could not get away, Philip.
He visualised her. He was slightly repelled by the ugly little face, with
its high cheekbones and the crude colour. There was a coarseness in her
skin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew that his telegram must be
followed by some action on his part, but at all events it postponed it.
Next day he wired again.
Regret, unable to come. Will write.
Mildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he would not
tell her that the hour was inconvenient. After all she came first. He
waited for her impatiently. He watched for her at the window and opened
the front-door himself.
"Well? Did you see Nixon?"
"Yes," she answered. "He said it wasn't any good. Nothing's to be done. I
must just grin and bear it."
"But that's impossible," cried Philip.
She sat down wearily.
"Did he give any reasons?" he asked.
She gave him a crumpled letter.
"There's your letter, Philip. I never took it. I couldn't tell you
yesterday, I really couldn't. Emil didn't marry me. He couldn't. He had a
wife already and three children."
Philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. It was almost more than
he could bear.
"That's why I couldn't go back to my aunt. There's no one I can go to but
you."
"What made you go away with him?" Philip asked, in a low voice which he
struggled to make firm.
"I don't know. I didn't know he was a married man at first, and when he
told me I gave him a piece of my mind. And then I didn't see him for
months, and when he came to the shop again and asked me I don't know what
came over me. I felt as if I couldn't help it. I had to go with him."
"Were you in love with him?"
"I don't know. I couldn't hardly help laughing at the things he said. And
there was something about him--he said I'd never regret it, he promised to
give me seven pounds a week--he said he was earning fifteen, and it was
all a lie, he wasn't. And then I was sick of going to the shop every
morning, and I wasn't getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to
treat me as a servant instead of a relation, said I ought to do my own
room, and if I didn't do it nobody was going to do it for me. Oh, I wish
I hadn't. But when he came to the shop and asked me I felt I couldn't help
it."
Philip moved away from her. He sat down at the table and buried his face
in his hands. He felt dreadfully humiliated.
"You're not angry with me, Philip?" she asked piteously.
"No," he answered, looking up but away from her, "only I'm awfully hurt."
"Why?"
"You see, I was so dreadfully in love with you. I did everything I could
to make you care for me. I thought you were incapable of loving anyone.
It's so horrible to know that you were willing to sacrifice everything for
that bounder. I wonder what you saw in him."
"I'm awfully sorry, Philip. I regretted it bitterly afterwards, I promise
you that."
He thought of Emil Miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his shifty blue
eyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he always wore bright
red knitted waistcoats. Philip sighed. She got up and went to him. She put
her arm round his neck.
"I shall never forget that you offered to marry me, Philip."
He took her hand and looked up at her. She bent down and kissed him.
"Philip, if you want me still I'll do anything you like now. I know you're
a gentleman in every sense of the word."
His heart stood still. Her words made him feel slightly sick.
"It's awfully good of you, but I couldn't."
"Don't you care for me any more?"
"Yes, I love you with all my heart."
"Then why shouldn't we have a good time while we've got the chance? You
see, it can't matter now"
He released himself from her.
"You don't understand. I've been sick with love for you ever since I saw
you, but now--that man. I've unfortunately got a vivid imagination. The
thought of it simply disgusts me."
"You are funny," she said.
He took her hand again and smiled at her.
"You mustn't think I'm not grateful. I can never thank you enough, but you
see, it's just stronger than I am."
"You are a good friend, Philip."
They went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar
companionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that they should
dine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted some persuasion, for she
had an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it
did not accord with her distressed condition to go to a place of
entertainment. At last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and
when she could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. She
had a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip. She asked him to take her
to the little restaurant in Soho to which they had so often been; he was
infinitely grateful to her, because her suggestion showed that happy
memories were attached to it. She grew much more cheerful as dinner
proceeded. The Burgundy from the public house at the corner warmed her
heart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance.
Philip thought it safe to speak to her of the future.
"I suppose you haven't got a brass farthing, have you?" he asked, when an
opportunity presented itself.
"Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady three
pounds of that."
"Well, I'd better give you a tenner to go on with. I'll go and see my
solicitor and get him to write to Miller. We can make him pay up
something, I'm sure. If we can get a hundred pounds out of him it'll carry
you on till after the baby comes."
"I wouldn't take a penny from him. I'd rather starve."
"But it's monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like this."
"I've got my pride to consider."
It was a little awkward for Philip. He needed rigid economy to make his
own money last till he was qualified, and he must have something over to
keep him during the year he intended to spend as house physician and house
surgeon either at his own or at some other hospital. But Mildred had told
him various stories of Emil's meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate
with her in case she accused him too of want of generosity.
"I wouldn't take a penny piece from him. I'd sooner beg my bread. I'd have
seen about getting some work to do long before now, only it wouldn't be
good for me in the state I'm in. You have to think of your health, don't
you?"
"You needn't bother about the present," said Philip. "I can let you have
all you want till you're fit to work again."
"I knew I could depend on you. I told Emil he needn't think I hadn't got
somebody to go to. I told him you was a gentleman in every sense of the
word."
By degrees Philip learned how the separation had come about. It appeared
that the fellow's wife had discovered the adventure he was engaged in
during his periodical visits to London, and had gone to the head of the
firm that employed him. She threatened to divorce him, and they announced
that they would dismiss him if she did. He was passionately devoted to his
children and could not bear the thought of being separated from them. When
he had to choose between his wife and his mistress he chose his wife. He
had been always anxious that there should be no child to make the
entanglement more complicated; and when Mildred, unable longer to conceal
its approach, informed him of the fact, he was seized with panic. He
picked a quarrel and left her without more ado.
"When d'you expect to be confined?" asked Philip.
"At the beginning of March."
"Three months."
It was necessary to discuss plans. Mildred declared she would not remain
in the rooms at Highbury, and Philip thought it more convenient too that
she should be nearer to him. He promised to look for something next day.
She suggested the Vauxhall Bridge Road as a likely neighbourhood.
"And it would be near for afterwards," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I should only be able to stay there about two months or a little
more, and then I should have to go into a house. I know a very respectable
place, where they have a most superior class of people, and they take you
for four guineas a week and no extras. Of course the doctor's extra, but
that's all. A friend of mine went there, and the lady who keeps it is a
thorough lady. I mean to tell her that my husband's an officer in India
and I've come to London for my baby, because it's better for my health."
It seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this way. With
her delicate little features and her pale face she looked cold and
maidenly. When he thought of the passions that burnt within her, so
unexpected, his heart was strangely troubled. His pulse beat quickly.
LXX
Philip expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to his rooms,
but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following morning. The
silence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. They had seen one
another every day he had been in London since the previous June; and it
must seem odd to her that he should let two days go by without visiting
her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an
unlucky chance she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think
that she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that
afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because he had allowed
himself to get on such intimate terms with her. The thought of continuing
them filled him with disgust.
He found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in the
Vauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she liked the
rattle of traffic under her windows.
"I don't like a dead and alive street where you don't see a soul pass all
day," she said. "Give me a bit of life."
Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with
apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that he was
treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick
temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her
frankly that Mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as
violent as it had ever been; he was very sorry, but he had nothing to
offer Norah any more. Then he thought of her anguish, for he knew she
loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but
now it was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain upon
her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he walked up the
stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across his mind. He
knocked at the door. He felt that he was pale, and wondered how to conceal
his nervousness.
She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he
entered.
"I recognised your step," she cried. "Where have you been hiding yourself,
you naughty boy?"
She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. She was
delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give himself
countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the fire to make the
kettle boil.
"I've been awfully busy," he said lamely.
She began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new commission
she had to provide a novelette for a firm which had not hitherto employed
her. She was to get fifteen guineas for it.
"It's money from the clouds. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll stand
ourselves a little jaunt. Let's go and spend a day at Oxford, shall we?
I'd love to see the colleges."
He looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach in her
eyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was overjoyed to see
him. His heart sank. He could not tell her the brutal truth. She made some
toast for him, and cut it into little pieces, and gave it him as though he
were a child.
"Is the brute fed?" she asked.
He nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as she loved to
do, she came and sat on his knees. She was very light. She leaned back in
his arms with a sigh of delicious happiness.
"Say something nice to me," she murmured.
"What shall I say?"
"You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked me."
"You know I do that."
He had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace at all
events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her. That would be
easier. He could not bear to think of her crying. She made him kiss her,
and as he kissed her he thought of Mildred and Mildred's pale, thin lips.
The recollection of Mildred remained with him all the time, like an
incorporated form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight
continually distracted his attention.
"You're very quiet today," Norah said.
Her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered:
"You never let me get a word in, and I've got out of the habit of
talking."
"But you're not listening, and that's bad manners."
He reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of his
secret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. The weight of her irked him this
afternoon, and he did not want her to touch him.
"My foot's gone to sleep," he said.
"I'm so sorry," she cried, jumping up. "I shall have to bant if I can't
break myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen's knees."
He went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and walking about.
Then he stood in front of the fire so that she should not resume her
position. While she talked he thought that she was worth ten of Mildred;
she amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and
she had a much nicer nature. She was a good, brave, honest little woman;
and Mildred, he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. If he
had any sense he would stick to Norah, she would make him much happier
than he would ever be with Mildred: after all she loved him, and Mildred
was only grateful for his help. But when all was said the important thing
was to love rather than to be loved; and he yearned for Mildred with his
whole soul. He would sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole
afternoon with Norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all
Norah could give him.
"I can't help myself," he thought. "I've just got her in my bones."
He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and
grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the one than
happiness with the other.
When he got up to go Norah said casually:
"Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan't I?"
"Yes," he answered.
He knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to help
Mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say so. He made up
his mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw the rooms in the morning,
was satisfied with them, and after luncheon Philip went up with her to
Highbury. She had a trunk for her clothes and another for the various odds
and ends, cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had
tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or three large
cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no more than could be put on
the roof of a four-wheeler. As they drove through Victoria Street Philip
sat well back in the cab in case Norah should happen to be passing. He had
not had an opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post
office in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, since she would wonder what he was
doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could have no excuse
for not going into the neighbouring square where she lived. He made up his
mind that he had better go in and see her for half an hour; but the
necessity irritated him: he was angry with Norah, because she forced him
to vulgar and degrading shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It
amused him to help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming
sense of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had found
and was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It was a pleasure
to do things for her, and she had no desire to do what somebody else
seemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked her clothes and put them away.
She was not proposing to go out again, so he got her slippers and took off
her boots. It delighted him to perform menial offices.
"You do spoil me," she said, running her fingers affectionately through
his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her boots.
He took her hands and kissed them.
"It is nipping to have you here."
He arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had several jars
of green earthenware.
"I'll get you some flowers for them," he said.
He looked round at his work proudly.
"As I'm not going out any more I think I'll get into a tea-gown," she
said. "Undo me behind, will you?"
She turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His sex meant
nothing to her. But his heart was filled with gratitude for the intimacy
her request showed. He undid the hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers.
"That first day I came into the shop I never thought I'd be doing this for
you now," he said, with a laugh which he forced.
"Somebody must do it," she answered.
She went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown decorated
with a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled her on a sofa and
made tea for her.
"I'm afraid I can't stay and have it with you," he said regretfully. "I've
got a beastly appointment. But I shall be back in half an hour."
He wondered what he should say if she asked him what the appointment was,
but she showed no curiosity. He had ordered dinner for the two of them
when he took the rooms, and proposed to spend the evening with her
quietly. He was in such a hurry to get back that he took a tram along the
Vauxhall Bridge Road. He thought he had better break the fact to Norah at
once that he could not stay more than a few minutes.
"I say, I've got only just time to say how d'you do," he said, as soon as
he got into her rooms. "I'm frightfully busy."
Her face fell.
"Why, what's the matter?"
It exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and he knew
that he reddened when he answered that there was a demonstration at the
hospital which he was bound to go to. He fancied that she looked as though
she did not believe him, and this irritated him all the more.
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said. "I shall have you all tomorrow."
He looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking forward
to spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that he must do that in
common decency; he could not leave her by herself in a strange house.
"I'm awfully sorry, I'm engaged tomorrow."
He knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have given
anything to avoid. The colour on Norah's cheeks grew brighter.
"But I've asked the Gordons to lunch"--they were an actor and his wife who
were touring the provinces and in London for Sunday--"I told you about it
a week ago."
"I'm awfully sorry, I forgot." He hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't possibly
come. Isn't there somebody else you can get?"
"What are you doing tomorrow then?"
"I wish you wouldn't cross-examine me."
"Don't you want to tell me?"
"I don't in the least mind telling you, but it's rather annoying to be
forced to account for all one's movements."
Norah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got the better
of her temper, and going up to him took his hands.
"Don't disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I've been looking forward so much
to spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see you, and we'll have
such a jolly time."
"I'd love to if I could."
"I'm not very exacting, am I? I don't often ask you to do anything that's
a bother. Won't you get out of your horrid engagement--just this once?"
"I'm awfully sorry, I don't see how I can," he replied sullenly.
"Tell me what it is," she said coaxingly.
He had had time to invent something. "Griffiths' two sisters are up for
the week-end and we're taking them out."
"Is that all?" she said joyfully. "Griffiths can so easily get another
man."
He wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It was a
clumsy lie.
"No, I'm awfully sorry, I can't--I've promised and I mean to keep my
promise."
"But you promised me too. Surely I come first."
"I wish you wouldn't persist," he said.
She flared up.
"You won't come because you don't want to. I don't know what you've been
doing the last few days, you've been quite different."
He looked at his watch.
"I'm afraid I'll have to be going," he said.
"You won't come tomorrow?"
"No."
"In that case you needn't trouble to come again," she cried, losing her
temper for good.
"That's just as you like," he answered.
"Don't let me detain you any longer," she added ironically.
He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that it had gone
no worse. There had been no tears. As he walked along he congratulated
himself on getting out of the affair so easily. He went into Victoria
Street and bought a few flowers to take in to Mildred.
The little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a small pot of
caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady brought them
up some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy,
which was her favourite wine. With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and
one of Mildred's shades on the lamp, the room was cosy.
"It's really just like home," smiled Philip.
"I might be worse off, mightn't I?" she answered.
When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire, and
they sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt happy and generous.
"What would you like to do tomorrow?" he asked.
"Oh, I'm going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the shop,
well, she's married now, and she's asked me to go and spend the day with
her. Of course she thinks I'm married too."
Philip's heart sank.
"But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with you."
He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she would
stay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not have hesitated.
"Well, you were a silly to do that. I've promised to go for three weeks
and more."
"But how can you go alone?"
"Oh, I shall say that Emil's away on business. Her husband's in the glove
trade, and he's a very superior fellow."
Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart. She gave
him a sidelong glance.
"You don't grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it's the last
time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don't know how long, and I had
promised."
He took her hand and smiled.
"No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only want you to
be happy."
There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on
the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a twopenny novelette, and the
author was Courtenay Paget. That was the name under which Norah wrote.
"I do like his books," said Mildred. "I read them all. They're so
refined."
He remembered what Norah had said of herself.
"I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me so
genteel."
LXXI
Philip, in return for Griffiths' confidences, had told him the details of
his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning, after breakfast when
they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the
scene of the previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got
out of his difficulties so easily.
"It's the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman, he
remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil of a nuisance to get out of it."
Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill in
managing the business. At all events he was immensely relieved. He thought
of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill, and he found in himself a real
satisfaction because she was happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his
part that he did not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own
disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.
But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah. She
wrote:
Dearest,
I'm sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in the
afternoon as usual. I love you.
Your Norah.
His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note to
Griffiths and showed it to him.
"You'd better leave it unanswered," said he.
"Oh, I can't," cried Philip. "I should be miserable if I thought of her
waiting and waiting. You don't know what it is to be sick for the
postman's knock. I do, and I can't expose anybody else to that torture."
"My dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair off without somebody
suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One thing is, it doesn't
last very long."
Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer;
and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was capable
of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had told him she was going to
be married. He did not want anyone to experience what he had experienced
then.
"If you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her," said
Griffiths.
"I can't do that."
He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was angry with
Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She must have seen that he
had no more love to give her. They said women were so quick at seeing
those things.
"You might help me," he said to Griffiths.
"My dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it. People do get over these
things, you know. She probably isn't so wrapped up in you as you think,
either. One's always rather apt to exaggerate the passion one's inspired
other people with."
He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.
"Look here, there's only one thing you can do. Write to her, and tell her
the thing's over. Put it so that there can be no mistake about it. It'll
hurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally than if you
try half-hearted ways."
Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:
My dear Norah,
I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let things
remain where we left them on Saturday. I don't think there's any use in
letting these things drag on when they've ceased to be amusing. You told
me to go and I went. I do not propose to come back. Good-bye.
Philip Carey.
He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought of it.
Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling eyes. He did not say
what he felt.
"I think that'll do the trick," he said.
Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable morning, for he
imagined with great detail what Norah would feel when she received his
letter. He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at the same
time he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief
seen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart
leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's
work at the hospital was over.
When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner
put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him.
"May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour."
It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke
gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to
indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered.
He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile.
"Yes, do," he said.
He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was
nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit
one for himself. She looked at him brightly.
"Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I'd taken
it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched."
"It was meant seriously," he answered gravely.
"Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and
apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to apologise again.
After all, you're your own master and I have no claims upon you. I don't
want you to do anything you don't want to."
She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him
impulsively, with outstretched hands.
"Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I offended you."
He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at
her.
"I'm afraid it's too late," he said.
She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees.
"Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and I can understand that
I hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it. What's the good of making
us both unhappy? It's been so jolly, our friendship." She passed her
fingers slowly over his hand. "I love you, Philip."
He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the
room.
"I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole thing's over."
"D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?"
"I'm afraid so."
"You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took
that one?"
He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed
intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning
against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without trying to
hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the
other. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned
away.
"I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if I don't love you."
She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed,
and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been easier to bear if
she had reproached him. He had thought her temper would get the better of
her, and he was prepared for that. At the back of his mind was a feeling
that a real quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would
in some way be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At last
he grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room and got
a glass of water; he leaned over her.
"Won't you drink a little? It'll relieve you."
She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three mouthfuls.
Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a handkerchief. She dried
her eyes.
"Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you," she moaned.
"I'm afraid that's always the case," he said. "There's always one who
loves and one who lets himself be loved."
He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart. Norah did
not answer for a long time.
"I'd been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful," she said at
last.
She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her before
complain of the life she had led with her husband or of her poverty. He
had always admired the bold front she displayed to the world.
"And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I admired you
because you were clever and it was so heavenly to have someone I could put
my trust in. I loved you. I never thought it could come to an end. And
without any fault of mine at all."
Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of herself,
and she hid her face in Philip's handkerchief. She tried hard to control
herself.
"Give me some more water," she said.
She wiped her eyes.
"I'm sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared."
"I'm awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I'm very grateful for
all you've done for me."
He wondered what it was she saw in him.
"Oh, it's always the same," she sighed, "if you want men to behave well to
you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you
suffer for it."
She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip a long,
steady look. Then she sighed.
"It's so inexplicable. What does it all mean?"
Philip took a sudden determination.
"I think I'd better tell you, I don't want you to think too badly of me,
I want you to see that I can't help myself. Mildred's come back."
The colour came to her face.
"Why didn't you tell me at once? I deserved that surely."
"I was afraid to."
She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight.
"Will you call me a cab," she said. "I don't feel I can walk."
He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed
him into the street he was startled to see how white she was. There was a
heaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older. She
looked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone.
"I'll drive back with you if you don't mind."
She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in silence
over the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill
cries, played in the road. When they arrived at her door she did not
immediately get out. It seemed as though she could not summon enough
strength to her legs to move.
"I hope you'll forgive me, Norah," he said.
She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again
with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips.
"Poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. You mustn't bother. I don't
blame you. I shall get over it all right."
Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no
ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than suggested; then she jumped
out of the cab and let herself into her house.
Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred's lodgings. There was a
curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to reproach himself. But
why? He did not know what else he could have done. Passing a fruiterer's,
he remembered that Mildred was fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he
could show his love for her by recollecting every whim she had.
LXXII
For the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took
his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa
reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. A
happy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her.
"Don't waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work," she
said.
"Tyrant," he answered gaily.
He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for
dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a
little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue.
Mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate
but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the
pass she was in. The good-hearted little woman was touched and found no
trouble too great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred's sense of
propriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her
brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered
something which tempted Mildred's capricious appetite. It enchanted him to
see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he
took her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the
fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against
her knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and sometimes
Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He dared not move then in
case he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire
and enjoying his happiness.
"Had a nice little nap?" he smiled, when she woke.
"I've not been sleeping," she answered. "I only just closed my eyes."
She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a phlegmatic
temperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her. She
took a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone
who chose to offer it. She went for a `constitutional' every morning that
it was fine and remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she
sat in St. James' Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on
her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady;
she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant
detail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room
floor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. Now
and then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip
about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die;
she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the
lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; "I'm one to keep
myself to myself," she said, "I'm not one to go about with anybody.") and
she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the
most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.
"After all, I'm not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the doctor
says I shan't have any trouble. You see, it isn't as if I wasn't well
made."
Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came, had
recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week. He was to charge
fifteen guineas.
"Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen strongly
recommended him, and I thought it wasn't worth while to spoil the ship for
a coat of tar."
"If you feel happy and comfortable I don't mind a bit about the expense,"
said Philip.
She accepted all that Philip did for her as if it were the most natural
thing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend money on her: each
five-pound note he gave her caused him a little thrill of happiness and
pride; he gave her a good many, for she was not economical.
"I don't know where the money goes to," she said herself, "it seems to
slip through my fingers like water."
"It doesn't matter," said Philip. "I'm so glad to be able to do anything
I can for you."
She could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things for the
baby; she told Philip it was much cheaper in the end to buy them. Philip
had lately sold one of the mortgages in which his money had been put; and
now, with five hundred pounds in the bank waiting to be invested in
something that could be more easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly
well-to-do. They talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that
Mildred should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her
living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also
to look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one of the shops of
the company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put
with some decent woman in the country.
"I can find someone who'll look after it well for seven and sixpence a
week. It'll be better for the baby and better for me."
It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with her she
pretended to think he was concerned with the expense.
"You needn't worry about that," she said. "I shan't ask YOU to pay for
it."
"You know I don't care how much I pay."
At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be
still-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that the thought
was there. He was shocked at first; and then, reasoning with himself, he
was obliged to confess that for all concerned such an event was to be
desired.
"It's all very fine to say this and that," Mildred remarked querulously,
"but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn her living by herself; it
doesn't make it any easier when she's got a baby."
"Fortunately you've got me to fall back on," smiled Philip, taking her
hand.
"You've been good to me, Philip."
"Oh, what rot!"
"You can't say I didn't offer anything in return for what you've done."
"Good heavens, I don't want a return. If I've done anything for you, I've
done it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I don't want you to do
anything unless you love me."
He was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a commodity
which she could deliver indifferently as an acknowledgment for services
rendered.
"But I do want to, Philip. You've been so good to me."
"Well, it won't hurt for waiting. When you're all right again we'll go for
our little honeymoon."
"You are naughty," she said, smiling.
Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as she was
well enough she was to go to the seaside for a fortnight: that would give
Philip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after
that came the Easter holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris
together. Philip talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was
delightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the
Latin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little
restaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to music
halls. It would amuse her to meet his friends. He had talked to her about
Cronshaw, she would see him; and there was Lawson, he had gone to Paris
for a couple of months; and they would go to the Bal Bullier; there were
excursions; they would make trips to Versailles, Chartres, Fontainebleau.
"It'll cost a lot of money," she said.
"Oh, damn the expense. Think how I've been looking forward to it. Don't
you know what it means to me? I've never loved anyone but you. I never
shall."
She listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He thought he saw in
them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. She was much gentler
than she used to be. There was in her no longer the superciliousness which
had irritated him. She was so accustomed to him now that she took no pains
to keep up before him any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair
with the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the
vast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless style suited her.
Her face was so thin that it made her eyes seem very large; there were
heavy lines under them, and the pallor of her cheeks made their colour
more profound. She had a wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. There
seemed to Philip to be in her something of the Madonna. He wished they
could continue in that same way always. He was happier than he had ever
been in his life.
He used to leave her at ten o'clock every night, for she liked to go to
bed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple of hours' work to
make up for the lost evening. He generally brushed her hair for her before
he went. He had made a ritual of the kisses he gave her when he bade her
good-night; first he kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers
were, the nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring
them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and then the
left, and at last he kissed her lips. He went home with a heart
overflowing with love. He longed for an opportunity to gratify the desire
for self-sacrifice which consumed him.
Presently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home where she was
to be confined. Philip was then able to visit her only in the afternoons.
Mildred changed her story and represented herself as the wife of a soldier
who had gone to India to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to
the mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law.
"I have to be rather careful what I say," she told him, "as there's
another lady here whose husband's in the Indian Civil."
"I wouldn't let that disturb me if I were you," said Philip. "I'm
convinced that her husband and yours went out on the same boat."
"What boat?" she asked innocently.
"The Flying Dutchman."
Mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when Philip was allowed to
see her the child was lying by her side. Mildred was very weak, but
relieved that everything was over. She showed him the baby, and herself
looked at it curiously.
"It's a funny-looking little thing, isn't it? I can't believe it's mine."
It was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled when he looked at it. He
did not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him because the nurse
who owned the house was standing by his side; and he felt by the way she
was looking at him that, disbelieving Mildred's complicated story, she
thought he was the father.
"What are you going to call her?" asked Philip.
"I can't make up my mind if I shall call her Madeleine or Cecilia."
The nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip bent down and
kissed Mildred on the mouth.
"I'm so glad it's all over happily, darling."
She put her thin arms round his neck.
"You have been a brick to me, Phil dear."
"Now I feel that you're mine at last. I've waited so long for you, my
dear."
They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up. The nurse
entered. There was a slight smile on her lips.
LXXIII
Three weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to Brighton. She had
made a quick recovery and looked better than he had ever seen her. She was
going to a boarding-house where she had spent a couple of weekends with
Emil Miller, and had written to say that her husband was obliged to go to
Germany on business and she was coming down with her baby. She got
pleasure out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain
fertility of invention in the working out of the details. Mildred proposed
to find in Brighton some woman who would be willing to take charge of the
baby. Philip was startled at the callousness with which she insisted on
getting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor
child had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. Philip
had expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she had had
the baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to help him persuade
her to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred. Mildred was not unkind
to her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and
she talked about it a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it.
She could not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied it resembled
its father already. She was continually wondering how she would manage
when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such a
fool as to have it at all.
"If I'd only known then all I do now," she said.
She laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare.
"You couldn't make more fuss if you was the father," she said. "I'd like
to see Emil getting into such a stew about it."
Philip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of baby-farming and the
ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children that selfish, cruel parents
have put in their charge.
"Don't be so silly," said Mildred. "That's when you give a woman a sum
down to look after a baby. But when you're going to pay so much a week
it's to their interest to look after it well."
Philip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people who had no
children of their own and would promise to take no other.
"Don't haggle about the price," he said. "I'd rather pay half a guinea a
week than run any risk of the kid being starved or beaten."
"You're a funny old thing, Philip," she laughed.
To him there was something very touching in the child's helplessness. It
was small, ugly, and querulous. Its birth had been looked forward to with
shame and anguish. Nobody wanted it. It was dependent on him, a stranger,
for food, shelter, and clothes to cover its nakedness.
As the train started he kissed Mildred. He would have kissed the baby too,
but he was afraid she would laugh at him.
"You will write to me, darling, won't you? And I shall look forward to
your coming back with oh! such impatience."
"Mind you get through your exam."
He had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten days
before him he made a final effort. He was very anxious to pass, first to
save himself time and expense, for money had been slipping through his
fingers during the last four months with incredible speed; and then
because this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that the
student had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of
which was more vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had
been hitherto concerned. Philip looked forward with interest to the rest
of the curriculum. Nor did he want to have to confess to Mildred that he
had failed: though the examination was difficult and the majority of
candidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she would
think less well of him if he did not succeed; she had a peculiarly
humiliating way of showing what she thought.
Mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he snatched
half an hour every day to write a long letter to her. He had always a
certain shyness in expressing himself by word of mouth, but he found he
could tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of things which it would have made
him feel ridiculous to say. Profiting by the discovery he poured out to
her his whole heart. He had never been able to tell her before how his
adoration filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his
thoughts, were touched with it. He wrote to her of the future, the
happiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her. He
asked himself (he had often asked himself before but had never put it into
words) what it was in her that filled him with such extravagant delight;
he did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, and
when she was away from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he
knew only that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his
body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against his
lungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her presence was almost
pain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely weak as though, not having
eaten, he were tremulous from want of food. He looked forward eagerly to
her answers. He did not expect her to write often, for he knew that
letter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the
clumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his. She spoke of the
boarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather and the baby,
told him she had been for a walk on the front with a lady-friend whom she
had met in the boarding-house and who had taken such a fancy to baby, she
was going to the theatre on Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up.
It touched Philip because it was so matter-of-fact. The crabbed style, the
formality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to take her
in his arms and kiss her.
He went into the examination with happy confidence. There was nothing in
either of the papers that gave him trouble. He knew that he had done well,
and though the second part of the examination was viva voce and he was
more nervous, he managed to answer the questions adequately. He sent a
triumphant telegram to Mildred when the result was announced.
When he got back to his rooms Philip found a letter from her, saying that
she thought it would be better for her to stay another week in Brighton.
She had found a woman who would be glad to take the baby for seven
shillings a week, but she wanted to make inquiries about her, and she was
herself benefiting so much by the sea-air that she was sure a few days
more would do her no end of good. She hated asking Philip for money, but
would he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat, she
couldn't go about with her lady-friend always in the same hat, and her
lady-friend was so dressy. Philip had a moment of bitter disappointment.
It took away all his pleasure at getting through his examination.
"If she loved me one quarter as much as I love her she couldn't bear to
stay away a day longer than necessary."
He put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure selfishness; of
course her health was more important than anything else. But he had
nothing to do now; he might spend the week with her in Brighton, and they
could be together all day. His heart leaped at the thought. It would be
amusing to appear before Mildred suddenly with the information that he had
taken a room in the boarding-house. He looked out trains. But he paused.
He was not certain that she would be pleased to see him; she had made
friends in Brighton; he was quiet, and she liked boisterous joviality; he
realised that she amused herself more with other people than with him. It
would torture him if he felt for an instant that he was in the way. He was
afraid to risk it. He dared not even write and suggest that, with nothing
to keep him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could see
her every day. She knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him to come
she would have asked him to. He dared not risk the anguish he would suffer
if he proposed to come and she made excuses to prevent him.
He wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the end of
his letter said that if she were very nice and cared to see him for the
week-end he would be glad to run down; but she was by no means to alter
any plans she had made. He awaited her answer with impatience. In it she
said that if she had only known before she could have arranged it, but she
had promised to go to a music-hall on the Saturday night; besides, it
would make the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. Why
did he not come on Sunday morning and spend the day? They could lunch at
the Metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see the very superior
lady-like person who was going to take the baby.
Sunday. He blessed the day because it was fine. As the train approached
Brighton the sun poured through the carriage window. Mildred was waiting
for him on the platform.
"How jolly of you to come and meet me!" he cried, as he seized her hands.
"You expected me, didn't you?"
"I hoped you would. I say, how well you're looking."
"It's done me a rare lot of good, but I think I'm wise to stay here as
long as I can. And there are a very nice class of people at the
boarding-house. I wanted cheering up after seeing nobody all these months.
It was dull sometimes."
She looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with a great
many inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck floated a long boa of
imitation swansdown. She was still very thin, and she stooped a little
when she walked (she had always done that,) but her eyes did not seem so
large; and though she never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthy
look it had. They walked down to the sea. Philip, remembering he had not
walked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp and walked
stiffly in the attempt to conceal it.
"Are you glad to see me?" he asked, love dancing madly in his heart.
"Of course I am. You needn't ask that."
"By the way, Griffiths sends you his love."
"What cheek!"
He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her how
flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of some
adventure which Griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him.
Mildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, but
generally with curiosity; and Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his
friend's good looks and charm.
"I'm sure you'll like him just as much as I do. He's so jolly and amusing,
and he's such an awfully good sort."
Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths had
nursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths'
self-sacrifice lost nothing.
"You can't help liking him," said Philip.
"I don't like good-looking men," said Mildred. "They're too conceited for
me."
"He wants to know you. I've talked to him about you an awful lot."
"What have you said?" asked Mildred.
Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for Mildred, and
little by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her.
He described her to him fifty times. He dwelt amorously on every detail of
her appearance, and Griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped
and how white her face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the
charm of her pale, thin lips.
"By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as that," he said. "Life
wouldn't be worth living."
Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly in
love that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whatever
else was essential to existence. Griffiths knew that Philip had looked
after the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away with
her.
"Well, I must say you've deserved to get something," he remarked. "It must
have cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you can afford it."
"I can't," said Philip. "But what do I care!"
Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one of the
shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass.
There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swinging
their canes, and there were the Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in
giggling bunches. They could tell the people who had come down from London
for the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were
many Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little
corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were middle-aged
gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully
dressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfast
to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: they
exchanged the time of day with friends and talked of Dr. Brighton or
London-by-the-Sea. Here and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately
unconscious of the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather
boots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbed
stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had come from a day's shooting,
he strolled in knickerbockers, and ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat
on the back of his head. The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea
was trim and neat.
After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to take charge
of the baby. She lived in a small house in a back street, but it was clean
and tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding. She was an elderly, stout person,
with gray hair and a red, fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, and
Philip thought she seemed kind.
"Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?" he asked her.
She explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older than
herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since vicars wanted
young men to assist them; he earned a little now and then by doing locums
when someone took a holiday or fell ill, and a charitable institution gave
them a small pension; but her life was lonely, it would be something to do
to look after a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help
her to keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed.
"Quite the lady, isn't she?" said Mildred, when they went away.
They went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred liked the crowd and
the band. Philip was tired of talking, and he watched her face as she
looked with keen eyes at the dresses of the women who came in. She had a
peculiar sharpness for reckoning up what things cost, and now and then she
leaned over to him and whispered the result of her meditations.
"D'you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit of seven guineas."
Or: "Look at that ermine, Philip. That's rabbit, that is--that's not
ermine." She laughed triumphantly. "I'd know it a mile off."
Philip smiled happily. He was glad to see her pleasure, and the
ingenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. The band played
sentimental music.
After dinner they walked down to the station, and Philip took her arm. He
told her what arrangements he had made for their journey to France. She
was to come up to London at the end of the week, but she told him that she
could not go away till the Saturday of the week after that. He had already
engaged a room in a hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly to
taking the tickets.
"You won't mind going second-class, will you? We mustn't be extravagant,
and it'll be all the better if we can do ourselves pretty well when we get
there."
He had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter. They would wander
through its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly in the charming
gardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather was fine perhaps, when they had
had enough of Paris, they might go to Fontainebleau. The trees would be
just bursting into leaf. The green of the forest in spring was more
beautiful than anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the
happy pain of love. Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and tried
to look deep into her eyes.
"You do want to come, don't you?" he said.
"Of course I do," she smiled.
"You don't know how I'm looking forward to it. I don't know how I shall
get through the next days. I'm so afraid something will happen to prevent
it. It maddens me sometimes that I can't tell you how much I love you. And
at last, at last..."
He broke off. They reached the station, but they had dawdled on the way,
and Philip had barely time to say good-night. He kissed her quickly and
ran towards the wicket as fast as he could. She stood where he left her.
He was strangely grotesque when he ran.
LXXIV
The following Saturday Mildred returned, and that evening Philip kept her
to himself. He took seats for the play, and they drank champagne at
dinner. It was her first gaiety in London for so long that she enjoyed
everything ingenuously. She cuddled up to Philip when they drove from the
theatre to the room he had taken for her in Pimlico.
"I really believe you're quite glad to see me," he said.
She did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. Demonstrations of
affection were so rare with her that Philip was enchanted.
"I've asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow," he told her.
"Oh, I'm glad you've done that. I wanted to meet him."
There was no place of entertainment to take her to on Sunday night, and
Philip was afraid she would be bored if she were alone with him all day.
Griffiths was amusing; he would help them to get through the evening; and
Philip was so fond of them both that he wanted them to know and to like
one another. He left Mildred with the words:
"Only six days more."
They had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano's on Sunday, because
the dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a good deal more
than it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first and had to wait some time
for Griffiths.
"He's an unpunctual devil," said Philip. "He's probably making love to one
of his numerous flames."
But presently he appeared. He was a handsome creature, tall and thin; his
head was placed well on the body, it gave him a conquering air which was
attractive; and his curly hair, his bold, friendly blue eyes, his red
mouth, were charming. Philip saw Mildred look at him with appreciation,
and he felt a curious satisfaction. Griffiths greeted them with a smile.
"I've heard a great deal about you," he said to Mildred, as he took her
hand.
"Not so much as I've heard about you," she answered.
"Nor so bad," said. Philip.
"Has he been blackening my character?"
Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white and
regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile.
"You ought to feel like old friends," said Philip. "I've talked so much
about you to one another."
Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length passed
his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just been appointed
house-surgeon at a hospital in the North of London. He was taking up his
duties at the beginning of May and meanwhile was going home for a holiday;
this was his last week in town, and he was determined to get as much
enjoyment into it as he could. He began to talk the gay nonsense which
Philip admired because he could not copy it. There was nothing much in
what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There flowed from him a
force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was almost as
sensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively than Philip had ever
known her, and he was delighted to see that his little party was a
success. She was amusing herself enormously. She laughed louder and
louder. She quite forgot the genteel reserve which had become second
nature to her.
Presently Griffiths said:
"I say, it's dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs. Miller. Philip
never calls you anything but Mildred."
"I daresay she won't scratch your eyes out if you call her that too,"
laughed Philip.
"Then she must call me Harry."
Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was to
see people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a little, kindly,
because he was always so serious.
"I believe he's quite fond of you, Philip," smiled Mildred.
"He isn't a bad old thing," answered Griffiths, and taking Philip's hand
he shook it gaily.
It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They were all
sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads. Griffiths
became more talkative and so boisterous that Philip, amused, had to beg
him to be quiet. He had a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost
nothing of their romance and their laughter in his narration. He played in
all of them a gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with
excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote. When the
lights began to be turned out she was astonished.
"My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn't more than half
past nine."
They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added:
"I'm coming to have tea at Philip's room tomorrow. You might look in if
you can."
"All right," he smiled.
On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but Griffiths. She
was taken with his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his voice, his
gaiety.
"I am glad you like him," said Philip. "D'you remember you were rather
sniffy about meeting him?"
"I think it's so nice of him to be so fond of you, Philip. He is a nice
friend for you to have."
She put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her. It was a thing she did
rarely.
"I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank you so much."
"Don't be so absurd," he laughed, touched by her appreciation so that he
felt the moisture come to his eyes.
She opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to Philip.
"Tell Harry I'm madly in love with him," she said.
"All right," he laughed. "Good-night."
Next day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came in. He sank lazily
into an arm-chair. There was something strangely sensual in the slow
movements of his large limbs. Philip remained silent, while the others
chattered away, but he was enjoying himself. He admired them both so much
that it seemed natural enough for them to admire one another. He did not
care if Griffiths absorbed Mildred's attention, he would have her to
himself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of a loving
husband, confident in his wife's affection, who looks on with amusement
while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger. But at half past seven he
looked at his watch and said:
"It's about time we went out to dinner, Mildred."
There was a moment's pause, and Griffiths seemed to be considering.
"Well, I'll be getting along," he said at last. "I didn't know it was so
late."
"Are you doing anything tonight?" asked Mildred.
"No."
There was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated.
"I'll just go and have a wash," he said, and to Mildred he added: "Would
you like to wash your hands?"
She did not answer him.
"Why don't you come and dine with us?" she said to Griffiths.
He looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely.
"I dined with you last night," he laughed. "I should be in the way."
"Oh, that doesn't matter," insisted Mildred. "Make him come, Philip. He
won't be in the way, will he?"
"Let him come by all means if he'd like to."
"All right, then," said Griffiths promptly. "I'll just go upstairs and
tidy myself."
The moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily.
"Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?"
"I couldn't help myself. It would have looked so funny to say nothing when
he said he wasn't doing anything."
"Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing anything?"
Mildred's pale lips tightened a little.
"I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being alone with
you."
They heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip went into
his bed-room to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood in an Italian
restaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he quickly realised that he
was showing to disadvantage in comparison with Griffiths, and he forced
himself to hide his annoyance. He drank a good deal of wine to destroy the
pain that was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. Mildred,
as though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to make
herself pleasant to him. She was kindly and affectionate. Presently Philip
began to think he had been a fool to surrender to a feeling of jealousy.
After dinner when they got into a hansom to drive to a music-hall Mildred,
sitting between the two men, of her own accord gave him her hand. His
anger vanished. Suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that
Griffiths was holding her other hand. The pain seized him again violently,
it was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken, what he
might have asked himself before, whether Mildred and Griffiths were in
love with one another. He could not see anything of the performance on
account of the mist of suspicion, anger, dismay, and wretchedness which
seemed to be before his eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact
that anything was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a
strange desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he
wanted to go and drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had never been
alone together for a moment. He wanted to leave them by themselves.
"I'll come too," said Griffiths. "I've got rather a thirst on."
"Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred."
Philip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them together now to
make the pain he suffered more intolerable. He did not go to the bar, but
up into the balcony, from where he could watch them and not be seen. They
had ceased to look at the stage and were smiling into one another's eyes.
Griffiths was talking with his usual happy fluency and Mildred seemed to
hang on his lips. Philip's head began to ache frightfully. He stood there
motionless. He knew he would be in the way if he went back. They were
enjoying themselves without him, and he was suffering, suffering. Time
passed, and now he had an extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. He
knew they had not thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he
had paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. What a fool
they were making of him! He was hot with shame. He could see how happy
they were without him. His instinct was to leave them to themselves and go
home, but he had not his hat and coat, and it would necessitate endless
explanations. He went back. He felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred's
eyes when she saw him, and his heart sank.
"You've been a devil of a time," said Griffiths, with a smile of welcome.
"I met some men I knew. I've been talking to them, and I couldn't get
away. I thought you'd be all right together."
"I've been enjoying myself thoroughly," said Griffiths. "I don't know
about Mildred."
She gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar sound in
the ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that they should go.
"Come on," said Griffiths, "we'll both drive you home."
Philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that she might
not be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take her hand nor did
she offer it, and he knew all the time that she was holding Griffiths'.
His chief thought was that it was all so horribly vulgar. As they drove
along he asked himself what plans they had made to meet without his
knowledge, he cursed himself for having left them alone, he had actually
gone out of his way to enable them to arrange things.
"Let's keep the cab," said Philip, when they reached the house in which
Mildred was lodging. "I'm too tired to walk home."
On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the fact
that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he must notice that
something was the matter. Philip's silence at last grew too significant to
struggle against, and Griffiths, suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip
wanted to say something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself
to, and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost. It was
best to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to speak.
"Are you in love with Mildred?" he asked suddenly.
"I?" Griffiths laughed. "Is that what you've been so funny about this
evening? Of course not, my dear old man."
He tried to slip his hand through Philip's arm, but Philip drew himself
away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring himself to force
Griffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl's hand. He
suddenly felt very weak and broken.
"It doesn't matter to you, Harry," he said. "You've got so many
women--don't take her away from me. It means my whole life. I've been so
awfully wretched."
His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from him.
He was horribly ashamed of himself.
"My dear old boy, you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I'm far too
fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool. If I'd known you were
going to take it like that I'd have been more careful."
"Is that true?" asked Philip.
"I don't care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of honour."
Philip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door.
LXXV
Next day Philip was in a good temper. He was very anxious not to bore
Mildred with too much of his society, and so had arranged that he should
not see her till dinner-time. She was ready when he fetched her, and he
chaffed her for her unwonted punctuality. She was wearing a new dress he
had given her. He remarked on its smartness.
"It'll have to go back and be altered," she said. "The skirt hangs all
wrong."
"You'll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take it to
Paris with you."
"It'll be ready in time for that."
"Only three more whole days. We'll go over by the eleven o'clock, shall
we?"
"If you like."
He would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. His eyes rested
on her with hungry adoration. He was able to laugh a little at his own
passion.
"I wonder what it is I see in you," he smiled.
"That's a nice thing to say," she answered.
Her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. Her chest was
as flat as a boy's. Her mouth, with its narrow pale lips, was ugly, and
her skin was faintly green.
"I shall give you Blaud's Pills in quantities when we're away," said
Philip, laughing. "I'm going to bring you back fat and rosy."
"I don't want to get fat," she said.
She did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were dining
Philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and his power over her,
said:
"It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry last night?"
"I told you I was in love with him," she laughed.
"I'm glad to know that he's not in love with you."
"How d'you know?"
"I asked him."
She hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam came into
her eyes.
"Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?"
She handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths' bold, legible
writing. There were eight pages. It was well written, frank and charming;
it was the letter of a man who was used to making love to women. He told
Mildred that he loved her passionately, he had fallen in love with her the
first moment he saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond
Philip was of her, but he could not help himself. Philip was such a dear,
and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was not his fault, he was
just carried away. He paid her delightful compliments. Finally he thanked
her for consenting to lunch with him next day and said he was dreadfully
impatient to see her. Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night
before; Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had taken
the trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he was in bed.
He read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave no outward
sign of surprise. He handed it back to Mildred with a smile, calmly.
"Did you enjoy your lunch?"
"Rather," she said emphatically.
He felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the table.
"You mustn't take Griffiths too seriously. He's just a butterfly, you
know."
She took the letter and looked at it again.
"I can't help it either," she said, in a voice which she tried to make
nonchalant. "I don't know what's come over me."
"It's a little awkward for me, isn't it?" said Philip.
She gave him a quick look.
"You're taking it pretty calmly, I must say."
"What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to tear out my hair in
handfuls?"
"I knew you'd be angry with me."
"The funny thing is, I'm not at all. I ought to have known this would
happen. I was a fool to bring you together. I know perfectly well that
he's got every advantage over me; he's much jollier, and he's very
handsome, he's more amusing, he can talk to you about the things that
interest you."
"I don't know what you mean by that. If I'm not clever I can't help it,
but I'm not the fool you think I am, not by a long way, I can tell you.
You're a bit too superior for me, my young friend."
"D'you want to quarrel with me?" he asked mildly.
"No, but I don't see why you should treat me as if I was I don't know
what."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to talk things over
quietly. We don't want to make a mess of them if we can help it. I saw you
were attracted by him and it seemed to me very natural. The only thing
that really hurts me is that he should have encouraged you. He knew how
awfully keen I was on you. I think it's rather shabby of him to have
written that letter to you five minutes after he told me he didn't care
twopence about you."
"If you think you're going to make me like him any the less by saying
nasty things about him, you're mistaken."
Philip was silent for a moment. He did not know what words he could use to
make her see his point of view. He wanted to speak coolly and
deliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of emotion that he could not
clear his thoughts.
"It's not worth while sacrificing everything for an infatuation that you
know can't last. After all, he doesn't care for anyone more than ten days,
and you're rather cold; that sort of thing doesn't mean very much to you."
"That's what you think."
She made it more difficult for him by adopting a cantankerous tone.
"If you're in love with him you can't help it. I'll just bear it as best
I can. We get on very well together, you and I, and I've not behaved badly
to you, have I? I've always known that you're not in love with me, but you
like me all right, and when we get over to Paris you'll forget about
Griffiths. If you make up your mind to put him out of your thoughts you
won't find it so hard as all that, and I've deserved that you should do
something for me."
She did not answer, and they went on eating their dinner. When the silence
grew oppressive Philip began to talk of indifferent things. He pretended
not to notice that Mildred was inattentive. Her answers were perfunctory,
and she volunteered no remarks of her own. At last she interrupted
abruptly what he was saying:
"Philip, I'm afraid I shan't be able to go away on Saturday. The doctor
says I oughtn't to."
He knew this was not true, but he answered:
"When will you be able to come away?"
She glanced at him, saw that his face was white and rigid, and looked
nervously away. She was at that moment a little afraid of him.
"I may as well tell you and have done with it, I can't come away with you
at all."
"I thought you were driving at that. It's too late to change your mind
now. I've got the tickets and everything."
"You said you didn't wish me to go unless I wanted it too, and I don't."
"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to have any more tricks played with
me. You must come."
"I like you very much, Philip, as a friend. But I can't bear to think of
anything else. I don't like you that way. I couldn't, Philip."
"You were quite willing to a week ago."
"It was different then."
"You hadn't met Griffiths?"
"You said yourself I couldn't help it if I'm in love with him."
Her face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her eyes fixed on her
plate. Philip was white with rage. He would have liked to hit her in the
face with his clenched fist, and in fancy he saw how she would look with
a black eye. There were two lads of eighteen dining at a table near them,
and now and then they looked at Mildred; he wondered if they envied him
dining with a pretty girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his
shoes. It was Mildred who broke the silence.
"What's the good of our going away together? I'd be thinking of him all
the time. It wouldn't be much fun for you."
"That's my business," he answered.
She thought over all his reply implicated, and she reddened.
"But that's just beastly."
"What of it?"
"I thought you were a gentleman in every sense of the word."
"You were mistaken."
His reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said it.
"For God's sake don't laugh," she cried. "I can't come away with you,
Philip. I'm awfully sorry. I know I haven't behaved well to you, but one
can't force themselves."
"Have you forgotten that when you were in trouble I did everything for
you? I planked out the money to keep you till your baby was born, I paid
for your doctor and everything, I paid for you to go to Brighton, and I'm
paying for the keep of your baby, I'm paying for your clothes, I'm paying
for every stitch you've got on now."
"If you was a gentleman you wouldn't throw what you've done for me in my
face."
"Oh, for goodness' sake, shut up. What d'you suppose I care if I'm a
gentleman or not? If I were a gentleman I shouldn't waste my time with a
vulgar slut like you. I don't care a damn if you like me or not. I'm sick
of being made a blasted fool of. You're jolly well coming to Paris with me
on Saturday or you can take the consequences."
Her cheeks were red with anger, and when she answered her voice had the
hard commonness which she concealed generally by a genteel enunciation.
"I never liked you, not from the beginning, but you forced yourself on me,
I always hated it when you kissed me. I wouldn't let you touch me now not
if I was starving."
Philip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but the muscles of his
throat refused to act. He gulped down something to drink and lit a
cigarette. He was trembling in every part. He did not speak. He waited for
her to move, but she sat in silence, staring at the white tablecloth. If
they had been alone he would have flung his arms round her and kissed her
passionately; he fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he
pressed upon her mouth with his lips. They passed an hour without
speaking, and at last Philip thought the waiter began to stare at them
curiously. He called for the bill.
"Shall we go?" he said then, in an even tone.
She did not reply, but gathered together her bag and her gloves. She put
on her coat.
"When are you seeing Griffiths again?"
"Tomorrow," she answered indifferently.
"You'd better talk it over with him."
She opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of paper in it. She took
it out.
"Here's the bill for this dress," she said hesitatingly.
"What of it?"
"I promised I'd give her the money tomorrow."
"Did you?"
"Does that mean you won't pay for it after having told me I could get it?"
"It does."
"I'll ask Harry," she said, flushing quickly.
"He'll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds at the moment, and he
pawned his microscope last week, because he was so broke."
"You needn't think you can frighten me by that. I'm quite capable of
earning my own living."
"It's the best thing you can do. I don't propose to give you a farthing
more."
She thought of her rent due on Saturday and the baby's keep, but did not
say anything. They left the restaurant, and in the street Philip asked
her:
"Shall I call a cab for you? I'm going to take a little stroll."
"I haven't got any money. I had to pay a bill this afternoon."
"It won't hurt you to walk. If you want to see me tomorrow I shall be in
about tea-time."
He took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked round in a moment and
saw that she was standing helplessly where he had left her, looking at the
traffic. He went back and with a laugh pressed a coin into her hand.
"Here's two bob for you to get home with."
Before she could speak he hurried away.
LXXVI
Next day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room and wondered whether
Mildred would come. He had slept badly. He had spent the morning in the
club of the Medical School, reading one newspaper after another. It was
the vacation and few students he knew were in London, but he found one or
two people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out the
tedious hours. After luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so,
that he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel.
He had not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned the night
before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into Philip's
room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip heard him go out
early. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him. Suddenly there was a
light tap at his door. Philip sprang to his feet and opened it. Mildred
stood on the threshold. She did not move.
"Come in," said Philip.
He closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to begin.
"Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night," she said.
"Oh, that's all right."
She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid, ingratiating
look of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and wants to
reconcile himself with his master.
"I've been lunching with Harry," she said.
"Have you?"
"If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip, I'll come."
A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a sensation
that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion.
"Because of the money?" he asked.
"Partly," she answered simply. "Harry can't do anything. He owes five
weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor's pressing him
for money. He'd pawn anything he could, but he's pawned everything
already. I had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on
Saturday there's the book at my lodgings, and I can't get work in five
minutes. It always means waiting some little time till there's a vacancy."
She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were
recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the
natural order of things. Philip did not answer. He knew what she told him
well enough.
"You said partly," he observed at last.
"Well, Harry says you've been a brick to both of us. You've been a real
good friend to him, he says, and you've done for me what p'raps no other
man would have done. We must do the straight thing, he says. And he said
what you said about him, that he's fickle by nature, he's not like you,
and I should be a fool to throw you away for him. He won't last and you
will, he says so himself."
"D'you WANT to come away with me?" asked Philip.
"I don't mind."
He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an
expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have
his way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. She
looked at him quickly, but did not speak.
"I've looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and I
thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going to be happy..."
He did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a sudden, without
warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears. She was sitting in the chair
in which Norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her face on the back
of it, towards the side where there was a little bump formed by the
sagging in the middle, where the head had rested.
"I'm not lucky with women," thought Philip.
Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a woman cry with
such an utter abandonment. It was horribly painful, and his heart was
torn. Without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his arms
round her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself
to his comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace. He scarcely
knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly.
"Are you awfully unhappy?" he said at last.
"I wish I was dead," she moaned. "I wish I'd died when the baby come."
Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He placed her head
more comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at the table
and looked at her.
"It is awful, love, isn't it?" he said. "Fancy anyone wanting to be in
love."
Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the chair,
exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her side. She
had the grotesque look of one of those painters' dummies used to hang
draperies on.
"I didn't know you loved him so much as all that," said Philip.
He understood Griffiths' love well enough, for he put himself in
Griffiths' place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was
able to think himself in Griffiths' body, and he kissed her with his lips,
smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It was her emotion that
surprised him. He had never thought her capable of passion, and this was
passion: there was no mistaking it. Something seemed to give way in his
heart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and he
felt strangely weak.
"I don't want to make you unhappy. You needn't come away with me if you
don't want to. I'll give you the money all the same."
She shook her head.
"No, I said I'd come, and I'll come."
"What's the good, if you're sick with love for him?"
"Yes, that's the word. I'm sick with love. I know it won't last, just as
well as he does, but just now..."
She paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. A strange
idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came, without stopping to think
it out.
"Why don't you go away with him?"
"How can I? You know we haven't got the money."
"I'll give you the money"
"You?"
She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the colour came
into her cheeks.
"Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you'd come back
to me."
Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet the
torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. She stared at him with
open eyes.
"Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn't think of it."
"Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him."
Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his heart
to refuse vehemently.
"I'll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to Monday. You
could easily do that. On Monday he's going home till he takes up his
appointment at the North London."
"Oh, Philip, do you mean that?" she cried, clasping her hands. "if you
could only let us go--I would love you so much afterwards, I'd do anything
for you. I'm sure I shall get over it if you'll only do that. Would you
really give us the money?"
"Yes," he said.
She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see that she
was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by Philip's side, taking his
hands.
"You are a brick, Philip. You're the best fellow I've ever known. Won't
you be angry with me afterwards?"
He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart!
"May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you don't mind? He
won't consent unless you promise it doesn't matter. Oh, you don't know how
I love him! And afterwards I'll do anything you like. I'll come over to
Paris with you or anywhere on Monday."
She got up and put on her hat.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to ask him if he'll take me."
"Already?"
"D'you want me to stay? I'll stay if you like."
She sat down, but he gave a little laugh.
"No, it doesn't matter, you'd better go at once. There's only one thing:
I can't bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt me too awfully. Say
I have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that, but ask him to
keep out of my way."
"All right." She sprang up and put on her gloves. "I'll let you know what
he says."
"You'd better dine with me tonight."
"Very well."
She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips to
hers she threw her arms round his neck.
"You are a darling, Philip."
She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a headache
and could not dine with him. Philip had almost expected it. He knew that
she was dining with Griffiths. He was horribly jealous, but the sudden
passion which had seized the pair of them seemed like something that had
come from the outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he
felt himself helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one
another. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over himself and
confessed that in Mildred's place he would have done as Mildred did. What
hurt him most was Griffiths' treachery; they had been such good friends,
and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might
have spared him.
He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her
by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her
thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated
her. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was
stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes
to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter
selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. And how
inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music
halls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never read a book, he
was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a
thought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that
was his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he
pleased Mildred. They suited one another.
Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He
knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He
did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining
with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her
think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill
in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so
indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to
them. At last she got up.
"I think I must be going off now," she said.
"I daresay you've got a lot to do," he answered.
She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for
her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his
cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so
frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered
this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner.
"You haven't forgotten what you promised?" she said at last, as he held
open the door.
"What is that?"
"About the money"
"How much d'you want?"
He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly
offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he
wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying
out at him. He wanted to make her suffer.
"There's the dress and the book tomorrow. That's all. Harry won't come, so
we shan't want money for that."
Philip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door
handle go. The door swung to.
"Why not?"
"He says we couldn't, not on your money."
A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking
within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and
Mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set
himself to persuade Griffiths through her.
"I don't see why not, if I'm willing," he said.
"That's what I told him."
"I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn't hesitate."
"Oh, it's not that, he wants to all right. He'd go at once if he had the
money."
"If he's squeamish about it I'll give YOU the money."
"I said you'd lend it if he liked, and we'd pay it back as soon as we
could."
"It's rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to take you
away for a week-end."
"It is rather, isn't it?" she said, with a shameless little laugh. It sent
a cold shudder down Philip's spine.
"What are you going to do then?" he asked.
"Nothing. He's going home tomorrow. He must."
That would be Philip's salvation. With Griffiths out of the way he could
get Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would be thrown on to his
society, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget
this infatuation. If he said nothing more he was safe. But he had a
fiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how
abominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more
they would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their
dishonour. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the
torture a horrible delight.
"It looks as if it were now or never."
"That's what I told him," she said.
There was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He was
biting his nails in his nervousness.
"Where were you thinking of going?"
"Oh, to Oxford. He was at the 'Varsity there, you know. He said he'd show
me the colleges."
Philip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for the day,
and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of
sights.
"And it looks as if you'd have fine weather. It ought to be very jolly
there just now."
"I've done all I could to persuade him."
"Why don't you have another try?"
"Shall I say you want us to go?"
"I don't think you must go as far as that," said Philip.
She paused for a minute or two, looking at him. Philip forced himself to
look at her in a friendly way. He hated her, he despised her, he loved her
with all his heart.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go and see if he can't arrange it. And
then, if he says yes, I'll come and fetch the money tomorrow. When shall
you be in?"
"I'll come back here after luncheon and wait."
"All right."
"I'll give you the money for your dress and your room now."
He went to his desk and took out what money he had. The dress was six
guineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and the baby's keep for
a week. He gave her eight pounds ten.
"Thanks very much," she said.
She left him.
LXXVII
After lunching in the basement of the Medical School Philip went back to
his rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning the
stairs.
"Is Mr. Griffiths in?" he asked.
"No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you went out."
"Isn't he coming back?"
"I don't think so, sir. He's taken his luggage."
Philip wondered what this could mean. He took a book and began to read. It
was Burton's Journey to Meccah, which he had just got out of the
Westminster Public Library; and he read the first page, but could make no
sense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the time for
a ring at the bell. He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone away
already, without Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would be
coming presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he tried
desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched themselves
in his brain by the force of his effort, but they were distorted by the
agony he was enduring. He wished with all his heart that he had not made
the horrible proposition to give them money; but now that he had made it
he lacked the strength to go back on it, not on Mildred's account, but on
his own. There was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the
thing he had determined. He discovered that the three pages he had read
had made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from
the beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again;
and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formula
in a nightmare. One thing he could do was to go out and keep away till
midnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house
every hour to ask if he was in. He enjoyed the thought of their
disappointment. He repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. But he
could not do that. Let them come and take the money, and he would know
then to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. He could
not read any more now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned back
in his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred.
The landlady came in.
"Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?"
"Show her in."
Philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what he
was feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize her
hands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her;
she would tell Griffiths what he had said and how he acted. He was
ashamed.
"Well, how about the little jaunt?" he said gaily.
"We're going. Harry's outside. I told him you didn't want to see him, so
he's kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he can come in just for
a minute to say good-bye to you."
"No, I won't see him," said Philip.
He could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now that she was
there he wanted her to go quickly.
"Look here, here's the fiver. I'd like you to go now."
She took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room.
"When are you coming back?" he asked.
"Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then."
He knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken down
with jealousy and desire.
"Then I shall see you, shan't I?"
He could not help the note of appeal in his voice.
"Of course. I'll let you know the moment I'm back."
He shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her jump into a
four-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away. Then he threw himself
on his bed and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming to his
eyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed up
his body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs were
forced from him.
He got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. He mixed
himself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a little better. Then
he caught sight of the tickets to Paris, which were on the chimney-piece,
and, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. He
knew he could have got the money back on them, but it relieved him to
destroy them. Then he went out in search of someone to be with. The club
was empty. He felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk to; but
Lawson was abroad; he went on to Hayward's rooms: the maid who opened the
door told him that he had gone down to Brighton for the week-end. Then
Philip went to a gallery and found it was just closing. He did not know
what to do. He was distracted. And he thought of Griffiths and Mildred
going to Oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. He went
back to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had been so
wretched in them; he tried once more to read Burton's book, but, as he
read, he told himself again and again what a fool he had been; it was he
who had made the suggestion that they should go away, he had offered the
money, he had forced it upon them; he might have known what would happen
when he introduced Griffiths to Mildred; his own vehement passion was
enough to arouse the other's desire. By this time they had reached Oxford.
They would put up in one of the lodging-houses in John Street; Philip had
never been to Oxford, but Griffiths had talked to him about it so much
that he knew exactly where they would go; and they would dine at the
Clarendon: Griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went on
the spree. Philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near
Charing Cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards he
fought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of Oscar Wilde's
pieces was being performed. He wondered if Mildred and Griffiths would go
to a play that evening: they must kill the evening somehow; they were too
stupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation: he got a
fierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which
suited them so exactly to one another. He watched the play with an
abstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking whiskey in each
interval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but his
drunkenness was savage and morose. When the play was over he had another
drink. He could not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded
the pictures which his vivid imagination would place before him. He tried
not to think of them. He knew he had drunk too much. Now he was seized
with a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to roll himself in
gutters; his whole being yearned for beastliness; he wanted to grovel.
He walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with rage
and misery clawing at his heart. He was stopped by a painted harlot, who
put her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal words.
He walked on a few steps and then stopped. She would do as well as
another. He was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. He went up to her.
"I say," he began.
"Go to hell," she said.
Philip laughed.
"I merely wanted to ask if you'd do me the honour of supping with me
tonight."
She looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. She saw he
was drunk.
"I don't mind."
He was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often on
Mildred's lips. He took her to one of the restaurants he had been in the
habit of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they walked along that she
looked down at his limb.
"I've got a club-foot," he said. "Have you any objection?"
"You are a cure," she laughed.
When he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was a
hammering that made him nearly scream. He took another whiskey and soda to
steady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day.
LXXVIII
At last Monday came, and Philip thought his long torture was over. Looking
out the trains he found that the latest by which Griffiths could reach
home that night left Oxford soon after one, and he supposed that Mildred
would take one which started a few minutes later to bring her to London.
His desire was to go and meet it, but he thought Mildred would like to be
left alone for a day; perhaps she would drop him a line in the evening to
say she was back, and if not he would call at her lodgings next morning:
his spirit was cowed. He felt a bitter hatred for Griffiths, but for
Mildred, notwithstanding all that had passed, only a heart-rending desire.
He was glad now that Hayward was not in London on Saturday afternoon when,
distraught, he went in search of human comfort: he could not have
prevented himself from telling him everything, and Hayward would have been
astonished at his weakness. He would despise him, and perhaps be shocked
or disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of making Mildred his
mistress after she had given herself to another man. What did he care if
it was shocking or disgusting? He was ready for any compromise, prepared
for more degrading humiliations still, if he could only gratify his
desire.
Towards the evening his steps took him against his will to the house in
which she lived, and he looked up at her window. It was dark. He did not
venture to ask if she was back. He was confident in her promise. But there
was no letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day he called,
the maid told him she had not arrived. He could not understand it. He knew
that Griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day before, for he
was to be best man at a wedding, and Mildred had no money. He turned over
in his mind every possible thing that might have happened. He went again
in the afternoon and left a note, asking her to dine with him that evening
as calmly as though the events of the last fortnight had not happened. He
mentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping
against hope kept the appointment: though he waited for an hour she did
not come. On Wednesday morning he was ashamed to ask at the house and sent
a messenger-boy with a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but
in an hour the boy came back with Philip's letter unopened and the answer
that the lady had not returned from the country. Philip was beside
himself. The last deception was more than he could bear. He repeated to
himself over and over again that he loathed Mildred, and, ascribing to
Griffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so much that he knew what
was the delight of murder: he walked about considering what a joy it would
be to come upon him on a dark night and stick a knife into his throat,
just about the carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a
dog. Philip was out of his senses with grief and rage. He did not like
whiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself. He went to bed drunk on the
Tuesday and on the Wednesday night.
On Thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself, blear-eyed
and sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there were any letters. A
curious feeling shot through his heart when he recognised the handwriting
of Griffiths.
Dear old man:
I hardly know how to write to you and yet I feel I must write. I hope
you're not awfully angry with me. I know I oughtn't to have gone away with
Milly, but I simply couldn't help myself. She simply carried me off my
feet and I would have done anything to get her. When she told me you had
offered us the money to go I simply couldn't resist. And now it's all over
I'm awfully ashamed of myself and I wish I hadn't been such a fool. I wish
you'd write and say you're not angry with me, and I want you to let me
come and see you. I was awfully hurt at your telling Milly you didn't want
to see me. Do write me a line, there's a good chap, and tell me you
forgive me. It'll ease my conscience. I thought you wouldn't mind or you
wouldn't have offered the money. But I know I oughtn't to have taken it.
I came home on Monday and Milly wanted to stay a couple of days at Oxford
by herself. She's going back to London on Wednesday, so by the time you
receive this letter you will have seen her and I hope everything will go
off all right. Do write and say you forgive me. Please write at once.
Yours ever,
Harry.
Philip tore up the letter furiously. He did not mean to answer it. He
despised Griffiths for his apologies, he had no patience with his
prickings of conscience: one could do a dastardly thing if one chose, but
it was contemptible to regret it afterwards. He thought the letter
cowardly and hypocritical. He was disgusted at its sentimentality.
"It would be very easy if you could do a beastly thing," he muttered to
himself, "and then say you were sorry, and that put it all right again."
He hoped with all his heart he would have the chance one day to do
Griffiths a bad turn.
But at all events he knew that Mildred was in town. He dressed hurriedly,
not waiting to shave, drank a cup of tea, and took a cab to her rooms. The
cab seemed to crawl. He was painfully anxious to see her, and
unconsciously he uttered a prayer to the God he did not believe in to make
her receive him kindly. He only wanted to forget. With beating heart he
rang the bell. He forgot all his suffering in the passionate desire to
enfold her once more in his arms.
"Is Mrs. Miller in?" he asked joyously.
"She's gone," the maid answered.
He looked at her blankly.
"She came about an hour ago and took away her things."
For a moment he did not know what to say.
"Did you give her my letter? Did she say where she was going?"
Then he understood that Mildred had deceived him again. She was not coming
back to him. He made an effort to save his face.
"Oh, well, I daresay I shall hear from her. She may have sent a letter to
another address."
He turned away and went back hopeless to his rooms. He might have known
that she would do this; she had never cared for him, she had made a fool
of him from the beginning; she had no pity, she had no kindness, she had
no charity. The only thing was to accept the inevitable. The pain he was
suffering was horrible, he would sooner be dead than endure it; and the
thought came to him that it would be better to finish with the whole
thing: he might throw himself in the river or put his neck on a railway
line; but he had no sooner set the thought into words than he rebelled
against it. His reason told him that he would get over his unhappiness in
time; if he tried with all his might he could forget her; and it would be
grotesque to kill himself on account of a vulgar slut. He had only one
life, and it was madness to fling it away. He FELT that he would never
overcome his passion, but he KNEW that after all it was only a matter
of time.
He would not stay in London. There everything reminded him of his
unhappiness. He telegraphed to his uncle that he was coming to
Blackstable, and, hurrying to pack, took the first train he could. He
wanted to get away from the sordid rooms in which he had endured so much
suffering. He wanted to breathe clean air. He was disgusted with himself.
He felt that he was a little mad.
Since he was grown up Philip had been given the best spare room at the
vicarage. It was a corner-room and in front of one window was an old tree
which blocked the view, but from the other you saw, beyond the garden and
the vicarage field, broad meadows. Philip remembered the wall-paper from
his earliest years. On the walls were quaint water colours of the early
Victorian period by a friend of the Vicar's youth. They had a faded charm.
The dressing-table was surrounded by stiff muslin. There was an old
tall-boy to put your clothes in. Philip gave a sigh of pleasure; he had
never realised that all those things meant anything to him at all. At the
vicarage life went on as it had always done. No piece of furniture had
been moved from one place to another; the Vicar ate the same things, said
the same things, went for the same walk every day; he had grown a little
fatter, a little more silent, a little more narrow. He had become
accustomed to living without his wife and missed her very little. He
bickered still with Josiah Graves. Philip went to see the churchwarden. He
was a little thinner, a little whiter, a little more austere; he was
autocratic still and still disapproved of candles on the altar. The shops
had still a pleasant quaintness; and Philip stood in front of that in
which things useful to seamen were sold, sea-boots and tarpaulins and
tackle, and remembered that he had felt there in his childhood the thrill
of the sea and the adventurous magic of the unknown.
He could not help his heart beating at each double knock of the postman in
case there might be a letter from Mildred sent on by his landlady in
London; but he knew that there would be none. Now that he could think it
out more calmly he understood that in trying to force Mildred to love him
he had been attempting the impossible. He did not know what it was that
passed from a man to a woman, from a woman to a man, and made one of them
a slave: it was convenient to call it the sexual instinct; but if it was
no more than that, he did not understand why it should occasion so
vehement an attraction to one person rather than another. It was
irresistible: the mind could not battle with it; friendship, gratitude,
interest, had no power beside it. Because he had not attracted Mildred
sexually, nothing that he did had any effect upon her. The idea revolted
him; it made human nature beastly; and he felt suddenly that the hearts of
men were full of dark places. Because Mildred was indifferent to him he
had thought her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body
with its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner, carried
out his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden passions which made
her willing to risk everything to gratify them. He had never understood
her adventure with Emil Miller: it had seemed so unlike her, and she had
never been able to explain it; but now that he had seen her with Griffiths
he knew that just the same thing had happened then: she had been carried
off her feet by an ungovernable desire. He tried to think out what those
two men had which so strangely attracted her. They both had a vulgar
facetiousness which tickled her simple sense of humour, and a certain
coarseness of nature; but what took her perhaps was the blatant sexuality
which was their most marked characteristic. She had a genteel refinement
which shuddered at the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions
as indecent, she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she
always chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple one: the
brutality of these men was like a whip on her thin white shoulders, and
she shuddered with voluptuous pain.
One thing Philip had made up his mind about. He would not go back to the
lodgings in which he had suffered. He wrote to his landlady and gave her
notice. He wanted to have his own things about him. He determined to take
unfurnished rooms: it would be pleasant and cheaper; and this was an
urgent consideration, for during the last year and a half he had spent
nearly seven hundred pounds. He must make up for it now by the most rigid
economy. Now and then he thought of the future with panic; he had been a
fool to spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew that if it were to
come again he would act in the same way. It amused him sometimes to
consider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his
feelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as
strong-minded, deliberate, and cool. They thought him reasonable and
praised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no
more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective
colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of
his will. It seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as
though he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was
powerless. He had no self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because
he was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people.
He considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for
himself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he had
passed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man in any
of the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he was
swayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like
that great wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca ceaselessly on. He
thought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to act, he was
powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he knew not what. He acted
as though he were a machine driven by the two forces of his environment
and his personality; his reason was someone looking on, observing the
facts but powerless to interfere: it was like those gods of Epicurus, who
saw the doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to
alter one smallest particle of what occurred.
LXXIX
Philip went up to London a couple of days before the session began in
order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out of
the Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him;
and at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and old-world
air. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that
side of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great
barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the
West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf. The houses in the
street which Philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the
windows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one
which announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an
austere, silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a
kitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did
not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down
at once. He asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him
and cook his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do
without that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she
intimated that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to
receive his rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer's round
the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who
would `do' for him.
Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an
arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings, and
the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. His uncle had offered
a fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in August, he
had no further use; and by spending another ten pounds Philip bought
himself whatever else was essential. He spent ten shillings on putting a
corn-coloured paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on
the walls a sketch which Lawson had given him of the Quai des Grands
Augustins, and the photograph of the Odalisque by Ingres and Manet's
Olympia which in Paris had been the objects of his contemplation while
he shaved. To remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the
practice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel
Ajuria: it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with
clenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on
his face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and
though Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his
work its associations made him look upon it with tolerance. He wondered
what had happened to Miguel. There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit
of art by those who have no talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure,
starvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access
of despair had sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his
Southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and
now, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to
politics and bull-fighting.
Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they
came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras;
and he was delighted when they praised his taste. He would have invited
the Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could
entertain only a definite number of guests. Lawson was aware that through
him Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked
that he had run across her a few days before.
"She was asking how you were."
Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of
the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson looked
at him quizzically. Lawson, who now spent most of the year in London, had
so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to
dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.
"I gather that all is over between you," he said.
"I've not seen her for months."
"She was looking rather nice. She had a very smart hat on with a lot of
white ostrich feathers on it. She must be doing pretty well."
Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an
interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked
suddenly:
"Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?"
"Not a bit. She talked very nicely of you."
"I've got half a mind to go and see her."
"She won't eat you."
Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his first thought
was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated
him so. His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he
was ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had treated her
abominably.
"If I'd only had the sense to stick to her!" he said to himself,
afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last
pipe before going to bed.
He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy
sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the play,
and the charming evenings of intimate conversation. He recollected her
solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. She
had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than
sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was
a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods. He
made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. She must have suffered
horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him: she
was incapable of malice. Should he write to her? No. He would break in on
her suddenly and cast himself at her feet--he knew that when the time came
he would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how
he liked to think of it--and tell her that if she would take him back she
might rely on him for ever. He was cured of the hateful disease from which
he had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His
imagination leaped forward to the future. He pictured himself rowing with
her on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never
forgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the
Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on
the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the Park together and talk:
he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter, which poured out
like a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of
character. The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad
dream.
But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain
to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed
him. Was it possible for her to forgive him? It would be abominable of him
to force himself on her presence. The door was opened by a maid new since
he had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs.
Nesbit was in.
"Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?" he said. "I'll wait here."
The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.
"Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front."
"I know," said Philip, with a slight smile.
He went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door.
"Come in," said the well-known, cheerful voice.
It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. When he
entered Norah stepped forward to greet him. She shook hands with him as if
they had parted the day before. A man stood up.
"Mr. Carey--Mr. Kingsford."
Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took
stock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention his name, but he
seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home.
He was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly
plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men
get when their youth is passed. He had a large nose, a large mouth; the
bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of
more than average height, and broad-shouldered.
"I was wondering what had become of you," said Norah, in her sprightly
manner. "I met Mr. Lawson the other day--did he tell you?--and I informed
him that it was really high time you came to see me again."
Philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance, and he
admired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which himself
felt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea. She was about to put sugar
in it when he stopped her.
"How stupid of me!" she cried. "I forgot."
He did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he never took
sugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign that her nonchalance
was affected.
The conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and presently he
began to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took no particular notice of
him. He talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a slightly
dogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had something
amusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated
Philip to find himself edged out of the conversation. He was determined to
stay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired Norah. In the old days
they had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt with her and had
laughed at them together. Philip tried to bring back the conversation to
matters which only he and Norah knew about, but each time the journalist
broke in and succeeded in drawing it away to a subject upon which Philip
was forced to be silent. He grew faintly angry with Norah, for she must
see he was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this upon
him as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his good humour. At
last, however, the clock struck six, and Kingsford got up.
"I must go," he said.
Norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. She shut
the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes. Philip
wondered what they were talking about.
"Who is Mr. Kingsford?" he asked cheerfully, when she returned.
"Oh, he's the editor of one of Harmsworth's Magazines. He's been taking a
good deal of my work lately."
"I thought he was never going."
"I'm glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you." She curled
herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size
made possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled when he saw her assume the
attitude which had always amused him.
"You look just like a cat."
She gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes.
"I really ought to break myself of the habit. It's absurd to behave like
a child when you're my age, but I'm comfortable with my legs under me."
"It's awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again," said Philip
happily. "You don't know how I've missed it."
"Why on earth didn't you come before?" she asked gaily.
"I was afraid to," he said, reddening.
She gave him a look full of kindness. Her lips outlined a charming smile.
"You needn't have been."
He hesitated for a moment. His heart beat quickly.
"D'you remember the last time we met? I treated you awfully badly--I'm
dreadfully ashamed of myself."
She looked at him steadily. She did not answer. He was losing his head; he
seemed to have come on an errand of which he was only now realising the
outrageousness. She did not help him, and he could only blurt out bluntly.
"Can you ever forgive me?"
Then impetuously he told her that Mildred had left him and that his
unhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself. He told her
of all that had happened between them, of the birth of the child, and of
the meeting with Griffiths, of his folly and his trust and his immense
deception. He told her how often he had thought of her kindness and of her
love, and how bitterly he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been
happy when he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. His
voice was hoarse with emotion. Sometimes he was so ashamed of what he was
saying that he spoke with his eyes fixed on the ground. His face was
distorted with pain, and yet he felt it a strange relief to speak. At last
he finished. He flung himself back in his chair, exhausted, and waited. He
had concealed nothing, and even, in his self-abasement, he had striven to
make himself more despicable than he had really been. He was surprised
that she did not speak, and at last he raised his eyes. She was not
looking at him. Her face was quite white, and she seemed to be lost in
thought.
"Haven't you got anything to say to me?"
She started and reddened.
"I'm afraid you've had a rotten time," she said. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
She seemed about to go on, but she stopped, and again he waited. At length
she seemed to force herself to speak.
"I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Kingsford."
"Why didn't you tell me at once?" he cried. "You needn't have allowed me
to humiliate myself before you."
"I'm sorry, I couldn't stop you.... I met him soon after you"--she seemed
to search for an expression that should not wound him--"told me your
friend had come back. I was very wretched for a bit, he was extremely kind
to me. He knew someone had made me suffer, of course he doesn't know it
was you, and I don't know what I should have done without him. And
suddenly I felt I couldn't go on working, working, working; I was so
tired, I felt so ill. I told him about my husband. He offered to give me
the money to get my divorce if I would marry him as soon as I could. He
had a very good job, and it wouldn't be necessary for me to do anything
unless I wanted to. He was so fond of me and so anxious to take care of
me. I was awfully touched. And now I'm very, very fond of him."
"Have you got your divorce then?" asked Philip.
"I've got the decree nisi. It'll be made absolute in July, and then we are
going to be married at once."
For some time Philip did not say anything.
"I wish I hadn't made such a fool of myself," he muttered at length.
He was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. She looked at him
curiously.
"You were never really in love with me," she said.
"It's not very pleasant being in love."
But he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and
holding out his hand, he said:
"I hope you'll be very happy. After all, it's the best thing that could
have happened to you."
She looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it.
"You'll come and see me again, won't you?" she asked.
"No," he said, shaking his head. "It would make me too envious to see you
happy."
He walked slowly away from her house. After all she was right when she
said he had never loved her. He was disappointed, irritated even, but his
vanity was more affected than his heart. He knew that himself. And
presently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical
joke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. It is not very
comfortable to have the gift of being amused at one's own absurdity.
LXXX
For the next three months Philip worked on subjects which were new to him.
The unwieldy crowd which had entered the Medical School nearly two years
before had thinned out: some had left the hospital, finding the
examinations more difficult to pass than they expected, some had been
taken away by parents who had not foreseen the expense of life in London,
and some had drifted away to other callings. One youth whom Philip knew
had devised an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought things at sales
and pawned them, but presently found it more profitable to pawn goods
bought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement at the hospital
when someone pointed out his name in police-court proceedings. There had
been a remand, then assurances on the part of a harassed father, and the
young man had gone out to bear the White Man's Burden overseas. The
imagination of another, a lad who had never before been in a town at all,
fell to the glamour of music-halls and bar parlours; he spent his time
among racing-men, tipsters, and trainers, and now was become a
book-maker's clerk. Philip had seen him once in a bar near Piccadilly
Circus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat with a broad, flat brim. A
third, with a gift for singing and mimicry, who had achieved success at
the smoking concerts of the Medical School by his imitation of notorious
comedians, had abandoned the hospital for the chorus of a musical comedy.
Still another, and he interested Philip because his uncouth manner and
interjectional speech did not suggest that he was capable of any deep
emotion, had felt himself stifle among the houses of London. He grew
haggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul he knew not he possessed struggled
like a sparrow held in the hand, with little frightened gasps and a quick
palpitation of the heart: he yearned for the broad skies and the open,
desolate places among which his childhood had been spent; and he walked
off one day, without a word to anybody, between one lecture and another;
and the next thing his friends heard was that he had thrown up medicine
and was working on a farm.
Philip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery. On certain
mornings in the week he practised bandaging on out-patients glad to earn
a little money, and he was taught auscultation and how to use the
stethoscope. He learned dispensing. He was taking the examination in
Materia Medica in July, and it amused him to play with various drugs,
concocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments. He seized avidly
upon anything from which he could extract a suggestion of human interest.
He saw Griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain of
cutting him dead, avoided him. Philip had felt a certain
self-consciousness with Griffiths' friends, some of whom were now friends
of his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel with Griffiths and
surmised they were aware of the reason. One of them, a very tall fellow,
with a small head and a languid air, a youth called Ramsden, who was one
of Griffiths' most faithful admirers, copied his ties, his boots, his
manner of talking and his gestures, told Philip that Griffiths was very
much hurt because Philip had not answered his letter. He wanted to be
reconciled with him.
"Has he asked you to give me the message?" asked Philip.
"Oh, no. I'm saying this entirely on my own," said Ramsden. "He's awfully
sorry for what he did, and he says you always behaved like a perfect brick
to him. I know he'd be glad to make it up. He doesn't come to the hospital
because he's afraid of meeting you, and he thinks you'd cut him."
"I should."
"It makes him feel rather wretched, you know."
"I can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good deal of
fortitude," said Philip.
"He'll do anything he can to make it up."
"How childish and hysterical! Why should he care? I'm a very insignificant
person, and he can do very well without my company. I'm not interested in
him any more."
Ramsden thought Philip hard and cold. He paused for a moment or two,
looking about him in a perplexed way.
"Harry wishes to God he'd never had anything to do with the woman."
"Does he?" asked Philip.
He spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with. No one could
have guessed how violently his heart was beating. He waited impatiently
for Ramsden to go on.
"I suppose you've quite got over it now, haven't you?"
"I?" said Philip. "Quite."
Little by little he discovered the history of Mildred's relations with
Griffiths. He listened with a smile on his lips, feigning an equanimity
which quite deceived the dull-witted boy who talked to him. The week-end
she spent with Griffiths at Oxford inflamed rather than extinguished her
sudden passion; and when Griffiths went home, with a feeling that was
unexpected in her she determined to stay in Oxford by herself for a couple
of days, because she had been so happy in it. She felt that nothing could
induce her to go back to Philip. He revolted her. Griffiths was taken
aback at the fire he had aroused, for he had found his two days with her
in the country somewhat tedious; and he had no desire to turn an amusing
episode into a tiresome affair. She made him promise to write to her, and,
being an honest, decent fellow, with natural politeness and a desire to
make himself pleasant to everybody, when he got home he wrote her a long
and charming letter. She answered it with reams of passion, clumsy, for
she had no gift of expression, ill-written, and vulgar; the letter bored
him, and when it was followed next day by another, and the day after by a
third, he began to think her love no longer flattering but alarming. He
did not answer; and she bombarded him with telegrams, asking him if he
were ill and had received her letters; she said his silence made her
dreadfully anxious. He was forced to write, but he sought to make his
reply as casual as was possible without being offensive: he begged her not
to wire, since it was difficult to explain telegrams to his mother, an
old-fashioned person for whom a telegram was still an event to excite
tremor. She answered by return of post that she must see him and announced
her intention to pawn things (she had the dressing-case which Philip had
given her as a wedding-present and could raise eight pounds on that) in
order to come up and stay at the market town four miles from which was the
village in which his father practised. This frightened Griffiths; and he,
this time, made use of the telegraph wires to tell her that she must do
nothing of the kind. He promised to let her know the moment he came up to
London, and, when he did, found that she had already been asking for him
at the hospital at which he had an appointment. He did not like this, and,
on seeing her, told Mildred that she was not to come there on any pretext;
and now, after an absence of three weeks, he found that she bored him
quite decidedly; he wondered why he had ever troubled about her, and made
up his mind to break with her as soon as he could. He was a person who
dreaded quarrels, nor did he want to give pain; but at the same time he
had other things to do, and he was quite determined not to let Mildred
bother him. When he met her he was pleasant, cheerful, amusing,
affectionate; he invented convincing excuses for the interval since last
he had seen her; but he did everything he could to avoid her. When she
forced him to make appointments he sent telegrams to her at the last
moment to put himself off; and his landlady (the first three months of his
appointment he was spending in rooms) had orders to say he was out when
Mildred called. She would waylay him in the street and, knowing she had
been waiting about for him to come out of the hospital for a couple of
hours, he would give her a few charming, friendly words and bolt off with
the excuse that he had a business engagement. He grew very skilful in
slipping out of the hospital unseen. Once, when he went back to his
lodgings at midnight, he saw a woman standing at the area railings and
suspecting who it was went to beg a shake-down in Ramsden's rooms; next
day the landlady told him that Mildred had sat crying on the doorsteps for
hours, and she had been obliged to tell her at last that if she did not go
away she would send for a policeman.
"I tell you, my boy," said Ramsden, "you're jolly well out of it. Harry
says that if he'd suspected for half a second she was going to make such
a blooming nuisance of herself he'd have seen himself damned before he had
anything to do with her."
Philip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through the long hours of
the night. He saw her face as she looked up dully at the landlady who sent
her away.
"I wonder what she's doing now."
"Oh, she's got a job somewhere, thank God. That keeps her busy all day."
The last thing he heard, just before the end of the summer session, was
that Griffiths, urbanity had given way at length under the exasperation of
the constant persecution. He had told Mildred that he was sick of being
pestered, and she had better take herself off and not bother him again.
"It was the only thing he could do," said Ramsden. "It was getting a bit
too thick."
"Is it all over then?" asked Philip.
"Oh, he hasn't seen her for ten days. You know, Harry's wonderful at
dropping people. This is about the toughest nut he's ever had to crack,
but he's cracked it all right."
Then Philip heard nothing more of her at all. She vanished into the vast
anonymous mass of the population of London.
LXXXI
At the beginning of the winter session Philip became an out-patients'
clerk. There were three assistant-physicians who took out-patients, two
days a week each, and Philip put his name down for Dr. Tyrell. He was
popular with the students, and there was some competition to be his clerk.
Dr. Tyrell was a tall, thin man of thirty-five, with a very small head,
red hair cut short, and prominent blue eyes: his face was bright scarlet.
He talked well in a pleasant voice, was fond of a little joke, and treated
the world lightly. He was a successful man, with a large consulting
practice and a knighthood in prospect. From commerce with students and
poor people he had the patronising air, and from dealing always with the
sick he had the healthy man's jovial condescension, which some consultants
achieve as the professional manner. He made the patient feel like a boy
confronted by a jolly schoolmaster; his illness was an absurd piece of
naughtiness which amused rather than irritated.
The student was supposed to attend in the out-patients' room every day,
see cases, and pick up what information he could; but on the days on which
he clerked his duties were a little more definite. At that time the
out-patients' department at St. Luke's consisted of three rooms, leading
into one another, and a large, dark waiting-room with massive pillars of
masonry and long benches. Here the patients waited after having been given
their `letters' at mid-day; and the long rows of them, bottles and
gallipots in hand, some tattered and dirty, others decent enough, sitting
in the dimness, men and women of all ages, children, gave one an
impression which was weird and horrible. They suggested the grim drawings
of Daumier. All the rooms were painted alike, in salmon-colour with a high
dado of maroon; and there was in them an odour of disinfectants, mingling
as the afternoon wore on with the crude stench of humanity. The first room
was the largest and in the middle of it were a table and an office chair
for the physician; on each side of this were two smaller tables, a little
lower: at one of these sat the house-physician and at the other the clerk
who took the `book' for the day. This was a large volume in which were
written down the name, age, sex, profession, of the patient and the
diagnosis of his disease.
At half past one the house-physician came in, rang the bell, and told the
porter to send in the old patients. There were always a good many of
these, and it was necessary to get through as many of them as possible
before Dr. Tyrell came at two. The H.P. with whom Philip came in contact
was a dapper little man, excessively conscious of his importance: he
treated the clerks with condescension and patently resented the
familiarity of older students who had been his contemporaries and did not
use him with the respect he felt his present position demanded. He set
about the cases. A clerk helped him. The patients streamed in. The men
came first. Chronic bronchitis, "a nasty 'acking cough," was what they
chiefly suffered from; one went to the H.P. and the other to the clerk,
handing in their letters: if they were going on well the words Rep 14
were written on them, and they went to the dispensary with their bottles
or gallipots in order to have medicine given them for fourteen days more.
Some old stagers held back so that they might be seen by the physician
himself, but they seldom succeeded in this; and only three or four, whose
condition seemed to demand his attention, were kept.
Dr. Tyrell came in with quick movements and a breezy manner. He reminded
one slightly of a clown leaping into the arena of a circus with the cry:
Here we are again. His air seemed to indicate: What's all this nonsense
about being ill? I'll soon put that right. He took his seat, asked if
there were any old patients for him to see, rapidly passed them in review,
looking at them with shrewd eyes as he discussed their symptoms, cracked
a joke (at which all the clerks laughed heartily) with the H.P., who
laughed heartily too but with an air as if he thought it was rather
impudent for the clerks to laugh, remarked that it was a fine day or a hot
one, and rang the bell for the porter to show in the new patients.
They came in one by one and walked up to the table at which sat Dr.
Tyrell. They were old men and young men and middle-aged men, mostly of the
labouring class, dock labourers, draymen, factory hands, barmen; but some,
neatly dressed, were of a station which was obviously superior,
shop-assistants, clerks, and the like. Dr. Tyrell looked at these with
suspicion. Sometimes they put on shabby clothes in order to pretend they
were poor; but he had a keen eye to prevent what he regarded as fraud and
sometimes refused to see people who, he thought, could well pay for
medical attendance. Women were the worst offenders and they managed the
thing more clumsily. They would wear a cloak and a skirt which were almost
in rags, and neglect to take the rings off their fingers.
"If you can afford to wear jewellery you can afford a doctor. A hospital
is a charitable institution," said Dr. Tyrell.
He handed back the letter and called for the next case.
"But I've got my letter."
"I don't care a hang about your letter; you get out. You've got no
business to come and steal the time which is wanted by the really poor."
The patient retired sulkily, with an angry scowl.
"She'll probably write a letter to the papers on the gross mismanagement
of the London hospitals," said Dr. Tyrell, with a smile, as he took the
next paper and gave the patient one of his shrewd glances.
Most of them were under the impression that the hospital was an
institution of the state, for which they paid out of the rates, and took
the attendance they received as a right they could claim. They imagined
the physician who gave them his time was heavily paid.
Dr. Tyrell gave each of his clerks a case to examine. The clerk took the
patient into one of the inner rooms; they were smaller, and each had a
couch in it covered with black horse-hair: he asked his patient a variety
of questions, examined his lungs, his heart, and his liver, made notes of
fact on the hospital letter, formed in his own mind some idea of the
diagnosis, and then waited for Dr. Tyrell to come in. This he did,
followed by a small crowd of students, when he had finished the men, and
the clerk read out what he had learned. The physician asked him one or two
questions, and examined the patient himself. If there was anything
interesting to hear students applied their stethoscope: you would see a
man with two or three to the chest, and two perhaps to his back, while
others waited impatiently to listen. The patient stood among them a little
embarrassed, but not altogether displeased to find himself the centre of
attention: he listened confusedly while Dr. Tyrell discoursed glibly on
the case. Two or three students listened again to recognise the murmur or
the crepitation which the physician described, and then the man was told
to put on his clothes.
When the various cases had been examined Dr. Tyrell went back into the
large room and sat down again at his desk. He asked any student who
happened to be standing near him what he would prescribe for a patient he
had just seen. The student mentioned one or two drugs.
"Would you?" said Dr. Tyrell. "Well, that's original at all events. I
don't think we'll be rash."
This always made the students laugh, and with a twinkle of amusement at
his own bright humour the physician prescribed some other drug than that
which the student had suggested. When there were two cases of exactly the
same sort and the student proposed the treatment which the physician had
ordered for the first, Dr. Tyrell exercised considerable ingenuity in
thinking of something else. Sometimes, knowing that in the dispensary they
were worked off their legs and preferred to give the medicines which they
had all ready, the good hospital mixtures which had been found by the
experience of years to answer their purpose so well, he amused himself by
writing an elaborate prescription.
"We'll give the dispenser something to do. If we go on prescribing mist:
alb: he'll lose his cunning."
The students laughed, and the doctor gave them a circular glance of
enjoyment in his joke. Then he touched the bell and, when the porter poked
his head in, said:
"Old women, please."
He leaned back in his chair, chatting with the H.P. while the porter
herded along the old patients. They came in, strings of anaemic girls,
with large fringes and pallid lips, who could not digest their bad,
insufficient food; old ladies, fat and thin, aged prematurely by frequent
confinements, with winter coughs; women with this, that, and the other,
the matter with them. Dr. Tyrell and his house-physician got through them
quickly. Time was getting on, and the air in the small room was growing
more sickly. The physician looked at his watch.
"Are there many new women today?" he asked.
"A good few, I think," said the H.P.
"We'd better have them in. You can go on with the old ones."
They entered. With the men the most common ailments were due to the
excessive use of alcohol, but with the women they were due to defective
nourishment. By about six o'clock they were finished. Philip, exhausted by
standing all the time, by the bad air, and by the attention he had given,
strolled over with his fellow-clerks to the Medical School to have tea. He
found the work of absorbing interest. There was humanity there in the
rough, the materials the artist worked on; and Philip felt a curious
thrill when it occurred to him that he was in the position of the artist
and the patients were like clay in his hands. He remembered with an amused
shrug of the shoulders his life in Paris, absorbed in colour, tone,
values, Heaven knows what, with the aim of producing beautiful things: the
directness of contact with men and women gave a thrill of power which he
had never known. He found an endless excitement in looking at their faces
and hearing them speak; they came in each with his peculiarity, some
shuffling uncouthly, some with a little trip, others with heavy, slow
tread, some shyly. Often you could guess their trades by the look of them.
You learnt in what way to put your questions so that they should be
understood, you discovered on what subjects nearly all lied, and by what
inquiries you could extort the truth notwithstanding. You saw the
different way people took the same things. The diagnosis of dangerous
illness would be accepted by one with a laugh and a joke, by another with
dumb despair. Philip found that he was less shy with these people than he
had ever been with others; he felt not exactly sympathy, for sympathy
suggests condescension; but he felt at home with them. He found that he
was able to put them at their ease, and, when he had been given a case to
find out what he could about it, it seemed to him that the patient
delivered himself into his hands with a peculiar confidence.
"Perhaps," he thought to himself, with a smile, "perhaps I'm cut out to be
a doctor. It would be rather a lark if I'd hit upon the one thing I'm fit
for."
It seemed to Philip that he alone of the clerks saw the dramatic interest
of those afternoons. To the others men and women were only cases, good if
they were complicated, tiresome if obvious; they heard murmurs and were
astonished at abnormal livers; an unexpected sound in the lungs gave them
something to talk about. But to Philip there was much more. He found an
interest in just looking at them, in the shape of their heads and their
hands, in the look of their eyes and the length of their noses. You saw in
that room human nature taken by surprise, and often the mask of custom was
torn off rudely, showing you the soul all raw. Sometimes you saw an
untaught stoicism which was profoundly moving. Once Philip saw a man,
rough and illiterate, told his case was hopeless; and, self-controlled
himself, he wondered at the splendid instinct which forced the fellow to
keep a stiff upper-lip before strangers. But was it possible for him to be
brave when he was by himself, face to face with his soul, or would he then
surrender to despair? Sometimes there was tragedy. Once a young woman
brought her sister to be examined, a girl of eighteen, with delicate
features and large blue eyes, fair hair that sparkled with gold when a ray
of autumn sunshine touched it for a moment, and a skin of amazing beauty.
The students' eyes went to her with little smiles. They did not often see
a pretty girl in these dingy rooms. The elder woman gave the family
history, father and mother had died of phthisis, a brother and a sister,
these two were the only ones left. The girl had been coughing lately and
losing weight. She took off her blouse and the skin of her neck was like
milk. Dr. Tyrell examined her quietly, with his usual rapid method; he
told two or three of his clerks to apply their stethoscopes to a place he
indicated with his finger; and then she was allowed to dress. The sister
was standing a little apart and she spoke to him in a low voice, so that
the girl should not hear. Her voice trembled with fear.
"She hasn't got it, doctor, has she?"
"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it."
"She was the last one. When she goes I shan't have anybody."
She began to cry, while the doctor looked at her gravely; he thought she
too had the type; she would not make old bones either. The girl turned
round and saw her sister's tears. She understood what they meant. The
colour fled from her lovely face and tears fell down her cheeks. The two
stood for a minute or two, crying silently, and then the older, forgetting
the indifferent crowd that watched them, went up to her, took her in her
arms, and rocked her gently to and fro as if she were a baby.
When they were gone a student asked:
"How long d'you think she'll last, sir?"
Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders.
"Her brother and sister died within three months of the first symptoms.
She'll do the same. If they were rich one might do something. You can't
tell these people to go to St. Moritz. Nothing can be done for them."
Once a man who was strong and in all the power of his manhood came because
a persistent aching troubled him and his club-doctor did not seem to do
him any good; and the verdict for him too was death, not the inevitable
death that horrified and yet was tolerable because science was helpless
before it, but the death which was inevitable because the man was a little
wheel in the great machine of a complex civilisation, and had as little
power of changing the circumstances as an automaton. Complete rest was his
only chance. The physician did not ask impossibilities.
"You ought to get some very much lighter job."
"There ain't no light jobs in my business."
"Well, if you go on like this you'll kill yourself. You're very ill."
"D'you mean to say I'm going to die?"
"I shouldn't like to say that, but you're certainly unfit for hard work."
"If I don't work who's to keep the wife and the kids?"
Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders. The dilemma had been presented to him
a hundred times. Time was pressing and there were many patients to be
seen.
"Well, I'll give you some medicine and you can come back in a week and
tell me how you're getting on."
The man took his letter with the useless prescription written upon it and
walked out. The doctor might say what he liked. He did not feel so bad
that he could not go on working. He had a good job and he could not afford
to throw it away.
"I give him a year," said Dr. Tyrell.
Sometimes there was comedy. Now and then came a flash of cockney humour,
now and then some old lady, a character such as Charles Dickens might have
drawn, would amuse them by her garrulous oddities. Once a woman came who
was a member of the ballet at a famous music-hall. She looked fifty, but
gave her age as twenty-eight. She was outrageously painted and ogled the
students impudently with large black eyes; her smiles were grossly
alluring. She had abundant self-confidence and treated Dr. Tyrell, vastly
amused, with the easy familiarity with which she might have used an
intoxicated admirer. She had chronic bronchitis, and told him it hindered
her in the exercise of her profession.
"I don't know why I should 'ave such a thing, upon my word I don't. I've
never 'ad a day's illness in my life. You've only got to look at me to
know that."
She rolled her eyes round the young men, with a long sweep of her painted
eyelashes, and flashed her yellow teeth at them. She spoke with a cockney
accent, but with an affectation of refinement which made every word a
feast of fun.
"It's what they call a winter cough," answered Dr. Tyrell gravely. "A
great many middle-aged women have it."
"Well, I never! That is a nice thing to say to a lady. No one ever called
me middle-aged before."
She opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head on one side, looking at
him with indescribable archness.
"That is the disadvantage of our profession," said he. "It forces us
sometimes to be ungallant."
She took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious smile.
"You will come and see me dance, dearie, won't you?"
"I will indeed."
He rang the bell for the next case.
"I am glad you gentlemen were here to protect me."
But on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy nor of comedy.
There was no describing it. It was manifold and various; there were tears
and laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious and interesting and
indifferent; it was as you saw it: it was tumultuous and passionate; it
was grave; it was sad and comic; it was trivial; it was simple and
complex; joy was there and despair; the love of mothers for their
children, and of men for women; lust trailed itself through the rooms with
leaden feet, punishing the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and
wretched children; drink seized men and women and cost its inevitable
price; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning of life, filling
some poor girl with terror and shame, was diagnosed there. There was
neither good nor bad there. There were just facts. It was life.
LXXXII
Towards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing to a close his three
months as clerk in the out-patients' department, he received a letter from
Lawson, who was in Paris.
Dear Philip,
Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you. He is living at 43
Hyde Street, Soho. I don't know where it is, but I daresay you will be
able to find out. Be a brick and look after him a bit. He is very down on
his luck. He will tell you what he is doing. Things are going on here very
much as usual. Nothing seems to have changed since you were here. Clutton
is back, but he has become quite impossible. He has quarrelled with
everybody. As far as I can make out he hasn't got a cent, he lives in a
little studio right away beyond the Jardin des Plantes, but he won't let
anybody see his work. He doesn't show anywhere, so one doesn't know what
he is doing. He may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off his
head. By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other day. He was showing
Mrs. Flanagan round the Quarter. He has chucked art and is now in popper's
business. He seems to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I'm
trying to work a portrait. How much would you ask if you were me? I don't
want to frighten them, and then on the other hand I don't want to be such
an ass as to ask L150 if they're quite willing to give L300.
Yours ever,
Frederick Lawson.
Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following letter. It
was written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelope
was dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post.
Dear Carey,
Of course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I had some part in
rescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which myself am hopelessly
immersed. I shall be glad to see you. I am a stranger in a strange city
and I am buffeted by the philistines. It will be pleasant to talk of
Paris. I do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a
magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of Monsieur
Purgon's profession, but you will find me eating modestly any evening
between seven and eight at a restaurant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean
Street.
Your sincere
J. Cronshaw.
Philip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant, consisting of
one small room, was of the poorest class, and Cronshaw seemed to be its
only customer. He was sitting in the corner, well away from draughts,
wearing the same shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen him
without, with his old bowler on his head.
"I eat here because I can be alone," he said. "They are not doing well;
the only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out of
a job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable. But the
ruin of their fortunes is my advantage."
Cronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe. It was nearly three years
since they had met, and Philip was shocked by the change in his
appearance. He had been rather corpulent, but now he had a dried-up,
yellow look: the skin of his neck was loose and winkled; his clothes hung
about him as though they had been bought for someone else; and his collar,
three or four sizes too large, added to the slatternliness of his
appearance. His hands trembled continually. Philip remembered the
handwriting which scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazard
letters. Cronshaw was evidently very ill.
"I eat little these days," he said. "I'm very sick in the morning. I'm
just having some soup for my dinner, and then I shall have a bit of
cheese."
Philip's glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and Cronshaw, seeing
it, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions of
common sense.
"You have diagnosed my case, and you think it's very wrong of me to drink
absinthe."
"You've evidently got cirrhosis of the liver," said Philip.
"Evidently."
He looked at Philip in the way which had formerly had the power of making
him feel incredibly narrow. It seemed to point out that what he was
thinking was distressingly obvious; and when you have agreed with the
obvious what more is there to say? Philip changed the topic.
"When are you going back to Paris?"
"I'm not going back to Paris. I'm going to die."
The very naturalness with which he said this startled Philip. He thought
of half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile. He knew that
Cronshaw was a dying man.
"Are you going to settle in London then?" he asked lamely.
"What is London to me? I am a fish out of water. I walk through the
crowded streets, men jostle me, and I seem to walk in a dead city. I felt
that I couldn't die in Paris. I wanted to die among my own people. I don't
know what hidden instinct drew me back at the last."
Philip knew of the woman Cronshaw had lived with and the two
draggle-tailed children, but Cronshaw had never mentioned them to him, and
he did not like to speak of them. He wondered what had happened to them.
"I don't know why you talk of dying," he said.
"I had pneumonia a couple of winters ago, and they told me then it was a
miracle that I came through. It appears I'm extremely liable to it, and
another bout will kill me."
"Oh, what nonsense! You're not so bad as all that. You've only got to take
precautions. Why don't you give up drinking?"
"Because I don't choose. It doesn't matter what a man does if he's ready
to take the consequences. Well, I'm ready to take the consequences. You
talk glibly of giving up drinking, but it's the only thing I've got left
now. What do you think life would be to me without it? Can you understand
the happiness I get out of my absinthe? I yearn for it; and when I drink
it I savour every drop, and afterwards I feel my soul swimming in
ineffable happiness. It disgusts you. You are a puritan and in your heart
you despise sensual pleasures. Sensual pleasures are the most violent and
the most exquisite. I am a man blessed with vivid senses, and I have
indulged them with all my soul. I have to pay the penalty now, and I am
ready to pay."
Philip looked at him for a while steadily.
"Aren't you afraid?"
For a moment Cronshaw did not answer. He seemed to consider his reply.
"Sometimes, when I'm alone." He looked at Philip. "You think that's a
condemnation? You're wrong. I'm not afraid of my fear. It's folly, the
Christian argument that you should live always in view of your death. The
only way to live is to forget that you're going to die. Death is
unimportant. The fear of it should never influence a single action of the
wise man. I know that I shall die struggling for breath, and I know that
I shall be horribly afraid. I know that I shall not be able to keep myself
from regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a pass; but
I disown that regret. I now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold still
my soul in my hands, and I regret nothing."
"D'you remember that Persian carpet you gave me?" asked Philip.
Cronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days.
"I told you that it would give you an answer to your question when you
asked me what was the meaning of life. Well, have you discovered the
answer?"
"No," smiled Philip. "Won't you tell it me?"
"No, no, I can't do that. The answer is meaningless unless you discover it
for yourself."
LXXXIII
Cronshaw was publishing his poems. His friends had been urging him to do
this for years, but his laziness made it impossible for him to take the
necessary steps. He had always answered their exhortations by telling them
that the love of poetry was dead in England. You brought out a book which
had cost you years of thought and labour; it was given two or three
contemptuous lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirty
copies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. He had long
since worn out the desire for fame. That was an illusion like all else.
But one of his friends had taken the matter into his own hands. This was
a man of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom Philip had met once or twice
with Cronshaw in the cafes of the Quarter. He had a considerable
reputation in England as a critic and was the accredited exponent in this
country of modern French literature. He had lived a good deal in France
among the men who made the Mercure de France the liveliest review of the
day, and by the simple process of expressing in English their point of
view he had acquired in England a reputation for originality. Philip had
read some of his articles. He had formed a style for himself by a close
imitation of Sir Thomas Browne; he used elaborate sentences, carefully
balanced, and obsolete, resplendent words: it gave his writing an
appearance of individuality. Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to give
him all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume of
reasonable size. He promised to use his influence with publishers.
Cronshaw was in want of money. Since his illness he had found it more
difficult than ever to work steadily; he made barely enough to keep
himself in liquor; and when Upjohn wrote to him that this publisher and
the other, though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while to
publish them, Cronshaw began to grow interested. He wrote impressing upon
Upjohn his great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Now
that he was going to die he wanted to leave behind him a published book,
and at the back of his mind was the feeling that he had produced great
poetry. He expected to burst upon the world like a new star. There was
something fine in keeping to himself these treasures of beauty all his
life and giving them to the world disdainfully when, he and the world
parting company, he had no further use for them.
His decision to come to England was caused directly by an announcement
from Leonard Upjohn that a publisher had consented to print the poems. By
a miracle of persuasion Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds in
advance of royalties.
"In advance of royalties, mind you," said Cronshaw to Philip. "Milton only
got ten pounds down."
Upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would ask
his friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw pretended to treat the
matter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted with
the thought of the stir he would make.
One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house at
which Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear.
Philip learned that he had not been there for three days. He got himself
something to eat and went round to the address from which Cronshaw had
first written to him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. It
was a street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows had
been broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper;
the doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shops
on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. Ragged children
played in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar
tune. Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw's house (there was a shop of
cheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly
Frenchwoman in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in.
"Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I
don't know if he's in. If you want him you had better go up and see."
The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in
the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the
first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were
three doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again;
there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He
knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It
opened. The room was dark.
"Who's that?"
He recognised Cronshaw's voice.
"Carey. Can I come in?"
He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink
was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in
the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end
to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little
space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window.
He made no movement, but gave a low chuckle.
"Why don't you light the candle?" he said then.
Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the
floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw
was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and
his baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.
"I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you
here?"
"George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his
work."
"Who's George?"
"I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial
apartment with me."
Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was
slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested.
"You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody else?" he
cried.
"Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at
eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn't
in my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away
the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He's a Swiss,
and I've always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an
entertaining angle."
"How long have you been in bed?"
"Three days."
"D'you mean to say you've had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last
three days? Why on earth didn't you send me a line? I can't bear to think
of you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you."
Cronshaw gave a little laugh.
"Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you're distressed. You
nice fellow."
Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he
felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of
the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile.
"I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am
indifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the
circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of
time and space?"
The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had
been able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and his
eyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he
read out a stanza.
"They don't look bad, do they?"
Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could
not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the other
hand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy.
"I say, I can't bear the thought of your remaining here. I've got an extra
room, it's empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me a
bed. Won't you come and live with me for a while? It'll save you the rent
of this."
"Oh, my dear boy, you'd insist on my keeping my window open."
"You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like."
"I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up today, only I felt
lazy."
"Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don't feel well
at any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look after
you."
"If it'll please you I'll come," said Cronshaw, with his torpid not
unpleasant smile.
"That'll be ripping."
They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philip
snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He found
Cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with a
small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already
packed: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were
sitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight of
him. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows
were carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He
had gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand
bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled
down at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.
Philip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of his
disease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did
not see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him to
share the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but
Cronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get
himself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in
Soho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew
a doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to
do. He always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at
mid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at
midnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished
Philip when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; and
the volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring,
when the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche of
Christmas books.
LXXXIV
At the new year Philip became dresser in the surgical out-patients'
department. The work was of the same character as that which he had just
been engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery has than
medicine; and a larger proportion of the patients suffered from those two
diseases which a supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread
broadcast. The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip dressed was called
Jacobs. He was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head,
and a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described by
the students as an `awful bounder'; but his cleverness, both as a surgeon
and as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this. He had also a
considerable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially on the patients
and on the students. He took a great pleasure in making his dressers look
foolish. Since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if he
were their equal, this was not very difficult. He enjoyed his afternoons,
with the home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students who
had to put up with them with a smile. One day a case came up of a boy with
a club-foot. His parents wanted to know whether anything could be done.
Mr. Jacobs turned to Philip.
"You'd better take this case, Carey. It's a subject you ought to know
something about."
Philip flushed, all the more because the surgeon spoke obviously with a
humorous intention, and his brow-beaten dressers laughed obsequiously. It
was in point of fact a subject which Philip, since coming to the hospital,
had studied with anxious attention. He had read everything in the library
which treated of talipes in its various forms. He made the boy take off
his boot and stocking. He was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue eyes, and
a freckled face. His father explained that they wanted something done if
possible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in earning his living. Philip
looked at him curiously. He was a jolly boy, not at all shy, but talkative
and with a cheekiness which his father reproved. He was much interested in
his foot.
"It's only for the looks of the thing, you know," he said to Philip. "I
don't find it no trouble."
"Be quiet, Ernie," said his father. "There's too much gas about you."
Philip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly over the shapelessness
of it. He could not understand why the boy felt none of the humiliation
which always oppressed himself. He wondered why he could not take his
deformity with that philosophic indifference. Presently Mr. Jacobs came up
to him. The boy was sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and Philip
stood on each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, were
students. With accustomed brilliancy Jacobs gave a graphic little
discourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the forms
which followed upon different anatomical conditions.
"I suppose you've got talipes equinus?" he said, turning suddenly to
Philip.
"Yes."
Philip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on him, and he cursed
himself because he could not help blushing. He felt the sweat start up in
the palms of his hands. The surgeon spoke with the fluency due to long
practice and with the admirable perspicacity which distinguished him. He
was tremendously interested in his profession. But Philip did not listen.
He was only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. Suddenly he
realised that Jacobs was addressing him.
"You don't mind taking off your sock for a moment, Carey?"
Philip felt a shudder pass through him. He had an impulse to tell the
surgeon to go to hell, but he had not the courage to make a scene. He
feared his brutal ridicule. He forced himself to appear indifferent.
"Not a bit," he said.
He sat down and unlaced his boot. His fingers were trembling and he
thought he should never untie the knot. He remembered how they had forced
him at school to show his foot, and the misery which had eaten into his
soul.
"He keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn't he?" said Jacobs, in his
rasping, cockney voice.
The attendant students giggled. Philip noticed that the boy whom they were
examining looked down at his foot with eager curiosity. Jacobs took the
foot in his hands and said:
"Yes, that's what I thought. I see you've had an operation. When you were
a child, I suppose?"
He went on with his fluent explanations. The students leaned over and
looked at the foot. Two or three examined it minutely when Jacobs let it
go.
"When you've quite done," said Philip, with a smile, ironically.
He could have killed them all. He thought how jolly it would be to jab a
chisel (he didn't know why that particular instrument came into his mind)
into their necks. What beasts men were! He wished he could believe in hell
so as to comfort himself with the thought of the horrible tortures which
would be theirs. Mr. Jacobs turned his attention to treatment. He talked
partly to the boy's father and partly to the students. Philip put on his
sock and laced his boot. At last the surgeon finished. But he seemed to
have an afterthought and turned to Philip.
"You know, I think it might be worth your while to have an operation. Of
course I couldn't give you a normal foot, but I think I can do something.
You might think about it, and when you want a holiday you can just come
into the hospital for a bit."
Philip had often asked himself whether anything could be done, but his
distaste for any reference to the subject had prevented him from
consulting any of the surgeons at the hospital. His reading told him that
whatever might have been done when he was a small boy, and then treatment
of talipes was not as skilful as in the present day, there was small
chance now of any great benefit. Still it would be worth while if an
operation made it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and to
limp less. He remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miracle
which his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. He smiled
ruefully.
"I was rather a simple soul in those days," he thought.
Towards the end of February it was clear that Cronshaw was growing much
worse. He was no longer able to get up. He lay in bed, insisting that the
window should be closed always, and refused to see a doctor; he would take
little nourishment, but demanded whiskey and cigarettes: Philip knew that
he should have neither, but Cronshaw's argument was unanswerable.
"I daresay they are killing me. I don't care. You've warned me, you've
done all that was necessary: I ignore your warning. Give me something to
drink and be damned to you."
Leonard Upjohn blew in two or three times a week, and there was something
of the dead leaf in his appearance which made the word exactly descriptive
of the manner of his appearance. He was a weedy-looking fellow of
five-and-thirty, with long pale hair and a white face; he had the look of
a man who lived too little in the open air. He wore a hat like a
dissenting minister's. Philip disliked him for his patronising manner and
was bored by his fluent conversation. Leonard Upjohn liked to hear himself
talk. He was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is the
first requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he was
telling people what they knew already. With measured words he told Philip
what to think of Rodin, Albert Samain, and Caesar Franck. Philip's
charwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since Philip was
obliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone. Upjohn
told Philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did not
offer to make it possible.
"It's dreadful to think of that great poet alone. Why, he might die
without a soul at hand."
"I think he very probably will," said Philip.
"How can you be so callous!"
"Why don't you come and do your work here every day, and then you'd be
near if he wanted anything?" asked Philip drily.
"I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings I'm used to, and
besides I go out so much."
Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had brought Cronshaw to
his own rooms.
"I wish you had left him in Soho," he said, with a wave of his long, thin
hands. "There was a touch of romance in that sordid attic. I could even
bear it if it were Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability of
Kennington! What a place for a poet to die!"
Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could only keep his temper
by remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of the
disease. Upjohn came sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw
would complain of him bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacency.
"The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty," he smiled. "He has a
middle-class mind."
He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a good deal of
self-control in his dealings with him. But one evening he could not
contain himself. He had had a hard day at the hospital and was tired out.
Leonard Upjohn came to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea in
the kitchen, and said that Cronshaw was complaining of Philip's insistence
that he should have a doctor.
"Don't you realise that you're enjoying a very rare, a very exquisite
privilege? You ought to do everything in your power, surely, to show your
sense of the greatness of your trust."
"It's a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill afford," said Philip.
Whenever there was any question of money, Leonard Upjohn assumed a
slightly disdainful expression. His sensitive temperament was offended by
the reference.
"There's something fine in Cronshaw's attitude, and you disturb it by your
importunity. You should make allowances for the delicate imaginings which
you cannot feel."
Philip's face darkened.
"Let us go in to Cronshaw," he said frigidly.
The poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a pipe in his mouth.
The air was musty; and the room, notwithstanding Philip's tidying up, had
the bedraggled look which seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went.
He took off his spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a towering rage.
"Upjohn tells me you've been complaining to him because I've urged you to
have a doctor," he said. "I want you to have a doctor, because you may die
any day, and if you hadn't been seen by anyone I shouldn't be able to get
a certificate. There'd have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for
not calling a doctor in."
"I hadn't thought of that. I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my
sake and not for your own. I'll see a doctor whenever you like."
Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the
shoulders. Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle.
"Don't look so angry, my dear. I know very well you want to do everything
you can for me. Let's see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me,
and at any rate it'll comfort you." He turned his eyes to Upjohn. "You're
a damned fool, Leonard. Why d'you want to worry the boy? He has quite
enough to do to put up with me. You'll do nothing more for me than write
a pretty article about me after my death. I know you."
Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that he was the sort of man to
be interested by the story, and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day's
work he accompanied Philip to Kennington. He could only agree with what
Philip had told him. The case was hopeless.
"I'll take him into the hospital if you like," he said. "He can have a
small ward."
"Nothing would induce him to come."
"You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack of
pneumonia."
Philip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised to
come again whenever Philip wanted him to. He left his address. When Philip
went back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading. He did not trouble to
inquire what the doctor had said.
"Are you satisfied now, dear boy?" he asked.
"I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrell
advised?"
"Nothing," smiled Cronshaw.
LXXXV
About a fortnight after this Philip, going home one evening after his
day's work at the hospital, knocked at the door of Cronshaw's room. He got
no answer and walked in. Cronshaw was lying huddled up on one side, and
Philip went up to the bed. He did not know whether Cronshaw was asleep or
merely lay there in one of his uncontrollable fits of irritability. He was
surprised to see that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder. Philip
gave a cry of dismay. He slipped his hand under Cronshaw's shirt and felt
his heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of
this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth. It
startled him to be alone with Cronshaw. He had his hat and coat still on,
and he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a cab and drove to
Harley Street. Dr. Tyrell was in.
"I say, would you mind coming at once? I think Cronshaw's dead."
"If he is it's not much good my coming, is it?"
"I should be awfully grateful if you would. I've got a cab at the door.
It'll only take half an hour."
Tyrell put on his hat. In the cab he asked him one or two questions.
"He seemed no worse than usual when I left this morning," said Philip. "It
gave me an awful shock when I went in just now. And the thought of his
dying all alone.... D'you think he knew he was going to die?"
Philip remembered what Cronshaw had said. He wondered whether at that last
moment he had been seized with the terror of death. Philip imagined
himself in such a plight, knowing it was inevitable and with no one, not
a soul, to give an encouraging word when the fear seized him.
"You're rather upset," said Dr. Tyrell.
He looked at him with his bright blue eyes. They were not unsympathetic.
When he saw Cronshaw, he said:
"He must have been dead for some hours. I should think he died in his
sleep. They do sometimes."
The body looked shrunk and ignoble. It was not like anything human. Dr.
Tyrell looked at it dispassionately. With a mechanical gesture he took out
his watch.
"Well, I must be getting along. I'll send the certificate round. I suppose
you'll communicate with the relatives."
"I don't think there are any," said Philip.
"How about the funeral?"
"Oh, I'll see to that."
Dr. Tyrell gave Philip a glance. He wondered whether he ought to offer a
couple of sovereigns towards it. He knew nothing of Philip's
circumstances; perhaps he could well afford the expense; Philip might
think it impertinent if he made any suggestion.
"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do," he said.
Philip and he went out together, parting on the doorstep, and Philip went
to a telegraph office in order to send a message to Leonard Upjohn. Then
he went to an undertaker whose shop he passed every day on his way to the
hospital. His attention had been drawn to it often by the three words in
silver lettering on a black cloth, which, with two model coffins, adorned
the window: Economy, Celerity, Propriety. They had always diverted him.
The undertaker was a little fat Jew with curly black hair, long and
greasy, in black, with a large diamond ring on a podgy finger. He received
Philip with a peculiar manner formed by the mingling of his natural
blatancy with the subdued air proper to his calling. He quickly saw that
Philip was very helpless and promised to send round a woman at once to
perform the needful offices. His suggestions for the funeral were very
magnificent; and Philip felt ashamed of himself when the undertaker seemed
to think his objections mean. It was horrible to haggle on such a matter,
and finally Philip consented to an expensiveness which he could ill
afford.
"I quite understand, sir," said the undertaker, "you don't want any show
and that--I'm not a believer in ostentation myself, mind you--but you want
it done gentlemanly-like. You leave it to me, I'll do it as cheap as it
can be done, 'aving regard to what's right and proper. I can't say more
than that, can I?"
Philip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate the woman came along
to lay out the corpse. Presently a telegram arrived from Leonard Upjohn.
Shocked and grieved beyond measure. Regret cannot come tonight. Dining
out. With you early tomorrow. Deepest sympathy. Upjohn.
In a little while the woman knocked at the door of the sitting-room.
"I've done now, sir. Will you come and look at 'im and see it's all
right?"
Philip followed her. Cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed
and his hands folded piously across his chest.
"You ought by rights to 'ave a few flowers, sir."
"I'll get some tomorrow."
She gave the body a glance of satisfaction. She had performed her job, and
now she rolled down her sleeves, took off her apron, and put on her
bonnet. Philip asked her how much he owed her.
"Well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some give me five
shillings."
Philip was ashamed to give her less than the larger sum. She thanked him
with just so much effusiveness as was seemly in presence of the grief he
might be supposed to feel, and left him. Philip went back into his
sitting-room, cleared away the remains of his supper, and sat down to read
Walsham's Surgery. He found it difficult. He felt singularly nervous.
When there was a sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat
violently. That thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now
was nothing, frightened him. The silence seemed alive, as if some
mysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of death
weighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying: Philip felt a sudden
horror for what had once been his friend. He tried to force himself to
read, but presently pushed away his book in despair. What troubled him was
the absolute futility of the life which had just ended. It did not matter
if Cronshaw was alive or dead. It would have been just as well if he had
never lived. Philip thought of Cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of
imagination to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair
on his head, buoyant and hopeful. Philip's rule of life, to follow one's
instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted
very well there: it was because Cronshaw had done this that he had made
such a lamentable failure of existence. It seemed that the instincts could
not be trusted. Philip was puzzled, and he asked himself what rule of life
was there, if that one was useless, and why people acted in one way rather
than in another. They acted according to their emotions, but their
emotions might be good or bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to
triumph or disaster. Life seemed an inextricable confusion. Men hurried
hither and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it
all escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying's sake.
Next morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel. He was
pleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted,
notwithstanding Philip's disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head;
but the wreath fitted grotesquely. It looked like the brim of a hat worn
by a low comedian in a music-hall.
"I'll put it over his heart instead," said Upjohn.
"You've put it on his stomach," remarked Philip.
Upjohn gave a thin smile.
"Only a poet knows where lies a poet's heart," he answered.
They went back into the sitting-room, and Philip told him what
arrangements he had made for the funeral.
"I hoped you've spared no expense. I should like the hearse to be followed
by a long string of empty coaches, and I should like the horses to wear
tall nodding plumes, and there should be a vast number of mutes with long
streamers on their hats. I like the thought of all those empty coaches."
"As the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on me and I'm not over
flush just now, I've tried to make it as moderate as possible."
"But, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn't you get him a pauper's
funeral? There would have been something poetic in that. You have an
unerring instinct for mediocrity."
Philip flushed a little, but did not answer; and next day he and Upjohn
followed the hearse in the one carriage which Philip had ordered. Lawson,
unable to come, had sent a wreath; and Philip, so that the coffin should
not seem too neglected, had bought a couple. On the way back the coachman
whipped up his horses. Philip was dog-tired and presently went to sleep.
He was awakened by Upjohn's voice.
"It's rather lucky the poems haven't come out yet. I think we'd better
hold them back a bit and I'll write a preface. I began thinking of it
during the drive to the cemetery. I believe I can do something rather
good. Anyhow I'll start with an article in The Saturday."
Philip did not reply, and there was silence between them. At last Upjohn
said:
"I daresay I'd be wiser not to whittle away my copy. I think I'll do an
article for one of the reviews, and then I can just print it afterwards as
a preface."
Philip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few weeks later it appeared.
The article made something of a stir, and extracts from it were printed in
many of the papers. It was a very good article, vaguely biographical, for
no one knew much of Cronshaw's early life, but delicate, tender, and
picturesque. Leonard Upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little
pictures of Cronshaw in the Latin Quarter, talking, writing poetry:
Cronshaw became a picturesque figure, an English Verlaine; and Leonard
Upjohn's coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more pathetic
grandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby little room in
Soho; and, with a reticence which was wholly charming and suggested a much
greater generosity than modesty allowed him to state, the efforts he made
to transport the Poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a
flowering orchard. And the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless,
which had taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of
Kennington! Leonard Upjohn described Kennington with that restrained
humour which a strict adherence to the vocabulary of Sir Thomas Browne
necessitated. With delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the
patience with which Cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of the young
student who had appointed himself his nurse, and the pitifulness of that
divine vagabond in those hopelessly middle-class surroundings. Beauty from
ashes, he quoted from Isaiah. It was a triumph of irony for that outcast
poet to die amid the trappings of vulgar respectability; it reminded
Leonard Upjohn of Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him
opportunity for an exquisite passage. And then he told how a friend--his
good taste did not suffer him more than to hint subtly who the friend was
with such gracious fancies--had laid a laurel wreath on the dead poet's
heart; and the beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest with a voluptuous
passion upon Apollo's leaves, fragrant with the fragrance of art, and more
green than jade brought by swart mariners from the manifold, inexplicable
China. And, an admirable contrast, the article ended with a description of
the middle-class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have been
buried like a prince or like a pauper. It was the crowning buffet, the
final victory of Philistia over art, beauty, and immaterial things.
Leonard Upjohn had never written anything better. It was a miracle of
charm, grace, and pity. He printed all Cronshaw's best poems in the course
of the article, so that when the volume appeared much of its point was
gone; but he advanced his own position a good deal. He was thenceforth a
critic to be reckoned with. He had seemed before a little aloof; but there
was a warm humanity about this article which was infinitely attractive.
LXXXVI
In the spring Philip, having finished his dressing in the out-patients'
department, became an in-patients' clerk. This appointment lasted six
months. The clerk spent every morning in the wards, first in the men's,
then in the women's, with the house-physician; he wrote up cases, made
tests, and passed the time of day with the nurses. On two afternoons a
week the physician in charge went round with a little knot of students,
examined the cases, and dispensed information. The work had not the
excitement, the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of the
work in the out-patients' department; but Philip picked up a good deal of
knowledge. He got on very well with the patients, and he was a little
flattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on them. He was
not conscious of any deep sympathy in their sufferings, but he liked them;
and because he put on no airs he was more popular with them than others of
the clerks. He was pleasant, encouraging, and friendly. Like everyone
connected with hospitals he found that male patients were more easy to get
on with than female. The women were often querulous and ill-tempered. They
complained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show them the
attention they thought their right; and they were troublesome, ungrateful,
and rude.
Presently Philip was fortunate enough to make a friend. One morning the
house-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the
bedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the `letter.' He
noticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist:
his name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and
his age was forty-eight. He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice,
and had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it
seemed necessary to watch. He answered the various questions which it was
Philip's duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. Since he was lying
in bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his small
head and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than average
height. Philip had the habit of looking at people's hands, and Athelny's
astonished him: they were very small, with long, tapering fingers and
beautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for the
jaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness. The patient kept them
outside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and
third fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed to
contemplate them with satisfaction. With a twinkle in his eyes Philip
glanced at the man's face. Notwithstanding the yellowness it was
distinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked,
aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray: he was
rather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily,
and he still wore it long.
"I see you're a journalist," said Philip. "What papers d'you write for?"
"I write for all the papers. You cannot open a paper without seeing some
of my writing." There was one by the side of the bed and reaching for it
he pointed out an advertisement. In large letters was the name of a firm
well-known to Philip, Lynn and Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below,
in type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement:
Procrastination is the Thief of Time. Then a question, startling because
of its reasonableness: Why not order today? There was a repetition, in
large letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer's heart: Why
not? Then, boldly: Thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading markets
of the world at astounding prices. Thousands of pairs of stockings from
the most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions.
Finally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntlet
in the lists: Why not order today?
"I'm the press representative of Lynn and Sedley." He gave a little wave
of his beautiful hand. "To what base uses..."
Philip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter of
routine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover things
which he might be expected to desire to conceal.
"Have you ever lived abroad?" asked Philip.
"I was in Spain for eleven years."
"What were you doing there?"
"I was secretary of the English water company at Toledo."
Philip remembered that Clutton had spent some months in Toledo, and the
journalist's answer made him look at him with more interest; but he felt
it would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve the
distance between the hospital patient and the staff. When he had finished
his examination he went on to other beds.
Thorpe Athelny's illness was not grave, and, though remaining very yellow,
he soon felt much better: he stayed in bed only because the physician
thought he should be kept under observation till certain reactions became
normal. One day, on entering the ward, Philip noticed that Athelny, pencil
in hand, was reading a book. He put it down when Philip came to his bed.
"May I see what you're reading?" asked Philip, who could never pass a book
without looking at it.
Philip took it up and saw that it was a volume of Spanish verse, the poems
of San Juan de la Cruz, and as he opened it a sheet of paper fell out.
Philip picked it up and noticed that verse was written upon it.
"You're not going to tell me you've been occupying your leisure in writing
poetry? That's a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient."
"I was trying to do some translations. D'you know Spanish?"
"No."
"Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don't you?"
"I don't indeed."
"He was one of the Spanish mystics. He's one of the best poets they've
ever had. I thought it would be worth while translating him into English."
"May I look at your translation?"
"It's very rough," said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacrity
which suggested that he was eager for him to read it.
It was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which
was hard to read: it was just like black letter.
"Doesn't it take you an awful time to write like that? It's wonderful."
"I don't know why handwriting shouldn't be beautiful." Philip read the
first verse:
In an obscure night
With anxious love inflamed
O happy lot!
Forth unobserved I went,
My house being now at rest...
Philip looked curiously at Thorpe Athelny. He did not know whether he felt
a little shy with him or was attracted by him. He was conscious that his
manner had been slightly patronising, and he flushed as it struck him that
Athelny might have thought him ridiculous.
"What an unusual name you've got," he remarked, for something to say.
"It's a very old Yorkshire name. Once it took the head of my family a
day's hard riding to make the circuit of his estates, but the mighty are
fallen. Fast women and slow horses."
He was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiar
intensity. He took up his volume of poetry.
"You should read Spanish," he said. "It is a noble tongue. It has not the
mellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and
organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in a
garden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood."
His grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and he
listened with pleasure while Athelny, with picturesque expressions and the
fire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of reading
Don Quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid, passionate,
of the enchanting Calderon.
"I must get on with my work," said Philip presently.
"Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell my wife to bring me a photograph of
Toledo, and I will show it you. Come and talk to me when you have the
chance. You don't know what a pleasure it gives me."
During the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there was
opportunity, Philip's acquaintance with the journalist increased. Thorpe
Athelny was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things, but he talked
inspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the imagination; Philip,
living so much in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming with
new pictures. Athelny had very good manners. He knew much more than
Philip, both of the world and of books; he was a much older man; and the
readiness of his conversation gave him a certain superiority; but he was
in the hospital a recipient of charity, subject to strict rules; and he
held himself between the two positions with ease and humour. Once Philip
asked him why he had come to the hospital.
"Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits that society provides.
I take advantage of the age I live in. When I'm ill I get myself patched
up in a hospital and I have no false shame, and I send my children to be
educated at the board-school."
"Do you really?" said Philip.
"And a capital education they get too, much better than I got at
Winchester. How else do you think I could educate them at all? I've got
nine. You must come and see them all when I get home again. Will you?"
"I'd like to very much," said Philip.
LXXXVII
Ten days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to leave the hospital. He
gave Philip his address, and Philip promised to dine with him at one
o'clock on the following Sunday. Athelny had told him that he lived in a
house built by Inigo Jones; he had raved, as he raved over everything,
over the balustrade of old oak; and when he came down to open the door for
Philip he made him at once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. It
was a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of
its period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, which
had once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there was
a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile the
rents were small, and Athelny was able to get the two upper floors at a
price which suited his income. Philip had not seen him up before and was
surprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and five
inches high. He was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of the
sort worn by working men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; he
wore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a
flowing bow of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages of
Punch. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm. He began talking at once of
the house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters.
"Look at it, feel it, it's like silk. What a miracle of grace! And in five
years the house-breaker will sell it for firewood."
He insisted on taking Philip into a room on the first floor, where a man
in shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having their
Sunday dinner.
"I've just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. Did you
ever see anything so wonderful? How are you, Mrs. Hodgson? This is Mr.
Carey, who looked after me when I was in the hospital."
"Come in, sir," said the man. "Any friend of Mr. Athelny's is welcome. Mr.
Athelny shows the ceiling to all his friends. And it don't matter what
we're doing, if we're in bed or if I'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes."
Philip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a little queer; but they
liked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursed
with his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-century
ceiling.
"What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson? You're an influential
citizen, why don't you write to the papers and protest?"
The man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to Philip:
"Mr. Athelny will 'ave his little joke. They do say these 'ouses are that
insanitory, it's not safe to live in them."
"Sanitation be damned, give me art," cried Athelny. "I've got nine
children and they thrive on bad drains. No, no, I'm not going to take any
risk. None of your new-fangled notions for me! When I move from here I'm
going to make sure the drains are bad before I take anything."
There was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it.
"Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner."
"This is my third daughter," said Athelny, pointing to her with a dramatic
forefinger. "She is called Maria del Pilar, but she answers more willingly
to the name of Jane. Jane, your nose wants blowing."
"I haven't got a hanky, daddy."
"Tut, tut, child," he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna,
"what do you suppose the Almighty gave you fingers for?"
They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelled
in dark oak. In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs,
with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de
hieraje. They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there
were two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs,
and leathern seats. They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. The only
other piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with
gilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very
finely carved. There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken
but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanish
school in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject,
ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they
had a glow of passion. There was nothing in the room of any value, but the
effect was lovely. It was magnificent and yet austere. Philip felt that it
offered the very spirit of old Spain. Athelny was in the middle of showing
him the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and
secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair
hanging down her back, came in.
"Mother says dinner's ready and waiting and I'm to bring it in as soon as
you sit down."
"Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally." He turned to Philip. "Isn't
she enormous? She's my eldest. How old are you, Sally?"
"Fifteen, father, come next June."
"I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and I
dedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls her
Sally and her brother Pudding-Face."
The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed. She was
well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad
forehead. She had red cheeks.
"Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with Mr. Carey before
he sits down."
"Mother says she'll come in after dinner. She hasn't washed herself yet."
"Then we'll go in and see her ourselves. He mustn't eat the Yorkshire
pudding till he's shaken the hand that made it."
Philip followed his host into the kitchen. It was small and much
overcrowded. There had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as the
stranger entered. There was a large table in the middle and round it,
eager for dinner, were seated Athelny's children. A woman was standing at
the oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one.
"Here's Mr. Carey, Betty," said Athelny.
"Fancy bringing him in here. What will he think?"
She wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned up
above her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair. Mrs. Athelny was a
large woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blue
eyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, but
advancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat and
blousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the
colour had gone out of her hair. She straightened herself, wiped her hand
on her apron, and held it out.
"You're welcome, sir," she said, in a slow voice, with an accent that
seemed oddly familiar to Philip. "Athelny said you was very kind to him in
the 'orspital."
"Now you must be introduced to the live stock," said Athelny. "That is
Thorpe," he pointed to a chubby boy with curly hair, "he is my eldest son,
heir to the title, estates, and responsibilities of the family. There is
Athelstan, Harold, Edward." He pointed with his forefinger to three
smaller boys, all rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they felt
Philip's smiling eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates.
"Now the girls in order: Maria del Sol..."
"Pudding-Face," said one of the small boys.
"Your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. Maria de los Mercedes, Maria
del Pilar, Maria de la Concepcion, Maria del Rosario."
"I call them Sally, Molly, Connie, Rosie, and Jane," said Mrs. Athelny.
"Now, Athelny, you go into your own room and I'll send you your dinner.
I'll let the children come in afterwards for a bit when I've washed them."
"My dear, if I'd had the naming of you I should have called you Maria of
the Soapsuds. You're always torturing these wretched brats with soap."
"You go first, Mr. Carey, or I shall never get him to sit down and eat his
dinner."
Athelny and Philip installed themselves in the great monkish chairs, and
Sally brought them in two plates of beef, Yorkshire pudding, baked
potatoes, and cabbage. Athelny took sixpence out of his pocket and sent
her for a jug of beer.
"I hope you didn't have the table laid here on my account," said Philip.
"I should have been quite happy to eat with the children."
"Oh no, I always have my meals by myself. I like these antique customs. I
don't think that women ought to sit down at table with men. It ruins
conversation and I'm sure it's very bad for them. It puts ideas in their
heads, and women are never at ease with themselves when they have ideas."
Both host and guest ate with a hearty appetite.
"Did you ever taste such Yorkshire pudding? No one can make it like my
wife. That's the advantage of not marrying a lady. You noticed she wasn't
a lady, didn't you?"
It was an awkward question, and Philip did not know how to answer it.
"I never thought about it," he said lamely.
Athelny laughed. He had a peculiarly joyous laugh.
"No, she's not a lady, nor anything like it. Her father was a farmer, and
she's never bothered about aitches in her life. We've had twelve children
and nine of them are alive. I tell her it's about time she stopped, but
she's an obstinate woman, she's got into the habit of it now, and I don't
believe she'll be satisfied till she's had twenty."
At that moment Sally came in with the beer, and, having poured out a glass
for Philip, went to the other side of the table to pour some out for her
father. He put his hand round her waist.
"Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl? Only fifteen and she
might be twenty. Look at her cheeks. She's never had a day's illness in
her life. It'll be a lucky man who marries her, won't it, Sally?"
Sally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not much
embarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father's outbursts, but with an
easy modesty which was very attractive.
"Don't let your dinner get cold, father," she said, drawing herself away
from his arm. "You'll call when you're ready for your pudding, won't you?"
They were left alone, and Athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips.
He drank long and deep.
"My word, is there anything better than English beer?" he said. "Let us
thank God for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a good
appetite and beer. I was married to a lady once. My God! Don't marry a
lady, my boy."
Philip laughed. He was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man in
his odd clothes, the panelled room and the Spanish furniture, the English
fare: the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity.
"You laugh, my boy, you can't imagine marrying beneath you. You want a
wife who's an intellectual equal. Your head is crammed full of ideas of
comradeship. Stuff and nonsense, my boy! A man doesn't want to talk
politics to his wife, and what do you think I care for Betty's views upon
the Differential Calculus? A man wants a wife who can cook his dinner and
look after his children. I've tried both and I know. Let's have the
pudding in."
He clapped his hands and presently Sally came. When she took away the
plates, Philip wanted to get up and help her, but Athelny stopped him.
"Let her alone, my boy. She doesn't want you to fuss about, do you, Sally?
And she won't think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you.
She don't care a damn for chivalry, do you, Sally?"
"No, father," answered Sally demurely.
"Do you know what I'm talking about, Sally?"
"No, father. But you know mother doesn't like you to swear."
Athelny laughed boisterously. Sally brought them plates of rice pudding,
rich, creamy, and luscious. Athelny attacked his with gusto.
"One of the rules of this house is that Sunday dinner should never alter.
It is a ritual. Roast beef and rice pudding for fifty Sundays in the year.
On Easter Sunday lamb and green peas, and at Michaelmas roast goose and
apple sauce. Thus we preserve the traditions of our people. When Sally
marries she will forget many of the wise things I have taught her, but she
will never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat on
Sundays roast beef and rice pudding."
"You'll call when you're ready for cheese," said Sally impassively.
"D'you know the legend of the halcyon?" said Athelny: Philip was growing
used to his rapid leaping from one subject to another. "When the
kingfisher, flying over the sea, is exhausted, his mate places herself
beneath him and bears him along upon her stronger wings. That is what a
man wants in a wife, the halcyon. I lived with my first wife for three
years. She was a lady, she had fifteen hundred a year, and we used to give
nice little dinner parties in our little red brick house in Kensington.
She was a charming woman; they all said so, the barristers and their wives
who dined with us, and the literary stockbrokers, and the budding
politicians; oh, she was a charming woman. She made me go to church in a
silk hat and a frock coat, she took me to classical concerts, and she was
very fond of lectures on Sunday afternoon; and she sat down to breakfast
every morning at eight-thirty, and if I was late breakfast was cold; and
she read the right books, admired the right pictures, and adored the right
music. My God, how that woman bored me! She is charming still, and she
lives in the little red brick house in Kensington, with Morris papers and
Whistler's etchings on the walls, and gives the same nice little dinner
parties, with veal creams and ices from Gunter's, as she did twenty years
ago."
Philip did not ask by what means the ill-matched couple had separated, but
Athelny told him.
"Betty's not my wife, you know; my wife wouldn't divorce me. The children
are bastards, every jack one of them, and are they any the worse for that?
Betty was one of the maids in the little red brick house in Kensington.
Four or five years ago I was on my uppers, and I had seven children, and
I went to my wife and asked her to help me. She said she'd make me an
allowance if I'd give Betty up and go abroad. Can you see me giving Betty
up? We starved for a while instead. My wife said I loved the gutter. I've
degenerated; I've come down in the world; I earn three pounds a week as
press agent to a linendraper, and every day I thank God that I'm not in
the little red brick house in Kensington."
Sally brought in Cheddar cheese, and Athelny went on with his fluent
conversation.
"It's the greatest mistake in the world to think that one needs money to
bring up a family. You need money to make them gentlemen and ladies, but
I don't want my children to be ladies and gentlemen. Sally's going to earn
her living in another year. She's to be apprenticed to a dressmaker,
aren't you, Sally? And the boys are going to serve their country. I want
them all to go into the Navy; it's a jolly life and a healthy life, good
food, good pay, and a pension to end their days on."
Philip lit his pipe. Athelny smoked cigarettes of Havana tobacco, which he
rolled himself. Sally cleared away. Philip was reserved, and it
embarrassed him to be the recipient of so many confidences. Athelny, with
his powerful voice in the diminutive body, with his bombast, with his
foreign look, with his emphasis, was an astonishing creature. He reminded
Philip a good deal of Cronshaw. He appeared to have the same independence
of thought, the same bohemianism, but he had an infinitely more vivacious
temperament; his mind was coarser, and he had not that interest in the
abstract which made Cronshaw's conversation so captivating. Athelny was
very proud of the county family to which he belonged; he showed Philip
photographs of an Elizabethan mansion, and told him:
"The Athelnys have lived there for seven centuries, my boy. Ah, if you saw
the chimney-pieces and the ceilings!"
There was a cupboard in the wainscoting and from this he took a family
tree. He showed it to Philip with child-like satisfaction. It was indeed
imposing.
"You see how the family names recur, Thorpe, Athelstan, Harold, Edward;
I've used the family names for my sons. And the girls, you see, I've given
Spanish names to."
An uneasy feeling came to Philip that possibly the whole story was an
elaborate imposture, not told with any base motive, but merely from a wish
to impress, startle, and amaze. Athelny had told him that he was at
Winchester; but Philip, sensitive to differences of manner, did not feel
that his host had the characteristics of a man educated at a great public
school. While he pointed out the great alliances which his ancestors had
formed, Philip amused himself by wondering whether Athelny was not the son
of some tradesman in Winchester, auctioneer or coal-merchant, and whether
a similarity of surname was not his only connection with the ancient
family whose tree he was displaying.
LXXXVIII
There was a knock at the door and a troop of children came in. They were
clean and tidy, now. their faces shone with soap, and their hair was
plastered down; they were going to Sunday school under Sally's charge.
Athelny joked with them in his dramatic, exuberant fashion, and you could
see that he was devoted to them all. His pride in their good health and
their good looks was touching. Philip felt that they were a little shy in
his presence, and when their father sent them off they fled from the room
in evident relief. In a few minutes Mrs. Athelny appeared. She had taken
her hair out of the curling pins and now wore an elaborate fringe. She had
on a plain black dress, a hat with cheap flowers, and was forcing her
hands, red and coarse from much work, into black kid gloves.
"I'm going to church, Athelny," she said. "There's nothing you'll be
wanting, is there?"
"Only your prayers, my Betty."
"They won't do you much good, you're too far gone for that," she smiled.
Then, turning to Philip, she drawled: "I can't get him to go to church.
He's no better than an atheist."
"Doesn't she look like Rubens' second wife?" cried Athelny. "Wouldn't she
look splendid in a seventeenth-century costume? That's the sort of wife to
marry, my boy. Look at her."
"I believe you'd talk the hind leg off a donkey, Athelny," she answered
calmly.
She succeeded in buttoning her gloves, but before she went she turned to
Philip with a kindly, slightly embarrassed smile.
"You'll stay to tea, won't you? Athelny likes someone to talk to, and it's
not often he gets anybody who's clever enough."
"Of course he'll stay to tea," said Athelny. Then when his wife had gone:
"I make a point of the children going to Sunday school, and I like Betty
to go to church. I think women ought to be religious. I don't believe
myself, but I like women and children to."
Philip, strait-laced in matters of truth, was a little shocked by this
airy attitude.
"But how can you look on while your children are being taught things which
you don't think are true?"
"If they're beautiful I don't much mind if they're not true. It's asking
a great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as to your
sense of the aesthetic. I wanted Betty to become a Roman Catholic, I
should have liked to see her converted in a crown of paper flowers, but
she's hopelessly Protestant. Besides, religion is a matter of temperament;
you will believe anything if you have the religious turn of mind, and if
you haven't it doesn't matter what beliefs were instilled into you, you
will grow out of them. Perhaps religion is the best school of morality. It
is like one of those drugs you gentlemen use in medicine which carries
another in solution: it is of no efficacy in itself, but enables the other
to be absorbed. You take your morality because it is combined with
religion; you lose the religion and the morality stays behind. A man is
more likely to be a good man if he has learned goodness through the love
of God than through a perusal of Herbert Spencer."
This was contrary to all Philip's ideas. He still looked upon Christianity
as a degrading bondage that must be cast away at any cost; it was
connected subconsciously in his mind with the dreary services in the
cathedral at Tercanbury, and the long hours of boredom in the cold church
at Blackstable; and the morality of which Athelny spoke was to him no more
than a part of the religion which a halting intelligence preserved, when
it had laid aside the beliefs which alone made it reasonable. But while he
was meditating a reply Athelny, more interested in hearing himself speak
than in discussion, broke into a tirade upon Roman Catholicism. For him it
was an essential part of Spain; and Spain meant much to him, because he
had escaped to it from the conventionality which during his married life
he had found so irksome. With large gestures and in the emphatic tone
which made what he said so striking, Athelny described to Philip the
Spanish cathedrals with their vast dark spaces, the massive gold of the
altar-pieces, and the sumptuous iron-work, gilt and faded, the air laden
with incense, the silence: Philip almost saw the Canons in their short
surplices of lawn, the acolytes in red, passing from the sacristy to the
choir; he almost heard the monotonous chanting of vespers. The names which
Athelny mentioned, Avila, Tarragona, Saragossa, Segovia, Cordova, were
like trumpets in his heart. He seemed to see the great gray piles of
granite set in old Spanish towns amid a landscape tawny, wild, and
windswept.
"I've always thought I should love to go to Seville," he said casually,
when Athelny, with one hand dramatically uplifted, paused for a moment.
"Seville!" cried Athelny. "No, no, don't go there. Seville: it brings to
the mind girls dancing with castanets, singing in gardens by the
Guadalquivir, bull-fights, orange-blossom, mantillas, mantones de
Manila. It is the Spain of comic opera and Montmartre. Its facile charm
can offer permanent entertainment only to an intelligence which is
superficial. Theophile Gautier got out of Seville all that it has to
offer. We who come after him can only repeat his sensations. He put large
fat hands on the obvious and there is nothing but the obvious there; and
it is all finger-marked and frayed. Murillo is its painter."
Athelny got up from his chair, walked over to the Spanish cabinet, let
down the front with its great gilt hinges and gorgeous lock, and displayed
a series of little drawers. He took out a bundle of photographs.
"Do you know El Greco?" he asked.
"Oh, I remember one of the men in Paris was awfully impressed by him."
"El Greco was the painter of Toledo. Betty couldn't find the photograph I
wanted to show you. It's a picture that El Greco painted of the city he
loved, and it's truer than any photograph. Come and sit at the table."
Philip dragged his chair forward, and Athelny set the photograph before
him. He looked at it curiously, for a long time, in silence. He stretched
out his hand for other photographs, and Athelny passed them to him. He had
never before seen the work of that enigmatic master; and at the first
glance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were
extraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were
extravagant. This was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the
photographs you had the impression of a troubling reality. Athelny was
describing eagerly, with vivid phrases, but Philip only heard vaguely what
he said. He was puzzled. He was curiously moved. These pictures seemed to
offer some meaning to him, but he did not know what the meaning was. There
were portraits of men with large, melancholy eyes which seemed to say you
knew not what; there were long monks in the Franciscan habit or in the
Dominican, with distraught faces, making gestures whose sense escaped you;
there was an Assumption of the Virgin; there was a Crucifixion in which
the painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the
flesh of Christ's dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there
was an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up towards the
empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid
ground: the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their draperies,
their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy.
The background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the
soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by
an uneasy moon.
"I've seen that sky in Toledo over and over again," said Athelny. "I have
an idea that when first El Greco came to the city it was by such a night,
and it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get
away from it."
Philip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master,
whose work he now saw for the first time. He thought that Clutton was the
most interesting of all the people he had known in Paris. His sardonic
manner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it
seemed to Philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force,
which sought vainly to express itself in painting. He was a man of unusual
character, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to
mysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to
say the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested. His
intellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit. It was not
surprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the Greek who had devised a
new technique to express the yearnings of his soul. Philip looked again at
the series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed
beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the
darkness of the background. El Greco was the painter of the soul; and
these gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with
their tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for
their eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of
the unseen. No painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a
place of passage. The souls of the men he painted speak their strange
longings through their eyes: their senses are miraculously acute, not for
sounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the
soul. The noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see
things which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded. His
lips are not lips that smile.
Philip, silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo, which seemed
to him the most arresting picture of them all. He could not take his eyes
off it. He felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new
discovery in life. He was tremulous with a sense of adventure. He thought
for an instant of the love that had consumed him: love seemed very trivial
beside the excitement which now leaped in his heart. The picture he looked
at was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy
was holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure
representing the river Tagus; and in the sky was the Virgin surrounded by
angels. It was a landscape alien to all Philip's notion, for he had lived
in circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to
himself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in
whose steps humbly he had sought to walk. He heard Athelny say that the
representation was so precise that when the citizens of Toledo came to
look at the picture they recognised their houses. The painter had painted
exactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit. There was
something unearthly in that city of pale gray. It was a city of the soul
seen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day. It stood on a
green hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by
massive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of
man's invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by
mortifications of the flesh. It was a stronghold of God. Those gray houses
were made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in
their aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them. You might
walk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and
yet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every
inner sense. It was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like
one who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and
fro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience,
intimate but inexpressible, of the absolute. And without surprise, in that
blue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses,
with its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries
and the sighs of lost souls, you saw the Blessed Virgin with a gown of red
and a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels. Philip felt that the
inhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without
astonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways.
Athelny spoke of the mystical writers of Spain, of Teresa de Avila, San
Juan de la Cruz, Fray Luis de Leon; in all of them was that passion for
the unseen which Philip felt in the pictures of El Greco: they seemed to
have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible. They were
Spaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of
a great nation: their fancies were rich with the glories of America and
the green islands of the Caribbean Sea; in their veins was the power that
had come from age-long battling with the Moor; they were proud, for they
were masters of the world; and they felt in themselves the wide distances,
the tawny wastes, the snow-capped mountains of Castile, the sunshine and
the blue sky, and the flowering plains of Andalusia. Life was passionate
and manifold, and because it offered so much they felt a restless yearning
for something more; because they were human they were unsatisfied; and
they threw this eager vitality of theirs into a vehement striving after
the ineffable. Athelny was not displeased to find someone to whom he could
read the translations with which for some time he had amused his leisure;
and in his fine, vibrating voice he recited the canticle of the Soul and
Christ her lover, the lovely poem which begins with the words en una
noche oscura, and the noche serena of Fray Luis de Leon. He had
translated them quite simply, not without skill, and he had found words
which at all events suggested the rough-hewn grandeur of the original. The
pictures of El Greco explained them, and they explained the pictures.
Philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a
passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for
the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself,
because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not
the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and
since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself
with despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair,
languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his
good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the
uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours
of the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that
Philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did
not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he
rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty,
selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned
that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search
after beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of
chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of
prettiness?
But here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all
hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt
himself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was
something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it
was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness;
it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity,
ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was
realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by
the more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more
profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and
the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted,
appeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what
that significance was. It was like a message which it was very important
for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he
could not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and
here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and
vague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by
flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain
range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but
that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as
passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see
that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with
experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown
lands.
LXXXIX
The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatter
up the stairs. Athelny opened the door for the children coming back from
Sunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. Gaily he asked
them what they had learned. Sally appeared for a moment, with instructions
from her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got tea
ready; and Athelny began to tell them one of Hans Andersen's stories. They
were not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that Philip
was not formidable. Jane came and stood by him and presently settled
herself on his knees. It was the first time that Philip in his lonely life
had been present in a family circle: his eyes smiled as they rested on the
fair children engrossed in the fairy tale. The life of his new friend,
eccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty of
perfect naturalness. Sally came in once more.
"Now then, children, tea's ready," she said.
Jane slipped off Philip's knees, and they all went back to the kitchen.
Sally began to lay the cloth on the long Spanish table.
"Mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?" she asked. "I can
give the children their tea."
"Tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favour
us with her company," said Athelny.
It seemed to Philip that he could never say anything without an oratorical
flourish.
"Then I'll lay for her," said Sally.
She came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf,
a slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam. While she placed the things
on the table her father chaffed her. He said it was quite time she was
walking out; he told Philip that she was very proud, and would have
nothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, two
by two, outside the Sunday school and craved the honour of escorting her
home.
"You do talk, father," said Sally, with her slow, good-natured smile.
"You wouldn't think to look at her that a tailor's assistant has enlisted
in the army because she would not say how d'you do to him and an
electrical engineer, an electrical engineer, mind you, has taken to drink
because she refused to share her hymn-book with him in church. I shudder
to think what will happen when she puts her hair up."
"Mother'll bring the tea along herself," said Sally.
"Sally never pays any attention to me," laughed Athelny, looking at her
with fond, proud eyes. "She goes about her business indifferent to wars,
revolutions, and cataclysms. What a wife she'll make to an honest man!"
Mrs. Athelny brought in the tea. She sat down and proceeded to cut bread
and butter. It amused Philip to see that she treated her husband as though
he were a child. She spread jam for him and cut up the bread and butter
into convenient slices for him to eat. She had taken off her hat; and in
her Sunday dress, which seemed a little tight for her, she looked like one
of the farmers' wives whom Philip used to call on sometimes with his uncle
when he was a small boy. Then he knew why the sound of her voice was
familiar to him. She spoke just like the people round Blackstable.
"What part of the country d'you come from?" he asked her.
"I'm a Kentish woman. I come from Ferne."
"I thought as much. My uncle's Vicar of Blackstable."
"That's a funny thing now," she said. "I was wondering in Church just now
whether you was any connection of Mr. Carey. Many's the time I've seen
'im. A cousin of mine married Mr. Barker of Roxley Farm, over by
Blackstable Church, and I used to go and stay there often when I was a
girl. Isn't that a funny thing now?"
She looked at him with a new interest, and a brightness came into her
faded eyes. She asked him whether he knew Ferne. It was a pretty village
about ten miles across country from Blackstable, and the Vicar had come
over sometimes to Blackstable for the harvest thanksgiving. She mentioned
names of various farmers in the neighbourhood. She was delighted to talk
again of the country in which her youth was spent, and it was a pleasure
to her to recall scenes and people that had remained in her memory with
the tenacity peculiar to her class. It gave Philip a queer sensation too.
A breath of the country-side seemed to be wafted into that panelled room
in the middle of London. He seemed to see the fat Kentish fields with
their stately elms; and his nostrils dilated with the scent of the air; it
is laden with the salt of the North Sea, and that makes it keen and sharp.
Philip did not leave the Athelnys' till ten o'clock. The children came in
to say good-night at eight and quite naturally put up their faces for
Philip to kiss. His heart went out to them. Sally only held out her hand.
"Sally never kisses gentlemen till she's seen them twice," said her
father.
"You must ask me again then," said Philip.
"You mustn't take any notice of what father says," remarked Sally, with a
smile.
"She's a most self-possessed young woman," added her parent.
They had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while Mrs. Athelny was
putting the children to bed; and when Philip went into the kitchen to bid
her good-night (she had been sitting there, resting herself and reading
The Weekly Despatch) she invited him cordially to come again.
"There's always a good dinner on Sundays so long as Athelny's in work,"
she said, "and it's a charity to come and talk to him."
On the following Saturday Philip received a postcard from Athelny saying
that they were expecting him to dinner next day; but fearing their means
were not such that Mr. Athelny would desire him to accept, Philip wrote
back that he would only come to tea. He bought a large plum cake so that
his entertainment should cost nothing. He found the whole family glad to
see him, and the cake completed his conquest of the children. He insisted
that they should all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal was
noisy and hilarious.
Soon Philip got into the habit of going to Athelny's every Sunday. He
became a great favourite with the children, because he was simple and
unaffected and because it was so plain that he was fond of them. As soon
as they heard his ring at the door one of them popped a head out of window
to make sure it was he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuously
to let him in. They flung themselves into his arms. At tea they fought for
the privilege of sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him Uncle
Philip.
Athelny was very communicative, and little by little Philip learned the
various stages of his life. He had followed many occupations, and it
occurred to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything he
attempted. He had been on a tea plantation in Ceylon and a traveller in
America for Italian wines; his secretaryship of the water company in
Toledo had lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been a
journalist and for some time had worked as police-court reporter for an
evening paper; he had been sub-editor of a paper in the Midlands and
editor of another on the Riviera. From all his occupations he had gathered
amusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure in his own powers of
entertainment. He had read a great deal, chiefly delighting in books which
were unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse knowledge with
child-like enjoyment of the amazement of his hearers. Three or four years
before abject poverty had driven him to take the job of
press-representative to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt the
work unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly, the firmness of his
wife and the needs of his family had made him stick to it.
XC
When he left the Athelnys' Philip walked down Chancery Lane and along the
Strand to get a 'bus at the top of Parliament Street. One Sunday, when he
had known them about six weeks, he did this as usual, but he found the
Kennington 'bus full. It was June, but it had rained during the day and
the night was raw and cold. He walked up to Piccadilly Circus in order to
get a seat; the 'bus waited at the fountain, and when it arrived there
seldom had more than two or three people in it. This service ran every
quarter of an hour, and he had some time to wait. He looked idly at the
crowd. The public-houses were closing, and there were many people about.
His mind was busy with the ideas Athelny had the charming gift of
suggesting.
Suddenly his heart stood still. He saw Mildred. He had not thought of her
for weeks. She was crossing over from the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and
stopped at the shelter till a string of cabs passed by. She was watching
her opportunity and had no eyes for anything else. She wore a large black
straw hat with a mass of feathers on it and a black silk dress; at that
time it was fashionable for women to wear trains; the road was clear, and
Mildred crossed, her skirt trailing on the ground, and walked down
Piccadilly. Philip, his heart beating excitedly, followed her. He did not
wish to speak to her, but he wondered where she was going at that hour; he
wanted to get a look at her face. She walked slowly along and turned down
Air Street and so got through into Regent Street. She walked up again
towards the Circus. Philip was puzzled. He could not make out what she was
doing. Perhaps she was waiting for somebody, and he felt a great curiosity
to know who it was. She overtook a short man in a bowler hat, who was
strolling very slowly in the same direction as herself; she gave him a
sidelong glance as she passed. She walked a few steps more till she came
to Swan and Edgar's, then stopped and waited, facing the road. When the
man came up she smiled. The man stared at her for a moment, turned away
his head, and sauntered on. Then Philip understood.
He was overwhelmed with horror. For a moment he felt such a weakness in
his legs that he could hardly stand; then he walked after her quickly; he
touched her on the arm.
"Mildred."
She turned round with a violent start. He thought that she reddened, but
in the obscurity he could not see very well. For a while they stood and
looked at one another without speaking. At last she said:
"Fancy seeing you!"
He did not know what to answer; he was horribly shaken; and the phrases
that chased one another through his brain seemed incredibly melodramatic.
"It's awful," he gasped, almost to himself.
She did not say anything more, she turned away from him, and looked down
at the pavement. He felt that his face was distorted with misery.
"Isn't there anywhere we can go and talk?"
"I don't want to talk," she said sullenly. "Leave me alone, can't you?"
The thought struck him that perhaps she was in urgent need of money and
could not afford to go away at that hour.
"I've got a couple of sovereigns on me if you're hard up," he blurted out.
"I don't know what you mean. I was just walking along here on my way back
to my lodgings. I expected to meet one of the girls from where I work."
"For God's sake don't lie now," he said.
Then he saw that she was crying, and he repeated his question.
"Can't we go and talk somewhere? Can't I come back to your rooms?"
"No, you can't do that," she sobbed. "I'm not allowed to take gentlemen in
there. If you like I'll met you tomorrow."
He felt certain that she would not keep an appointment. He was not going
to let her go.
"No. You must take me somewhere now."
"Well, there is a room I know, but they'll charge six shillings for it."
"I don't mind that. Where is it?"
She gave him the address, and he called a cab. They drove to a shabby
street beyond the British Museum in the neighbourhood of the Gray's Inn
Road, and she stopped the cab at the corner.
"They don't like you to drive up to the door," she said.
They were the first words either of them had spoken since getting into the
cab. They walked a few yards and Mildred knocked three times, sharply, at
a door. Philip noticed in the fanlight a cardboard on which was an
announcement that apartments were to let. The door was opened quietly, and
an elderly, tall woman let them in. She gave Philip a stare and then spoke
to Mildred in an undertone. Mildred led Philip along a passage to a room
at the back. It was quite dark; she asked him for a match, and lit the
gas; there was no globe, and the gas flared shrilly. Philip saw that he
was in a dingy little bed-room with a suite of furniture, painted to look
like pine much too large for it; the lace curtains were very dirty; the
grate was hidden by a large paper fan. Mildred sank on the chair which
stood by the side of the chimney-piece. Philip sat on the edge of the bed.
He felt ashamed. He saw now that Mildred's cheeks were thick with rouge,
her eyebrows were blackened; but she looked thin and ill, and the red on
her cheeks exaggerated the greenish pallor of her skin. She stared at the
paper fan in a listless fashion. Philip could not think what to say, and
he had a choking in his throat as if he were going to cry. He covered his
eyes with his hands.
"My God, it is awful," he groaned.
"I don't know what you've got to fuss about. I should have thought you'd
have been rather pleased."
Philip did not answer, and in a moment she broke into a sob.
"You don't think I do it because I like it, do you?"
"Oh, my dear," he cried. "I'm so sorry, I'm so awfully sorry."
"That'll do me a fat lot of good."
Again Philip found nothing to say. He was desperately afraid of saying
anything which she might take for a reproach or a sneer.
"Where's the baby?" he asked at last.
"I've got her with me in London. I hadn't got the money to keep her on at
Brighton, so I had to take her. I've got a room up Highbury way. I told
them I was on the stage. It's a long way to have to come down to the West
End every day, but it's a rare job to find anyone who'll let to ladies at
all."
"Wouldn't they take you back at the shop?"
"I couldn't get any work to do anywhere. I walked my legs off looking for
work. I did get a job once, but I was off for a week because I was queer,
and when I went back they said they didn't want me any more. You can't
blame them either, can you? Them places, they can't afford to have girls
that aren't strong."
"You don't look very well now," said Philip.
"I wasn't fit to come out tonight, but I couldn't help myself, I wanted
the money. I wrote to Emil and told him I was broke, but he never even
answered the letter."
"You might have written to me."
"I didn't like to, not after what happened, and I didn't want you to know
I was in difficulties. I shouldn't have been surprised if you'd just told
me I'd only got what I deserved."
"You don't know me very well, do you, even now?"
For a moment he remembered all the anguish he had suffered on her account,
and he was sick with the recollection of his pain. But it was no more than
recollection. When he looked at her he knew that he no longer loved her.
He was very sorry for her, but he was glad to be free. Watching her
gravely, he asked himself why he had been so besotted with passion for
her.
"You're a gentleman in every sense of the word," she said. "You're the
only one I've ever met." She paused for a minute and then flushed. "I hate
asking you, Philip, but can you spare me anything?"
"It's lucky I've got some money on me. I'm afraid I've only got two
pounds."
He gave her the sovereigns.
"I'll pay you back, Philip."
"Oh, that's all right," he smiled. "You needn't worry."
He had said nothing that he wanted to say. They had talked as if the whole
thing were natural; and it looked as though she would go now, back to the
horror of her life, and he would be able to do nothing to prevent it. She
had got up to take the money, and they were both standing.
"Am I keeping you?" she asked. "I suppose you want to be getting home."
"No, I'm in no hurry," he answered.
"I'm glad to have a chance of sitting down."
Those words, with all they implied, tore his heart, and it was dreadfully
painful to see the weary way in which she sank back into the chair. The
silence lasted so long that Philip in his embarrassment lit a cigarette.
"It's very good of you not to have said anything disagreeable to me,
Philip. I thought you might say I didn't know what all."
He saw that she was crying again. He remembered how she had come to him
when Emil Miller had deserted her and how she had wept. The recollection
of her suffering and of his own humiliation seemed to render more
overwhelming the compassion he felt now.
"If I could only get out of it!" she moaned. "I hate it so. I'm unfit for
the life, I'm not the sort of girl for that. I'd do anything to get away
from it, I'd be a servant if I could. Oh, I wish I was dead."
And in pity for herself she broke down now completely. She sobbed
hysterically, and her thin body was shaken.
"Oh, you don't know what it is. Nobody knows till they've done it."
Philip could not bear to see her cry. He was tortured by the horror of her
position.
"Poor child," he whispered. "Poor child."
He was deeply moved. Suddenly he had an inspiration. It filled him with a
perfect ecstasy of happiness.
"Look here, if you want to get away from it, I've got an idea. I'm
frightfully hard up just now, I've got to be as economical as I can; but
I've got a sort of little flat now in Kennington and I've got a spare
room. If you like you and the baby can come and live there. I pay a woman
three and sixpence a week to keep the place clean and to do a little
cooking for me. You could do that and your food wouldn't come to much more
than the money I should save on her. It doesn't cost any more to feed two
than one, and I don't suppose the baby eats much."
She stopped crying and looked at him.
"D'you mean to say that you could take me back after all that's happened?"
Philip flushed a little in embarrassment at what he had to say.
"I don't want you to mistake me. I'm just giving you a room which doesn't
cost me anything and your food. I don't expect anything more from you than
that you should do exactly the same as the woman I have in does. Except
for that I don't want anything from you at all. I daresay you can cook
well enough for that."
She sprang to her feet and was about to come towards him.
"You are good to me, Philip."
"No, please stop where you are," he said hurriedly, putting out his hand
as though to push her away.
He did not know why it was, but he could not bear the thought that she
should touch him.
"I don't want to be anything more than a friend to you."
"You are good to me," she repeated. "You are good to me."
"Does that mean you'll come?"
"Oh, yes, I'd do anything to get away from this. You'll never regret what
you've done, Philip, never. When can I come, Philip?"
"You'd better come tomorrow."
Suddenly she burst into tears again.
"What on earth are you crying for now?" he smiled.
"I'm so grateful to you. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you?"
"Oh, that's all right. You'd better go home now."
He wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five
he would be ready for her. It was so late that he had to walk home, but it
did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to
walk on air.
XCI
Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told the
woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more.
Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window, went
down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it consisted now
of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had
been obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful. She wore
the same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she
had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black
which remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning: it made her look
very ill. She was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the
baby in her arms. She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but
commonplace things to say to one another.
"So you've got here all right."
"I've never lived in this part of London before."
Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died.
Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going
back to it; and since Cronshaw's death he had remained in the little room,
sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make
his friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly.
"You don't recognise her, I expect," said Mildred.
"I've not seen her since we took her down to Brighton."
"Where shall I put her? She's so heavy I can't carry her very long."
"I'm afraid I haven't got a cradle," said Philip, with a nervous laugh.
"Oh, she'll sleep with me. She always does."
Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She
recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings.
Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had
painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the
chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.
"In some ways I like it and in some ways I don't. I think you're better
looking than that."
"Things are looking up," laughed Philip. "You've never told me I was
good-looking before."
"I'm not one to worry myself about a man's looks. I don't like
good-looking men. They're too conceited for me."
Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a
looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her
large fringe.
"What'll the other people in the house say to my being here?" she asked
suddenly.
"Oh, there's only a man and his wife living here. He's out all day, and I
never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely to
themselves. I've not spoken two words to either of them since I came."
Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. Philip
tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair,
smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child.
He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not at all in love with
Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely;
he discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he
thought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. He could not
understand himself. Presently, knocking at the door, she came in again.
"I say, you needn't knock," he said. "Have you made the tour of the
mansion?"
"It's the smallest kitchen I've ever seen."
"You'll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts," he retorted
lightly.
"I see there's nothing in. I'd better go out and get something."
"Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical."
"What shall I get for supper?"
"You'd better get what you think you can cook," laughed Philip.
He gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later
and put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing
the stairs.
"I say, you are anaemic," said Philip. "I'll have to dose you with Blaud's
Pills."
"It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That's
tasty, isn't it? And you can't eat much of it, so it's more economical
than butcher's meat."
There was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver on,
Mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth.
"Why are you only laying one place?" asked Philip. "Aren't you going to
eat anything?"
Mildred flushed.
"I thought you mightn't like me to have my meals with you."
"Why on earth not?"
"Well, I'm only a servant, aren't I?"
"Don't be an ass. How can you be so silly?"
He smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor
thing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He
hesitated for an instant.
"Don't think I'm conferring any benefit on you," he said. "It's simply a
business arrangement, I'm giving you board and lodging in return for your
work. You don't owe me anything. And there's nothing humiliating to you in
it."
She did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip knew
from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked upon
service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient with
her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired and ill.
He got up and helped her to lay another place at the table. The baby was
awake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin's Food for it. The liver
and bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy's sake Philip had
given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the house a half a
bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do Mildred good. He did
his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but Mildred was subdued and
exhausted. When they had finished she got up to put the baby to bed.
"I think you'll do well to turn in early yourself," said Philip. "You look
absolute done up."
"I think I will after I've washed up."
Philip lit his pipe and began to read. It was pleasant to hear somebody
moving about in the next room. Sometimes his loneliness had oppressed him.
Mildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of plates as
she washed up. Philip smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of
her that she should do all that in a black silk dress. But he had work to
do, and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading Osler's
Medicine, which had recently taken the place in the students' favour of
Taylor's work, for many years the text-book most in use. Presently Mildred
came in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave her a casual glance, but
did not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt a little nervous. He
feared that Mildred might imagine he was going to make a nuisance of
himself, and he did not quite know how without brutality to reassure her.
"By the way, I've got a lecture at nine, so I should want breakfast at a
quarter past eight. Can you manage that?"
"Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I used to catch the
eight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning."
"I hope you'll find your room comfortable. You'll be a different woman
tomorrow after a long night in bed."
"I suppose you work till late?"
"I generally work till about eleven or half-past."
"I'll say good-night then."
"Good-night."
The table was between them. He did not offer to shake hands with her. She
shut the door quietly. He heard her moving about in the bed-room, and in
a little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in.
XCII
The following day was Tuesday. Philip as usual hurried through his
breakfast and dashed off to get to his lecture at nine. He had only time
to exchange a few words with Mildred. When he came back in the evening he
found her seated at the window, darning his socks.
"I say, you are industrious," he smiled. "What have you been doing with
yourself all day?"
"Oh, I gave the place a good cleaning and then I took baby out for a
little."
She was wearing an old black dress, the same as she had worn as uniform
when she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby, but she looked better in
it than in the silk of the day before. The baby was sitting on the floor.
She looked up at Philip with large, mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh
when he sat down beside her and began playing with her bare toes. The
afternoon sun came into the room and shed a mellow light.
"It's rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place. A woman
and a baby make very good decoration in a room."
He had gone to the hospital dispensary and got a bottle of Blaud's Pills,
He gave them to Mildred and told her she must take them after each meal.
It was a remedy she was used to, for she had taken it off and on ever
since she was sixteen.
"I'm sure Lawson would love that green skin of yours," said Philip. "He'd
say it was so paintable, but I'm terribly matter of fact nowadays, and I
shan't be happy till you're as pink and white as a milkmaid."
"I feel better already."
After a frugal supper Philip filled his pouch with tobacco and put on his
hat. It was on Tuesdays that he generally went to the tavern in Beak
Street, and he was glad that this day came so soon after Mildred's
arrival, for he wanted to make his relations with her perfectly clear.
"Are you going out?" she said.
"Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off. I shall see you tomorrow.
Good-night."
Philip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure. Macalister, the
philosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any
subject under the sun; Hayward came regularly when he was in London; and
though he and Macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit
to meet on that one evening in the week. Macalister thought Hayward a poor
creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked satirically
about Hayward's literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague
suggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but
the punch was good, and they were both fond of it; towards the end of the
evening they generally composed their differences and thought each other
capital fellows. This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson
also; Lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in
London and went out to dinner a good deal. They were all on excellent
terms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing on the
Stock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds apiece. It
was a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money:
he had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter's career when he was
noticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic
ladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it
advertised them both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of
patronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid
philistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife.
Lawson was brimming over with satisfaction.
"It's the most ripping way of making money that I've ever struck," he
cried. "I didn't have to put my hand in my pocket for sixpence."
"You lost something by not being here last Tuesday, young man," said
Macalister to Philip.
"My God, why didn't you write to me?" said Philip. "If you only knew how
useful a hundred pounds would be to me."
"Oh, there wasn't time for that. One has to be on the spot. I heard of a
good thing last Tuesday, and I asked these fellows if they'd like to have
a flutter, I bought them a thousand shares on Wednesday morning, and there
was a rise in the afternoon so I sold them at once. I made fifty pounds
for each of them and a couple of hundred for myself."
Philip was sick with envy. He had recently sold the last mortgage in which
his small fortune had been invested and now had only six hundred pounds
left. He was panic-stricken sometimes when he thought of the future. He
had still to keep himself for two years before he could be qualified, and
then he meant to try for hospital appointments, so that he could not
expect to earn anything for three years at least. With the most rigid
economy he would not have more than a hundred pounds left then. It was
very little to have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn
money or found himself at any time without work. A lucky gamble would make
all the difference to him.
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," said Macalister. "Something is sure to turn
up soon. There'll be a boom in South Africans again one of these days, and
then I'll see what I can do for you."
Macalister was in the Kaffir market and often told them stories of the
sudden fortunes that had been made in the great boom of a year or two
back.
"Well, don't forget next time."
They sat on talking till nearly midnight, and Philip, who lived furthest
off, was the first to go. If he did not catch the last tram he had to
walk, and that made him very late. As it was he did not reach home till
nearly half past twelve. When he got upstairs he was surprised to find
Mildred still sitting in his arm-chair.
"Why on earth aren't you in bed?" he cried.
"I wasn't sleepy."
"You ought to go to bed all the same. It would rest you."
She did not move. He noticed that since supper she had changed into her
black silk dress.
"I thought I'd rather wait up for you in case you wanted anything."
She looked at him, and the shadow of a smile played upon her thin pale
lips. Philip was not sure whether he understood or not. He was slightly
embarrassed, but assumed a cheerful, matter-of-fact air.
"It's very nice of you, but it's very naughty also. Run off to bed as fast
as you can, or you won't be able to get up tomorrow morning."
"I don't feel like going to bed."
"Nonsense," he said coldly.
She got up, a little sulkily, and went into her room. He smiled when he
heard her lock the door loudly.
The next few days passed without incident. Mildred settled down in her new
surroundings. When Philip hurried off after breakfast she had the whole
morning to do the housework. They ate very simply, but she liked to take
a long time to buy the few things they needed; she could not be bothered
to cook anything for her dinner, but made herself some cocoa and ate bread
and butter; then she took the baby out in the gocart, and when she came in
spent the rest of the afternoon in idleness. She was tired out, and it
suited her to do so little. She made friends with Philip's forbidding
landlady over the rent, which he left with Mildred to pay, and within a
week was able to tell him more about his neighbours than he had learned in
a year.
"She's a very nice woman," said Mildred. "Quite the lady. I told her we
was married."
"D'you think that was necessary?"
"Well, I had to tell her something. It looks so funny me being here and
not married to you. I didn't know what she'd think of me."
"I don't suppose she believed you for a moment."
"That she did, I lay. I told her we'd been married two years--I had to say
that, you know, because of baby--only your people wouldn't hear of it,
because you was only a student"--she pronounced it stoodent--"and so we
had to keep it a secret, but they'd given way now and we were all going
down to stay with them in the summer."
"You're a past mistress of the cock-and-bull story," said Philip.
He was vaguely irritated that Mildred still had this passion for telling
fibs. In the last two years she had learnt nothing. But he shrugged his
shoulders.
"When all's said and done," he reflected, "she hasn't had much chance."
It was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and the people of South
London seemed to have poured out into the streets. There was that
restlessness in the air which seizes the cockney sometimes when a turn in
the weather calls him into the open. After Mildred had cleared away the
supper she went and stood at the window. The street noises came up to
them, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of
a barrel-organ in the distance.
"I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?" she asked him, with a wistful
expression.
"I ought, but I don't know that I must. Why, d'you want me to do anything
else?"
"I'd like to go out for a bit. Couldn't we take a ride on the top of a
tram?"
"If you like."
"I'll just go and put on my hat," she said joyfully.
The night made it almost impossible to stay indoors. The baby was asleep
and could be safely left; Mildred said she had always left it alone at
night when she went out; it never woke. She was in high spirits when she
came back with her hat on. She had taken the opportunity to put on a
little rouge. Philip thought it was excitement which had brought a faint
colour to her pale cheeks; he was touched by her child-like delight, and
reproached himself for the austerity with which he had treated her. She
laughed when she got out into the air. The first tram they saw was going
towards Westminster Bridge and they got on it. Philip smoked his pipe, and
they looked at the crowded street. The shops were open, gaily lit, and
people were doing their shopping for the next day. They passed a
music-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out:
"Oh, Philip, do let's go there. I haven't been to a music-hall for
months."
"We can't afford stalls, you know."
"Oh, I don't mind, I shall be quite happy in the gallery."
They got down and walked back a hundred yards till they came to the doors.
They got capital seats for sixpence each, high up but not in the gallery,
and the night was so fine that there was plenty of room. Mildred's eyes
glistened. She enjoyed herself thoroughly. There was a simple-mindedness
in her which touched Philip. She was a puzzle to him. Certain things in
her still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which
was very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was hard; he
had blamed her for much that she could not help; and it was his own fault
if he had asked virtues from her which it was not in her power to give.
Under different circumstances she might have been a charming girl. She was
extraordinarily unfit for the battle of life. As he watched her now in
profile, her mouth slightly open and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he
thought she looked strangely virginal. He felt an overwhelming compassion
for her, and with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had
caused him. The smoky atmosphere made Philip's eyes ache, but when he
suggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to
stay till the end. He smiled and consented. She took his hand and held it
for the rest of the performance. When they streamed out with the audience
into the crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the
Westminster Bridge Road, looking at the people.
"I've not had such a good time as this for months," she said.
Philip's heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he had
carried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred and her baby into his flat.
It was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude. At last she grew tired
and they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and when they got
down and turned into their own street there was no one about. Mildred
slipped her arm through his.
"It's just like old times, Phil," she said.
She had never called him Phil before, that was what Griffiths called him;
and even now it gave him a curious pang. He remembered how much he had
wanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought quite
seriously of committing suicide. It all seemed very long ago. He smiled at
his past self. Now he felt nothing for Mildred but infinite pity. They
reached the house, and when they got into the sitting-room Philip lit the
gas.
"Is the baby all right?" he asked.
"I'll just go in and see."
When she came back it was to say that it had not stirred since she left
it. It was a wonderful child. Philip held out his hand.
"Well, good-night."
"D'you want to go to bed already?"
"It's nearly one. I'm not used to late hours these days," said Philip.
She took his hand and holding it looked into his eyes with a little smile.
"Phil, the other night in that room, when you asked me to come and stay
here, I didn't mean what you thought I meant, when you said you didn't
want me to be anything to you except just to cook and that sort of thing."
"Didn't you?" answered Philip, withdrawing his hand. "I did."
"Don't be such an old silly," she laughed.
He shook his head.
"I meant it quite seriously. I shouldn't have asked you to stay here on
any other condition."
"Why not?"
"I feel I couldn't. I can't explain it, but it would spoil it all."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, very well, it's just as you choose. I'm not one to go down on my
hands and knees for that, and chance it."
She went out, slamming the door behind her.
XCIII
Next morning Mildred was sulky and taciturn. She remained in her room till
it was time to get the dinner ready. She was a bad cook and could do
little more than chops and steaks; and she did not know how to use up odds
and ends, so that Philip was obliged to spend more money than he had
expected. When she served up she sat down opposite Philip, but would eat
nothing; he remarked on it; she said she had a bad headache and was not
hungry. He was glad that he had somewhere to spend the rest of the day;
the Athelnys were cheerful and friendly. It was a delightful and an
unexpected thing to realise that everyone in that household looked forward
with pleasure to his visit. Mildred had gone to bed when he came back, but
next day she was still silent. At supper she sat with a haughty expression
on her face and a little frown between her eyes. It made Philip impatient,
but he told himself that he must be considerate to her; he was bound to
make allowance.
"You're very silent," he said, with a pleasant smile.
"I'm paid to cook and clean, I didn't know I was expected to talk as
well."
He thought it an ungracious answer, but if they were going to live
together he must do all he could to make things go easily.
"I'm afraid you're cross with me about the other night," he said.
It was an awkward thing to speak about, but apparently it was necessary to
discuss it.
"I don't know what you mean," she answered.
"Please don't be angry with me. I should never have asked you to come and
live here if I'd not meant our relations to be merely friendly. I
suggested it because I thought you wanted a home and you would have a
chance of looking about for something to do."
"Oh, don't think I care."
"I don't for a moment," he hastened to say. "You mustn't think I'm
ungrateful. I realise that you only proposed it for my sake. It's just a
feeling I have, and I can't help it, it would make the whole thing ugly
and horrid."
"You are funny" she said, looking at him curiously. "I can't make you
out."
She was not angry with him now, but puzzled; she had no idea what he
meant: she accepted the situation, she had indeed a vague feeling that he
was behaving in a very noble fashion and that she ought to admire it; but
also she felt inclined to laugh at him and perhaps even to despise him a
little.
"He's a rum customer," she thought.
Life went smoothly enough with them. Philip spent all day at the hospital
and worked at home in the evening except when he went to the Athelnys' or
to the tavern in Beak Street. Once the physician for whom he clerked asked
him to a solemn dinner, and two or three times he went to parties given by
fellow-students. Mildred accepted the monotony of her life. If she minded
that Philip left her sometimes by herself in the evening she never
mentioned it. Occasionally he took her to a music hall. He carried out his
intention that the only tie between them should be the domestic service
she did in return for board and lodging. She had made up her mind that it
was no use trying to get work that summer, and with Philip's approval
determined to stay where she was till the autumn. She thought it would be
easy to get something to do then.
"As far as I'm concerned you can stay on here when you've got a job if
it's convenient. The room's there, and the woman who did for me before can
come in to look after the baby."
He grew very much attached to Mildred's child. He had a naturally
affectionate disposition, which had had little opportunity to display
itself. Mildred was not unkind to the little girl. She looked after her
very well and once when she had a bad cold proved herself a devoted nurse;
but the child bored her, and she spoke to her sharply when she bothered;
she was fond of her, but had not the maternal passion which might have
induced her to forget herself. Mildred had no demonstrativeness, and she
found the manifestations of affection ridiculous. When Philip sat with the
baby on his knees, playing with it and kissing it, she laughed at him.
"You couldn't make more fuss of her if you was her father," she said.
"You're perfectly silly with the child."
Philip flushed, for he hated to be laughed at. It was absurd to be so
devoted to another man's baby, and he was a little ashamed of the
overflowing of his heart. But the child, feeling Philip's attachment,
would put her face against his or nestle in his arms.
"It's all very fine for you," said Mildred. "You don't have any of the
disagreeable part of it. How would you like being kept awake for an hour
in the middle of the night because her ladyship wouldn't go to sleep?"
Philip remembered all sorts of things of his childhood which he thought he
had long forgotten. He took hold of the baby's toes.
"This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home."
When he came home in the evening and entered the sitting-room his first
glance was for the baby sprawling on the floor, and it gave him a little
thrill of delight to hear the child's crow of pleasure at seeing him.
Mildred taught her to call him daddy, and when the child did this for the
first time of her own accord, laughed immoderately.
"I wonder if you're that stuck on baby because she's mine," asked Mildred,
"or if you'd be the same with anybody's baby."
"I've never known anybody else's baby, so I can't say," said Philip.
Towards the end of his second term as in-patients' clerk a piece of good
fortune befell Philip. It was the middle of July. He went one Tuesday
evening to the tavern in Beak Street and found nobody there but
Macalister. They sat together, chatting about their absent friends, and
after a while Macalister said to him:
"Oh, by the way, I heard of a rather good thing today, New Kleinfonteins;
it's a gold mine in Rhodesia. If you'd like to have a flutter you might
make a bit."
Philip had been waiting anxiously for such an opportunity, but now that it
came he hesitated. He was desperately afraid of losing money. He had
little of the gambler's spirit.
"I'd love to, but I don't know if I dare risk it. How much could I lose if
things went wrong?"
"I shouldn't have spoken of it, only you seemed so keen about it,"
Macalister answered coldly.
Philip felt that Macalister looked upon him as rather a donkey.
"I'm awfully keen on making a bit," he laughed.
"You can't make money unless you're prepared to risk money."
Macalister began to talk of other things and Philip, while he was
answering him, kept thinking that if the venture turned out well the
stockbroker would be very facetious at his expense next time they met.
Macalister had a sarcastic tongue.
"I think I will have a flutter if you don't mind," said Philip anxiously.
"All right. I'll buy you two hundred and fifty shares and if I see a
half-crown rise I'll sell them at once."
Philip quickly reckoned out how much that would amount to, and his mouth
watered; thirty pounds would be a godsend just then, and he thought the
fates owed him something. He told Mildred what he had done when he saw her
at breakfast next morning. She thought him very silly.
"I never knew anyone who made money on the Stock Exchange," she said.
"That's what Emil always said, you can't expect to make money on the Stock
Exchange, he said."
Philip bought an evening paper on his way home and turned at once to the
money columns. He knew nothing about these things and had difficulty in
finding the stock which Macalister had spoken of. He saw they had advanced
a quarter. His heart leaped, and then he felt sick with apprehension in
case Macalister had forgotten or for some reason had not bought.
Macalister had promised to telegraph. Philip could not wait to take a tram
home. He jumped into a cab. It was an unwonted extravagance.
"Is there a telegram for me?" he said, as he burst in.
"No," said Mildred.
His face fell, and in bitter disappointment he sank heavily into a chair.
"Then he didn't buy them for me after all. Curse him," he added violently.
"What cruel luck! And I've been thinking all day of what I'd do with the
money."
"Why, what were you going to do?" she asked.
"What's the good of thinking about that now? Oh, I wanted the money so
badly."
She gave a laugh and handed him a telegram.
"I was only having a joke with you. I opened it."
He tore it out of her hands. Macalister had bought him two hundred and
fifty shares and sold them at the half-crown profit he had suggested. The
commission note was to follow next day. For one moment Philip was furious
with Mildred for her cruel jest, but then he could only think of his joy.
"It makes such a difference to me," he cried. "I'll stand you a new dress
if you like."
"I want it badly enough," she answered.
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to be operated upon at the
end of July."
"Why, have you got something the matter with you?" she interrupted.
It struck her that an illness she did not know might explain what had so
much puzzled her. He flushed, for he hated to refer to his deformity.
"No, but they think they can do something to my foot. I couldn't spare the
time before, but now it doesn't matter so much. I shall start my dressing
in October instead of next month. I shall only be in hospital a few weeks
and then we can go away to the seaside for the rest of the summer. It'll
do us all good, you and the baby and me."
"Oh, let's go to Brighton, Philip, I like Brighton, you get such a nice
class of people there." Philip had vaguely thought of some little fishing
village in Cornwall, but as she spoke it occurred to him that Mildred
would be bored to death there.
"I don't mind where we go as long as I get the sea."
He did not know why, but he had suddenly an irresistible longing for the
sea. He wanted to bathe, and he thought with delight of splashing about in
the salt water. He was a good swimmer, and nothing exhilarated him like a
rough sea.
"I say, it will be jolly," he cried.
"It'll be like a honeymoon, won't it?" she said. "How much can I have for
my new dress, Phil?"
XCIV
Philip asked Mr. Jacobs, the assistant-surgeon for whom he had dressed, to
do the operation. Jacobs accepted with pleasure, since he was interested
just then in neglected talipes and was getting together materials for a
paper. He warned Philip that he could not make his foot like the other,
but he thought he could do a good deal; and though he would always limp he
would be able to wear a boot less unsightly than that which he had been
accustomed to. Philip remembered how he had prayed to a God who was able
to remove mountains for him who had faith, and he smiled bitterly.
"I don't expect a miracle," he answered.
"I think you're wise to let me try what I can do. You'll find a club-foot
rather a handicap in practice. The layman is full of fads, and he doesn't
like his doctor to have anything the matter with him."
Philip went into a `small ward', which was a room on the landing, outside
each ward, reserved for special cases. He remained there a month, for the
surgeon would not let him go till he could walk; and, bearing the
operation very well, he had a pleasant enough time. Lawson and Athelny
came to see him, and one day Mrs. Athelny brought two of her children;
students whom he knew looked in now and again to have a chat; Mildred came
twice a week. Everyone was very kind to him, and Philip, always surprised
when anyone took trouble with him, was touched and grateful. He enjoyed
the relief from care; he need not worry there about the future, neither
whether his money would last out nor whether he would pass his final
examinations; and he could read to his heart's content. He had not been
able to read much of late, since Mildred disturbed him: she would make an
aimless remark when he was trying to concentrate his attention, and would
not be satisfied unless he answered; whenever he was comfortably settled
down with a book she would want something done and would come to him with
a cork she could not draw or a hammer to drive in a nail.
They settled to go to Brighton in August. Philip wanted to take lodgings,
but Mildred said that she would have to do housekeeping, and it would only
be a holiday for her if they went to a boarding-house.
"I have to see about the food every day at home, I get that sick of it I
want a thorough change."
Philip agreed, and it happened that Mildred knew of a boarding-house at
Kemp Town where they would not be charged more than twenty-five shillings
a week each. She arranged with Philip to write about rooms, but when he
got back to Kennington he found that she had done nothing. He was
irritated.
"I shouldn't have thought you had so much to do as all that," he said.
"Well, I can't think of everything. It's not my fault if I forget, is it?"
Philip was so anxious to get to the sea that he would not wait to
communicate with the mistress of the boarding-house.
"We'll leave the luggage at the station and go to the house and see if
they've got rooms, and if they have we can just send an outside porter for
our traps."
"You can please yourself," said Mildred stiffly.
She did not like being reproached, and, retiring huffily into a haughty
silence, she sat by listlessly while Philip made the preparations for
their departure. The little flat was hot and stuffy under the August sun,
and from the road beat up a malodorous sultriness. As he lay in his bed in
the small ward with its red, distempered walls he had longed for fresh air
and the splashing of the sea against his breast. He felt he would go mad
if he had to spend another night in London. Mildred recovered her good
temper when she saw the streets of Brighton crowded with people making
holiday, and they were both in high spirits as they drove out to Kemp
Town. Philip stroked the baby's cheek.
"We shall get a very different colour into them when we've been down here
a few days," he said, smiling.
They arrived at the boarding-house and dismissed the cab. An untidy maid
opened the door and, when Philip asked if they had rooms, said she would
inquire. She fetched her mistress. A middle-aged woman, stout and
business-like, came downstairs, gave them the scrutinising glance of her
profession, and asked what accommodation they required.
"Two single rooms, and if you've got such a thing we'd rather like a cot
in one of them."
"I'm afraid I haven't got that. I've got one nice large double room, and
I could let you have a cot."
"I don't think that would do," said Philip.
"I could give you another room next week. Brighton's very full just now,
and people have to take what they can get."
"If it were only for a few days, Philip, I think we might be able to
manage," said Mildred.
"I think two rooms would be more convenient. Can you recommend any other
place where they take boarders?"
"I can, but I don't suppose they'd have room any more than I have."
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me the address."
The house the stout woman suggested was in the next street, and they
walked towards it. Philip could walk quite well, though he had to lean on
a stick, and he was rather weak. Mildred carried the baby. They went for
a little in silence, and then he saw she was crying. It annoyed him, and
he took no notice, but she forced his attention.
"Lend me a hanky, will you? I can't get at mine with baby," she said in a
voice strangled with sobs, turning her head away from him.
He gave her his handkerchief, but said nothing. She dried her eyes, and as
he did not speak, went on.
"I might be poisonous."
"Please don't make a scene in the street," he said.
"It'll look so funny insisting on separate rooms like that. What'll they
think of us?"
"If they knew the circumstances I imagine they'd think us surprisingly
moral," said Philip.
She gave him a sidelong glance.
"You're not going to give it away that we're not married?" she asked
quickly.
"No."
"Why won't you live with me as if we were married then?"
"My dear, I can't explain. I don't want to humiliate you, but I simply
can't. I daresay it's very silly and unreasonable, but it's stronger than
I am. I loved you so much that now..." he broke off. "After all, there's
no accounting for that sort of thing."
"A fat lot you must have loved me!" she exclaimed.
The boarding-house to which they had been directed was kept by a bustling
maiden lady, with shrewd eyes and voluble speech. They could have one
double room for twenty-five shillings a week each, and five shillings
extra for the baby, or they could have two single rooms for a pound a week
more.
"I have to charge that much more," the woman explained apologetically,
"because if I'm pushed to it I can put two beds even in the single rooms."
"I daresay that won't ruin us. What do you think, Mildred?"
"Oh, I don't mind. Anything's good enough for me," she answered.
Philip passed off her sulky reply with a laugh, and, the landlady having
arranged to send for their luggage, they sat down to rest themselves.
Philip's foot was hurting him a little, and he was glad to put it up on a
chair.
"I suppose you don't mind my sitting in the same room with you," said
Mildred aggressively.
"Don't let's quarrel, Mildred," he said gently.
"I didn't know you was so well off you could afford to throw away a pound
a week."
"Don't be angry with me. I assure you it's the only way we can live
together at all."
"I suppose you despise me, that's it."
"Of course I don't. Why should I?"
"It's so unnatural."
"Is it? You're not in love with me, are you?"
"Me? Who d'you take me for?"
"It's not as if you were a very passionate woman, you're not that."
"It's so humiliating," she said sulkily.
"Oh, I wouldn't fuss about that if I were you."
There were about a dozen people in the boarding-house. They ate in a
narrow, dark room at a long table, at the head of which the landlady sat
and carved. The food was bad. The landlady called it French cooking, by
which she meant that the poor quality of the materials was disguised by
ill-made sauces: plaice masqueraded as sole and New Zealand mutton as
lamb. The kitchen was small and inconvenient, so that everything was
served up lukewarm. The people were dull and pretentious; old ladies with
elderly maiden daughters; funny old bachelors with mincing ways;
pale-faced, middle-aged clerks with wives, who talked of their married
daughters and their sons who were in a very good position in the Colonies.
At table they discussed Miss Corelli's latest novel; some of them liked
Lord Leighton better than Mr. Alma-Tadema, and some of them liked Mr.
Alma-Tadema better than Lord Leighton. Mildred soon told the ladies of her
romantic marriage with Philip; and he found himself an object of interest
because his family, county people in a very good position, had cut him off
with a shilling because he married while he was only a stoodent; and
Mildred's father, who had a large place down Devonshire way, wouldn't do
anything for them because she had married Philip. That was why they had
come to a boarding-house and had not a nurse for the baby; but they had to
have two rooms because they were both used to a good deal of accommodation
and they didn't care to be cramped. The other visitors also had
explanations of their presence: one of the single gentlemen generally went
to the Metropole for his holiday, but he liked cheerful company and you
couldn't get that at one of those expensive hotels; and the old lady with
the middle-aged daughter was having her beautiful house in London done up
and she said to her daughter: "Gwennie, my dear, we must have a cheap
holiday this year," and so they had come there, though of course it wasn't
at all the kind of thing they were used to. Mildred found them all very
superior, and she hated a lot of common, rough people. She liked gentlemen
to be gentlemen in every sense of the word.
"When people are gentlemen and ladies," she said, "I like them to be
gentlemen and ladies."
The remark seemed cryptic to Philip, but when he heard her say it two or
three times to different persons, and found that it aroused hearty
agreement, he came to the conclusion that it was only obscure to his own
intelligence. It was the first time that Philip and Mildred had been
thrown entirely together. In London he did not see her all day, and when
he came home the household affairs, the baby, the neighbours, gave them
something to talk about till he settled down to work. Now he spent the
whole day with her. After breakfast they went down to the beach; the
morning went easily enough with a bathe and a stroll along the front; the
evening, which they spent on the pier, having put the baby to bed, was
tolerable, for there was music to listen to and a constant stream of
people to look at; (Philip amused himself by imagining who they were and
weaving little stories about them; he had got into the habit of answering
Mildred's remarks with his mouth only so that his thoughts remained
undisturbed;) but the afternoons were long and dreary. They sat on the
beach. Mildred said they must get all the benefit they could out of Doctor
Brighton, and he could not read because Mildred made observations
frequently about things in general. If he paid no attention she
complained.
"Oh, leave that silly old book alone. It can't be good for you always
reading. You'll addle your brain, that's what you'll do, Philip."
"Oh, rot!" he answered.
"Besides, it's so unsociable."
He discovered that it was difficult to talk to her. She had not even the
power of attending to what she was herself saying, so that a dog running
in front of her or the passing of a man in a loud blazer would call forth
a remark and then she would forget what she had been speaking of. She had
a bad memory for names, and it irritated her not to be able to think of
them, so that she would pause in the middle of some story to rack her
brains. Sometimes she had to give it up, but it often occurred to her
afterwards, and when Philip was talking of something she would interrupt
him.
"Collins, that was it. I knew it would come back to me some time. Collins,
that's the name I couldn't remember."
It exasperated him because it showed that she was not listening to
anything he said, and yet, if he was silent, she reproached him for
sulkiness. Her mind was of an order that could not deal for five minutes
with the abstract, and when Philip gave way to his taste for generalising
she very quickly showed that she was bored. Mildred dreamt a great deal,
and she had an accurate memory for her dreams, which she would relate
every day with prolixity.
One morning he received a long letter from Thorpe Athelny. He was taking
his holiday in the theatrical way, in which there was much sound sense,
which characterised him. He had done the same thing for ten years. He took
his whole family to a hop-field in Kent, not far from Mrs. Athelny's home,
and they spent three weeks hopping. It kept them in the open air, earned
them money, much to Mrs. Athelny's satisfaction, and renewed their contact
with mother earth. It was upon this that Athelny laid stress. The sojourn
in the fields gave them a new strength; it was like a magic ceremony, by
which they renewed their youth and the power of their limbs and the
sweetness of the spirit: Philip had heard him say many fantastic,
rhetorical, and picturesque things on the subject. Now Athelny invited him
to come over for a day, he had certain meditations on Shakespeare and the
musical glasses which he desired to impart, and the children were
clamouring for a sight of Uncle Philip. Philip read the letter again in
the afternoon when he was sitting with Mildred on the beach. He thought of
Mrs. Athelny, cheerful mother of many children, with her kindly
hospitality and her good humour; of Sally, grave for her years, with funny
little maternal ways and an air of authority, with her long plait of fair
hair and her broad forehead; and then in a bunch of all the others, merry,
boisterous, healthy, and handsome. His heart went out to them. There was
one quality which they had that he did not remember to have noticed in
people before, and that was goodness. It had not occurred to him till now,
but it was evidently the beauty of their goodness which attracted him. In
theory he did not believe in it: if morality were no more than a matter of
convenience good and evil had no meaning. He did not like to be illogical,
but here was simple goodness, natural and without effort, and he thought
it beautiful. Meditating, he slowly tore the letter into little pieces; he
did not see how he could go without Mildred, and he did not want to go
with her.
It was very hot, the sky was cloudless, and they had been driven to a
shady corner. The baby was gravely playing with stones on the beach, and
now and then she crawled up to Philip and gave him one to hold, then took
it away again and placed it carefully down. She was playing a mysterious
and complicated game known only to herself. Mildred was asleep. She lay
with her head thrown back and her mouth slightly open; her legs were
stretched out, and her boots protruded from her petticoats in a grotesque
fashion. His eyes had been resting on her vaguely, but now he looked at
her with peculiar attention. He remembered how passionately he had loved
her, and he wondered why now he was entirely indifferent to her. The
change in him filled him with dull pain. It seemed to him that all he had
suffered had been sheer waste. The touch of her hand had filled him with
ecstasy; he had desired to enter into her soul so that he could share
every thought with her and every feeling; he had suffered acutely because,
when silence had fallen between them, a remark of hers showed how far
their thoughts had travelled apart, and he had rebelled against the
unsurmountable wall which seemed to divide every personality from every
other. He found it strangely tragic that he had loved her so madly and now
loved her not at all. Sometimes he hated her. She was incapable of
learning, and the experience of life had taught her nothing. She was as
unmannerly as she had always been. It revolted Philip to hear the
insolence with which she treated the hard-worked servant at the
boarding-house.
Presently he considered his own plans. At the end of his fourth year he
would be able to take his examination in midwifery, and a year more would
see him qualified. Then he might manage a journey to Spain. He wanted to
see the pictures which he knew only from photographs; he felt deeply that
El Greco held a secret of peculiar moment to him; and he fancied that in
Toledo he would surely find it out. He did not wish to do things grandly,
and on a hundred pounds he might live for six months in Spain: if
Macalister put him on to another good thing he could make that easily. His
heart warmed at the thought of those old beautiful cities, and the tawny
plains of Castile. He was convinced that more might be got out of life
than offered itself at present, and he thought that in Spain he could live
with greater intensity: it might be possible to practise in one of those
old cities, there were a good many foreigners, passing or resident, and he
should be able to pick up a living. But that would be much later; first he
must get one or two hospital appointments; they gave experience and made
it easy to get jobs afterwards. He wished to get a berth as ship's doctor
on one of the large tramps that took things leisurely enough for a man to
see something of the places at which they stopped. He wanted to go to the
East; and his fancy was rich with pictures of Bangkok and Shanghai, and
the ports of Japan: he pictured to himself palm-trees and skies blue and
hot, dark-skinned people, pagodas; the scents of the Orient intoxicated
his nostrils. His heart but with passionate desire for the beauty and the
strangeness of the world.
Mildred awoke.
"I do believe I've been asleep," she said. "Now then, you naughty girl,
what have you been doing to yourself? Her dress was clean yesterday and
just look at it now, Philip."
XCV
When they returned to London Philip began his dressing in the surgical
wards. He was not so much interested in surgery as in medicine, which, a
more empirical science, offered greater scope to the imagination. The work
was a little harder than the corresponding work on the medical side. There
was a lecture from nine till ten, when he went into the wards; there
wounds had to be dressed, stitches taken out, bandages renewed: Philip
prided himself a little on his skill in bandaging, and it amused him to
wring a word of approval from a nurse. On certain afternoons in the week
there were operations; and he stood in the well of the theatre, in a white
jacket, ready to hand the operating surgeon any instrument he wanted or to
sponge the blood away so that he could see what he was about. When some
rare operation was to be performed the theatre would fill up, but
generally there were not more than half a dozen students present, and then
the proceedings had a cosiness which Philip enjoyed. At that time the
world at large seemed to have a passion for appendicitis, and a good many
cases came to the operating theatre for this complaint: the surgeon for
whom Philip dressed was in friendly rivalry with a colleague as to which
could remove an appendix in the shortest time and with the smallest
incision.
In due course Philip was put on accident duty. The dressers took this in
turn; it lasted three days, during which they lived in hospital and ate
their meals in the common-room; they had a room on the ground floor near
the casualty ward, with a bed that shut up during the day into a cupboard.
The dresser on duty had to be at hand day and night to see to any casualty
that came in. You were on the move all the time, and not more than an hour
or two passed during the night without the clanging of the bell just above
your head which made you leap out of bed instinctively. Saturday night was
of course the busiest time and the closing of the public-houses the
busiest hour. Men would be brought in by the police dead drunk and it
would be necessary to administer a stomach-pump; women, rather the worse
for liquor themselves, would come in with a wound on the head or a
bleeding nose which their husbands had given them: some would vow to have
the law on him, and others, ashamed, would declare that it had been an
accident. What the dresser could manage himself he did, but if there was
anything important he sent for the house-surgeon: he did this with care,
since the house-surgeon was not vastly pleased to be dragged down five
flights of stairs for nothing. The cases ranged from a cut finger to a cut
throat. Boys came in with hands mangled by some machine, men were brought
who had been knocked down by a cab, and children who had broken a limb
while playing: now and then attempted suicides were carried in by the
police: Philip saw a ghastly, wild-eyed man with a great gash from ear to
ear, and he was in the ward for weeks afterwards in charge of a constable,
silent, angry because he was alive, and sullen; he made no secret of the
fact that he would try again to kill himself as soon as he was released.
The wards were crowded, and the house-surgeon was faced with a dilemma
when patients were brought in by the police: if they were sent on to the
station and died there disagreeable things were said in the papers; and it
was very difficult sometimes to tell if a man was dying or drunk. Philip
did not go to bed till he was tired out, so that he should not have the
bother of getting up again in an hour; and he sat in the casualty ward
talking in the intervals of work with the night-nurse. She was a
gray-haired woman of masculine appearance, who had been night-nurse in the
casualty department for twenty years. She liked the work because she was
her own mistress and had no sister to bother her. Her movements were slow,
but she was immensely capable and she never failed in an emergency. The
dressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength.
She had seen thousands of them, and they made no impression upon her: she
always called them Mr. Brown; and when they expostulated and told her
their real names, she merely nodded and went on calling them Mr. Brown. It
interested Philip to sit with her in the bare room, with its two
horse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her. She had long
ceased to look upon the people who came in as human beings; they were
drunks, or broken arms, or cut throats. She took the vice and misery and
cruelty of the world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise or
blame in human actions: she accepted. She had a certain grim humour.
"I remember one suicide," she said to Philip, "who threw himself into the
Thames. They fished him out and brought him here, and ten days later he
developed typhoid fever from swallowing Thames water."
"Did he die?"
"Yes, he did all right. I could never make up my mind if it was suicide or
not.... They're a funny lot, suicides. I remember one man who couldn't get
any work to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought a
revolver; but he made a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got all
right. And then, if you please, with an eye gone and a piece of his face
blow away, he came to the conclusion that the world wasn't such a bad
place after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards. Thing I've always
noticed, people don't commit suicide for love, as you'd expect, that's
just a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven't got
any money. I wonder why that is."
"I suppose money's more important than love," suggested Philip.
Money was in any case occupying Philip's thoughts a good deal just then.
He discovered the little truth there was in the airy saying which himself
had repeated, that two could live as cheaply as one, and his expenses were
beginning to worry him. Mildred was not a good manager, and it cost them
as much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child needed
clothes, and Mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which it
was impossible for her to do without. When they returned from Brighton she
had announced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definite
steps, and presently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight. When she was
well she answered one or two advertisements, but nothing came of it:
either she arrived too late and the vacant place was filled, or the work
was more than she felt strong enough to do. Once she got an offer, but the
wages were only fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worth
more than that.
"It's no good letting oneself be put upon," she remarked. "People don't
respect you if you let yourself go too cheap."
"I don't think fourteen shillings is so bad," answered Philip, drily.
He could not help thinking how useful it would be towards the expenses of
the household, and Mildred was already beginning to hint that she did not
get a place because she had not got a decent dress to interview employers
in. He gave her the dress, and she made one or two more attempts, but
Philip came to the conclusion that they were not serious. She did not want
to work. The only way he knew to make money was on the Stock Exchange, and
he was very anxious to repeat the lucky experiment of the summer; but war
had broken out with the Transvaal and nothing was doing in South Africans.
Macalister told him that Redvers Buller would march into Pretoria in a
month and then everything would boom. The only thing was to wait
patiently. What they wanted was a British reverse to knock things down a
bit, and then it might be worth while buying. Philip began reading
assiduously the `city chat' of his favourite newspaper. He was worried and
irritable. Once or twice he spoke sharply to Mildred, and since she was
neither tactful nor patient she answered with temper, and they quarrelled.
Philip always expressed his regret for what he had said, but Mildred had
not a forgiving nature, and she would sulk for a couple of days. She got
on his nerves in all sorts of ways; by the manner in which she ate, and by
the untidiness which made her leave articles of clothing about their
sitting-room: Philip was excited by the war and devoured the papers,
morning and evening; but she took no interest in anything that happened.
She had made the acquaintance of two or three people who lived in the
street, and one of them had asked if she would like the curate to call on
her. She wore a wedding-ring and called herself Mrs. Carey. On Philip's
walls were two or three of the drawings which he had made in Paris, nudes,
two of women and one of Miguel Ajuria, standing very square on his feet,
with clenched fists. Philip kept them because they were the best things he
had done, and they reminded him of happy days. Mildred had long looked at
them with disfavour.
"I wish you'd take those drawings down, Philip," she said to him at last.
"Mrs. Foreman, of number thirteen, came in yesterday afternoon, and I
didn't know which way to look. I saw her staring at them."
"What's the matter with them?"
"They're indecent. Disgusting, that's what I call it, to have drawings of
naked people about. And it isn't nice for baby either. She's beginning to
notice things now."
"How can you be so vulgar?"
"Vulgar? Modest, I call it. I've never said anything, but d'you think I
like having to look at those naked people all day long."
"Have you no sense of humour at all, Mildred?" he asked frigidly.
"I don't know what sense of humour's got to do with it. I've got a good
mind to take them down myself. If you want to know what I think about
them, I think they're disgusting."
"I don't want to know what you think about them, and I forbid you to touch
them."
When Mildred was cross with him she punished him through the baby. The
little girl was as fond of Philip as he was of her, and it was her great
pleasure every morning to crawl into his room (she was getting on for two
now and could walk pretty well), and be taken up into his bed. When
Mildred stopped this the poor child would cry bitterly. To Philip's
remonstrances she replied:
"I don't want her to get into habits."
And if then he said anything more she said:
"It's nothing to do with you what I do with my child. To hear you talk one
would think you was her father. I'm her mother, and I ought to know what's
good for her, oughtn't I?"
Philip was exasperated by Mildred's stupidity; but he was so indifferent
to her now that it was only at times she made him angry. He grew used to
having her about. Christmas came, and with it a couple of days holiday for
Philip. He brought some holly in and decorated the flat, and on Christmas
Day he gave small presents to Mildred and the baby. There were only two of
them so they could not have a turkey, but Mildred roasted a chicken and
boiled a Christmas pudding which she had bought at a local grocer's. They
stood themselves a bottle of wine. When they had dined Philip sat in his
arm-chair by the fire, smoking his pipe; and the unaccustomed wine had
made him forget for a while the anxiety about money which was so
constantly with him. He felt happy and comfortable. Presently Mildred came
in to tell him that the baby wanted him to kiss her good-night, and with
a smile he went into Mildred's bed-room. Then, telling the child to go to
sleep, he turned down the gas and, leaving the door open in case she
cried, went back into the sitting-room.
"Where are you going to sit?" he asked Mildred.
"You sit in your chair. I'm going to sit on the floor."
When he sat down she settled herself in front of the fire and leaned
against his knees. He could not help remembering that this was how they
had sat together in her rooms in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, but the
positions had been reversed; it was he who had sat on the floor and leaned
his head against her knee. How passionately he had loved her then! Now he
felt for her a tenderness he had not known for a long time. He seemed
still to feel twined round his neck the baby's soft little arms.
"Are you comfy?" he asked.
She looked up at him, gave a slight smile, and nodded. They gazed into the
fire dreamily, without speaking to one another. At last she turned round
and stared at him curiously.
"D'you know that you haven't kissed me once since I came here?" she said
suddenly.
"D'you want me to?" he smiled.
"I suppose you don't care for me in that way any more?"
"I'm very fond of you."
"You're much fonder of baby."
He did not answer, and she laid her cheek against his hand.
"You're not angry with me any more?" she asked presently, with her eyes
cast down.
"Why on earth should I be?"
"I've never cared for you as I do now. It's only since I passed through
the fire that I've learnt to love you." It chilled Philip to hear her make
use of the sort of phrase she read in the penny novelettes which she
devoured. Then he wondered whether what she said had any meaning for her:
perhaps she knew no other way to express her genuine feelings than the
stilted language of The Family Herald.
"It seems so funny our living together like this."
He did not reply for quite a long time, and silence fell upon them again;
but at last he spoke and seemed conscious of no interval.
"You mustn't be angry with me. One can't help these things. I remember
that I thought you wicked and cruel because you did this, that, and the
other; but it was very silly of me. You didn't love me, and it was absurd
to blame you for that. I thought I could make you love me, but I know now
that was impossible. I don't know what it is that makes someone love you,
but whatever it is, it's the only thing that matters, and if it isn't
there you won't create it by kindness, or generosity, or anything of that
sort."
"I should have thought if you'd loved me really you'd have loved me
still."
"I should have thought so too. I remember how I used to think that it
would last for ever, I felt I would rather die than be without you, and I
used to long for the time when you would be faded and wrinkled so that
nobody cared for you any more and I should have you all to myself."
She did not answer, and presently she got up and said she was going to
bed. She gave a timid little smile.
"It's Christmas Day, Philip, won't you kiss me good-night?"
He gave a laugh, blushed slightly, and kissed her. She went to her
bed-room and he began to read.
XCVI
The climax came two or three weeks later. Mildred was driven by Philip's
behaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. There were many different
emotions in her soul, and she passed from mood to mood with facility. She
spent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her position. She did
not put all her feelings into words, she did not even know what they were,
but certain things stood out in her mind, and she thought of them over and
over again. She had never understood Philip, nor had very much liked him;
but she was pleased to have him about her because she thought he was a
gentleman. She was impressed because his father had been a doctor and his
uncle was a clergyman. She despised him a little because she had made such
a fool of him, and at the same time was never quite comfortable in his
presence; she could not let herself go, and she felt that he was
criticising her manners.
When she first came to live in the little rooms in Kennington she was
tired out and ashamed. She was glad to be left alone. It was a comfort to
think that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in all weathers,
and she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well. She had hated
the life she led. It was horrible to have to be affable and subservient;
and even now when it crossed her mind she cried with pity for herself as
she thought of the roughness of men and their brutal language. But it
crossed her mind very seldom. She was grateful to Philip for coming to her
rescue, and when she remembered how honestly he had loved her and how
badly she had treated him, she felt a pang of remorse. It was easy to make
it up to him. It meant very little to her. She was surprised when he
refused her suggestion, but she shrugged her shoulders: let him put on
airs if he liked, she did not care, he would be anxious enough in a little
while, and then it would be her turn to refuse; if he thought it was any
deprivation to her he was very much mistaken. She had no doubt of her
power over him. He was peculiar, but she knew him through and through. He
had so often quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again,
and then in a little while he had come on his knees begging to be
forgiven. It gave her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. He
would have been glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. She
had seen him cry. She knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention to
him, just pretend you didn't notice his tempers, leave him severely alone,
and in a little while he was sure to grovel. She laughed a little to
herself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt
before her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did not
want to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settle
down with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense of
the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it? Anyhow
she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. She was
glad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her a
good deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man's
child. He was peculiar and no mistake.
But one or two things surprised her. She had been used to his
subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days,
she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at
a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not
improved in the last year. It never struck her for a moment that there
could be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only acting
when he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to read sometimes and
told her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk,
and was so puzzled that she did neither. Then came the conversation in
which he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and,
remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he
dreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. She took pains to reassure
him. It made no difference. She was the sort of woman who was unable to
realise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her
relations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not
understand that they ever had other interests. The thought struck her that
Philip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting
nurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her
to the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the Athelny
household; and it forced itself upon her also that Philip, like most
medical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom his
work threw him in contact. They were associated in his mind with a faint
odour of iodoform. Philip received no letters, and there was no girl's
photograph among his belongings. If he was in love with someone, he was
very clever at hiding it; and he answered all Mildred's questions with
frankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in
them.
"I don't believe he's in love with anybody else," she said to herself at
last.
It was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her;
but it made his behaviour very puzzling. If he was going to treat her like
that why did he ask her to come and live at the flat? It was unnatural.
Mildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of compassion,
generosity, or kindness. Her only conclusion was that Philip was queer.
She took it into her head that the reasons for his conduct were
chivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagances of cheap
fiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations for
his delicacy. Her fancy ran riot with bitter misunderstandings,
purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruel cold of a
Christmas night. She made up her mind that when they went to Brighton she
would put an end to all his nonsense; they would be alone there, everyone
would think them husband and wife, and there would be the pier and the
band. When she found that nothing would induce Philip to share the same
room with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tone in his voice she
had never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not want her.
She was astounded. She remembered all he had said in the past and how
desperately he had loved her. She felt humiliated and angry, but she had
a sort of native insolence which carried her through. He needn't think she
was in love with him, because she wasn't. She hated him sometimes, and she
longed to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did
not know which way to handle him. She began to be a little nervous with
him. Once or twice she cried. Once or twice she set herself to be
particularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked
along the front at night he made some excuse in a while to release
himself, as though it were unpleasant for him to be touched by her. She
could not make it out. The only hold she had over him was through the
baby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder and fonder: she could make him
white with anger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only time
the old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stood with the
baby in her arms. She noticed it when she was being photographed like that
by a man on the beach, and afterwards she often stood in the same way for
Philip to look at her.
When they got back to London Mildred began looking for the work she had
asserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to be independent of Philip;
and she thought of the satisfaction with which she would announce to him
that she was going into rooms and would take the child with her. But her
heart failed her when she came into closer contact with the possibility.
She had grown unused to the long hours, she did not want to be at the beck
and call of a manageress, and her dignity revolted at the thought of
wearing once more a uniform. She had made out to such of the neighbours as
she knew that they were comfortably off: it would be a come-down if they
heard that she had to go out and work. Her natural indolence asserted
itself. She did not want to leave Philip, and so long as he was willing to
provide for her, she did not see why she should. There was no money to
throw away, but she got her board and lodging, and he might get better
off. His uncle was an old man and might die any day, he would come into a
little then, and even as things were, it was better than slaving from
morning till night for a few shillings a week. Her efforts relaxed; she
kept on reading the advertisement columns of the daily paper merely to
show that she wanted to do something if anything that was worth her while
presented itself. But panic seized her, and she was afraid that Philip
would grow tired of supporting her. She had no hold over him at all now,
and she fancied that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fond
of the baby. She brooded over it all, and she thought to herself angrily
that she would make him pay for all this some day. She could not reconcile
herself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. She would make him.
She suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she desired
Philip. He was so cold now that it exasperated her. She thought of him in
that way incessantly. She thought that he was treating her very badly, and
she did not know what she had done to deserve it. She kept on saying to
herself that it was unnatural they should live like that. Then she thought
that if things were different and she were going to have a baby, he would
be sure to marry her. He was funny, but he was a gentleman in every sense
of the word, no one could deny that. At last it became an obsession with
her, and she made up her mind to force a change in their relations. He
never even kissed her now, and she wanted him to: she remembered how
ardently he had been used to press her lips. It gave her a curious feeling
to think of it. She often looked at his mouth.
One evening, at the beginning of February, Philip told her that he was
dining with Lawson, who was giving a party in his studio to celebrate his
birthday; and he would not be in till late; Lawson had bought a couple of
bottles of the punch they favoured from the tavern in Beak Street, and
they proposed to have a merry evening. Mildred asked if there were going
to be women there, but Philip told her there were not; only men had been
invited; and they were just going to sit and talk and smoke: Mildred did
not think it sounded very amusing; if she were a painter she would have
half a dozen models about. She went to bed, but could not sleep, and
presently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed the catch on the wicket
at the landing, so that Philip could not get in. He came back about one,
and she heard him curse when he found that the wicket was closed. She got
out of bed and opened.
"Why on earth did you shut yourself in? I'm sorry I've dragged you out of
bed."
"I left it open on purpose, I can't think how it came to be shut."
"Hurry up and get back to bed, or you'll catch cold."
He walked into the sitting-room and turned up the gas. She followed him
in. She went up to the fire.
"I want to warm my feet a bit. They're like ice."
He sat down and began to take off his boots. His eyes were shining and his
cheeks were flushed. She thought he had been drinking.
"Have you been enjoying yourself?" she asked, with a smile.
"Yes, I've had a ripping time."
Philip was quite sober, but he had been talking and laughing, and he was
excited still. An evening of that sort reminded him of the old days in
Paris. He was in high spirits. He took his pipe out of his pocket and
filled it.
"Aren't you going to bed?" she asked.
"Not yet, I'm not a bit sleepy. Lawson was in great form. He talked
sixteen to the dozen from the moment I got there till the moment I left."
"What did you talk about?"
"Heaven knows! Of every subject under the sun. You should have seen us all
shouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening."
Philip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and Mildred laughed too.
She was pretty sure he had drunk more than was good for him. That was
exactly what she had expected. She knew men.
"Can I sit down?" she said.
Before he could answer she settled herself on his knees.
"If you're not going to bed you'd better go and put on a dressing-gown."
"Oh, I'm all right as I am." Then putting her arms round his neck, she
placed her face against his and said: "Why are you so horrid to me, Phil?"
He tried to get up, but she would not let him.
"I do love you, Philip," she said.
"Don't talk damned rot."
"It isn't, it's true. I can't live without you. I want you."
He released himself from her arms.
"Please get up. You're making a fool of yourself and you're making me feel
a perfect idiot."
"I love you, Philip. I want to make up for all the harm I did you. I can't
go on like this, it's not in human nature."
He slipped out of the chair and left her in it.
"I'm very sorry, but it's too late."
She gave a heart-rending sob.
"But why? How can you be so cruel?"
"I suppose it's because I loved you too much. I wore the passion out. The
thought of anything of that sort horrifies me. I can't look at you now
without thinking of Emil and Griffiths. One can't help those things, I
suppose it's just nerves."
She seized his hand and covered it with kisses.
"Don't," he cried.
She sank back into the chair.
"I can't go on like this. If you won't love me, I'd rather go away."
"Don't be foolish, you haven't anywhere to go. You can stay here as long
as you like, but it must be on the definite understanding that we're
friends and nothing more."
Then she dropped suddenly the vehemence of passion and gave a soft,
insinuating laugh. She sidled up to Philip and put her arms round him. She
made her voice low and wheedling.
"Don't be such an old silly. I believe you're nervous. You don't know how
nice I can be."
She put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. To Philip her
smile was an abominable leer, and the suggestive glitter of her eyes
filled him with horror. He drew back instinctively.
"I won't," he said.
But she would not let him go. She sought his mouth with her lips. He took
her hands and tore them roughly apart and pushed her away.
"You disgust me," he said.
"Me?"
She steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece. She looked at him
for an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks. She
gave a shrill, angry laugh.
"I disgust YOU."
She paused and drew in her breath sharply. Then she burst into a furious
torrent of abuse. She shouted at the top of her voice. She called him
every foul name she could think of. She used language so obscene that
Philip was astounded; she was always so anxious to be refined, so shocked
by coarseness, that it had never occurred to him that she knew the words
she used now. She came up to him and thrust her face in his. It was
distorted with passion, and in her tumultuous speech the spittle dribbled
over her lips.
"I never cared for you, not once, I was making a fool of you always, you
bored me, you bored me stiff, and I hated you, I would never have let you
touch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick when I had to let
you kiss me. We laughed at you, Griffiths and me, we laughed because you
was such a mug. A mug! A mug!"
Then she burst again into abominable invective. She accused him of every
mean fault; she said he was stingy, she said he was dull, she said he was
vain, selfish; she cast virulent ridicule on everything upon which he was
most sensitive. And at last she turned to go. She kept on, with hysterical
violence, shouting at him an opprobrious, filthy epithet. She seized the
handle of the door and flung it open. Then she turned round and hurled at
him the injury which she knew was the only one that really touched him.
She threw into the word all the malice and all the venom of which she was
capable. She flung it at him as though it were a blow.
"Cripple!"
XCVII
Philip awoke with a start next morning, conscious that it was late, and
looking at his watch found it was nine o'clock. He jumped out of bed and
went into the kitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with. There
was no sign of Mildred, and the things which she had used for her supper
the night before still lay in the sink unwashed. He knocked at her door.
"Wake up, Mildred. It's awfully late."
She did not answer, even after a second louder knocking, and he concluded
that she was sulking. He was in too great a hurry to bother about that. He
put some water on to boil and jumped into his bath which was always poured
out the night before in order to take the chill off. He presumed that
Mildred would cook his breakfast while he was dressing and leave it in the
sitting-room. She had done that two or three times when she was out of
temper. But he heard no sound of her moving, and realised that if he
wanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself. He was irritated
that she should play him such a trick on a morning when he had over-slept
himself. There was still no sign of her when he was ready, but he heard
her moving about her room. She was evidently getting up. He made himself
some tea and cut himself a couple of pieces of bread and butter, which he
ate while he was putting on his boots, then bolted downstairs and along
the street into the main road to catch his tram. While his eyes sought out
the newspaper shops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of the
scene of the night before: now that it was over and he had slept on it, he
could not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had been ridiculous,
but he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had been
overwhelming. He was angry with Mildred because she had forced him into
that absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thought of her
outburst and the filthy language she had used. He could not help flushing
when he remembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulders
contemptuously. He had long known that when his fellows were angry with
him they never failed to taunt him with his deformity. He had seen men at
the hospital imitate his walk, not before him as they used at school, but
when they thought he was not looking. He knew now that they did it from no
wilful unkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, and
because it was an easy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he could
never resign himself to it.
He was glad to throw himself into his work. The ward seemed pleasant and
friendly when he entered it. The sister greeted him with a quick,
business-like smile.
"You're very late, Mr. Carey."
"I was out on the loose last night."
"You look it."
"Thank you."
Laughing, he went to the first of his cases, a boy with tuberculous
ulcers, and removed his bandages. The boy was pleased to see him, and
Philip chaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound. Philip was a
favourite with the patients; he treated them good-humouredly; and he had
gentle, sensitive hands which did not hurt them: some of the dressers were
a little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods. He lunched with his
friends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter,
with a cup of cocoa, and they talked of the war. Several men were going
out, but the authorities were particular and refused everyone who had not
had a hospital appointment. Someone suggested that, if the war went on, in
a while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but the
general opinion was that it would be over in a month. Now that Roberts was
there things would get all right in no time. This was Macalister's opinion
too, and he had told Philip that they must watch their chance and buy just
before peace was declared. There would be a boom then, and they might all
make a bit of money. Philip had left with Macalister instructions to buy
him stock whenever the opportunity presented itself. His appetite had been
whetted by the thirty pounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted now
to make a couple of hundred.
He finished his day's work and got on a tram to go back to Kennington. He
wondered how Mildred would behave that evening. It was a nuisance to think
that she would probably be surly and refuse to answer his questions. It
was a warm evening for the time of year, and even in those gray streets of
South London there was the languor of February; nature is restless then
after the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, and
there is a rustle in the earth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes its
eternal activities. Philip would have liked to drive on further, it was
distasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air; but the
desire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and he
smiled to himself as he thought of her toddling towards him with a crow of
delight. He was surprised, when he reached the house and looked up
mechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light. He went
upstairs and knocked, but got no answer. When Mildred went out she left
the key under the mat and he found it there now. He let himself in and
going into the sitting-room struck a match. Something had happened, he did
not at once know what; he turned the gas on full and lit it; the room was
suddenly filled with the glare and he looked round. He gasped. The whole
place was wrecked. Everything in it had been wilfully destroyed. Anger
seized him, and he rushed into Mildred's room. It was dark and empty. When
he had got a light he saw that she had taken away all her things and the
baby's (he had noticed on entering that the go-cart was not in its usual
place on the landing, but thought Mildred had taken the baby out;) and all
the things on the washing-stand had been broken, a knife had been drawn
cross-ways through the seats of the two chairs, the pillow had been slit
open, there were large gashes in the sheets and the counterpane, the
looking-glass appeared to have been broken with a hammer. Philip was
bewildered. He went into his own room, and here too everything was in
confusion. The basin and the ewer had been smashed, the looking-glass was
in fragments, and the sheets were in ribands. Mildred had made a slit
large enough to put her hand into the pillow and had scattered the
feathers about the room. She had jabbed a knife into the blankets. On the
dressing-table were photographs of Philip's mother, the frames had been
smashed and the glass shivered. Philip went into the tiny kitchen.
Everything that was breakable was broken, glasses, pudding-basins, plates,
dishes.
It took Philip's breath away. Mildred had left no letter, nothing but this
ruin to mark her anger, and he could imagine the set face with which she
had gone about her work. He went back into the sitting-room and looked
about him. He was so astonished that he no longer felt angry. He looked
curiously at the kitchen-knife and the coal-hammer, which were lying on
the table where she had left them. Then his eye caught a large
carving-knife in the fireplace which had been broken. It must have taken
her a long time to do so much damage. Lawson's portrait of him had been
cut cross-ways and gaped hideously. His own drawings had been ripped in
pieces; and the photographs, Manet's Olympia and the Odalisque of
Ingres, the portrait of Philip IV, had been smashed with great blows of
the coal-hammer. There were gashes in the table-cloth and in the curtains
and in the two arm-chairs. They were quite ruined. On one wall over the
table which Philip used as his desk was the little bit of Persian rug
which Cronshaw had given him. Mildred had always hated it.
"If it's a rug it ought to go on the floor," she said, "and it's a dirty
stinking bit of stuff, that's all it is."
It made her furious because Philip told her it contained the answer to a
great riddle. She thought he was making fun of her. She had drawn the
knife right through it three times, it must have required some strength,
and it hung now in tatters. Philip had two or three blue and white plates,
of no value, but he had bought them one by one for very small sums and
liked them for their associations. They littered the floor in fragments.
There were long gashes on the backs of his books, and she had taken the
trouble to tear pages out of the unbound French ones. The little ornaments
on the chimney-piece lay on the hearth in bits. Everything that it had
been possible to destroy with a knife or a hammer was destroyed.
The whole of Philip's belongings would not have sold for thirty pounds,
but most of them were old friends, and he was a domestic creature,
attached to all those odds and ends because they were his; he had been
proud of his little home, and on so little money had made it pretty and
characteristic. He sank down now in despair. He asked himself how she
could have been so cruel. A sudden fear got him on his feet again and into
the passage, where stood a cupboard in which he kept his clothes. He
opened it and gave a sigh of relief. She had apparently forgotten it and
none of his things was touched.
He went back into the sitting-room and, surveying the scene, wondered what
to do; he had not the heart to begin trying to set things straight;
besides there was no food in the house, and he was hungry. He went out and
got himself something to eat. When he came in he was cooler. A little pang
seized him as he thought of the child, and he wondered whether she would
miss him, at first perhaps, but in a week she would have forgotten him;
and he was thankful to be rid of Mildred. He did not think of her with
wrath, but with an overwhelming sense of boredom.
"I hope to God I never see her again," he said aloud.
The only thing now was to leave the rooms, and he made up his mind to give
notice the next morning. He could not afford to make good the damage done,
and he had so little money left that he must find cheaper lodgings still.
He would be glad to get out of them. The expense had worried him, and now
the recollection of Mildred would be in them always. Philip was impatient
and could never rest till he had put in action the plan which he had in
mind; so on the following afternoon he got in a dealer in second-hand
furniture who offered him three pounds for all his goods damaged and
undamaged; and two days later he moved into the house opposite the
hospital in which he had had rooms when first he became a medical student.
The landlady was a very decent woman. He took a bed-room at the top, which
she let him have for six shillings a week; it was small and shabby and
looked on the yard of the house that backed on to it, but he had nothing
now except his clothes and a box of books, and he was glad to lodge so
cheaply.
XCVIII
And now it happened that the fortunes of Philip Carey, of no consequence
to any but himself, were affected by the events through which his country
was passing. History was being made, and the process was so significant
that it seemed absurd it should touch the life of an obscure medical
student. Battle after battle, Magersfontein, Colenso, Spion Kop, lost on
the playing fields of Eton, had humiliated the nation and dealt the
death-blow to the prestige of the aristocracy and gentry who till then had
found no one seriously to oppose their assertion that they possessed a
natural instinct of government. The old order was being swept away:
history was being made indeed. Then the colossus put forth his strength,
and, blundering again, at last blundered into the semblance of victory.
Cronje surrendered at Paardeberg, Ladysmith was relieved, and at the
beginning of March Lord Roberts marched into Bloemfontein.
It was two or three days after the news of this reached London that
Macalister came into the tavern in Beak Street and announced joyfully that
things were looking brighter on the Stock Exchange. Peace was in sight,
Roberts would march into Pretoria within a few weeks, and shares were
going up already. There was bound to be a boom.
"Now's the time to come in," he told Philip. "It's no good waiting till
the public gets on to it. It's now or never."
He had inside information. The manager of a mine in South Africa had
cabled to the senior partner of his firm that the plant was uninjured.
They would start working again as soon as possible. It wasn't a
speculation, it was an investment. To show how good a thing the senior
partner thought it Macalister told Philip that he had bought five hundred
shares for both his sisters: he never put them into anything that wasn't
as safe as the Bank of England.
"I'm going to put my shirt on it myself," he said.
The shares were two and an eighth to a quarter. He advised Philip not to
be greedy, but to be satisfied with a ten-shilling rise. He was buying
three hundred for himself and suggested that Philip should do the same. He
would hold them and sell when he thought fit. Philip had great faith in
him, partly because he was a Scotsman and therefore by nature cautious,
and partly because he had been right before. He jumped at the suggestion.
"I daresay we shall be able to sell before the account," said Macalister,
"but if not, I'll arrange to carry them over for you."
It seemed a capital system to Philip. You held on till you got your
profit, and you never even had to put your hand in your pocket. He began
to watch the Stock Exchange columns of the paper with new interest. Next
day everything was up a little, and Macalister wrote to say that he had
had to pay two and a quarter for the shares. He said that the market was
firm. But in a day or two there was a set-back. The news that came from
South Africa was less reassuring, and Philip with anxiety saw that his
shares had fallen to two; but Macalister was optimistic, the Boers
couldn't hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat that
Roberts would march into Johannesburg before the middle of April. At the
account Philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. It worried him
considerably, but he felt that the only course was to hold on: in his
circumstances the loss was too great for him to pocket. For two or three
weeks nothing happened; the Boers would not understand that they were
beaten and nothing remained for them but to surrender: in fact they had
one or two small successes, and Philip's shares fell half a crown more. It
became evident that the war was not finished. There was a lot of selling.
When Macalister saw Philip he was pessimistic.
"I'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't be to cut the loss. I've been
paying out about as much as I want to in differences."
Philip was sick with anxiety. He could not sleep at night; he bolted his
breakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and butter, in order to get over
to the club reading-room and see the paper; sometimes the news was bad,
and sometimes there was no news at all, but when the shares moved it was
to go down. He did not know what to do. If he sold now he would lose
altogether hard on three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leave
him only eighty pounds to go on with. He wished with all his heart that he
had never been such a fool as to dabble on the Stock Exchange, but the
only thing was to hold on; something decisive might happen any day and the
shares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit, but he wanted to
make good his loss. It was his only chance of finishing his course at the
hospital. The Summer session was beginning in May, and at the end of it he
meant to take the examination in midwifery. Then he would only have a year
more; he reckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that he
could manage it, fees and all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that was
the least it could possibly be done on.
Early in April he went to the tavern in Beak Street anxious to see
Macalister. It eased him a little to discuss the situation with him; and
to realise that numerous people beside himself were suffering from loss of
money made his own trouble a little less intolerable. But when Philip
arrived no one was there but Hayward, and no sooner had Philip seated
himself than he said:
"I'm sailing for the Cape on Sunday."
"Are you!" exclaimed Philip.
Hayward was the last person he would have expected to do anything of the
kind. At the hospital men were going out now in numbers; the Government
was glad to get anyone who was qualified; and others, going out as
troopers, wrote home that they had been put on hospital work as soon as it
was learned that they were medical students. A wave of patriotic feeling
had swept over the country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks of
society.
"What are you going as?" asked Philip.
"Oh, in the Dorset Yeomanry. I'm going as a trooper."
Philip had known Hayward for eight years. The youthful intimacy which had
come from Philip's enthusiastic admiration for the man who could tell him
of art and literature had long since vanished; but habit had taken its
place; and when Hayward was in London they saw one another once or twice
a week. He still talked about books with a delicate appreciation. Philip
was not yet tolerant, and sometimes Hayward's conversation irritated him.
He no longer believed implicitly that nothing in the world was of
consequence but art. He resented Hayward's contempt for action and
success. Philip, stirring his punch, thought of his early friendship and
his ardent expectation that Hayward would do great things; it was long
since he had lost all such illusions, and he knew now that Hayward would
never do anything but talk. He found his three hundred a year more
difficult to live on now that he was thirty-five than he had when he was
a young man; and his clothes, though still made by a good tailor, were
worn a good deal longer than at one time he would have thought possible.
He was too stout and no artful arrangement of his fair hair could conceal
the fact that he was bald. His blue eyes were dull and pale. It was not
hard to guess that he drank too much.
"What on earth made you think of going out to the Cape?" asked Philip.
"Oh, I don't know, I thought I ought to."
Philip was silent. He felt rather silly. He understood that Hayward was
being driven by an uneasiness in his soul which he could not account for.
Some power within him made it seem necessary to go and fight for his
country. It was strange, since he considered patriotism no more than a
prejudice, and, flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism, he had looked
upon England as a place of exile. His countrymen in the mass wounded his
susceptibilities. Philip wondered what it was that made people do things
which were so contrary to all their theories of life. It would have been
reasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while the
barbarians slaughtered one another. It looked as though men were puppets
in the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that;
and sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and when
this was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason.
"People are very extraordinary," said Philip. "I should never have
expected you to go out as a trooper."
Hayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, and said nothing.
"I was examined yesterday," he remarked at last. "It was worth while
undergoing the gene of it to know that one was perfectly fit."
Philip noticed that he still used a French word in an affected way when an
English one would have served. But just then Macalister came in.
"I wanted to see you, Carey," he said. "My people don't feel inclined to
hold those shares any more, the market's in such an awful state, and they
want you to take them up."
Philip's heart sank. He knew that was impossible. It meant that he must
accept the loss. His pride made him answer calmly.
"I don't know that I think that's worth while. You'd better sell them."
"It's all very fine to say that, I'm not sure if I can. The market's
stagnant, there are no buyers."
"But they're marked down at one and an eighth."
"Oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything. You can't get that for them."
Philip did not say anything for a moment. He was trying to collect
himself.
"D'you mean to say they're worth nothing at all?"
"Oh, I don't say that. Of course they're worth something, but you see,
nobody's buying them now."
"Then you must just sell them for what you can get."
Macalister looked at Philip narrowly. He wondered whether he was very hard
hit.
"I'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the same boat. No one
thought the war was going to hang on this way. I put you into them, but I
was in myself too."
"It doesn't matter at all," said Philip. "One has to take one's chance."
He moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to Macalister.
He was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache furiously; but he did
not want them to think him unmanly. He sat on for an hour. He laughed
feverishly at everything they said. At last he got up to go.
"You take it pretty coolly," said Macalister, shaking hands with him. "I
don't suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred pounds."
When Philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on his
bed, and gave himself over to his despair. He kept on regretting his folly
bitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for what
had happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he could not
help himself. He was utterly miserable. He could not sleep. He remembered
all the ways he had wasted money during the last few years. His head ached
dreadfully.
The following evening there came by the last post the statement of his
account. He examined his pass-book. He found that when he had paid
everything he would have seven pounds left. Seven pounds! He was thankful
he had been able to pay. It would have been horrible to be obliged to
confess to Macalister that he had not the money. He was dressing in the
eye-department during the summer session, and he had bought an
ophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. He had not paid for
this, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he wanted to go
back on his bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He had about five
pounds to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his uncle
a letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to the
war he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unless
his uncle came to his help. He suggested that the Vicar should lend him a
hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthly
instalments; he would pay interest on this and promised to refund the
capital by degrees when he began to earn money. He would be qualified in
a year and a half at the latest, and he could be pretty sure then of
getting an assistantship at three pounds a week. His uncle wrote back that
he could do nothing. It was not fair to ask him to sell out when
everything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his duty
to himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. He ended
the letter with a little homily. He had warned Philip time after time, and
Philip had never paid any attention to him; he could not honestly say he
was surprised; he had long expected that this would be the end of Philip's
extravagance and want of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he read
this. It had never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he
burst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if
his uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. Panic
seized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the Vicar of
Blackstable, placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he did
not explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in what
desperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change his
mind; Philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living.
When he died Philip would come into a little, but till then he refused to
give him a penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man who
for many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himself
justified.
XCIX
Philip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his expenses by eating only
one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and butter and
cocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning. He was so
hungry by nine o'clock that he had to go to bed. He thought of borrowing
money from Lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him back; at last he
asked him for five pounds. Lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as he did
so, said:
"You'll let me have it back in a week or so, won't you? I've got to pay my
framer, and I'm awfully broke just now."
Philip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what
Lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took
the money back untouched. Lawson was just going out to luncheon and asked
Philip to come too. Philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to get some
solid food. On Sunday he was sure of a good dinner from Athelny. He
hesitated to tell the Athelnys what had happened to him: they had always
looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had a dread that they
would think less well of him if they knew he was penniless.
Though he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to
eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that happened
to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if he had some
disgraceful disease. The situation in which he found himself was quite
outside the range of his experience. He was so taken aback that he did not
know what else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope
that something would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was
happening to him was true; and he remembered how during his first term at
school he had often thought his life was a dream from which he would awake
to find himself once more at home. But very soon he foresaw that in a week
or so he would have no money at all. He must set about trying to earn
something at once. If he had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he
could have gone out to the Cape, since the demand for medical men was now
great. Except for his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the
yeomanry regiments which were constantly being sent out. He went to the
secretary of the Medical School and asked if he could give him the
coaching of some backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of
getting him anything of the sort. Philip read the advertisement columns of
the medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant
to a man who had a dispensary in the Fulham Road. When he went to see him,
he saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip was
only in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his
experience was insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an
excuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as
he wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning money. He
knew French and German and thought there might be some chance of finding
a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but he set his
teeth; there was nothing else to do. Though too shy to answer the
advertisements which demanded a personal application, he replied to those
which asked for letters; but he had no experience to state and no
recommendations: he was conscious that neither his German nor his French
was commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew
neither shorthand nor typewriting. He could not help recognising that his
case was hopeless. He thought of writing to the solicitor who had been his
father's executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it was contrary
to his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in which his money
had been invested. He knew from his uncle that Mr. Nixon thoroughly
disapproved of him. He had gathered from Philip's year in the accountant's
office that he was idle and incompetent.
"I'd sooner starve," Philip muttered to himself.
Once or twice the possibility of suicide presented itself to him; it would
be easy to get something from the hospital dispensary, and it was a
comfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand means
of making a painless end of himself; but it was not a course that he
considered seriously. When Mildred had left him to go with Griffiths his
anguish had been so great that he wanted to die in order to get rid of the
pain. He did not feel like that now. He remembered that the Casualty
Sister had told him how people oftener did away with themselves for want
of money than for want of love; and he chuckled when he thought that he
was an exception. He wished only that he could talk his worries over with
somebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them. He was ashamed.
He went on looking for work. He left his rent unpaid for three weeks,
explaining to his landlady that he would get money at the end of the
month; she did not say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. When
the end of the month came and she asked if it would be convenient for him
to pay something on account, it made him feel very sick to say that he
could not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able
to settle his bill on the following Saturday.
"Well, I 'ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I 'ave my rent to pay, and I
can't afford to let accounts run on." She did not speak with anger, but
with determination that was rather frightening. She paused for a moment
and then said: "If you don't pay next Saturday, I shall 'ave to complain
to the secretary of the 'ospital."
"Oh yes, that'll be all right."
She looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. When she
spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing
to say.
"I've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the
kitchen you're welcome to a bit of dinner."
Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at
his throat.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I'm not at all hungry."
"Very good, sir."
When she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed. He had to clench
his fists in order to prevent himself from crying.
C
Saturday. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. He
had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had found
no work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so
dazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his mind a
feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more than
a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he
had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got
a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and
goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his
room. The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. He
had not the courage. It was the middle of June. The night was fine and
warm. He made up his mind to stay out. He walked slowly along the Chelsea
Embankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired,
and then sat on a bench and dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he
awoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and
told to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He
walked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where he
slept again. Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The night
seemed very long. He shivered. He was seized with a sense of his misery;
and he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on
the Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks
flush in the darkness. He remembered stories he had heard of those who did
and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to
universities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a
line to get soup from a charitable institution. It would be much better to
commit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would help him when
he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent him
from asking for assistance. He wondered why he had come such a cropper. He
had always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gone
wrong. He had helped people when he could, he did not think he had been
more selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should be
reduced to such a pass.
But it was no good thinking about it. He walked on. It was now light: the
river was beautiful in the silence, and there was something mysterious in
the early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky, pale in the
dawn, was cloudless. He felt very tired, and hunger was gnawing at his
entrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of being
spoken to by a policeman. He dreaded the mortification of that. He felt
dirty and wished he could have a wash. At last he found himself at Hampton
Court. He felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. He
chose a cheap eating-house and went in; there was a smell of hot things,
and it made him feel slightly sick: he meant to eat something nourishing
enough to keep up for the rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at the
sight of food. He had a cup of tea and some bread and butter. He
remembered then that it was Sunday and he could go to the Athelnys; he
thought of the roast beef and the Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he
was fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. He was
feeling morose and wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up his
mind that he would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. His
bones ached. Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands
and face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was no
longer hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns and
the great leafy trees. He felt that there he could think out better what
he must do. He lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. For
economy's sake he had for a long time confined himself to two pipes a day;
he was thankful now that his pouch was full. He did not know what people
did when they had no money. Presently he fell asleep. When he awoke it was
nearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for London
so as to be there in the early morning and answer any advertisements which
seemed to promise. He thought of his uncle, who had told him that he would
leave him at his death the little he had; Philip did not in the least know
how much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. He
wondered whether he could raise money on the reversion. Not without the
old man's consent, and that he would never give.
"The only thing I can do is to hang on somehow till he dies."
Philip reckoned his age. The Vicar of Blackstable was well over seventy.
He had chronic bronchitis, but many old men had that and lived on
indefinitely. Meanwhile something must turn up; Philip could not get away
from the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal; people in his
particular station did not starve. It was because he could not bring
himself to believe in the reality of his experience that he did not give
way to utter despair. He made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign from
Lawson. He stayed in the garden all day and smoked when he felt very
hungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was setting out again for
London: it was a long way and he must keep up his strength for that. He
started when the day began to grow cooler, and slept on benches when he
was tired. No one disturbed him. He had a wash and brush up, and a shave
at Victoria, some tea and bread and butter, and while he was eating this
read the advertisement columns of the morning paper. As he looked down
them his eye fell upon an announcement asking for a salesman in the
`furnishing drapery' department of some well-known stores. He had a
curious little sinking of the heart, for with his middle-class prejudices
it seemed dreadful to go into a shop; but he shrugged his shoulders, after
all what did it matter? and he made up his mind to have a shot at it. He
had a queer feeling that by accepting every humiliation, by going out to
meet it even, he was forcing the hand of fate. When he presented himself,
feeling horribly shy, in the department at nine o'clock he found that many
others were there before him. They were of all ages, from boys of sixteen
to men of forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most
were silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a
look of hostility. He heard one man say:
"The only thing I look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to
give me time to look elsewhere."
The man, standing next him, glanced at Philip and asked:
"Had any experience?"
"No," said Philip.
He paused a moment and then made a remark: "Even the smaller houses won't
see you without appointment after lunch."
Philip looked at the assistants. Some were draping chintzes and cretonnes,
and others, his neighbour told him were preparing country orders that had
come in by post. At about a quarter past nine the buyer arrived. He heard
one of the men who were waiting say to another that it was Mr. Gibbons. He
was middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a black beard and dark, greasy
hair. He had brisk movements and a clever face. He wore a silk hat and a
frock coat, the lapel of which was adorned with a white geranium
surrounded by leaves. He went into his office, leaving the door open; it
was very small and contained only an American roll-desk in the corner, a
bookcase, and a cupboard. The men standing outside watched him
mechanically take the geranium out of his coat and put it in an ink-pot
filled with water. It was against the rules to wear flowers in business.
[During the day the department men who wanted to keep in with the governor
admired the flower.
"I've never seen better," they said, "you didn't grow it yourself?"
"Yes I did," he smiled, and a gleam of pride filled his intelligent eyes.]
He took off his hat and changed his coat, glanced at the letters and then
at the men who were waiting to see him. He made a slight sign with one
finger, and the first in the queue stepped into the office. They filed
past him one by one and answered his questions. He put them very briefly,
keeping his eyes fixed on the applicant's face.
"Age? Experience? Why did you leave your job?"
He listened to the replies without expression. When it came to Philip's
turn he fancied that Mr. Gibbons stared at him curiously. Philip's clothes
were neat and tolerably cut. He looked a little different from the others.
"Experience?"
"I'm afraid I haven't any," said Philip.
"No good."
Philip walked out of the office. The ordeal had been so much less painful
than he expected that he felt no particular disappointment. He could
hardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he tried. He had
kept the newspaper and now looked at the advertisements again: a shop in
Holborn needed a salesman too, and he went there; but when he arrived he
found that someone had already been engaged. If he wanted to get anything
to eat that day he must go to Lawson's studio before he went out to
luncheon, so he made his way along the Brompton Road to Yeoman's Row.
"I say, I'm rather broke till the end of the month," he said as soon as he
found an opportunity. "I wish you'd lend me half a sovereign, will you?"
It was incredible the difficulty he found in asking for money; and he
remembered the casual way, as though almost they were conferring a favour,
men at the hospital had extracted small sums out of him which they had no
intention of repaying.
"Like a shot," said Lawson.
But when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight
shillings. Philip's heart sank.
"Oh well, lend me five bob, will you?" he said lightly.
"Here you are."
Philip went to the public baths in Westminster and spent sixpence on a
bath. Then he got himself something to eat. He did not know what to do
with himself in the afternoon. He would not go back to the hospital in
case anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do
there now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had worked
in why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it did not
matter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out without
warning. He went to the free library, and looked at the papers till they
wearied him, then he took out Stevenson's New Arabian Nights; but he
found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he continued
to brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the same things all
the time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache. At last,
craving for fresh air, he went into the Green Park and lay down on the
grass. He thought miserably of his deformity, which made it impossible for
him to go to the war. He went to sleep and dreamt that he was suddenly
sound of foot and out at the Cape in a regiment of Yeomanry; the pictures
he had looked at in the illustrated papers gave materials for his fancy;
and he saw himself on the Veldt, in khaki, sitting with other men round a
fire at night. When he awoke he found that it was still quite light, and
presently he heard Big Ben strike seven. He had twelve hours to get
through with nothing to do. He dreaded the interminable night. The sky was
overcast and he feared it would rain; he would have to go to a
lodging-house where he could get a bed; he had seen them advertised on
lamps outside houses in Lambeth: Good Beds sixpence; he had never been
inside one, and dreaded the foul smell and the vermin. He made up his mind
to stay in the open air if he possibly could. He remained in the park till
it was closed and then began to walk about. He was very tired. The thought
came to him that an accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could be
taken to a hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. At midnight
he was so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went to
a coffee stall at Hyde Park Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a
cup of coffee. Then he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and he
had a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that he was
beginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle. This was the
third night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on the benches in
Piccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to The Embankment. He
listened to the striking of Big Ben, marking every quarter of an hour, and
reckoned out how long it left till the city woke again. In the morning he
spent a few coppers on making himself neat and clean, bought a paper to
read the advertisements, and set out once more on the search for work.
He went on in this way for several days. He had very little food and began
to feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go on looking
for the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. He was growing used
now to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the chance that he would
be taken on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to all parts of London in
answer to the advertisements, and he came to know by sight men who applied
as fruitlessly as himself. One or two tried to make friends with him, but
he was too tired and too wretched to accept their advances. He did not go
any more to Lawson, because he owed him five shillings. He began to be too
dazed to think clearly and ceased very much to care what would happen to
him. He cried a good deal. At first he was very angry with himself for
this and ashamed, but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel
less hungry. In the very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold.
One night he went into his room to change his linen; he slipped in about
three, when he was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again at
five; he lay on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones
ached, and as he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was so
delicious that he did not want to go to sleep. He was growing used to want
of food and did not feel very hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at the
back of his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he used
all the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the
temptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to help
himself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commit
suicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over the
impression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite
seriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which he
was bound to recover. Every night he swore that nothing would induce him
to put up with such another and determined next morning to write to his
uncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the time
came he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession of his
utter failure. He did not know how Lawson would take it. In their
friendship Lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided himself on
his common sense. He would have to tell the whole history of his folly. He
had an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him, would turn the cold
shoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would of course do something
for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did not want anyone to
reproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated that what had happened
was inevitable just because it had happened. Regret was absurd.
The days were unending, and the five shillings Lawson had lent him would
not last much longer. Philip longed for Sunday to come so that he could go
to Athelny's. He did not know what prevented him from going there sooner,
except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on his own; for
Athelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the only person who
could do anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he could bring himself to
tell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip repeated to himself over
and over again what he should say to him. He was dreadfully afraid that
Athelny would put him off with airy phrases: that would be so horrible
that he wanted to delay as long as possible the putting of him to the
test. Philip had lost all confidence in his fellows.
Saturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered horribly. From midday on
Saturday till he dragged himself wearily to Athelny's house he ate
nothing. He spent his last twopence on Sunday morning on a wash and a
brush up in the lavatory at Charing Cross.
CI
When Philip rang a head was put out of the window, and in a minute he
heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children ran down to let him
in. It was a pale, anxious, thin face that he bent down for them to kiss.
He was so moved by their exuberant affection that, to give himself time to
recover, he made excuses to linger on the stairs. He was in a hysterical
state and almost anything was enough to make him cry. They asked him why
he had not come on the previous Sunday, and he told them he had been ill;
they wanted to know what was the matter with him; and Philip, to amuse
them, suggested a mysterious ailment, the name of which, double-barrelled
and barbarous with its mixture of Greek and Latin (medical nomenclature
bristled with such), made them shriek with delight. They dragged Philip
into the parlour and made him repeat it for their father's edification.
Athelny got up and shook hands with him. He stared at Philip, but with his
round, bulging eyes he always seemed to stare, Philip did not know why on
this occasion it made him self-conscious.
"We missed you last Sunday," he said.
Philip could never tell lies without embarrassment, and he was scarlet
when he finished his explanation for not coming. Then Mrs. Athelny entered
and shook hands with him.
"I hope you're better, Mr. Carey," she said.
He did not know why she imagined that anything had been the matter with
him, for the kitchen door was closed when he came up with the children,
and they had not left him.
"Dinner won't be ready for another ten minutes," she said, in her slow
drawl. "Won't you have an egg beaten up in a glass of milk while you're
waiting?"
There was a look of concern on her face which made Philip uncomfortable.
He forced a laugh and answered that he was not at all hungry. Sally came
in to lay the table, and Philip began to chaff her. It was the family joke
that she would be as fat as an aunt of Mrs. Athelny, called Aunt
Elizabeth, whom the children had never seen but regarded as the type of
obscene corpulence.
"I say, what HAS happened since I saw you last, Sally?" Philip began.
"Nothing that I know of."
"I believe you've been putting on weight."
"I'm sure you haven't," she retorted. "You're a perfect skeleton."
Philip reddened.
"That's a tu quoque, Sally," cried her father. "You will be fined one
golden hair of your head. Jane, fetch the shears."
"Well, he is thin, father," remonstrated Sally. "He's just skin and bone."
"That's not the question, child. He is at perfect liberty to be thin, but
your obesity is contrary to decorum."
As he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist and looked at her with
admiring eyes.
"Let me get on with the table, father. If I am comfortable there are some
who don't seem to mind it."
"The hussy!" cried Athelny, with a dramatic wave of the hand. "She taunts
me with the notorious fact that Joseph, a son of Levi who sells jewels in
Holborn, has made her an offer of marriage."
"Have you accepted him, Sally?" asked Philip.
"Don't you know father better than that by this time? There's not a word
of truth in it."
"Well, if he hasn't made you an offer of marriage," cried Athelny, "by
Saint George and Merry England, I will seize him by the nose and demand of
him immediately what are his intentions."
"Sit down, father, dinner's ready. Now then, you children, get along with
you and wash your hands all of you, and don't shirk it, because I mean to
look at them before you have a scrap of dinner, so there."
Philip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat, but then discovered
that his stomach turned against food, and he could eat hardly at all. His
brain was weary; and he did not notice that Athelny, contrary to his
habit, spoke very little. Philip was relieved to be sitting in a
comfortable house, but every now and then he could not prevent himself
from glancing out of the window. The day was tempestuous. The fine weather
had broken; and it was cold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again
gusts of rain drove against the window. Philip wondered what he should do
that night. The Athelnys went to bed early, and he could not stay where he
was after ten o'clock. His heart sank at the thought of going out into the
bleak darkness. It seemed more terrible now that he was with his friends
than when he was outside and alone. He kept on saying to himself that
there were plenty more who would be spending the night out of doors. He
strove to distract his mind by talking, but in the middle of his words a
spatter of rain against the window would make him start.
"It's like March weather," said Athelny. "Not the sort of day one would
like to be crossing the Channel."
Presently they finished, and Sally came in and cleared away.
"Would you like a twopenny stinker?" said Athelny, handing him a cigar.
Philip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight. It soothed him
extraordinarily. When Sally had finished Athelny told her to shut the door
after her.
"Now we shan't be disturbed," he said, turning to Philip. "I've arranged
with Betty not to let the children come in till I call them."
Philip gave him a startled look, but before he could take in the meaning
of his words, Athelny, fixing his glasses on his nose with the gesture
habitual to him, went on.
"I wrote to you last Sunday to ask if anything was the matter with you,
and as you didn't answer I went to your rooms on Wednesday."
Philip turned his head away and did not answer. His heart began to beat
violently. Athelny did not speak, and presently the silence seemed
intolerable to Philip. He could not think of a single word to say.
"Your landlady told me you hadn't been in since Saturday night, and she
said you owed her for the last month. Where have you been sleeping all
this week?"
It made Philip sick to answer. He stared out of the window.
"Nowhere."
"I tried to find you."
"Why?" asked Philip.
"Betty and I have been just as broke in our day, only we had babies to
look after. Why didn't you come here?"
"I couldn't."
Philip was afraid he was going to cry. He felt very weak. He shut his eyes
and frowned, trying to control himself. He felt a sudden flash of anger
with Athelny because he would not leave him alone; but he was broken; and
presently, his eyes still closed, slowly in order to keep his voice
steady, he told him the story of his adventures during the last few weeks.
As he spoke it seemed to him that he had behaved inanely, and it made it
still harder to tell. He felt that Athelny would think him an utter fool.
"Now you're coming to live with us till you find something to do," said
Athelny, when he had finished.
Philip flushed, he knew not why.
"Oh, it's awfully kind of you, but I don't think I'll do that."
"Why not?"
Philip did not answer. He had refused instinctively from fear that he
would be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of accepting favours.
He knew besides that the Athelnys lived from hand to mouth, and with their
large family had neither space nor money to entertain a stranger.
"Of course you must come here," said Athelny. "Thorpe will tuck in with
one of his brothers and you can sleep in his bed. You don't suppose your
food's going to make any difference to us."
Philip was afraid to speak, and Athelny, going to the door, called his
wife.
"Betty," he said, when she came in, "Mr. Carey's coming to live with us."
"Oh, that is nice," she said. "I'll go and get the bed ready."
She spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone, taking everything for granted,
that Philip was deeply touched. He never expected people to be kind to
him, and when they were it surprised and moved him. Now he could not
prevent two large tears from rolling down his cheeks. The Athelnys
discussed the arrangements and pretended not to notice to what a state his
weakness had brought him. When Mrs. Athelny left them Philip leaned back
in his chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little.
"It's not a very nice night to be out, is it?"
CII
Athelny told Philip that he could easily get him something to do in the
large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. Several of the
assistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and Sedley with patriotic zeal
had promised to keep their places open for them. They put the work of the
heroes on those who remained, and since they did not increase the wages of
these were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an economy;
but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the holidays were
coming, when numbers of the staff went away for a fortnight at a time:
they were bound to engage more assistants. Philip's experience had made
him doubtful whether even then they would engage him; but Athelny,
representing himself as a person of consequence in the firm, insisted that
the manager could refuse him nothing. Philip, with his training in Paris,
would be very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was
bound to get a well-paid job to design costumes and draw posters. Philip
made a poster for the summer sale and Athelny took it away. Two days later
he brought it back, saying that the manager admired it very much and
regretted with all his heart that there was no vacancy just then in that
department. Philip asked whether there was nothing else he could do.
"I'm afraid not."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Well, the fact is they're advertising for a shop-walker tomorrow," said
Athelny, looking at him doubtfully through his glasses.
"D'you think I stand any chance of getting it?"
Athelny was a little confused; he had led Philip to expect something much
more splendid; on the other hand he was too poor to go on providing him
indefinitely with board and lodging.
"You might take it while you wait for something better. You always stand
a better chance if you're engaged by the firm already."
"I'm not proud, you, know" smiled Philip.
"If you decide on that you must be there at a quarter to nine tomorrow
morning."
Notwithstanding the war there was evidently much difficulty in finding
work, for when Philip went to the shop many men were waiting already. He
recognised some whom he had seen in his own searching, and there was one
whom he had noticed lying about the park in the afternoon. To Philip now
that suggested that he was as homeless as himself and passed the night out
of doors. The men were of all sorts, old and young, tall and short; but
every one had tried to make himself smart for the interview with the
manager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean hands.
They waited in a passage which Philip learnt afterwards led up to the
dining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken every few yards by five or
six steps. Though there was electric light in the shop here was only gas,
with wire cages over it for protection, and it flared noisily. Philip
arrived punctually, but it was nearly ten o'clock when he was admitted
into the office. It was three-cornered, like a cut of cheese lying on its
side: on the walls were pictures of women in corsets, and two
poster-proofs, one of a man in pyjamas, green and white in large stripes,
and the other of a ship in full sail ploughing an azure sea: on the sail
was printed in large letters `great white sale.' The widest side of the
office was the back of one of the shop-windows, which was being dressed at
the time, and an assistant went to and fro during the interview. The
manager was reading a letter. He was a florid man, with sandy hair and a
large sandy moustache; from the middle of his watch-chain hung a bunch of
football medals. He sat in his shirt sleeves at a large desk with a
telephone by his side; before him were the day's advertisements, Athelny's
work, and cuttings from newspapers pasted on a card. He gave Philip a
glance but did not speak to him; he dictated a letter to the typist, a
girl who sat at a small table in one corner; then he asked Philip his
name, age, and what experience he had had. He spoke with a cockney twang
in a high, metallic voice which he seemed not able always to control;
Philip noticed that his upper teeth were large and protruding; they gave
you the impression that they were loose and would come out if you gave
them a sharp tug.
"I think Mr. Athelny has spoken to you about me," said Philip.
"Oh, you are the young feller who did that poster?"
"Yes, sir."
"No good to us, you know, not a bit of good."
He looked Philip up and down. He seemed to notice that Philip was in some
way different from the men who had preceded him.
"You'd 'ave to get a frock coat, you know. I suppose you 'aven't got one.
You seem a respectable young feller. I suppose you found art didn't pay."
Philip could not tell whether he meant to engage him or not. He threw
remarks at him in a hostile way.
"Where's your home?"
"My father and mother died when I was a child."
"I like to give young fellers a chance. Many's the one I've given their
chance to and they're managers of departments now. And they're grateful to
me, I'll say that for them. They know what I done for them. Start at the
bottom of the ladder, that's the only way to learn the business, and then
if you stick to it there's no knowing what it can lead to. If you suit,
one of these days you may find yourself in a position like what mine is.
Bear that in mind, young feller."
"I'm very anxious to do my best, sir," said Philip.
He knew that he must put in the sir whenever he could, but it sounded odd
to him, and he was afraid of overdoing it. The manager liked talking. It
gave him a happy consciousness of his own importance, and he did not give
Philip his decision till he had used a great many words.
"Well, I daresay you'll do," he said at last, in a pompous way. "Anyhow I
don't mind giving you a trial."
"Thank you very much, sir."
"You can start at once. I'll give you six shillings a week and your keep.
Everything found, you know; the six shillings is only pocket money, to do
what you like with, paid monthly. Start on Monday. I suppose you've got no
cause of complaint with that."
"No, sir."
"Harrington Street, d'you know where that is, Shaftesbury Avenue. That's
where you sleep. Number ten, it is. You can sleep there on Sunday night,
if you like; that's just as you please, or you can send your box there on
Monday." The manager nodded: "Good-morning."
CIII
Mrs. Athelny lent Philip money to pay his landlady enough of her bill to
let him take his things away. For five shillings and the pawn-ticket on a
suit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a frock coat which fitted him
fairly well. He redeemed the rest of his clothes. He sent his box to
Harrington Street by Carter Patterson and on Monday morning went with
Athelny to the shop. Athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes
and left him. The buyer was a pleasant, fussy little man of thirty, named
Sampson; he shook hands with Philip, and, in order to show his own
accomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he spoke French.
He was surprised when Philip told him he did.
"Any other language?"
"I speak German."
"Oh! I go over to Paris myself occasionally. Parlez-vous francais? Ever
been to Maxim's?"
Philip was stationed at the top of the stairs in the `costumes.' His work
consisted in directing people to the various departments. There seemed a
great many of them as Mr. Sampson tripped them off his tongue. Suddenly he
noticed that Philip limped.
"What's the matter with your leg?" he asked.
"I've got a club-foot," said Philip. "But it doesn't prevent my walking or
anything like that."
The buyer looked at it for a moment doubtfully, and Philip surmised that
he was wondering why the manager had engaged him. Philip knew that he had
not noticed there was anything the matter with him.
"I don't expect you to get them all correct the first day. If you're in
any doubt all you've got to do is to ask one of the young ladies."
Mr. Sampson turned away; and Philip, trying to remember where this or the
other department was, watched anxiously for the customer in search of
information. At one o'clock he went up to dinner. The dining-room, on the
top floor of the vast building, was large, long, and well lit; but all the
windows were shut to keep out the dust, and there was a horrid smell of
cooking. There were long tables covered with cloths, with big glass
bottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellars and
bottles of vinegar. The assistants crowded in noisily, and sat down on
forms still warm from those who had dined at twelve-thirty.
"No pickles," remarked the man next to Philip.
He was a tall thin young man, with a hooked nose and a pasty face; he had
a long head, unevenly shaped as though the skull had been pushed in here
and there oddly, and on his forehead and neck were large acne spots red
and inflamed. His name was Harris. Philip discovered that on some days
there were large soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles. They
were very popular. There were no knives and forks, but in a minute a large
fat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of them and
threw them loudly on the middle of the table. Each man took what he
wanted; they were warm and greasy from recent washing in dirty water.
Plates of meat swimming in gravy were handed round by boys in white
jackets, and as they flung each plate down with the quick gesture of a
prestidigitator the gravy slopped over on to the table-cloth. Then they
brought large dishes of cabbages and potatoes; the sight of them turned
Philip's stomach; he noticed that everyone poured quantities of vinegar
over them. The noise was awful. They talked and laughed and shouted, and
there was the clatter of knives and forks, and strange sounds of eating.
Philip was glad to get back into the department. He was beginning to
remember where each one was, and had less often to ask one of the
assistants, when somebody wanted to know the way.
"First to the right. Second on the left, madam."
One or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things were slack,
and he felt they were taking his measure. At five he was sent up again to
the dining-room for tea. He was glad to sit down. There were large slices
of bread heavily spread with butter; and many had pots of jam, which were
kept in the `store' and had their names written on.
Philip was exhausted when work stopped at half past six. Harris, the man
he had sat next to at dinner, offered to take him over to Harrington
Street to show him where he was to sleep. He told Philip there was a spare
bed in his room, and, as the other rooms were full, he expected Philip
would be put there. The house in Harrington Street had been a bootmaker's;
and the shop was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since the
window had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the only
ventilation came from a small skylight at the far end. There was a musty
smell, and Philip was thankful that he would not have to sleep there.
Harris took him up to the sitting-room, which was on the first floor; it
had an old piano in it with a keyboard that looked like a row of decayed
teeth; and on the table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of
dominoes; old numbers of The Strand Magazine and of The Graphic were
lying about. The other rooms were used as bed-rooms. That in which Philip
was to sleep was at the top of the house. There were six beds in it, and
a trunk or a box stood by the side of each. The only furniture was a chest
of drawers: it had four large drawers and two small ones, and Philip as
the new-comer had one of these; there were keys to them, but as they were
all alike they were not of much use, and Harris advised him to keep his
valuables in his trunk. There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece.
Harris showed Philip the lavatory, which was a fairly large room with
eight basins in a row, and here all the inmates did their washing. It led
into another room in which were two baths, discoloured, the woodwork
stained with soap; and in them were dark rings at various intervals which
indicated the water marks of different baths.
When Harris and Philip went back to their bed-room they found a tall man
changing his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling as loud as he could
while he brushed his hair. In a minute or two without saying a word to
anybody the tall man went out. Harris winked at the boy, and the boy,
whistling still, winked back. Harris told Philip that the man was called
Prior; he had been in the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty
much to himself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so
much as a good-evening, to see his girl. Harris went out too, and only the
boy remained to watch Philip curiously while he unpacked his things. His
name was Bell and he was serving his time for nothing in the haberdashery.
He was much interested in Philip's evening clothes. He told him about the
other men in the room and asked him every sort of question about himself.
He was a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in a
half-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. When Philip had finished
he went out to walk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally
he stopped outside the doors of restaurants and watched the people going
in; he felt hungry, so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled
along. He had been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned
out the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he
returned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had
to pay a shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a
quarter past, and you were reported besides: if it happened three times
you were dismissed.
All but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were already in
bed. Philip was greeted with cries.
"Oh, Clarence! Naughty boy!"
He discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening clothes.
The boy was delighted with his joke.
"You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence."
"He'll catch the belle of Lynn's, if he's not careful."
Philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped
from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff. It
was only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance and the
use of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month besides was
stopped for washing, Philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings
a week would never be paid to him.
Most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of
bread cut in two. These sandwiches, the assistants' usual supper, were
supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. The soldier
rolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself into
bed. At ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes
later went out. The soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round
the big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains of
their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted to
them facetious remarks. The house opposite, six storeys high, was a
workshop for Jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were
brightly lit and there were no blinds to the windows. The sweater's
daughter--the family consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a
girl of twenty--went round the house to put out the lights when work was
over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by one of the
tailors. The shop assistants in Philip's room got a lot of amusement out
of watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to stay behind, and they
made small bets on which would succeed. At midnight the people were turned
out of the Harrington Arms at the end of the street, and soon after they
all went to bed: Bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the
room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not
stop talking. At last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of
the soldier, and Philip went to sleep.
He was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a quarter to
eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs in their stockinged
feet to pick out their boots. They laced them as they ran along to the
shop in Oxford Street for breakfast. If they were a minute later than
eight they got none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves
anything to eat. Sometimes, if they knew they could not get into the
building in time, they stopped at the little shop near their quarters and
bought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and most went without food
till dinner. Philip ate some bread and butter, drank a cup of tea, and at
half past eight began his day's work again.
"First to the right. Second on the left, madam."
Soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The work was
monotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet hurt him so that he
could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night
his socks were painful to remove. It was a common complaint, and his
fellow `floormen' told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the
continual sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the same fashion,
and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the
bed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was obliged to
spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at Harrington Street
with his feet in a pail of cold water. His companion on these occasions
was Bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the
stamps he collected. As he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper
he whistled monotonously.
CIV
The social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was one at the
beginning of Philip's second week at Lynn's. He arranged to go with one of
the women in his department.
"Meet 'em 'alf-way," she said, "same as I do."
This was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed
hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over it,
and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. She took a fancy to Philip and
called him by his Christian name before he had been in the shop a week.
"We've both known what it is to come down," she said.
She told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she always referred
to 'me 'usband Misterodges;" he was a barrister and he treated her simply
shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent like; but she
had known what it was to drive in her own carriage, dear--she called
everyone dear--and they always had late dinner at home. She used to pick
her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch. It was in the form of
a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in the middle. Philip
was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the girls in the shop called
him `sidey.' One addressed him as Phil, and he did not answer because he
had not the least idea that she was speaking to him; so she tossed her
head, saying he was a `stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical
emphasis called him Mister Carey. She was a Miss Jewell, and she was going
to marry a doctor. The other girls had never seen him, but they said he
must be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely presents.
"Never you mind what they say, dear," said Mrs. Hodges. "I've 'ad to go
through it same as you 'ave. They don't know any better, poor things. You
take my word for it, they'll like you all right if you 'old your own same
as I 'ave."
The social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. The tables
were put on one side so that there might be room for dancing, and smaller
ones were set out for progressive whist.
"The 'eads 'ave to get there early," said Mrs. Hodges.
She introduced him to Miss Bennett, who was the belle of Lynn's. She was
the buyer in the `Petticoats,' and when Philip entered was engaged in
conversation with the buyer in the `Gentlemen's Hosiery;' Miss Bennett was
a woman of massive proportions, with a very large red face heavily
powdered and a bust of imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was arranged
with elaboration. She was overdressed, but not badly dressed, in black
with a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which she played
cards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck, bangles on her
wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of Queen Alexandra;
she carried a black satin bag and chewed Sen-sens.
"Please to meet you, Mr. Carey," she said. "This is your first visit to
our social evenings, ain't it? I expect you feel a bit shy, but there's no
cause to, I promise you that."
She did her best to make people feel at home. She slapped them on the
shoulders and laughed a great deal.
"Ain't I a pickle?" she cried, turning to Philip. "What must you think of
me? But I can't 'elp meself."
Those who were going to take part in the social evening came in, the
younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls of their own,
and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. Several of the young
gentlemen wore lounge suits with white evening ties and red silk
handkerchiefs; they were going to perform, and they had a busy, abstracted
air; some were self-confident, but others were nervous, and they watched
their public with an anxious eye. Presently a girl with a great deal of
hair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across the keyboard. When
the audience had settled itself she looked round and gave the name of her
piece.
"A Drive in Russia."
There was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed bells to her
wrists. She smiled a little and immediately burst into energetic melody.
There was a great deal more clapping when she finished, and when this was
over, as an encore, she gave a piece which imitated the sea; there were
little trills to represent the lapping waves and thundering chords, with
the loud pedal down, to suggest a storm. After this a gentleman sang a
song called Bid me Good-bye, and as an encore obliged with Sing me to
Sleep. The audience measured their enthusiasm with a nice discrimination.
Everyone was applauded till he gave an encore, and so that there might be
no jealousy no one was applauded more than anyone else. Miss Bennett
sailed up to Philip.
"I'm sure you play or sing, Mr. Carey," she said archly. "I can see it in
your face."
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Don't you even recite?"
"I have no parlour tricks."
The buyer in the `gentleman's hosiery' was a well-known reciter, and he
was called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his department.
Needing no pressing, he gave a long poem of tragic character, in which he
rolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and acted as though he were in
great agony. The point, that he had eaten cucumber for supper, was
divulged in the last line and was greeted with laughter, a little forced
because everyone knew the poem well, but loud and long. Miss Bennett did
not sing, play, or recite.
"Oh no, she 'as a little game of her own," said Mrs. Hodges.
"Now, don't you begin chaffing me. The fact is I know quite a lot about
palmistry and second sight."
"Oh, do tell my 'and, Miss Bennett," cried the girls in her department,
eager to please her.
"I don't like telling 'ands, I don't really. I've told people such
terrible things and they've all come true, it makes one superstitious
like."
"Oh, Miss Bennett, just for once."
A little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of embarrassment,
giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or admiration, she talked
mysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of journeys,
till the sweat stood in heavy beads on her painted face.
"Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration."
Supper was at nine. There were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and coffee,
all free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay for it. Gallantry
often led young men to offer the ladies ginger beer, but common decency
made them refuse. Miss Bennett was very fond of ginger beer, and she drank
two and sometimes three bottles during the evening; but she insisted on
paying for them herself. The men liked her for that.
"She's a rum old bird," they said, "but mind you, she's not a bad sort,
she's not like what some are."
After supper progressive whist was played. This was very noisy, and there
was a great deal of laughing and shouting, as people moved from table to
table. Miss Bennett grew hotter and hotter.
"Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration."
In due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked that if
they wanted to dance they'd better begin. The girl who had played the
accompaniments sat at the piano and placed a decided foot on the loud
pedal. She played a dreamy waltz, marking the time with the bass, while
with the right hand she `tiddled' in alternate octaves. By way of a change
she crossed her hands and played the air in the bass.
"She does play well, doesn't she?" Mrs. Hodges remarked to Philip. "And
what's more she's never 'ad a lesson in 'er life; it's all ear."
Miss Bennett liked dancing and poetry better than anything in the world.
She danced well, but very, very slowly, and an expression came into her
eyes as though her thoughts were far, far away. She talked breathlessly of
the floor and the heat and the supper. She said that the Portman Rooms had
the best floor in London and she always liked the dances there; they were
very select, and she couldn't bear dancing with all sorts of men you
didn't know anything about; why, you might be exposing yourself to you
didn't know what all. Nearly all the people danced very well, and they
enjoyed themselves. Sweat poured down their faces, and the very high
collars of the young men grew limp.
Philip looked on, and a greater depression seized him than he remembered
to have felt for a long time. He felt intolerably alone. He did not go,
because he was afraid to seem supercilious, and he talked with the girls
and laughed, but in his heart was unhappiness. Miss Bennett asked him if
he had a girl.
"No," he smiled.
"Oh, well, there's plenty to choose from here. And they're very nice
respectable girls, some of them. I expect you'll have a girl before you've
been here long."
She looked at him very archly.
"Meet 'em 'alf-way," said Mrs. Hodges. "That's what I tell him."
It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the party broke up. Philip could not get
to sleep. Like the others he kept his aching feet outside the bed-clothes.
He tried with all his might not to think of the life he was leading. The
soldier was snoring quietly.
CV
The wages were paid once a month by the secretary. On pay-day each batch
of assistants, coming down from tea, went into the passage and joined the
long line of people waiting orderly like the audience in a queue outside
a gallery door. One by one they entered the office. The secretary sat at
a desk with wooden bowls of money in front of him, and he asked the
employe's name; he referred to a book, quickly, after a suspicious
glance at the assistant, said aloud the sum due, and taking money out of
the bowl counted it into his hand.
"Thank you," he said. "Next."
"Thank you," was the reply.
The assistant passed on to the second secretary and before leaving the
room paid him four shillings for washing money, two shillings for the
club, and any fines that he might have incurred. With what he had left he
went back into his department and there waited till it was time to go.
Most of the men in Philip's house were in debt with the woman who sold the
sandwiches they generally ate for supper. She was a funny old thing, very
fat, with a broad, red face, and black hair plastered neatly on each side
of the forehead in the fashion shown in early pictures of Queen Victoria.
She always wore a little black bonnet and a white apron; her sleeves were
tucked up to the elbow; she cut the sandwiches with large, dirty, greasy
hands; and there was grease on her bodice, grease on her apron, grease on
her skirt. She was called Mrs. Fletcher, but everyone addressed her as
`Ma'; she was really fond of the shop assistants, whom she called her
boys; she never minded giving credit towards the end of the month, and it
was known that now and then she had lent someone or other a few shillings
when he was in straits. She was a good woman. When they were leaving or
when they came back from the holidays, the boys kissed her fat red cheek;
and more than one, dismissed and unable to find another job, had got for
nothing food to keep body and soul together. The boys were sensible of her
large heart and repaid her with genuine affection. There was a story they
liked to tell of a man who had done well for himself at Bradford, and had
five shops of his own, and had come back after fifteen years and visited
Ma Fletcher and given her a gold watch.
Philip found himself with eighteen shillings left out of his month's pay.
It was the first money he had ever earned in his life. It gave him none of
the pride which might have been expected, but merely a feeling of dismay.
The smallness of the sum emphasised the hopelessness of his position. He
took fifteen shillings to Mrs. Athelny to pay back part of what he owed
her, but she would not take more than half a sovereign.
"D'you know, at that rate it'll take me eight months to settle up with
you."
"As long as Athelny's in work I can afford to wait, and who knows, p'raps
they'll give you a rise."
Athelny kept on saying that he would speak to the manager about Philip, it
was absurd that no use should be made of his talents; but he did nothing,
and Philip soon came to the conclusion that the press-agent was not a
person of so much importance in the manager's eyes as in his own.
Occasionally he saw Athelny in the shop. His flamboyance was extinguished;
and in neat, commonplace, shabby clothes he hurried, a subdued, unassuming
little man, through the departments as though anxious to escape notice.
"When I think of how I'm wasted there," he said at home, "I'm almost
tempted to give in my notice. There's no scope for a man like me. I'm
stunted, I'm starved."
Mrs. Athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints. Her mouth
tightened a little.
"It's very hard to get jobs in these times. It's regular and it's safe; I
expect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction."
It was evident that Athelny would. It was interesting to see the
ascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal tie, had
acquired over the brilliant, unstable man. Mrs. Athelny treated Philip
with motherly kindness now that he was in a different position, and he was
touched by her anxiety that he should make a good meal. It was the solace
of his life (and when he grew used to it, the monotony of it was what
chiefly appalled him) that he could go every Sunday to that friendly
house. It was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss all
manner of things with Athelny. Though his condition seemed so desperate he
never left him to go back to Harrington Street without a feeling of
exultation. At first Philip, in order not to forget what he had learned,
tried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; he
could not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day;
and it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how
long he would be able to go back to the hospital. He dreamed constantly
that he was in the wards. The awakening was painful. The sensation of
other people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he had
been used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be by
himself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him. It was then
that he found it most difficult to combat his despair. He saw himself
going on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam,
indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away: the men
who had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteed
to take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; he
would have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had.
There was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle.
He would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish his
course at the hospital. Philip began to wish with all his might for the
old man's death. He reckoned out how long he could possibly live: he was
well over seventy, Philip did not know his exact age, but he must be at
least seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter
had a bad cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and over
again the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis in
the old. A severe winter might be too much for the old man. With all his
heart Philip longed for cold and rain. He thought of it constantly, so
that it became a monomania. Uncle William was affected by the great heat
too, and in August they had three weeks of sweltering weather. Philip
imagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come saying that
the Vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterable
relief. As he stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to the
departments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking incessantly
what he would do with the money. He did not know how much it would be,
perhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough.
He would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give notice, he
would pack his box and go without saying a word to anybody; and then he
would return to the hospital. That was the first thing. Would he have
forgotten much? In six months he could get it all back, and then he would
take his three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then
medicine and surgery. The awful fear seized him that his uncle,
notwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to the parish
or the church. The thought made Philip sick. He could not be so cruel. But
if that happened Philip was quite determined what to do, he would not go
on in that way indefinitely; his life was only tolerable because he could
look forward to something better. If he had no hope he would have no fear.
The only brave thing to do then would be to commit suicide, and, thinking
this over too, Philip decided minutely what painless drug he would take
and how he would get hold of it. It encouraged him to think that, if
things became unendurable, he had at all events a way out.
"Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. First on the left and
straight through. Mr. Philips, forward please."
Once a month, for a week, Philip was `on duty.' He had to go to the
department at seven in the morning and keep an eye on the sweepers. When
they finished he had to take the sheets off the cases and the models.
Then, in the evening when the assistants left, he had to put back the
sheets on the models and the cases and `gang' the sweepers again. It was
a dusty, dirty job. He was not allowed to read or write or smoke, but just
had to walk about, and the time hung heavily on his hands. When he went
off at half past nine he had supper given him, and this was the only
consolation; for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy appetite,
and the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm provided, were
welcome.
One day when Philip had been at Lynn's for three months, Mr. Sampson, the
buyer, came into the department, fuming with anger. The manager, happening
to notice the costume window as he came in, had sent for the buyer and
made satirical remarks upon the colour scheme. Forced to submit in silence
to his superior's sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out of the assistants; and
he rated the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window.
"If you want a thing well done you must do it yourself," Mr. Sampson
stormed. "I've always said it and I always shall. One can't leave anything
to you chaps. Intelligent you call yourselves, do you? Intelligent!"
He threw the word at the assistants as though it were the bitterest term
of reproach.
"Don't you know that if you put an electric blue in the window it'll kill
all the other blues?"
He looked round the department ferociously, and his eye fell upon Philip.
"You'll dress the window next Friday, Carey. let's see what you can make
of it."
He went into his office, muttering angrily. Philip's heart sank. When
Friday morning came he went into the window with a sickening sense of
shame. His cheeks were burning. It was horrible to display himself to the
passers-by, and though he told himself it was foolish to give way to such
a feeling he turned his back to the street. There was not much chance that
any of the students at the hospital would pass along Oxford Street at that
hour, and he knew hardly anyone else in London; but as Philip worked, with
a huge lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catch
the eye of some man he knew. He made all the haste he could. By the simple
observation that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes more
than was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and when the buyer went
into the street to look at the result he was obviously pleased.
"I knew I shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on the window. The fact
is, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I wouldn't say this in the
department, but you and me are gentlemen, and that always tells. It's no
good your telling me it doesn't tell, because I know it does tell."
Philip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom himself to
the publicity; and he dreaded Friday morning, on which the window was
dressed, with a terror that made him awake at five o'clock and lie
sleepless with sickness in his heart. The girls in the department noticed
his shamefaced way, and they very soon discovered his trick of standing
with his back to the street. They laughed at him and called him `sidey.'
"I suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and cut you out of her
will."
On the whole he got on well enough with the girls. They thought him a
little queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not being like the
rest, and they found in due course that he was good-natured. He never
minded helping anyone, and he was polite and even tempered.
"You can see he's a gentleman," they said.
"Very reserved, isn't he?" said one young woman, to whose passionate
enthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved.
Most of them had `fellers,' and those who hadn't said they had rather than
have it supposed that no one had an inclination for them. One or two
showed signs of being willing to start a flirtation with Philip, and he
watched their manoeuvres with grave amusement. He had had enough of
love-making for some time; and he was nearly always tired and often
hungry.
CVI
Philip avoided the places he had known in happier times. The little
gatherings at the tavern in Beak Street were broken up: Macalister, having
let down his friends, no longer went there, and Hayward was at the Cape.
Only Lawson remained; and Philip, feeling that now the painter and he had
nothing in common, did not wish to see him; but one Saturday afternoon,
after dinner, having changed his clothes he walked down Regent Street to
go to the free library in St. Martin's Lane, meaning to spend the
afternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with him. His
first instinct was to pass on without a word, but Lawson did not give him
the opportunity.
"Where on earth have you been all this time?" he cried.
"I?" said Philip.
"I wrote you and asked you to come to the studio for a beano and you never
even answered."
"I didn't get your letter."
"No, I know. I went to the hospital to ask for you, and I saw my letter in
the rack. Have you chucked the Medical?"
Philip hesitated for a moment. He was ashamed to tell the truth, but the
shame he felt angered him, and he forced himself to speak. He could not
help reddening.
"Yes, I lost the little money I had. I couldn't afford to go on with it."
"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What are you doing?"
"I'm a shop-walker."
The words choked Philip, but he was determined not to shirk the truth. He
kept his eyes on Lawson and saw his embarrassment. Philip smiled savagely.
"If you went into Lynn and Sedley, and made your way into the `made robes'
department, you would see me in a frock coat, walking about with a
degage air and directing ladies who want to buy petticoats or stockings.
First to the right, madam, and second on the left."
Lawson, seeing that Philip was making a jest of it, laughed awkwardly. He
did not know what to say. The picture that Philip called up horrified him,
but he was afraid to show his sympathy.
"That's a bit of a change for you," he said.
His words seemed absurd to him, and immediately he wished he had not said
them. Philip flushed darkly.
"A bit," he said. "By the way, I owe you five bob."
He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some silver.
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'd forgotten all about it."
"Go on, take it."
Lawson received the money silently. They stood in the middle of the
pavement, and people jostled them as they passed. There was a sardonic
twinkle in Philip's eyes, which made the painter intensely uncomfortable,
and he could not tell that Philip's heart was heavy with despair. Lawson
wanted dreadfully to do something, but he did not know what to do.
"I say, won't you come to the studio and have a talk?"
"No," said Philip.
"Why not?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
He saw the pain come into Lawson's eyes, he could not help it, he was
sorry, but he had to think of himself; he could not bear the thought of
discussing his situation, he could endure it only by determining
resolutely not to think about it. He was afraid of his weakness if once he
began to open his heart. Moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to the
places where he had been miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had
endured when he had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for
Lawson to offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the
five shillings off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he recalled
those days of utter abasement.
"Then look here, come and dine with me one night. Choose your own
evening."
Philip was touched with the painter's kindness. All sorts of people were
strangely kind to him, he thought.
"It's awfully good of you, old man, but I'd rather not." He held out his
hand. "Good-bye."
Lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took his hand,
and Philip quickly limped away. His heart was heavy; and, as was usual
with him, he began to reproach himself for what he had done: he did not
know what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered friendship. But
he heard someone running behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling
him; he stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of
him; he presented to Lawson a cold, set face.
"What is it?"
"I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?"
"I know he went to the Cape."
"He died, you know, soon after landing."
For a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly believe his ears.
"How?" he asked.
"Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you mightn't know. Gave me
a bit of a turn when I heard it."
Lawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a shiver pass through
his heart. He had never before lost a friend of his own age, for the death
of Cronshaw, a man so much older than himself, had seemed to come in the
normal course of things. The news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded
him of his own mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly
that all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply to
himself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have any warm
feeling for him, affected him deeply. He remembered on a sudden all the
good talks they had had, and it pained him to think that they would never
talk with one another again; he remembered their first meeting and the
pleasant months they had spent together in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank
as he thought of the lost years. He walked on mechanically, not noticing
where he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that
instead of turning down the Haymarket he had sauntered along Shaftesbury
Avenue. It bored him to retrace his steps; and besides, with that news, he
did not want to read, he wanted to sit alone and think. He made up his
mind to go to the British Museum. Solitude was now his only luxury. Since
he had been at Lynn's he had often gone there and sat in front of the
groups from the Parthenon; and, not deliberately thinking, had allowed
their divine masses to rest his troubled soul. But this afternoon they had
nothing to say to him, and after a few minutes, impatiently, he wandered
out of the room. There were too many people, provincials with foolish
faces, foreigners poring over guide-books; their hideousness besmirched
the everlasting masterpieces, their restlessness troubled the god's
immortal repose. He went into another room and here there was hardly
anyone. Philip sat down wearily. His nerves were on edge. He could not get
the people out of his mind. Sometimes at Lynn's they affected him in the
same way, and he looked at them file past him with horror; they were so
ugly and there was such meanness in their faces, it was terrifying; their
features were distorted with paltry desires, and you felt they were
strange to any ideas of beauty. They had furtive eyes and weak chins.
There was no wickedness in them, but only pettiness and vulgarity. Their
humour was a low facetiousness. Sometimes he found himself looking at them
to see what animal they resembled (he tried not to, for it quickly became
an obsession,) and he saw in them all the sheep or the horse or the fox or
the goat. Human beings filled him with disgust.
But presently the influence of the place descended upon him. He felt
quieter. He began to look absently at the tombstones with which the room
was lined. They were the work of Athenian stone masons of the fourth and
fifth centuries before Christ, and they were very simple, work of no great
talent but with the exquisite spirit of Athens upon them; time had
mellowed the marble to the colour of honey, so that unconsciously one
thought of the bees of Hymettus, and softened their outlines. Some
represented a nude figure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the
dead from those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands with one
who remained behind. On all was the tragic word farewell; that and nothing
more. Their simplicity was infinitely touching. Friend parted from friend,
the son from his mother, and the restraint made the survivor's grief more
poignant. It was so long, long ago, and century upon century had passed
over that unhappiness; for two thousand years those who wept had been dust
as those they wept for. Yet the woe was alive still, and it filled
Philip's heart so that he felt compassion spring up in it, and he said:
"Poor things, poor things."
And it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the fat strangers with
their guide-books, and all those mean, common people who thronged the
shop, with their trivial desires and vulgar cares, were mortal and must
die. They too loved and must part from those they loved, the son from his
mother, the wife from her husband; and perhaps it was more tragic because
their lives were ugly and sordid, and they knew nothing that gave beauty
to the world. There was one stone which was very beautiful, a bas relief
of two young men holding each other's hand; and the reticence of line, the
simplicity, made one like to think that the sculptor here had been touched
with a genuine emotion. It was an exquisite memorial to that than which
the world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as
Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He thought of
Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how
disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them
together but habit and old memories. It was one of the queer things of
life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with
him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation
came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had
seemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you did not
even miss him. Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when
Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the
future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned
himself to failure. Now he was dead. His death had been as futile as his
life. He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even
at the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if he had
never lived.
Philip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at all. It all
seemed inane. It was the same with Cronshaw: it was quite unimportant that
he had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in
remainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served
nothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article
in a review. And Philip cried out in his soul:
"What is the use of it?"
The effort was so incommensurate with the result. The bright hopes of
youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment. Pain
and disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily. What did it
all mean? He thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had
entered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his
friendlessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth.
He did not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do,
and what a cropper he had come! Other men, with no more advantages than
he, succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed. It seemed pure
chance. The rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for
nothing was there a why and a wherefore.
Thinking of Cronshaw, Philip remembered the Persian rug which he had given
him, telling him that it offered an answer to his question upon the
meaning of life; and suddenly the answer occurred to him: he chuckled: now
that he had it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till
you are shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have
escaped you. The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning. On the earth,
satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under
the influence of conditions which were part of the planet's history; and
as there had been a beginning of life upon it so, under the influence of
other conditions, there would be an end: man, no more significant than
other forms of life, had come not as the climax of creation but as a
physical reaction to the environment. Philip remembered the story of the
Eastern King who, desiring to know the history of man, was brought by a
sage five hundred volumes; busy with affairs of state, he bade him go and
condense it; in twenty years the sage returned and his history now was in
no more than fifty volumes, but the King, too old then to read so many
ponderous tomes, bade him go and shorten it once more; twenty years passed
again and the sage, old and gray, brought a single book in which was the
knowledge the King had sought; but the King lay on his death-bed, and he
had no time to read even that; and then the sage gave him the history of
man in a single line; it was this: he was born, he suffered, and he died.
There was no meaning in life, and man by living served no end. It was
immaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he lived or ceased to
live. Life was insignificant and death without consequence. Philip
exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in
God was lifted from his shoulders: it seemed to him that the last burden
of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was
utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself
suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for,
if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty. What he did
or left undone did not matter. Failure was unimportant and success
amounted to nothing. He was the most inconsiderate creature in that
swarming mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of
the earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from chaos the
secret of its nothingness. Thoughts came tumbling over one another in
Philip's eager fancy, and he took long breaths of joyous satisfaction. He
felt inclined to leap and sing. He had not been so happy for months.
"Oh, life," he cried in his heart, "Oh life, where is thy sting?"
For the same uprush of fancy which had shown him with all the force of
mathematical demonstration that life had no meaning, brought with it
another idea; and that was why Cronshaw, he imagined, had given him the
Persian rug. As the weaver elaborated his pattern for no end but the
pleasure of his aesthetic sense, so might a man live his life, or if one
was forced to believe that his actions were outside his choosing, so might
a man look at his life, that it made a pattern. There was as little need
to do this as there was use. It was merely something he did for his own
pleasure. Out of the manifold events of his life, his deeds, his feelings,
his thoughts, he might make a design, regular, elaborate, complicated, or
beautiful; and though it might be no more than an illusion that he had the
power of selection, though it might be no more than a fantastic
legerdemain in which appearances were interwoven with moonbeams, that did
not matter: it seemed, and so to him it was. In the vast warp of life (a
river arising from no spring and flowing endlessly to no sea), with the
background to his fancies that there was no meaning and that nothing was
important, a man might get a personal satisfaction in selecting the
various strands that worked out the pattern. There was one pattern, the
most obvious, perfect, and beautiful, in which a man was born, grew to
manhood, married, produced children, toiled for his bread, and died; but
there were others, intricate and wonderful, in which happiness did not
enter and in which success was not attempted; and in them might be
discovered a more troubling grace. Some lives, and Hayward's was among
them, the blind indifference of chance cut off while the design was still
imperfect; and then the solace was comfortable that it did not matter;
other lives, such as Cronshaw's, offered a pattern which was difficult to
follow, the point of view had to be shifted and old standards had to be
altered before one could understand that such a life was its own
justification. Philip thought that in throwing over the desire for
happiness he was casting aside the last of his illusions. His life had
seemed horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed
to gather strength as he realised that it might be measured by something
else. Happiness mattered as little as pain. They came in, both of them, as
all the other details of his life came in, to the elaboration of the
design. He seemed for an instant to stand above the accidents of his
existence, and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had
done before. Whatever happened to him now would be one more motive to add
to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end approached he would
rejoice in its completion. It would be a work of art, and it would be none
the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence, and with his
death it would at once cease to be.
Philip was happy.
CVII
Mr. Sampson, the buyer, took a fancy to Philip. Mr. Sampson was very
dashing, and the girls in his department said they would not be surprised
if he married one of the rich customers. He lived out of town and often
impressed the assistants by putting on his evening clothes in the office.
Sometimes he would be seen by those on sweeping duty coming in next
morning still dressed, and they would wink gravely to one another while he
went into his office and changed into a frock coat. On these occasions,
having slipped out for a hurried breakfast, he also would wink at Philip
as he walked up the stairs on his way back and rub his hands.
"What a night! What a night!" he said. "My word!"
He told Philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and Philip
were the only fellows who knew what life was. Having said this, he changed
his manner suddenly, called Philip Mr. Carey instead of old boy, assumed
the importance due to his position as buyer, and put Philip back into his
place of shop-walker.
Lynn and Sedley received fashion papers from Paris once a week and adapted
the costumes illustrated in them to the needs of their customers. Their
clientele was peculiar. The most substantial part consisted of women from
the smaller manufacturing towns, who were too elegant to have their frocks
made locally and not sufficiently acquainted with London to discover good
dressmakers within their means. Beside these, incongruously, was a large
number of music-hall artistes. This was a connection that Mr. Sampson had
worked up for himself and took great pride in. They had begun by getting
their stage-costumes at Lynn's, and he had induced many of them to get
their other clothes there as well.
"As good as Paquin and half the price," he said.
He had a persuasive, hail-fellow well-met air with him which appealed to
customers of this sort, and they said to one another:
"What's the good of throwing money away when you can get a coat and skirt
at Lynn's that nobody knows don't come from Paris?"
Mr. Sampson was very proud of his friendship with the popular favourites
whose frocks he made, and when he went out to dinner at two o'clock on
Sunday with Miss Victoria Virgo--"she was wearing that powder blue we made
her and I lay she didn't let on it come from us, I 'ad to tell her meself
that if I 'adn't designed it with my own 'ands I'd have said it must come
from Paquin"--at her beautiful house in Tulse Hill, he regaled the
department next day with abundant details. Philip had never paid much
attention to women's clothes, but in course of time he began, a little
amused at himself, to take a technical interest in them. He had an eye for
colour which was more highly trained than that of anyone in the
department, and he had kept from his student days in Paris some knowledge
of line. Mr. Sampson, an ignorant man conscious of his incompetence, but
with a shrewdness that enabled him to combine other people's suggestions,
constantly asked the opinion of the assistants in his department in making
up new designs; and he had the quickness to see that Philip's criticisms
were valuable. But he was very jealous, and would never allow that he took
anyone's advice. When he had altered some drawing in accordance with
Philip's suggestion, he always finished up by saying:
"Well, it comes round to my own idea in the end."
One day, when Philip had been at the shop for five months, Miss Alice
Antonia, the well-known serio-comic, came in and asked to see Mr. Sampson.
She was a large woman, with flaxen hair, and a boldly painted face, a
metallic voice, and the breezy manner of a comedienne accustomed to be on
friendly terms with the gallery boys of provincial music-halls. She had a
new song and wished Mr. Sampson to design a costume for her.
"I want something striking," she said. "I don't want any old thing you
know. I want something different from what anybody else has."
Mr. Sampson, bland and familiar, said he was quite certain they could get
her the very thing she required. He showed her sketches.
"I know there's nothing here that would do, but I just want to show you
the kind of thing I would suggest."
"Oh no, that's not the sort of thing at all," she said, as she glanced at
them impatiently. "What I want is something that'll just hit 'em in the
jaw and make their front teeth rattle."
"Yes, I quite understand, Miss Antonia," said the buyer, with a bland
smile, but his eyes grew blank and stupid.
"I expect I shall 'ave to pop over to Paris for it in the end."
"Oh, I think we can give you satisfaction, Miss Antonia. What you can get
in Paris you can get here."
When she had swept out of the department Mr. Sampson, a little worried,
discussed the matter with Mrs. Hodges.
"She's a caution and no mistake," said Mrs. Hodges.
"Alice, where art thou?" remarked the buyer, irritably, and thought he had
scored a point against her.
His ideas of music-hall costumes had never gone beyond short skirts, a
swirl of lace, and glittering sequins; but Miss Antonia had expressed
herself on that subject in no uncertain terms.
"Oh, my aunt!" she said.
And the invocation was uttered in such a tone as to indicate a rooted
antipathy to anything so commonplace, even if she had not added that
sequins gave her the sick. Mr. Sampson `got out' one or two ideas, but
Mrs. Hodges told him frankly she did not think they would do. It was she
who gave Philip the suggestion:
"Can you draw, Phil? Why don't you try your 'and and see what you can do?"
Philip bought a cheap box of water colours, and in the evening while Bell,
the noisy lad of sixteen, whistling three notes, busied himself with his
stamps, he made one or two sketches. He remembered some of the costumes he
had seen in Paris, and he adapted one of them, getting his effect from a
combination of violent, unusual colours. The result amused him and next
morning he showed it to Mrs. Hodges. She was somewhat astonished, but took
it at once to the buyer.
"It's unusual," he said, "there's no denying that."
It puzzled him, and at the same time his trained eye saw that it would
make up admirably. To save his face he began making suggestions for
altering it, but Mrs. Hodges, with more sense, advised him to show it to
Miss Antonia as it was.
"It's neck or nothing with her, and she may take a fancy to it."
"It's a good deal more nothing than neck," said Mr. Sampson, looking at
the decolletage. "He can draw, can't he? Fancy 'im keeping it dark all
this time."
When Miss Antonia was announced, the buyer placed the design on the table
in such a position that it must catch her eye the moment she was shown
into his office. She pounced on it at once.
"What's that?" she said. "Why can't I 'ave that?"
"That's just an idea we got out for you," said Mr. Sampson casually.
"D'you like it?"
"Do I like it!" she said. "Give me 'alf a pint with a little drop of gin
in it."
"Ah, you see, you don't have to go to Paris. You've only got to say what
you want and there you are."
The work was put in hand at once, and Philip felt quite a thrill of
satisfaction when he saw the costume completed. The buyer and Mrs. Hodges
took all the credit of it; but he did not care, and when he went with them
to the Tivoli to see Miss Antonia wear it for the first time he was filled
with elation. In answer to her questions he at last told Mrs. Hodges how
he had learnt to draw--fearing that the people he lived with would think
he wanted to put on airs, he had always taken the greatest care to say
nothing about his past occupations--and she repeated the information to
Mr. Sampson. The buyer said nothing to him on the subject, but began to
treat him a little more deferentially and presently gave him designs to do
for two of the country customers. They met with satisfaction. Then he
began to speak to his clients of a "clever young feller, Paris
art-student, you know," who worked for him; and soon Philip, ensconced
behind a screen, in his shirt sleeves, was drawing from morning till
night. Sometimes he was so busy that he had to dine at three with the
`stragglers.' He liked it, because there were few of them and they were
all too tired to talk; the food also was better, for it consisted of what
was left over from the buyers' table. Philip's rise from shop-walker to
designer of costumes had a great effect on the department. He realised
that he was an object of envy. Harris, the assistant with the queer-shaped
head, who was the first person he had known at the shop and had attached
himself to Philip, could not conceal his bitterness.
"Some people 'ave all the luck," he said. "You'll be a buyer yourself one
of these days, and we shall all be calling you sir."
He told Philip that he should demand higher wages, for notwithstanding the
difficult work he was now engaged in, he received no more than the six
shillings a week with which he started. But it was a ticklish matter to
ask for a rise. The manager had a sardonic way of dealing with such
applicants.
"Think you're worth more, do you? How much d'you think you're worth, eh?"
The assistant, with his heart in his mouth, would suggest that he thought
he ought to have another two shillings a week.
"Oh, very well, if you think you're worth it. You can 'ave it." Then he
paused and sometimes, with a steely eye, added: "And you can 'ave your
notice too."
It was no use then to withdraw your request, you had to go. The manager's
idea was that assistants who were dissatisfied did not work properly, and
if they were not worth a rise it was better to sack them at once. The
result was that they never asked for one unless they were prepared to
leave. Philip hesitated. He was a little suspicious of the men in his room
who told him that the buyer could not do without him. They were decent
fellows, but their sense of humour was primitive, and it would have seemed
funny to them if they had persuaded Philip to ask for more wages and he
were sacked. He could not forget the mortification he had suffered in
looking for work, he did not wish to expose himself to that again, and he
knew there was small chance of his getting elsewhere a post as designer:
there were hundreds of people about who could draw as well as he. But he
wanted money very badly; his clothes were worn out, and the heavy carpets
rotted his socks and boots; he had almost persuaded himself to take the
venturesome step when one morning, passing up from breakfast in the
basement through the passage that led to the manager's office, he saw a
queue of men waiting in answer to an advertisement. There were about a
hundred of them, and whichever was engaged would be offered his keep and
the same six shillings a week that Philip had. He saw some of them cast
envious glances at him because he had employment. It made him shudder. He
dared not risk it.
CVIII
The winter passed. Now and then Philip went to the hospital, slinking in
when it was late and there was little chance of meeting anyone he knew, to
see whether there were letters for him. At Easter he received one from his
uncle. He was surprised to hear from him, for the Vicar of Blackstable had
never written him more than half a dozen letters in his whole life, and
they were on business matters.
Dear Philip,
If you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to come down here I
shall be pleased to see you. I was very ill with my bronchitis in the
winter and Doctor Wigram never expected me to pull through. I have a
wonderful constitution and I made, thank God, a marvellous recovery.
Yours affectionately,
William Carey.
The letter made Philip angry. How did his uncle think he was living? He
did not even trouble to inquire. He might have starved for all the old man
cared. But as he walked home something struck him; he stopped under a
lamp-post and read the letter again; the handwriting had no longer the
business-like firmness which had characterised it; it was larger and
wavering: perhaps the illness had shaken him more than he was willing to
confess, and he sought in that formal note to express a yearning to see
the only relation he had in the world. Philip wrote back that he could
come down to Blackstable for a fortnight in July. The invitation was
convenient, for he had not known what to do, with his brief holiday. The
Athelnys went hopping in September, but he could not then be spared, since
during that month the autumn models were prepared. The rule of Lynn's was
that everyone must take a fortnight whether he wanted it or not; and
during that time, if he had nowhere to go, the assistant might sleep in
his room, but he was not allowed food. A number had no friends within
reasonable distance of London, and to these the holiday was an awkward
interval when they had to provide food out of their small wages and, with
the whole day on their hands, had nothing to spend. Philip had not been
out of London since his visit to Brighton with Mildred, now two years
before, and he longed for fresh air and the silence of the sea. He thought
of it with such a passionate desire, all through May and June, that, when
at length the time came for him to go, he was listless.
On his last evening, when he talked with the buyer of one or two jobs he
had to leave over, Mr. Sampson suddenly said to him:
"What wages have you been getting?"
"Six shillings."
"I don't think it's enough. I'll see that you're put up to twelve when you
come back."
"Thank you very much," smiled Philip. "I'm beginning to want some new
clothes badly."
"If you stick to your work and don't go larking about with the girls like
what some of them do, I'll look after you, Carey. Mind you, you've got a
lot to learn, but you're promising, I'll say that for you, you're
promising, and I'll see that you get a pound a week as soon as you deserve
it."
Philip wondered how long he would have to wait for that. Two years?
He was startled at the change in his uncle. When last he had seen him he
was a stout man, who held himself upright, clean-shaven, with a round,
sensual face; but he had fallen in strangely, his skin was yellow; there
were great bags under the eyes, and he was bent and old. He had grown a
beard during his last illness, and he walked very slowly.
"I 'm not at my best today," he said when Philip, having just arrived, was
sitting with him in the dining-room. "The heat upsets me."
Philip, asking after the affairs of the parish, looked at him and wondered
how much longer he could last. A hot summer would finish him; Philip
noticed how thin his hands were; they trembled. It meant so much to
Philip. If he died that summer he could go back to the hospital at the
beginning of the winter session; his heart leaped at the thought of
returning no more to Lynn's. At dinner the Vicar sat humped up on his
chair, and the housekeeper who had been with him since his wife's death
said:
"Shall Mr. Philip carve, sir?"
The old man, who had been about to do so from disinclination to confess
his weakness, seemed glad at the first suggestion to relinquish the
attempt.
"You've got a very good appetite," said Philip.
"Oh yes, I always eat well. But I'm thinner than when you were here last.
I'm glad to be thinner, I didn't like being so fat. Dr. Wigram thinks I'm
all the better for being thinner than I was."
When dinner was over the housekeeper brought him some medicine.
"Show the prescription to Master Philip," he said. "He's a doctor too. I'd
like him to see that he thinks it's all right. I told Dr. Wigram that now
you're studying to be a doctor he ought to make a reduction in his
charges. It's dreadful the bills I've had to pay. He came every day for
two months, and he charges five shillings a visit. It's a lot of money,
isn't it? He comes twice a week still. I'm going to tell him he needn't
come any more. I'll send for him if I want him."
He looked at Philip eagerly while he read the prescriptions. They were
narcotics. There were two of them, and one was a medicine which the Vicar
explained he was to use only if his neuritis grew unendurable.
"I'm very careful," he said. "I don't want to get into the opium habit."
He did not mention his nephew's affairs. Philip fancied that it was by way
of precaution, in case he asked for money, that his uncle kept dwelling on
the financial calls upon him. He had spent so much on the doctor and so
much more on the chemist, while he was ill they had had to have a fire
every day in his bed-room, and now on Sunday he needed a carriage to go to
church in the evening as well as in the morning. Philip felt angrily
inclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to borrow from
him, but he held his tongue. It seemed to him that everything had left the
old man now but two things, pleasure in his food and a grasping desire for
money. It was a hideous old age.
In the afternoon Dr. Wigram came, and after the visit Philip walked with
him to the garden gate.
"How d'you think he is?" said Philip.
Dr. Wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right, and he never
hazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. He had practised at
Blackstable for five-and-thirty years. He had the reputation of being very
safe, and many of his patients thought it much better that a doctor should
be safe than clever. There was a new man at Blackstable--he had been
settled there for ten years, but they still looked upon him as an
interloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not much
practice among the better people, because no one really knew anything
about him.
"Oh, he's as well as can be expected," said Dr. Wigram in answer to
Philip's inquiry.
"Has he got anything seriously the matter with him?"
"Well, Philip, your uncle is no longer a young man," said the doctor with
a cautious little smile, which suggested that after all the Vicar of
Blackstable was not an old man either.
"He seems to think his heart's in a bad way."
"I'm not satisfied with his heart," hazarded the doctor, "I think he
should be careful, very careful."
On the tip of Philip's tongue was the question: how much longer can he
live? He was afraid it would shock. In these matters a periphrase was
demanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked another question
instead, it flashed through him that the doctor must be accustomed to the
impatience of a sick man's relatives. He must see through their
sympathetic expressions. Philip, with a faint smile at his own hypocrisy,
cast down his eyes.
"I suppose he's in no immediate danger?"
This was the kind of question the doctor hated. If you said a patient
couldn't live another month the family prepared itself for a bereavement,
and if then the patient lived on they visited the medical attendant with
the resentment they felt at having tormented themselves before it was
necessary. On the other hand, if you said the patient might live a year
and he died in a week the family said you did not know your business. They
thought of all the affection they would have lavished on the defunct if
they had known the end was so near. Dr. Wigram made the gesture of washing
his hands.
"I don't think there's any grave risk so long as he--remains as he is," he
ventured at last. "But on the other hand, we mustn't forget that he's no
longer a young man, and well, the machine is wearing out. If he gets over
the hot weather I don't see why he shouldn't get on very comfortably till
the winter, and then if the winter does not bother him too much, well, I
don't see why anything should happen."
Philip went back to the dining-room where his uncle was sitting. With his
skull-cap and a crochet shawl over his shoulders he looked grotesque. His
eyes had been fixed on the door, and they rested on Philip's face as he
entered. Philip saw that his uncle had been waiting anxiously for his
return.
"Well, what did he say about me?"
Philip understood suddenly that the old man was frightened of dying. It
made Philip a little ashamed, so that he looked away involuntarily. He was
always embarrassed by the weakness of human nature.
"He says he thinks you're much better," said Philip.
A gleam of delight came into his uncle's eyes.
"I've got a wonderful constitution," he said. "What else did he say?" he
added suspiciously.
Philip smiled.
"He said that if you take care of yourself there's no reason why you
shouldn't live to be a hundred."
"I don't know that I can expect to do that, but I don't see why I
shouldn't see eighty. My mother lived till she was eighty-four."
There was a little table by the side of Mr. Carey's chair, and on it were
a Bible and the large volume of the Common Prayer from which for so many
years he had been accustomed to read to his household. He stretched out
now his shaking hand and took his Bible.
"Those old patriarchs lived to a jolly good old age, didn't they?" he
said, with a queer little laugh in which Philip read a sort of timid
appeal.
The old man clung to life. Yet he believed implicitly all that his
religion taught him. He had no doubt in the immortality of the soul, and
he felt that he had conducted himself well enough, according to his
capacities, to make it very likely that he would go to heaven. In his long
career to how many dying persons must he have administered the
consolations of religion! Perhaps he was like the doctor who could get no
benefit from his own prescriptions. Philip was puzzled and shocked by that
eager cleaving to the earth. He wondered what nameless horror was at the
back of the old man's mind. He would have liked to probe into his soul so
that he might see in its nakedness the dreadful dismay of the unknown
which he suspected.
The fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London. He passed a
sweltering August behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing in
his shirt sleeves. The assistants in relays went for their holidays. In
the evening Philip generally went into Hyde Park and listened to the band.
Growing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind,
recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity. His whole
desire now was set on his uncle's death. He kept on dreaming the same
dream: a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announced
the Vicar's sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp. When he awoke and
found it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. He
occupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time,
with elaborate plans for the future. In these he passed rapidly over the
year which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualified
and dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his heart was set. He read
books about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, and
already he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like. He
saw himself lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned the
Gaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and sat in
churches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he felt the
mysterious painter held for him. Athelny entered into his humour, and on
Sunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that Philip
should miss nothing that was noteworthy. To cheat his impatience Philip
began to teach himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in
Harrington Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercises
and puzzling out with an English translation by his side the magnificent
phrases of Don Quixote. Athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and Philip
learned a few sentences to help him on his journey. Mrs. Athelny laughed
at them.
"You two and your Spanish!" she said. "Why don't you do something useful?"
But Sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at Christmas,
stood by sometimes and listened in her grave way while her father and
Philip exchanged remarks in a language she did not understand. She thought
her father the most wonderful man who had ever existed, and she expressed
her opinion of Philip only through her father's commendations.
"Father thinks a rare lot of your Uncle Philip," she remarked to her
brothers and sisters.
Thorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the Arethusa, and Athelny
regaled his family with magnificent descriptions of the appearance the lad
would make when he came back in uniform for his holidays. As soon as Sally
was seventeen she was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker. Athelny in his
rhetorical way talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who were
leaving the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that the
nest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it. A shakedown
and a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart of a father would never
be closed to the troubles of his children.
"You do talk, Athelny," said his wife. "I don't know what trouble they're
likely to get into so long as they're steady. So long as you're honest and
not afraid of work you'll never be out of a job, that's what I think, and
I can tell you I shan't be sorry when I see the last of them earning their
own living."
Child-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to tell on
Mrs. Athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the evening so that she had
to sit down and rest herself. Her ideal of happiness was to have a girl to
do the rough work so that she need not herself get up before seven.
Athelny waved his beautiful white hand.
"Ah, my Betty, we've deserved well of the state, you and I. We've reared
nine healthy children, and the boys shall serve their king; the girls
shall cook and sew and in their turn breed healthy children." He turned to
Sally, and to comfort her for the anti-climax of the contrast added
grandiloquently: "They also serve who only stand and wait."
Athelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory theories he
vehemently believed in, and he stated now:
"In a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and I, Betty."
"Oh, don't talk to me about your socialists, I've got no patience with
them," she cried. "It only means that another lot of lazy loafers will
make a good thing out of the working classes. My motto is, leave me alone;
I don't want anyone interfering with me; I'll make the best of a bad job,
and the devil take the hindmost."
"D'you call life a bad job?" said Athelny. "Never! We've had our ups and
downs, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor, but it's been
worth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say when I look round at my
children."
"You do talk, Athelny," she said, looking at him, not with anger but with
scornful calm. "You've had the pleasant part of the children, I've had the
bearing of them, and the bearing with them. I don't say that I'm not fond
of them, now they're there, but if I had my time over again I'd remain
single. Why, if I'd remained single I might have a little shop by now, and
four or five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough work.
Oh, I wouldn't go over my life again, not for something."
Philip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more than
unending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be accepted in
the same spirit as one accepts the changes of the seasons. Fury seized him
because it all seemed useless. He could not reconcile himself to the
belief that life had no meaning and yet everything he saw, all his
thoughts, added to the force of his conviction. But though fury seized him
it was a joyful fury. life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, and
he faced it with a strange sense of power.
CIX
The autumn passed into winter. Philip had left his address with Mrs.
Foster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she might communicate with him,
but still went once a week to the hospital on the chance of there being a
letter. One evening he saw his name on an envelope in a handwriting he had
hoped never to see again. It gave him a queer feeling. For a little while
he could not bring himself to take it. It brought back a host of hateful
memories. But at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open the
envelope.
7 William Street,
Fitzroy Square.
Dear Phil,
Can I see you for a minute or two as soon as possible. I am in awful
trouble and don't know what to do. It's not money.
Yours truly,
Mildred.
He tore the letter into little bits and going out into the street
scattered them in the darkness.
"I'll see her damned," he muttered.
A feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought of seeing her again.
He did not care if she was in distress, it served her right whatever it
was, he thought of her with hatred, and the love he had had for her
aroused his loathing. His recollections filled him with nausea, and as he
walked across the Thames he drew himself aside in an instinctive
withdrawal from his thought of her. He went to bed, but he could not
sleep; he wondered what was the matter with her, and he could not get out
of his head the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would not have
written to him unless she were desperate. He was angry with himself for
his weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace unless he saw her.
Next morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on his way to the shop.
He made it as stiff as he could and said merely that he was sorry she was
in difficulties and would come to the address she had given at seven
o'clock that evening.
It was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid street; and when, sick
at the thought of seeing her, he asked whether she was in, a wild hope
seized him that she had left. It looked the sort of place people moved in
and out of frequently. He had not thought of looking at the postmark on
her letter and did not know how many days it had lain in the rack. The
woman who answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry, but silently
preceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at the back.
"Mrs. Miller, a gentleman to see you," she called.
The door was slightly opened, and Mildred looked out suspiciously.
"Oh, it's you," she said. "Come in."
He walked in and she closed the door. It was a very small bed-room, untidy
as was every place she lived in; there was a pair of shoes on the floor,
lying apart from one another and uncleaned; a hat was on the chest of
drawers, with false curls beside it; and there was a blouse on the table.
Philip looked for somewhere to put his hat. The hooks behind the door were
laden with skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at the hem.
"Sit down, won't you?" she said. Then she gave a little awkward laugh. "I
suppose you were surprised to hear from me again."
"You're awfully hoarse," he answered. "Have you got a sore throat?"
"Yes, I have had for some time."
He did not say anything. He waited for her to explain why she wanted to
see him. The look of the room told him clearly enough that she had gone
back to the life from which he had taken her. He wondered what had
happened to the baby; there was a photograph of it on the chimney-piece,
but no sign in the room that a child was ever there. Mildred was holding
her handkerchief. She made it into a little ball, and passed it from hand
to hand. He saw that she was very nervous. She was staring at the fire,
and he could look at her without meeting her eyes. She was much thinner
than when she had left him; and the skin, yellow and dryish, was drawn
more tightly over her cheekbones. She had dyed her hair and it was now
flaxen: it altered her a good deal, and made her look more vulgar.
"I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you," she said at last. "I
thought p'raps you weren't at the 'ospital any more."
Philip did not speak.
"I suppose you're qualified by now, aren't you?"
"No."
"How's that?"
"I'm no longer at the hospital. I had to give it up eighteen months ago."
"You are changeable. You don't seem as if you could stick to anything."
Philip was silent for another moment, and when he went on it was with
coldness.
"I lost the little money I had in an unlucky speculation and I couldn't
afford to go on with the medical. I had to earn my living as best I
could."
"What are you doing then?"
"I'm in a shop."
"Oh!"
She gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away at once. He thought
that she reddened. She dabbed her palms nervously with the handkerchief.
"You've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?" She jerked the words
out quite oddly.
"Not entirely."
"Because that's why I wanted to see you." Her voice sank to a hoarse
whisper. "I don't know what's the matter with me."
"Why don't you go to a hospital?"
"I don't like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and
I'm afraid they'd want to keep me."
"What are you complaining of?" asked Philip coldly, with the stereotyped
phrase used in the out-patients' room.
"Well, I've come out in a rash, and I can't get rid of it."
Philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat broke out on his
forehead.
"Let me look at your throat?"
He took her over to the window and made such examination as he could.
Suddenly he caught sight of her eyes. There was deadly fear in them. It
was horrible to see. She was terrified. She wanted him to reassure her;
she looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but
with all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her.
"I'm afraid you're very ill indeed," he said.
"What d'you think it is?"
When he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips even turned, yellow.
she began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first and then with choking sobs.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said at last. "But I had to tell you."
"I may just as well kill myself and have done with it."
He took no notice of the threat.
"Have you got any money?" he asked.
"Six or seven pounds."
"You must give up this life, you know. Don't you think you could find some
work to do? I'm afraid I can't help you much. I only get twelve bob a
week."
"What is there I can do now?" she cried impatiently.
"Damn it all, you MUST try to get something."
He spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the danger
to which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. He tried to
console her. At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which she
promised to do all he advised. He wrote a prescription, which he said he
would leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her the
necessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity. Getting up to
go, he held out his hand.
"Don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your throat."
But as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold of
his coat.
"Oh, don't leave me," she cried hoarsely. "I'm so afraid, don't leave me
alone yet. Phil, please. There's no one else I can go to, you're the only
friend I've ever had."
He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror he
had seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die. Philip
looked down. Twice that woman had come into his life and made him
wretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in his
heart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received her
letter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons.
"I suppose I shall never really quite get over it," he said to himself.
What perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which
made it uncomfortable for him to be near her.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Let's go out and dine together. I'll pay."
He hesitated. He felt that she was creeping back again into his life when
he thought she was gone out of it for ever. She watched him with sickening
anxiety.
"Oh, I know I've treated you shocking, but don't leave me alone now.
You've had your revenge. If you leave me by myself now I don't know what
I shall do."
"All right, I don't mind," he said, "but we shall have to do it on the
cheap, I haven't got money to throw away these days."
She sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a
hat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the
Tottenham Court Road. Philip had got out of the habit of eating at those
hours, and Mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow. They
had a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer. They sat opposite
one another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if she
remembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in
silence if Philip had not forced himself to talk. In the bright light of
the restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an
endless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip was anxious to know
about the child, but he had not the courage to ask. At last she said:
"You know baby died last summer."
"Oh!" he said.
"You might say you're sorry."
"I'm not," he answered, "I'm very glad."
She glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked away
"You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you? I always thought it
funny like how you could see so much in another man's child."
When they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for the
medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made her
take a dose. Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to go back
to Harrington Street. He was hideously bored.
Philip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had prescribed
and followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that
she gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew better
she grew less despondent. She talked more freely.
"As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right," she said. "I've had my
lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for yours
truly."
Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She told
him not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted it;
she had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do
anything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of that
time he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more
cheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories
of the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some
eating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing definite was
fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of the
following week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake to
take something unsuitable.
"It's absurd to talk like that," he said impatiently. "You must take
anything you can get. I can't help you, and your money won't last for
ever."
"Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and chance it."
He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first visit, and
she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He remembered
some of the things she had said. He put two and two together. He wondered
whether she had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lying
to him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lasted
so long.
"What is your rent here?"
"Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she's
quite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay."
He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It was
no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must
find out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at
eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to
Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so
that he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him
that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going
away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7
opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watched
her walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it
which he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too
showy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. He followed her
slowly till she came into the Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened
her pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and
crossed over to a music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the
arm. He saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips.
"Where are you going, Mildred?"
She started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when
she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well
came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse.
But she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue.
"Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me the hump sitting every
night by myself."
He did not pretend to believe her.
"You mustn't. Good heavens, I've told you fifty times how dangerous it is.
You must stop this sort of thing at once."
"Oh, hold your jaw," she cried roughly. "How d'you suppose I'm going to
live?"
He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to
drag her away.
"For God's sake come along. Let me take you home. You don't know what
you're doing. It's criminal."
"What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven't been so good to
me that I need bother my head about them."
She pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money.
Philip had threepence in his pocket. He could not follow. He turned away
and walked slowly down Oxford Street.
"I can't do anything more," he said to himself.
That was the end. He did not see her again.
CX
Christmas that year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for four
days: Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for
him to spend the holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs.
Foster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, but
wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philip
at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said:
"You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend
you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about
himself."
Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room.
"Here's Mr. Philip, sir."
The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when
you looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in
the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his
shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands
trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty.
"He can't last long now," thought Philip, as he looked at him.
"How d'you think I'm looking?" asked the Vicar. "D'you think I've changed
since you were here last?"
"I think you look stronger than you did last summer."
"It was the heat. That always upsets me."
Mr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of
weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent
downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it
for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to
ask on what day of the month he had first left his room.
"On the seventh of November, sir."
Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information.
"But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?"
"Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite."
"I don't seem to put on flesh though."
Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing
indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony
of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he
was under the influence of morphia.
"It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills." He
tinkled his bell again. "Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's
bill."
Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip.
"That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself
you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from
the stores, but then there's the postage."
Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble
to inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked
how long he could stay, and when Philip told him he must leave on Tuesday
morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told
him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of
him. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said:
"Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were."
When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if he was
not certain that Mrs. Foster was within earshot; she knew exactly what to
do with him if anything happened. Philip, seeing that she was tired and
that her eyes were heavy from want of sleep, suggested that he was working
her too hard.
"Oh, nonsense," said the Vicar, "she's as strong as a horse." And when
next she came in to give him his medicine he said to her:
"Master Philip says you've got too much to do, Mrs. Foster. You like
looking after me, don't you?"
"Oh, I don't mind, sir. I want to do everything I can."
Presently the medicine took effect and Mr. Carey fell asleep. Philip went
into the kitchen and asked Mrs. Foster whether she could stand the work.
He saw that for some months she had had little peace.
"Well, sir, what can I do?" she answered. "The poor old gentleman's so
dependent on me, and, although he is troublesome sometimes, you can't help
liking him, can you? I've been here so many years now, I don't know what
I shall do when he comes to go."
Philip saw that she was really fond of the old man. She washed and dressed
him, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen times in the night; for
she slept in the next room to his and whenever he awoke he tinkled his
little bell till she came in. He might die at any moment, but he might
live for months. It was wonderful that she should look after a stranger
with such patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that she
should be alone in the world to care for him.
It seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all his
life was now of no more than formal importance to him: every Sunday the
curate came and administered to him Holy Communion, and he often read his
Bible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. He believed
that it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter
upon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair and having given up
the hope of ever getting out into the open again, like a child in the
hands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew.
In Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was aware
that his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wondered
whether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itself
out, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of
his soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent,
was the conviction that there was no God and after this life nothing.
On the evening of Boxing Day Philip sat in the dining-room with his uncle.
He had to start very early next morning in order to get to the shop by
nine, and he was to say good-night to Mr. Carey then. The Vicar of
Blackstable was dozing and Philip, lying on the sofa by the window, let
his book fall on his knees and looked idly round the room. He asked
himself how much the furniture would fetch. He had walked round the house
and looked at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a few
pieces of china which might go for a decent price and Philip wondered if
it would be worth while to take them up to London; but the furniture was
of the Victorian order, of mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go for
nothing at an auction. There were three or four thousand books, but
everyone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they would
fetch more than a hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his uncle
would leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the least
sum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take his
degree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospital
appointments. He looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was no
humanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer
animal. Philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life.
He had thought it each evening when Mrs. Foster prepared for his uncle the
medicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two bottles: one
contained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if the
pain grew unendurable. This was poured out for him and left by his
bed-side. He generally took it at three or four in the morning. It would
be a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and no
one would suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him to
die. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he thought of
the money he wanted so badly. A few more months of that wretched life
could matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meant
everything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when he
thought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. His
heart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made
an effort to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so
desperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never liked
him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him,
indifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruel
man, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be
easy, desperately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it
would be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he had
done. Though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, there
were certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. He
wished they were not on his conscience.
His uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked a little more
human then. He was frankly horrified at the idea that had come to him, it
was murder that he was meditating; and he wondered if other people had
such thoughts or whether he was abnormal and depraved. He supposed he
could not have done it when it came to the point, but there the thought
was, constantly recurring: if he held his hand it was from fear. His uncle
spoke.
"You're not looking forward to my death, Philip?" Philip felt his heart
beat against his chest.
"Good heavens, no."
"That's a good boy. I shouldn't like you to do that. You'll get a little
bit of money when I pass away, but you mustn't look forward to it. It
wouldn't profit you if you did."
He spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his tone. It
sent a pang into Philip's heart. He wondered what strange insight might
have led the old man to surmise what strange desires were in Philip's
mind.
"I hope you'll live for another twenty years," he said.
"Oh, well, I can't expect to do that, but if I take care of myself I don't
see why I shouldn't last another three or four."
He was silent for a while, and Philip found nothing to say. Then, as if he
had been thinking it all over, the old man spoke again.
"Everyone has the right to live as long as he can."
Philip wanted to distract his mind.
"By the way, I suppose you never hear from Miss Wilkinson now?"
"Yes, I had a letter some time this year. She's married, you know."
"Really?"
"Yes, she married a widower. I believe they're quite comfortable."
CXI
Next day Philip began work again, but the end which he expected within a
few weeks did not come. The weeks passed into months. The winter wore
away, and in the parks the trees burst into bud and into leaf. A terrible
lassitude settled upon Philip. Time was passing, though it went with such
heavy feet, and he thought that his youth was going and soon he would have
lost it and nothing would have been accomplished. His work seemed more
aimless now that there was the certainty of his leaving it. He became
skilful in the designing of costumes, and though he had no inventive
faculty acquired quickness in the adaptation of French fashions to the
English market. Sometimes he was not displeased with his drawings, but
they always bungled them in the execution. He was amused to notice that he
suffered from a lively irritation when his ideas were not adequately
carried out. He had to walk warily. Whenever he suggested something
original Mr. Sampson turned it down: their customers did not want anything
outre, it was a very respectable class of business, and when you had a
connection of that sort it wasn't worth while taking liberties with it.
Once or twice he spoke sharply to Philip; he thought the young man was
getting a bit above himself, because Philip's ideas did not always
coincide with his own.
"You jolly well take care, my fine young fellow, or one of these days
you'll find yourself in the street."
Philip longed to give him a punch on the nose, but he restrained himself.
After all it could not possibly last much longer, and then he would he
done with all these people for ever. Sometimes in comic desperation he
cried out that his uncle must be made of iron. What a constitution! The
ills he suffered from would have killed any decent person twelve months
before. When at last the news came that the Vicar was dying Philip, who
had been thinking of other things, was taken by surprise. It was in July,
and in another fortnight he was to have gone for his holiday. He received
a letter from Mrs. Foster to say the doctor did not give Mr. Carey many
days to live, and if Philip wished to see him again he must come at once.
Philip went to the buyer and told him he wanted to leave. Mr. Sampson was
a decent fellow, and when he knew the circumstances made no difficulties.
Philip said good-bye to the people in his department; the reason of his
leaving had spread among them in an exaggerated form, and they thought he
had come into a fortune. Mrs. Hodges had tears in her eyes when she shook
hands with him.
"I suppose we shan't often see you again," she said.
"I'm glad to get away from Lynn's," he answered.
It was strange, but he was actually sorry to leave these people whom he
thought he had loathed, and when he drove away from the house in
Harrington Street it was with no exultation. He had so anticipated the
emotions he would experience on this occasion that now he felt nothing: he
was as unconcerned as though he were going for a few days' holiday.
"I've got a rotten nature," he said to himself. "I look forward to things
awfully, and then when they come I'm always disappointed."
He reached Blackstable early in the afternoon. Mrs. Foster met him at the
door, and her face told him that his uncle was not yet dead.
"He's a little better today," she said. "He's got a wonderful
constitution."
She led him into the bed-room where Mr. Carey lay on his back. He gave
Philip a slight smile, in which was a trace of satisfied cunning at having
circumvented his enemy once more.
"I thought it was all up with me yesterday," he said, in an exhausted
voice. "They'd all given me up, hadn't you, Mrs. Foster?"
"You've got a wonderful constitution, there's no denying that."
"There's life in the old dog yet."
Mrs. Foster said that the Vicar must not talk, it would tire him; she
treated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and there was something
childish in the old man's satisfaction at having cheated all their
expectations. It struck him at once that Philip had been sent for, and he
was amused that he had been brought on a fool's errand. If he could only
avoid another of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or
two; and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt as if
he were going to die, but he never did. They all talked of his
constitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was.
"Are you going to stay a day or two?" He asked Philip, pretending to
believe he had come down for a holiday.
"I was thinking of it," Philip answered cheerfully.
"A breath of sea-air will do you good."
Presently Dr. Wigram came, and after he had seen the Vicar talked with
Philip. He adopted an appropriate manner.
"I'm afraid it is the end this time, Philip," he said. "It'll be a great
loss to all of us. I've known him for five-and-thirty years."
"He seems well enough now," said Philip.
"I'm keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. It was dreadful these
last two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen times."
The doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said
suddenly to Philip:
"Has Mrs. Foster said anything to you?"
"What d'you mean?"
"They're very superstitious, these people: she's got hold of an idea that
he's got something on his mind, and he can't die till he gets rid of it;
and he can't bring himself to confess it."
Philip did not answer, and the doctor went on.
"Of course it's nonsense. He's led a very good life, he's done his duty,
he's been a good parish priest, and I'm sure we shall all miss him; he
can't have anything to reproach himself with. I very much doubt whether
the next vicar will suit us half so well."
For several days Mr. Carey continued without change. His appetite which
had been excellent left him, and he could eat little. Dr. Wigram did not
hesitate now to still the pain of the neuritis which tormented him; and
that, with the constant shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually
exhausting him. His mind remained clear. Philip and Mrs. Foster nursed him
between them. She was so tired by the many months during which she had
been attentive to all his wants that Philip insisted on sitting up with
the patient so that she might have her night's rest. He passed the long
hours in an arm-chair so that he should not sleep soundly, and read by the
light of shaded candles The Thousand and One Nights. He had not read
them since he was a little boy, and they brought back his childhood to
him. Sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night. When the
effects of the opiate wore off Mr. Carey grew restless and kept him
constantly busy.
At last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering noisily in the
trees, he heard his name called. He went up to the bed. Mr. Carey was
lying on his back, with his eyes looking at the ceiling; he did not turn
them on Philip. Philip saw that sweat was on his forehead, and he took a
towel and wiped it.
"Is that you, Philip?" the old man asked.
Philip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed. It was hoarse
and low. So would a man speak if he was cold with fear.
"Yes, d'you want anything?"
There was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. Then
a twitch passed over the face.
"I think I'm going to die," he said.
"Oh, what nonsense!" cried Philip. "You're not going to die for years."
Two tears were wrung from the old man's eyes. They moved Philip horribly.
His uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in the affairs of
life; and it was dreadful to see them now, for they signified a terror
that was unspeakable.
"Send for Mr. Simmonds," he said. "I want to take the Communion."
Mr. Simmonds was the curate.
"Now?" asked Philip.
"Soon, or else it'll be too late."
Philip went to awake Mrs. Foster, but it was later than he thought and she
was up already. He told her to send the gardener with a message, and he
went back to his uncle's room.
"Have you sent for Mr. Simmonds?"
"Yes."
There was a silence. Philip sat by the bed-side, and occasionally wiped
the sweating forehead.
"Let me hold your hand, Philip," the old man said at last.
Philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for comfort in his
extremity. Perhaps he had never really loved anyone in all his days, but
now he turned instinctively to a human being. His hand was wet and cold.
It grasped Philip's with feeble, despairing energy. The old man was
fighting with the fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go
through that. Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God
that allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! He had never
cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his
death; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart.
What a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts!
They remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from Mr. Carey.
"Hasn't he come yet?"
At last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds was there.
He carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood. Mrs. Foster
brought the communion plate. Mr. Simmonds shook hands silently with
Philip, and then with professional gravity went to the sick man's side.
Philip and the maid went out of the room.
Philip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the morning. The
birds were singing gaily. The sky was blue, but the air, salt-laden, was
sweet and cool. The roses were in full bloom. The green of the trees, the
green of the lawns, was eager and brilliant. Philip walked, and as he
walked he thought of the mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom. It
gave him a peculiar emotion. Presently Mrs. Foster came out to him and
said that his uncle wished to see him. The curate was putting his things
back into the black bag. The sick man turned his head a little and greeted
him with a smile. Philip was astonished, for there was a change in him, an
extraordinary change; his eyes had no longer the terror-stricken look, and
the pinching of his face had gone: he looked happy and serene.
"I'm quite prepared now," he said, and his voice had a different tone in
it. "When the Lord sees fit to call me I am ready to give my soul into his
hands."
Philip did not speak. He could see that his uncle was sincere. It was
almost a miracle. He had taken the body and blood of his Savior, and they
had given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage
into the night. He knew he was going to die: he was resigned. He only said
one thing more:
"I shall rejoin my dear wife."
It startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous selfishness his
uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love.
The curate, deeply moved, went away and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied
him to the door. Mr. Carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light
doze, and Philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. The morning
wore on, and the old man's breathing grew stertorous. The doctor came and
said he was dying. He was unconscious and he pecked feebly at the sheets;
he was restless and he cried out. Dr. Wigram gave him a hypodermic
injection.
"It can't do any good now, he may die at any moment."
The doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. Philip saw that it
was one o'clock. Dr. Wigram was thinking of his dinner.
"It's no use your waiting," he said.
"There's nothing I can do," said the doctor.
When he was gone Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the carpenter,
who was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up a woman to lay out
the body.
"You want a little fresh air," she said, "it'll do you good."
The undertaker lived half a mile away. When Philip gave him his message,
he said:
"When did the poor old gentleman die?"
Philip hesitated. It occurred to him that it would seem brutal to fetch a
woman to wash the body while his uncle still lived, and he wondered why
Mrs. Foster had asked him to come. They would think he was in a great
hurry to kill the old man off. He thought the undertaker looked at him
oddly. He repeated the question. It irritated Philip. It was no business
of his.
"When did the Vicar pass away?"
Philip's first impulse was to say that it had just happened, but then it
would seem inexplicable if the sick man lingered for several hours. He
reddened and answered awkwardly.
"Oh, he isn't exactly dead yet."
The undertaker looked at him in perplexity, and he hurried to explain.
"Mrs. Foster is all alone and she wants a woman there. You understood,
don't you? He may be dead by now."
The undertaker nodded.
"Oh, yes, I see. I'll send someone up at once."
When Philip got back to the vicarage he went up to the bed-room. Mrs.
Foster rose from her chair by the bed-side.
"He's just as he was when you left," she said.
She went down to get herself something to eat, and Philip watched
curiously the process of death. There was nothing human now in the
unconscious being that struggled feebly. Sometimes a muttered ejaculation
issued from the loose mouth. The sun beat down hotly from a cloudless sky,
but the trees in the garden were pleasant and cool. It was a lovely day.
A bluebottle buzzed against the windowpane. Suddenly there was a loud
rattle, it made Philip start, it was horribly frightening; a movement
passed through the limbs and the old man was dead. The machine had run
down. The bluebottle buzzed, buzzed noisily against the windowpane.
CXII
Josiah Graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming but
economical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to the
vicarage with Philip. The will was in his charge, and with a due sense of
the fitness of things he read it to Philip over an early cup of tea. It
was written on half a sheet of paper and left everything Mr. Carey had to
his nephew. There was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank,
twenty shares in the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop's brewery, some in
the Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant. They had
been bought under Mr. Graves' direction, and he told Philip with
satisfaction:
"You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement.
You're always safe if you put your money in what the public thinks
necessities."
His words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of the
vulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect.
Altogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to that
must be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch.
It was riches to Philip. He was not happy but infinitely relieved.
Mr. Graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which must be
held as soon as possible, and Philip sat himself down to go through the
papers of the deceased. The Rev. William Carey had prided himself on never
destroying anything, and there were piles of correspondence dating back
for fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed bills. He had
kept not only letters addressed to him, but letters which himself had
written. There was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to his
father in the forties, when as an Oxford undergraduate he had gone to
Germany for the long vacation. Philip read them idly. It was a different
William Carey from the William Carey he had known, and yet there were
traces in the boy which might to an acute observer have suggested the man.
The letters were formal and a little stilted. He showed himself strenuous
to see all that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasm
the castles of the Rhine. The falls of Schaffhausen made him `offer
reverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the universe, whose works
were wondrous and beautiful,' and he could not help thinking that they who
lived in sight of `this handiwork of their blessed Maker must be moved by
the contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.' Among some bills Philip
found a miniature which had been painted of William Carey soon after he
was ordained. It represented a thin young curate, with long hair that fell
over his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and a
pale ascetic face. Philip remembered the chuckle with which his uncle used
to tell of the dozens of slippers which were worked for him by adoring
ladies.
The rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled through the
innumerable correspondence. He glanced at the address and at the
signature, then tore the letter in two and threw it into the
washing-basket by his side. Suddenly he came upon one signed Helen. He did
not know the writing. It was thin, angular, and old-fashioned. It began:
my dear William, and ended: your affectionate sister. Then it struck him
that it was from his own mother. He had never seen a letter of hers
before, and her handwriting was strange to him. It was about himself.
My dear William,
Stephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on the birth of
our son and your kind wishes to myself. Thank God we are both well and I
am deeply thankful for the great mercy which has been shown me. Now that
I can hold a pen I want to tell you and dear Louisa myself how truly
grateful I am to you both for all your kindness to me now and always since
my marriage. I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Both Stephen
and I wish you to be the boy's godfather, and we hope that you will
consent. I know I am not asking a small thing, for I am sure you will take
the responsibilities of the position very seriously, but I am especially
anxious that you should undertake this office because you are a clergyman
as well as the boy's uncle. I am very anxious for the boy's welfare and I
pray God night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and Christian
man. With you to guide him I hope that he will become a soldier in
Christ's Faith and be all the days of his life God-fearing, humble, and
pious.
Your affectionate sister,
Helen.
Philip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his face on his
hands. It deeply touched and at the same time surprised him. He was
astonished at its religious tone, which seemed to him neither mawkish nor
sentimental. He knew nothing of his mother, dead now for nearly twenty
years, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she
was simple and pious. He had never thought of that side of her. He read
again what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; he
had turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment;
perhaps it was better that she was dead. Then a sudden impulse caused him
to tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seem
peculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was something
indecent in his reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. He went on
with the Vicar's dreary correspondence.
A few days later he went up to London, and for the first time for two
years entered by day the hall of St. Luke's Hospital. He went to see the
secretary of the Medical School; he was surprised to see him and asked
Philip curiously what he had been doing. Philip's experiences had given
him a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many
things: such a question would have embarrassed him before; but now he
answered coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented further
inquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in the
curriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as possible. The first
examination he could take was in midwifery and the diseases of women, and
he put his name down to be a clerk in the ward devoted to feminine
ailments; since it was holiday time there happened to be no difficulty in
getting a post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that duty
during the last week of August and the first two of September. After this
interview Philip walked through the Medical School, more or less deserted,
for the examinations at the end of the summer session were all over; and
he wandered along the terrace by the river-side. His heart was full. He
thought that now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him
all the errors, follies, and miseries of the past. The flowing river
suggested that everything passed, was passing always, and nothing
mattered; the future was before him rich with possibilities.
He went back to Blackstable and busied himself with the settling up of his
uncle's estate. The auction was fixed for the middle of August, when the
presence of visitors for the summer holidays would make it possible to get
better prices. Catalogues were made out and sent to the various dealers in
second-hand books at Tercanbury, Maidstone, and Ashford.
One afternoon Philip took it into his head to go over to Tercanbury and
see his old school. He had not been there since the day when, with relief
in his heart, he had left it with the feeling that thenceforward he was
his own master. It was strange to wander through the narrow streets of
Tercanbury which he had known so well for so many years. He looked at the
old shops, still there, still selling the same things; the booksellers
with school-books, pious works, and the latest novels in one window and
photographs of the Cathedral and of the city in the other; the games shop,
with its cricket bats, fishing tackle, tennis rackets, and footballs; the
tailor from whom he had got clothes all through his boyhood; and the
fishmonger where his uncle whenever he came to Tercanbury bought fish. He
wandered along the sordid street in which, behind a high wall, lay the red
brick house which was the preparatory school. Further on was the gateway
that led into King's School, and he stood in the quadrangle round which
were the various buildings. It was just four and the boys were hurrying
out of school. He saw the masters in their gowns and mortar-boards, and
they were strange to him. It was more than ten years since he had left and
many changes had taken place. He saw the headmaster; he walked slowly down
from the schoolhouse to his own, talking to a big boy who Philip supposed
was in the sixth; he was little changed, tall, cadaverous, romantic as
Philip remembered him, with the same wild eyes; but the black beard was
streaked with gray now and the dark, sallow face was more deeply lined.
Philip had an impulse to go up and speak to him, but he was afraid he
would have forgotten him, and he hated the thought of explaining who he
was.
Boys lingered talking to one another, and presently some who had hurried
to change came out to play fives; others straggled out in twos and threes
and went out of the gateway, Philip knew they were going up to the cricket
ground; others again went into the precincts to bat at the nets. Philip
stood among them a stranger; one or two gave him an indifferent glance;
but visitors, attracted by the Norman staircase, were not rare and excited
little attention. Philip looked at them curiously. He thought with
melancholy of the distance that separated him from them, and he thought
bitterly how much he had wanted to do and how little done. It seemed to
him that all those years, vanished beyond recall, had been utterly wasted.
The boys, fresh and buoyant, were doing the same things that he had done,
it seemed that not a day had passed since he left the school, and yet in
that place where at least by name he had known everybody now he knew not
a soul. In a few years these too, others taking their place, would stand
alien as he stood; but the reflection brought him no solace; it merely
impressed upon him the futility of human existence. Each generation
repeated the trivial round. He wondered what had become of the boys who
were his companions: they were nearly thirty now; some would be dead, but
others were married and had children; they were soldiers and parsons,
doctors, lawyers; they were staid men who were beginning to put youth
behind them. Had any of them made such a hash of life as he? He thought
of the boy he had been devoted to; it was funny, he could not recall his
name; he remembered exactly what he looked like, he had been his greatest
friend; but his name would not come back to him. He looked back with
amusement on the jealous emotions he had suffered on his account. It was
irritating not to recollect his name. He longed to be a boy again, like
those he saw sauntering through the quadrangle, so that, avoiding his
mistakes, he might start fresh and make something more out of life. He
felt an intolerable loneliness. He almost regretted the penury which he
had suffered during the last two years, since the desperate struggle
merely to keep body and soul together had deadened the pain of living. In
the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy daily bread: it was not a curse
upon mankind, but the balm which reconciled it to existence.
But Philip was impatient with himself; he called to mind his idea of the
pattern of life: the unhappiness he had suffered was no more than part of
a decoration which was elaborate and beautiful; he told himself
strenuously that he must accept with gaiety everything, dreariness and
excitement, pleasure and pain, because it added to the richness of the
design. He sought for beauty consciously, and he remembered how even as a
boy he had taken pleasure in the Gothic cathedral as one saw it from the
precincts; he went there and looked at the massive pile, gray under the
cloudy sky, with the central tower that rose like the praise of men to
their God; but the boys were batting at the nets, and they were lissom and
strong and active; he could not help hearing their shouts and laughter.
The cry of youth was insistent, and he saw the beautiful thing before him
only with his eyes.
CXIII
At the beginning of the last week in August Philip entered upon his duties
in the `district.' They were arduous, for he had to attend on an average
three confinements a day. The patient had obtained a `card' from the
hospital some time before; and when her time came it was taken to the
porter by a messenger, generally a little girl, who was then sent across
the road to the house in which Philip lodged. At night the porter, who had
a latch-key, himself came over and awoke Philip. It was mysterious then to
get up in the darkness and walk through the deserted streets of the South
Side. At those hours it was generally the husband who brought the card. If
there had been a number of babies before he took it for the most part with
surly indifference, but if newly married he was nervous and then sometimes
strove to allay his anxiety by getting drunk. Often there was a mile or
more to walk, during which Philip and the messenger discussed the
conditions of labour and the cost of living; Philip learnt about the
various trades which were practised on that side of the river. He inspired
confidence in the people among whom he was thrown, and during the long
hours that he waited in a stuffy room, the woman in labour lying on a
large bed that took up half of it, her mother and the midwife talked to
him as naturally as they talked to one another. The circumstances in which
he had lived during the last two years had taught him several things about
the life of the very poor, which it amused them to find he knew; and they
were impressed because he was not deceived by their little subterfuges. He
was kind, and he had gentle hands, and he did not lose his temper. They
were pleased because he was not above drinking a cup of tea with them, and
when the dawn came and they were still waiting they offered him a slice of
bread and dripping; he was not squeamish and could eat most things now
with a good appetite. Some of the houses he went to, in filthy courts off
a dingy street, huddled against one another without light or air, were
merely squalid; but others, unexpectedly, though dilapidated, with
worm-eaten floors and leaking roofs, had the grand air: you found in them
oak balusters exquisitely carved, and the walls had still their panelling.
These were thickly inhabited. One family lived in each room, and in the
daytime there was the incessant noise of children playing in the court.
The old walls were the breeding-place of vermin; the air was so foul that
often, feeling sick, Philip had to light his pipe. The people who dwelt
here lived from hand to mouth. Babies were unwelcome, the man received
them with surly anger, the mother with despair; it was one more mouth to
feed, and there was little enough wherewith to feed those already there.
Philip often discerned the wish that the child might be born dead or might
die quickly. He delivered one woman of twins (a source of humour to the
facetious) and when she was told she burst into a long, shrill wail of
misery. Her mother said outright:
"I don't know how they're going to feed 'em."
"Maybe the Lord'll see fit to take 'em to 'imself," said the midwife.
Philip caught sight of the husband's face as he looked at the tiny pair
lying side by side, and there was a ferocious sullenness in it which
startled him. He felt in the family assembled there a hideous resentment
against those poor atoms who had come into the world unwished for; and he
had a suspicion that if he did not speak firmly an `accident' would occur.
Accidents occurred often; mothers `overlay' their babies, and perhaps
errors of diet were not always the result of carelessness.
"I shall come every day," he said. "I warn you that if anything happens to
them there'll have to be an inquest."
The father made no reply, but he gave Philip a scowl. There was murder in
his soul.
"Bless their little 'earts," said the grandmother, "what should 'appen to
them?"
The great difficulty was to keep the mothers in bed for ten days, which
was the minimum upon which the hospital practice insisted. It was awkward
to look after the family, no one would see to the children without
payment, and the husband tumbled because his tea was not right when he
came home tired from his work and hungry. Philip had heard that the poor
helped one another, but woman after woman complained to him that she could
not get anyone in to clean up and see to the children's dinner without
paying for the service, and she could not afford to pay. By listening to
the women as they talked and by chance remarks from which he could deduce
much that was left unsaid, Philip learned how little there was in common
between the poor and the classes above them. They did not envy their
betters, for the life was too different, and they had an ideal of ease
which made the existence of the middle-classes seem formal and stiff;
moreover, they had a certain contempt for them because they were soft and
did not work with their hands. The proud merely wished to be left alone,
but the majority looked upon the well-to-do as people to be exploited;
they knew what to say in order to get such advantages as the charitable
put at their disposal, and they accepted benefits as a right which came to
them from the folly of their superiors and their own astuteness. They bore
the curate with contemptuous indifference, but the district visitor
excited their bitter hatred. She came in and opened your windows without
so much as a by your leave or with your leave, `and me with my bronchitis,
enough to give me my death of cold;' she poked her nose into corners, and
if she didn't say the place was dirty you saw what she thought right
enough, `an' it's all very well for them as 'as servants, but I'd like to
see what she'd make of 'er room if she 'ad four children, and 'ad to do
the cookin', and mend their clothes, and wash them.'
Philip discovered that the greatest tragedy of life to these people was
not separation or death, that was natural and the grief of it could be
assuaged with tears, but loss of work. He saw a man come home one
afternoon, three days after his wife's confinement, and tell her he had
been dismissed; he was a builder and at that time work was slack; he
stated the fact, and sat down to his tea.
"Oh, Jim," she said.
The man ate stolidly some mess which had been stewing in a sauce-pan
against his coming; he stared at his plate; his wife looked at him two or
three times, with little startled glances, and then quite silently began
to cry. The builder was an uncouth little fellow with a rough,
weather-beaten face and a long white scar on his forehead; he had large,
stubbly hands. Presently he pushed aside his plate as if he must give up
the effort to force himself to eat, and turned a fixed gaze out of the
window. The room was at the top of the house, at the back, and one saw
nothing but sullen clouds. The silence seemed heavy with despair. Philip
felt that there was nothing to be said, he could only go; and as he walked
away wearily, for he had been up most of the night, his heart was filled
with rage against the cruelty of the world. He knew the hopelessness of
the search for work and the desolation which is harder to bear than
hunger. He was thankful not to have to believe in God, for then such a
condition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile oneself to
existence only because it was meaningless.
It seemed to Philip that the people who spent their time in helping the
poorer classes erred because they sought to remedy things which would
harass them if themselves had to endure them without thinking that they
did not in the least disturb those who were used to them. The poor did not
want large airy rooms; they suffered from cold, for their food was not
nourishing and their circulation bad; space gave them a feeling of
chilliness, and they wanted to burn as little coal as need be; there was
no hardship for several to sleep in one room, they preferred it; they were
never alone for a moment, from the time they were born to the time they
died, and loneliness oppressed them; they enjoyed the promiscuity in which
they dwelt, and the constant noise of their surroundings pressed upon
their ears unnoticed. They did not feel the need of taking a bath
constantly, and Philip often heard them speak with indignation of the
necessity to do so with which they were faced on entering the hospital: it
was both an affront and a discomfort. They wanted chiefly to be left
alone; then if the man was in regular work life went easily and was not
without its pleasures: there was plenty of time for gossip, after the
day's work a glass of beer was very good to drink, the streets were a
constant source of entertainment, if you wanted to read there was
Reynolds' or The News of the World; `but there, you couldn't make out
'ow the time did fly, the truth was and that's a fact, you was a rare one
for reading when you was a girl, but what with one thing and another you
didn't get no time now not even to read the paper.'
The usual practice was to pay three visits after a confinement, and one
Sunday Philip went to see a patient at the dinner hour. She was up for the
first time.
"I couldn't stay in bed no longer, I really couldn't. I'm not one for
idling, and it gives me the fidgets to be there and do nothing all day
long, so I said to 'Erb, I'm just going to get up and cook your dinner for
you."
'Erb was sitting at table with his knife and fork already in his hands. He
was a young man, with an open face and blue eyes. He was earning good
money, and as things went the couple were in easy circumstances. They had
only been married a few months, and were both delighted with the rosy boy
who lay in the cradle at the foot of the bed. There was a savoury smell of
beefsteak in the room and Philip's eyes turned to the range.
"I was just going to dish up this minute," said the woman.
"Fire away," said Philip. "I'll just have a look at the son and heir and
then I'll take myself off."
Husband and wife laughed at Philip's expression, and 'Erb getting up went
over with Philip to the cradle. He looked at his baby proudly.
"There doesn't seem much wrong with him, does there?" said Philip.
He took up his hat, and by this time 'Erb's wife had dished up the
beefsteak and put on the table a plate of green peas.
"You're going to have a nice dinner," smiled Philip.
"He's only in of a Sunday and I like to 'ave something special for him, so
as he shall miss his 'ome when he's out at work."
"I suppose you'd be above sittin' down and 'avin' a bit of dinner with
us?" said 'Erb.
"Oh, 'Erb," said his wife, in a shocked tone.
"Not if you ask me," answered Philip, with his attractive smile.
"Well, that's what I call friendly, I knew 'e wouldn't take offence,
Polly. Just get another plate, my girl."
Polly was flustered, and she thought 'Erb a regular caution, you never
knew what ideas 'e'd get in 'is 'ead next; but she got a plate and wiped
it quickly with her apron, then took a new knife and fork from the chest
of drawers, where her best cutlery rested among her best clothes. There
was a jug of stout on the table, and 'Erb poured Philip out a glass. He
wanted to give him the lion's share of the beefsteak, but Philip insisted
that they should share alike. It was a sunny room with two windows that
reached to the floor; it had been the parlour of a house which at one time
was if not fashionable at least respectable: it might have been inhabited
fifty years before by a well-to-do tradesman or an officer on half pay.
'Erb had been a football player before he married, and there were
photographs on the wall of various teams in self-conscious attitudes, with
neatly plastered hair, the captain seated proudly in the middle holding a
cup. There were other signs of prosperity: photographs of the relations of
'Erb and his wife in Sunday clothes; on the chimney-piece an elaborate
arrangement of shells stuck on a miniature rock; and on each side mugs, `A
present from Southend' in Gothic letters, with pictures of a pier and a
parade on them. 'Erb was something of a character; he was a non-union man
and expressed himself with indignation at the efforts of the union to
force him to join. The union wasn't no good to him, he never found no
difficulty in getting work, and there was good wages for anyone as 'ad a
head on his shoulders and wasn't above puttin' 'is 'and to anything as
come 'is way. Polly was timorous. If she was 'im she'd join the union, the
last time there was a strike she was expectin' 'im to be brought back in
an ambulance every time he went out. She turned to Philip.
"He's that obstinate, there's no doing anything with 'im."
"Well, what I say is, it's a free country, and I won't be dictated to."
"It's no good saying it's a free country," said Polly, "that won't prevent
'em bashin' your 'ead in if they get the chanst."
When they had finished Philip passed his pouch over to 'Erb and they lit
their pipes; then he got up, for a `call' might be waiting for him at his
rooms, and shook hands. He saw that it had given them pleasure that he
shared their meal, and they saw that he had thoroughly enjoyed it.
"Well, good-bye, sir," said 'Erb, "and I 'ope we shall 'ave as nice a
doctor next time the missus disgraces 'erself."
"Go on with you, 'Erb," she retorted." 'Ow d'you know there's going to be
a next time?"
CXIV
The three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end. Philip had
attended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. When he came home about
ten o'clock on his last night he hoped with all his heart that he would
not be called out again. He had not had a whole night's rest for ten days.
The case which he had just come from was horrible. He had been fetched by
a huge, burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in an
evil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it was a
tiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden bed, with a canopy
of dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so low that Philip could touch
it with the tips of his fingers; with the solitary candle that afforded
what light there was he went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawled
upon it. The woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a long
succession of still-born children. It was a story that Philip was not
unaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in India; the legislation
forced upon that country by the prudery of the English public had given a
free run to the most distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered.
Yawning, Philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over the
water and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. He was just going
to get into bed when there was a knock at the door, and the hospital
porter brought him a card.
"Curse you," said Philip. "You're the last person I wanted to see tonight.
Who's brought it?"
"I think it's the 'usband, sir. Shall I tell him to wait?"
Philip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar to him, and
told the porter that he would find his own way. He dressed himself and in
five minutes, with his black bag in his hand, stepped into the street. A
man, whom he could not see in the darkness, came up to him, and said he
was the husband.
"I thought I'd better wait, sir," he said. "It's a pretty rough
neighbour'ood, and them not knowing who you was."
Philip laughed.
"Bless your heart, they all know the doctor, I've been in some damned
sight rougher places than Waver Street."
It was quite true. The black bag was a passport through wretched alleys
and down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was not ready to
venture by himself. Once or twice a little group of men had looked at
Philip curiously as he passed; he heard a mutter of observations and then
one say:
"It's the 'orspital doctor."
As he went by one or two of them said: "Good-night, sir."
"We shall 'ave to step out if you don't mind, sir," said the man who
accompanied him now. "They told me there was no time to lose."
"Why did you leave it so late?" asked Philip, as he quickened his pace.
He glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post.
"You look awfully young," he said.
"I'm turned eighteen, sir."
He was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no more than a
boy; he was short, but thick set.
"You're young to be married," said Philip.
"We 'ad to."
"How much d'you earn?"
"Sixteen, sir."
Sixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child on. The
room the couple lived in showed that their poverty was extreme. It was a
fair size, but it looked quite large, since there was hardly any furniture
in it; there was no carpet on the floor; there were no pictures on the
walls; and most rooms had something, photographs or supplements in cheap
frames from the Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. The patient
lay on a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. It startled Philip to see
how young she was.
"By Jove, she can't be more than sixteen," he said to the woman who had
come in to `see her through.'
She had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they were very
young they often put on a year or two. Also she was pretty, which was rare
in those classes in which the constitution has been undermined by bad
food, bad air, and unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features and
large blue eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion of
the coster girl. She and her husband were very nervous.
"You'd better wait outside, so as to be at hand if I want you," Philip
said to him.
Now that he saw him better Philip was surprised again at his boyish air:
you felt that he should be larking in the street with the other lads
instead of waiting anxiously for the birth of a child. The hours passed,
and it was not till nearly two that the baby was born. Everything seemed
to be going satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touched
Philip to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; Philip
packed up his things. Before going he felt once more his patient's pulse.
"Hulloa!" he said.
He looked at her quickly: something had happened. In cases of emergency
the S. O. C.--senior obstetric clerk--had to be sent for; he was a
qualified man, and the `district' was in his charge. Philip scribbled a
note, and giving it to the husband, told him to run with it to the
hospital; he bade him hurry, for his wife was in a dangerous state. The
man set off. Philip waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding to
death; he was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took what
steps he could. He hoped fervently that the S. O. C. would not have been
called elsewhere. The minutes were interminable. He came at last, and,
while he examined the patient, in a low voice asked Philip questions.
Philip saw by his face that he thought the case very grave. His name was
Chandler. He was a tall man of few words, with a long nose and a thin face
much lined for his age. He shook his head.
"It was hopeless from the beginning. Where's the husband?"
"I told him to wait on the stairs," said Philip.
"You'd better bring him in."
Philip opened the door and called him. He was sitting in the dark on the
first step of the flight that led to the next floor. He came up to the
bed.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Why, there's internal bleeding. It's impossible to stop it." The S. O. C.
hesitated a moment, and because it was a painful thing to say he forced
his voice to become brusque. "She's dying."
The man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at his wife,
who lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. It was the midwife who spoke.
"The gentlemen 'ave done all they could, 'Arry," she said. "I saw what was
comin' from the first."
"Shut up," said Chandler.
There were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night seemed to
lighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at hand. Chandler was
keeping the woman alive by all the means in his power, but life was
slipping away from her, and suddenly she died. The boy who was her husband
stood at the end of the cheap iron bed with his hands resting on the rail;
he did not speak; but he looked very pale and once or twice Chandler gave
him an uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were gray.
The midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her. His eyes were
fixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter bewilderment. He reminded
you of a dog whipped for something he did not know was wrong. When
Chandler and Philip had gathered together their things Chandler turned to
the husband.
"You'd better lie down for a bit. I expect you're about done up."
"There's nowhere for me to lie down, sir," he answered, and there was in
his voice a humbleness which was very distressing.
"Don't you know anyone in the house who'll give you a shakedown?"
"No, sir."
"They only moved in last week," said the midwife. "They don't know nobody
yet."
Chandler hesitated a moment awkwardly, then he went up to the man and
said:
"I'm very sorry this has happened."
He held out his hand and the man, with an instinctive glance at his own to
see if it was clean, shook it.
"Thank you, sir."
Philip shook hands with him too. Chandler told the midwife to come and
fetch the certificate in the morning. They left the house and walked along
together in silence.
"It upsets one a bit at first, doesn't it?" said Chandler at last.
"A bit," answered Philip.
"If you like I'll tell the porter not to bring you any more calls
tonight."
"I'm off duty at eight in the morning in any case."
"How many cases have you had?"
"Sixty-three."
"Good. You'll get your certificate then."
They arrived at the hospital, and the S. O. C. went in to see if anyone
wanted him. Philip walked on. It had been very hot all the day before, and
even now in the early morning there was a balminess in the air. The street
was very still. Philip did not feel inclined to go to bed. It was the end
of his work and he need not hurry. He strolled along, glad of the fresh
air and the silence; he thought that he would go on to the bridge and look
at day break on the river. A policeman at the corner bade him
good-morning. He knew who Philip was from his bag.
"Out late tonight, sir," he said.
Philip nodded and passed. He leaned against the parapet and looked towards
the morning. At that hour the great city was like a city of the dead. The
sky was cloudless, but the stars were dim at the approach of day; there
was a light mist on the river, and the great buildings on the north side
were like palaces in an enchanted island. A group of barges was moored in
midstream. It was all of an unearthly violet, troubling somehow and
awe-inspiring; but quickly everything grew pale, and cold, and gray. Then
the sun rose, a ray of yellow gold stole across the sky, and the sky was
iridescent. Philip could not get out of his eyes the dead girl lying on
the bed, wan and white, and the boy who stood at the end of it like a
stricken beast. The bareness of the squalid room made the pain of it more
poignant. It was cruel that a stupid chance should have cut off her life
when she was just entering upon it; but in the very moment of saying this
to himself, Philip thought of the life which had been in store for her,
the bearing of children, the dreary fight with poverty, the youth broken
by toil and deprivation into a slatternly middle age--he saw the pretty
face grow thin and white, the hair grow scanty, the pretty hands, worn
down brutally by work, become like the claws of an old animal--then, when
the man was past his prime, the difficulty of getting jobs, the small
wages he had to take; and the inevitable, abject penury of the end: she
might be energetic, thrifty, industrious, it would not have saved her; in
the end was the workhouse or subsistence on the charity of her children.
Who could pity her because she had died when life offered so little?
But pity was inane. Philip felt it was not that which these people needed.
They did not pity themselves. They accepted their fate. It was the natural
order of things. Otherwise, good heavens! otherwise they would swarm over
the river in their multitude to the side where those great buildings were,
secure and stately. and they would pillage, burn, and sack. But the day,
tender and pale, had broken now, and the mist was tenuous; it bathed
everything in a soft radiance; and the Thames was gray, rosy, and green;
gray like mother-of-pearl and green like the heart of a yellow rose. The
wharfs and store-houses of the Surrey Side were massed in disorderly
loveliness. The scene was so exquisite that Philip's heart beat
passionately. He was overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. Beside that
nothing seemed to matter.
CXV
Philip spent the few weeks that remained before the beginning of the
winter session in the out-patients' department, and in October settled
down to regular work. He had been away from the hospital for so long that
he found himself very largely among new people; the men of different years
had little to do with one another, and his contemporaries were now mostly
qualified: some had left to take up assistantships or posts in country
hospitals and infirmaries, and some held appointments at St. Luke's. The
two years during which his mind had lain fallow had refreshed him, he
fancied, and he was able now to work with energy.
The Athelnys were delighted with his change of fortune. He had kept aside
a few things from the sale of his uncle's effects and gave them all
presents. He gave Sally a gold chain that had belonged to his aunt. She
was now grown up. She was apprenticed to a dressmaker and set out every
morning at eight to work all day in a shop in Regent Street. Sally had
frank blue eyes, a broad brow, and plentiful shining hair; she was buxom,
with broad hips and full breasts; and her father, who was fond of
discussing her appearance, warned her constantly that she must not grow
fat. She attracted because she was healthy, animal, and feminine. She had
many admirers, but they left her unmoved; she gave one the impression that
she looked upon love-making as nonsense; and it was easy to imagine that
young men found her unapproachable. Sally was old for her years: she had
been used to help her mother in the household work and in the care of the
children, so that she had acquired a managing air, which made her mother
say that Sally was a bit too fond of having things her own way. She did
not speak very much, but as she grew older she seemed to be acquiring a
quiet sense of humour, and sometimes uttered a remark which suggested that
beneath her impassive exterior she was quietly bubbling with amusement at
her fellow-creatures. Philip found that with her he never got on the terms
of affectionate intimacy upon which he was with the rest of Athelny's huge
family. Now and then her indifference slightly irritated him. There was
something enigmatic in her.
When Philip gave her the necklace Athelny in his boisterous way insisted
that she must kiss him; but Sally reddened and drew back.
"No, I'm not going to," she said.
"Ungrateful hussy!" cried Athelny. "Why not?"
"I don't like being kissed by men," she said.
Philip saw her embarrassment, and, amused, turned Athelny's attention to
something else. That was never a very difficult thing to do. But evidently
her mother spoke of the matter later, for next time Philip came she took
the opportunity when they were alone for a couple of minutes to refer to
it.
"You didn't think it disagreeable of me last week when I wouldn't kiss
you?"
"Not a bit," he laughed.
"It's not because I wasn't grateful." She blushed a little as she uttered
the formal phrase which she had prepared. "I shall always value the
necklace, and it was very kind of you to give it me."
Philip found it always a little difficult to talk to her. She did all that
she had to do very competently, but seemed to feel no need of
conversation; yet there was nothing unsociable in her. One Sunday
afternoon when Athelny and his wife had gone out together, and Philip,
treated as one of the family, sat reading in the parlour, Sally came in
and sat by the window to sew. The girls' clothes were made at home and
Sally could not afford to spend Sundays in idleness. Philip thought she
wished to talk and put down his book.
"Go on reading," she said. "I only thought as you were alone I'd come and
sit with you."
"You're the most silent person I've ever struck," said Philip.
"We don't want another one who's talkative in this house," she said.
There was no irony in her tone: she was merely stating a fact. But it
suggested to Philip that she measured her father, alas, no longer the hero
he was to her childhood, and in her mind joined together his entertaining
conversation and the thriftlessness which often brought difficulties into
their life; she compared his rhetoric with her mother's practical common
sense; and though the liveliness of her father amused her she was perhaps
sometimes a little impatient with it. Philip looked at her as she bent
over her work; she was healthy, strong, and normal; it must be odd to see
her among the other girls in the shop with their flat chests and anaemic
faces. Mildred suffered from anaemia.
After a time it appeared that Sally had a suitor. She went out
occasionally with friends she had made in the work-room, and had met a
young man, an electrical engineer in a very good way of business, who was
a most eligible person. One day she told her mother that he had asked her
to marry him.
"What did you say?" said her mother.
"Oh, I told him I wasn't over-anxious to marry anyone just yet awhile."
She paused a little as was her habit between observations. "He took on so
that I said he might come to tea on Sunday."
It was an occasion that thoroughly appealed to Athelny. He rehearsed all
the afternoon how he should play the heavy father for the young man's
edification till he reduced his children to helpless giggling. Just before
he was due Athelny routed out an Egyptian tarboosh and insisted on putting
it on.
"Go on with you, Athelny," said his wife, who was in her best, which was
of black velvet, and, since she was growing stouter every year, very tight
for her. "You'll spoil the girl's chances."
She tried to pull it off, but the little man skipped nimbly out of her
way.
"Unhand me, woman. Nothing will induce me to take it off. This young man
must be shown at once that it is no ordinary family he is preparing to
enter."
"Let him keep it on, mother," said Sally, in her even, indifferent
fashion. "If Mr. Donaldson doesn't take it the way it's meant he can take
himself off, and good riddance."
Philip thought it was a severe ordeal that the young man was being exposed
to, since Athelny, in his brown velvet jacket, flowing black tie, and red
tarboosh, was a startling spectacle for an innocent electrical engineer.
When he came he was greeted by his host with the proud courtesy of a
Spanish grandee and by Mrs. Athelny in an altogether homely and natural
fashion. They sat down at the old ironing-table in the high-backed monkish
chairs, and Mrs. Athelny poured tea out of a lustre teapot which gave a
note of England and the country-side to the festivity. She had made little
cakes with her own hand, and on the table was home-made jam. It was a
farm-house tea, and to Philip very quaint and charming in that Jacobean
house. Athelny for some fantastic reason took it into his head to
discourse upon Byzantine history; he had been reading the later volumes of
the Decline and Fall; and, his forefinger dramatically extended, he
poured into the astonished ears of the suitor scandalous stories about
Theodora and Irene. He addressed himself directly to his guest with a
torrent of rhodomontade; and the young man, reduced to helpless silence
and shy, nodded his head at intervals to show that he took an intelligent
interest. Mrs. Athelny paid no attention to Thorpe's conversation, but
interrupted now and then to offer the young man more tea or to press upon
him cake and jam. Philip watched Sally; she sat with downcast eyes, calm,
silent, and observant; and her long eye-lashes cast a pretty shadow on her
cheek. You could not tell whether she was amused at the scene or if she
cared for the young man. She was inscrutable. But one thing was certain:
the electrical engineer was good-looking, fair and clean-shaven, with
pleasant, regular features, and an honest face; he was tall and well-made.
Philip could not help thinking he would make an excellent mate for her,
and he felt a pang of envy for the happiness which he fancied was in store
for them.
Presently the suitor said he thought it was about time he was getting
along. Sally rose to her feet without a word and accompanied him to the
door. When she came back her father burst out:
"Well, Sally, we think your young man very nice. We are prepared to
welcome him into our family. Let the banns be called and I will compose a
nuptial song."
Sally set about clearing away the tea-things. She did not answer. Suddenly
she shot a swift glance at Philip.
"What did you think of him, Mr. Philip?"
She had always refused to call him Uncle Phil as the other children did,
and would not call him Philip.
"I think you'd make an awfully handsome pair."
She looked at him quickly once more, and then with a slight blush went on
with her business.
"I thought him a very nice civil-spoken young fellow," said Mrs. Athelny,
"and I think he's just the sort to make any girl happy."
Sally did not reply for a minute or two, and Philip looked at her
curiously: it might be thought that she was meditating upon what her
mother had said, and on the other hand she might be thinking of the man in
the moon.
"Why don't you answer when you're spoken to, Sally?" remarked her mother,
a little irritably.
"I thought he was a silly."
"Aren't you going to have him then?"
"No, I'm not."
"I don't know how much more you want," said Mrs. Athelny, and it was quite
clear now that she was put out. "He's a very decent young fellow and he
can afford to give you a thorough good home. We've got quite enough to
feed here without you. If you get a chance like that it's wicked not to
take it. And I daresay you'd be able to have a girl to do the rough work."
Philip had never before heard Mrs. Athelny refer so directly to the
difficulties of her life. He saw how important it was that each child
should be provided for.
"It's no good your carrying on, mother," said Sally in her quiet way. "I'm
not going to marry him."
"I think you're a very hard-hearted, cruel, selfish girl."
"If you want me to earn my own living, mother, I can always go into
service."
"Don't be so silly, you know your father would never let you do that."
Philip caught Sally's eye, and he thought there was in it a glimmer of
amusement. He wondered what there had been in the conversation to touch
her sense of humour. She was an odd girl.
CXVI
During his last year at St. Luke's Philip had to work hard. He was
contented with life. He found it very comfortable to be heart-free and to
have enough money for his needs. He had heard people speak contemptuously
of money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do without it. He knew
that the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his character
and caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had to
consider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed a
competency to rate it at its proper value. He lived a solitary life,
seeing no one except the Athelnys, but he was not lonely; he busied
himself with plans for the future, and sometimes he thought of the past.
His recollection dwelt now and then on old friends, but he made no effort
to see them. He would have liked to know what was become of Norah Nesbit;
she was Norah something else now, but he could not remember the name of
the man she was going to marry; he was glad to have known her: she was a
good and a brave soul. One evening about half past eleven he saw Lawson,
walking along Piccadilly; he was in evening clothes and might be supposed
to be coming back from a theatre. Philip gave way to a sudden impulse and
quickly turned down a side street. He had not seen him for two years and
felt that he could not now take up again the interrupted friendship. He
and Lawson had nothing more to say to one another. Philip was no longer
interested in art; it seemed to him that he was able to enjoy beauty with
greater force than when he was a boy; but art appeared to him unimportant.
He was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos of
life, and the materials with which he worked seemed to make preoccupation
with pigments and words very trivial. Lawson had served his turn. Philip's
friendship with him had been a motive in the design he was elaborating: it
was merely sentimental to ignore the fact that the painter was of no
further interest to him.
Sometimes Philip thought of Mildred. He avoided deliberately the streets
in which there was a chance of seeing her; but occasionally some feeling,
perhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper which he would not
acknowledge, made him wander about Piccadilly and Regent Street during the
hours when she might be expected to be there. He did not know then whether
he wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him
of hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious
sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it
and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was
mistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or
disappointment.
At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last
examination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he had
entered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down the
stairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand which
qualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction.
"Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought.
Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of
the hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with a
black beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulated
him on his success, and then said:
"I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast?
Three guineas a week with board and lodging."
"I wouldn't mind," said Philip.
"It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down at
once; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasant
place."
There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It was
a little doubtful.
"What's the crab in it?" he asked.
The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion.
"Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow.
The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind very
openly, and men don't like it."
"But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified?
After all I have no experience."
"He ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary diplomatically.
Philip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next few weeks,
and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. He could put it
aside for the holiday in Spain which he had promised himself when he had
finished his appointment at St. Luke's or, if they would not give him
anything there, at some other hospital.
"All right. I'll go."
"The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit you? If so,
I'll send a wire at once."
Philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen the
Athelnys the night before (he had gone at once to take them his good news)
and there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. He had
little luggage to pack. Soon after seven that evening he got out of the
station at Farnley and took a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad low
stucco house, with a Virginia creeper growing over it. He was shown into
the consulting-room. An old man was writing at a desk. He looked up as the
maid ushered Philip in. He did not get up, and he did not speak; he merely
stared at Philip. Philip was taken aback.
"I think you're expecting me," he said. "The secretary of St. Luke's wired
to you this morning."
"I kept dinner back for half an hour. D'you want to wash?"
"I do," said Philip.
Doctor South amused him by his odd manner. He got up now, and Philip saw
that he was a man of middle height, thin, with white hair cut very short
and a long mouth closed so tightly that he seemed to have no lips at all;
he was clean-shaven but for small white whiskers, and they increased the
squareness of face which his firm jaw gave him. He wore a brown tweed suit
and a white stock. His clothes hung loosely about him as though they had
been made for a much larger man. He looked like a respectable farmer of
the middle of the nineteenth century. He opened the door.
"There is the dining-room," he said, pointing to the door opposite. "Your
bed-room is the first door you come to when you get on the landing. Come
downstairs when you're ready."
During dinner Philip knew that Doctor South was examining him, but he
spoke little, and Philip felt that he did not want to hear his assistant
talk.
"When were you qualified?" he asked suddenly.
"Yesterday."
"Were you at a university?"
"No."
"Last year when my assistant took a holiday they sent me a 'Varsity man.
I told 'em not to do it again. Too damned gentlemanly for me."
There was another pause. The dinner was very simple and very good. Philip
preserved a sedate exterior, but in his heart he was bubbling over with
excitement. He was immensely elated at being engaged as a locum; it made
him feel extremely grown up; he had an insane desire to laugh at nothing
in particular; and the more he thought of his professional dignity the
more he was inclined to chuckle.
But Doctor South broke suddenly into his thoughts. "How old are you?"
"Getting on for thirty."
"How is it you're only just qualified?"
"I didn't go in for the medical till I was nearly twenty-three, and I had
to give it up for two years in the middle."
"Why?"
"Poverty."
Doctor South gave him an odd look and relapsed into silence. At the end of
dinner he got up from the table.
"D'you know what sort of a practice this is?"
"No," answered Philip.
"Mostly fishermen and their families. I have the Union and the Seamen's
Hospital. I used to be alone here, but since they tried to make this into
a fashionable sea-side resort a man has set up on the cliff, and the
well-to-do people go to him. I only have those who can't afford to pay for
a doctor at all."
Philip saw that the rivalry was a sore point with the old man.
"You know that I have no experience," said Philip.
"You none of you know anything."
He walked out of the room without another word and left Philip by himself.
When the maid came in to clear away she told Philip that Doctor South saw
patients from six till seven. Work for that night was over. Philip fetched
a book from his room, lit his pipe, and settled himself down to read. It
was a great comfort, since he had read nothing but medical books for the
last few months. At ten o'clock Doctor South came in and looked at him.
Philip hated not to have his feet up, and he had dragged up a chair for
them.
"You seem able to make yourself pretty comfortable," said Doctor South,
with a grimness which would have disturbed Philip if he had not been in
such high spirits.
Philip's eyes twinkled as he answered.
"Have you any objection?"
Doctor South gave him a look, but did not reply directly.
"What's that you're reading?"
"Peregrine Pickle. Smollett."
"I happen to know that Smollett wrote Peregrine Pickle."
"I beg your pardon. Medical men aren't much interested in literature, are
they?"
Philip had put the book down on the table, and Doctor South took it up. It
was a volume of an edition which had belonged to the Vicar of Blackstable.
It was a thin book bound in faded morocco, with a copperplate engraving as
a frontispiece; the pages were musty with age and stained with mould.
Philip, without meaning to, started forward a little as Doctor South took
the volume in his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. Very
little escaped the old doctor.
"Do I amuse you?" he asked icily.
"I see you're fond of books. You can always tell by the way people handle
them."
Doctor South put down the novel immediately.
"Breakfast at eight-thirty," he said and left the room.
"What a funny old fellow!" thought Philip.
He soon discovered why Doctor South's assistants found it difficult to get
on with him. In the first place, he set his face firmly against all the
discoveries of the last thirty years: he had no patience with the drugs
which became modish, were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a few
years were discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from St.
Luke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life; he found
them just as efficacious as anything that had come into fashion since.
Philip was startled at Doctor South's suspicion of asepsis; he had
accepted it in deference to universal opinion; but he used the precautions
which Philip had known insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital with
the disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children.
"I've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before them, and
then I've seen asepsis take their place. Bunkum!"
The young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital practice; and
they came with the unconcealed scorn for the General Practitioner which
they had absorbed in the air at the hospital; but they had seen only the
complicated cases which appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat an
obscure disease of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consulted
for a cold in the head. Their knowledge was theoretical and their
self-assurance unbounded. Doctor South watched them with tightened lips;
he took a savage pleasure in showing them how great was their ignorance
and how unjustified their conceit. It was a poor practice, of fishing
folk, and the doctor made up his own prescriptions. Doctor South asked his
assistant how he expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fisherman
with a stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive drugs.
He complained too that the young medical men were uneducated: their
reading consisted of The Sporting Times and The British Medical
Journal; they could neither write a legible hand nor spell correctly. For
two or three days Doctor South watched Philip closely, ready to fall on
him with acid sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and Philip, aware of
this, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. He was pleased
with the change of occupation. He liked the feeling of independence and of
responsibility. All sorts of people came to the consulting-room. He was
gratified because he seemed able to inspire his patients with confidence;
and it was entertaining to watch the process of cure which at a hospital
necessarily could be watched only at distant intervals. His rounds took
him into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails and
here and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer box from Japan,
spears and oars from Melanesia, or daggers from the bazaars of Stamboul;
there was an air of romance in the stuffy little rooms, and the salt of
the sea gave them a bitter freshness. Philip liked to talk to the
sailor-men, and when they found that he was not supercilious they told him
long yarns of the distant journeys of their youth.
Once or twice he made a mistake in diagnosis: (he had never seen a case of
measles before, and when he was confronted with the rash took it for an
obscure disease of the skin;) and once or twice his ideas of treatment
differed from Doctor South's. The first time this happened Doctor South
attacked him with savage irony; but Philip took it with good humour; he
had some gift for repartee, and he made one or two answers which caused
Doctor South to stop and look at him curiously. Philip's face was grave,
but his eyes were twinkling. The old gentleman could not avoid the
impression that Philip was chaffing him. He was used to being disliked and
feared by his assistants, and this was a new experience. He had half a
mind to fly into a passion and pack Philip off by the next train, he had
done that before with his assistants; but he had an uneasy feeling that
Philip then would simply laugh at him outright; and suddenly he felt
amused. His mouth formed itself into a smile against his will, and he
turned away. In a little while he grew conscious that Philip was amusing
himself systematically at his expense. He was taken aback at first and
then diverted.
"Damn his impudence," he chuckled to himself. "Damn his impudence."
CXVII
Philip had written to Athelny to tell him that he was doing a locum in
Dorsetshire and in due course received an answer from him. It was written
in the formal manner he affected, studded with pompous epithets as a
Persian diadem was studded with precious stones; and in the beautiful
hand, like black letter and as difficult to read, upon which he prided
himself. He suggested that Philip should join him and his family in the
Kentish hop-field to which he went every year; and to persuade him said
various beautiful and complicated things about Philip's soul and the
winding tendrils of the hops. Philip replied at once that he would come on
the first day he was free. Though not born there, he had a peculiar
affection for the Isle of Thanet, and he was fired with enthusiasm at the
thought of spending a fortnight so close to the earth and amid conditions
which needed only a blue sky to be as idyllic as the olive groves of
Arcady.
The four weeks of his engagement at Farnley passed quickly. On the cliff
a new town was springing up, with red brick villas round golf links, and
a large hotel had recently been opened to cater for the summer visitors;
but Philip went there seldom. Down below, by the harbour, the little stone
houses of a past century were clustered in a delightful confusion, and the
narrow streets, climbing down steeply, had an air of antiquity which
appealed to the imagination. By the water's edge were neat cottages with
trim, tiny gardens in front of them; they were inhabited by retired
captains in the merchant service, and by mothers or widows of men who had
gained their living by the sea; and they had an appearance which was
quaint and peaceful. In the little harbour came tramps from Spain and the
Levant, ships of small tonnage; and now and then a windjammer was borne in
by the winds of romance. It reminded Philip of the dirty little harbour
with its colliers at Blackstable, and he thought that there he had first
acquired the desire, which was now an obsession, for Eastern lands and
sunlit islands in a tropic sea. But here you felt yourself closer to the
wide, deep ocean than on the shore of that North Sea which seemed always
circumscribed; here you could draw a long breath as you looked out upon
the even vastness; and the west wind, the dear soft salt wind of England,
uplifted the heart and at the same time melted it to tenderness.
One evening, when Philip had reached his last week with Doctor South, a
child came to the surgery door while the old doctor and Philip were making
up prescriptions. It was a little ragged girl with a dirty face and bare
feet. Philip opened the door.
"Please, sir, will you come to Mrs. Fletcher's in Ivy Lane at once?"
"What's the matter with Mrs. Fletcher?" called out Doctor South in his
rasping voice.
The child took no notice of him, but addressed herself again to Philip.
"Please, sir, her little boy's had an accident and will you come at once?"
"Tell Mrs. Fletcher I'm coming," called out Doctor South.
The little girl hesitated for a moment, and putting a dirty finger in a
dirty mouth stood still and looked at Philip.
"What's the matter, Kid?" said Philip, smiling.
"Please, sir, Mrs. Fletcher says, will the new doctor come?" There was a
sound in the dispensary and Doctor South came out into the passage.
"Isn't Mrs. Fletcher satisfied with me?" he barked. "I've attended Mrs.
Fletcher since she was born. Why aren't I good enough to attend her filthy
brat?"
The little girl looked for a moment as though she were going to cry, then
she thought better of it; she put out her tongue deliberately at Doctor
South, and, before he could recover from his astonishment, bolted off as
fast as she could run. Philip saw that the old gentleman was annoyed.
"You look rather fagged, and it's a goodish way to Ivy Lane," he said, by
way of giving him an excuse not to go himself.
Doctor South gave a low snarl.
"It's a damned sight nearer for a man who's got the use of both legs than
for a man who's only got one and a half."
Philip reddened and stood silent for a while.
"Do you wish me to go or will you go yourself?" he said at last frigidly.
"What's the good of my going? They want you."
Philip took up his hat and went to see the patient. It was hard upon eight
o'clock when he came back. Doctor South was standing in the dining-room
with his back to the fireplace.
"You've been a long time," he said.
"I'm sorry. Why didn't you start dinner?"
"Because I chose to wait. Have you been all this while at Mrs.
Fletcher's?"
"No, I'm afraid I haven't. I stopped to look at the sunset on my way back,
and I didn't think of the time."
Doctor South did not reply, and the servant brought in some grilled
sprats. Philip ate them with an excellent appetite. Suddenly Doctor South
shot a question at him.
"Why did you look at the sunset?"
Philip answered with his mouth full.
"Because I was happy."
Doctor South gave him an odd look, and the shadow of a smile flickered
across his old, tired face. They ate the rest of the dinner in silence;
but when the maid had given them the port and left the room, the old man
leaned back and fixed his sharp eyes on Philip.
"It stung you up a bit when I spoke of your game leg, young fellow?" he
said.
"People always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry with me."
"I suppose they know it's your weak point."
Philip faced him and looked at him steadily.
"Are you very glad to have discovered it?"
The doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter mirth. They sat
for a while staring at one another. Then Doctor South surprised Philip
extremely.
"Why don't you stay here and I'll get rid of that damned fool with his
mumps?"
"It's very kind of you, but I hope to get an appointment at the hospital
in the autumn. It'll help me so much in getting other work later."
"I'm offering you a partnership," said Doctor South grumpily.
"Why?" asked Philip, with surprise.
"They seem to like you down here."
"I didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your approval,"
Philip said drily.
"D'you suppose that after forty years' practice I care a twopenny damn
whether people prefer my assistant to me? No, my friend. There's no
sentiment between my patients and me. I don't expect gratitude from them,
I expect them to pay my fees. Well, what d'you say to it?"
Philip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the proposal, but
because he was astonished. It was evidently very unusual for someone to
offer a partnership to a newly qualified man; and he realised with wonder
that, although nothing would induce him to say so, Doctor South had taken
a fancy to him. He thought how amused the secretary at St. Luke's would be
when he told him.
"The practice brings in about seven hundred a year. We can reckon out how
much your share would be worth, and you can pay me off by degrees. And
when I die you can succeed me. I think that's better than knocking about
hospitals for two or three years, and then taking assistantships until you
can afford to set up for yourself."
Philip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession would jump
at; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men he knew would be
thankful to accept the certainty of even so modest a competence as that.
"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," he said. "It means giving up everything
I've aimed at for years. In one way and another I've had a roughish time,
but I always had that one hope before me, to get qualified so that I might
travel; and now, when I wake in the morning, my bones simply ache to get
off, I don't mind where particularly, but just away, to places I've never
been to."
Now the goal seemed very near. He would have finished his appointment at
St. Luke's by the middle of the following year, and then he would go to
Spain; he could afford to spend several months there, rambling up and down
the land which stood to him for romance; after that he would get a ship
and go to the East. Life was before him and time of no account. He could
wander, for years if he chose, in unfrequented places, amid strange
peoples, where life was led in strange ways. He did not know what he
sought or what his journeys would bring him; but he had a feeling that he
would learn something new about life and gain some clue to the mystery
that he had solved only to find more mysterious. And even if he found
nothing he would allay the unrest which gnawed at his heart. But Doctor
South was showing him a great kindness, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse
his offer for no adequate reason; so in his shy way, trying to appear as
matter of fact as possible, he made some attempt to explain why it was so
important to him to carry out the plans he had cherished so passionately.
Doctor South listened quietly, and a gentle look came into his shrewd old
eyes. It seemed to Philip an added kindness that he did not press him to
accept his offer. Benevolence is often very peremptory. He appeared to
look upon Philip's reasons as sound. Dropping the subject, he began to
talk of his own youth; he had been in the Royal Navy, and it was his long
connection with the sea that, when he retired, had made him settle at
Farnley. He told Philip of old days in the Pacific and of wild adventures
in China. He had taken part in an expedition against the head-hunters of
Borneo and had known Samoa when it was still an independent state. He had
touched at coral islands. Philip listened to him entranced. Little by
little he told Philip about himself. Doctor South was a widower, his wife
had died thirty years before, and his daughter had married a farmer in
Rhodesia; he had quarrelled with him, and she had not come to England for
ten years. It was just as if he had never had wife or child. He was very
lonely. His gruffness was little more than a protection which he wore to
hide a complete disillusionment; and to Philip it seemed tragic to see him
just waiting for death, not impatiently, but rather with loathing for it,
hating old age and unable to resign himself to its limitations, and yet
with the feeling that death was the only solution of the bitterness of his
life. Philip crossed his path, and the natural affection which long
separation from his daughter had killed--she had taken her husband's part
in the quarrel and her children he had never seen--settled itself upon
Philip. At first it made him angry, he told himself it was a sign of
dotage; but there was something in Philip that attracted him, and he found
himself smiling at him he knew not why. Philip did not bore him. Once or
twice he put his hand on his shoulder: it was as near a caress as he had
got since his daughter left England so many years before. When the time
came for Philip to go Doctor South accompanied him to the station: he
found himself unaccountably depressed.
"I've had a ripping time here," said Philip. "You've been awfully kind to
me."
"I suppose you're very glad to go?"
"I've enjoyed myself here."
"But you want to get out into the world? Ah, you have youth." He hesitated
a moment. "I want you to remember that if you change your mind my offer
still stands."
"That's awfully kind of you."
Philip shook hands with him out of the carriage window, and the train
steamed out of the station. Philip thought of the fortnight he was going
to spend in the hop-field: he was happy at the idea of seeing his friends
again, and he rejoiced because the day was fine. But Doctor South walked
slowly back to his empty house. He felt very old and very lonely.
CXVIII
It was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne. It was Mrs.
Athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhood
to pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children she
still went every year. Like many Kentish folk her family had gone out
regularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding the
annual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays. The
work was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the
children it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met the
maidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about the
lanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed by
weddings. They went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs and
tables; and Ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted. They were very
exclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they
called the people who came from London; they looked down upon them and
feared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folk
did not want to mix with them. In the old days the hoppers slept in barns,
but ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow;
and the Athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year.
Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the
public-house at which he had got a room for Philip. It was a quarter of a
mile from the hop-field. They left his bag there and walked over to the
meadow in which were the huts. They were nothing more than a long, low
shed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square. In front of each
was a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching
the cooking of supper. The sea-air and the sun had browned already the
faces of Athelny's children. Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in her
sun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no real
difference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could
see how much at home she found herself in the country. She was frying
bacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she
had a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip. Athelny was
enthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence.
"We're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. It isn't life,
it's a long imprisonment. Let us sell all we have, Betty, and take a farm
in the country."
"I can see you in the country," she answered with good-humoured scorn.
"Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be crying for
London." She turned to Philip. "Athelny's always like this when we come
down here. Country, I like that! Why, he don't know a swede from a
mangel-wurzel."
"Daddy was lazy today," remarked Jane, with the frankness which
characterized her, "he didn't fill one bin."
"I'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill more bins
than all of you put together."
"Come and eat your supper, children," said Mrs. Athelny. "Where's Sally?"
"Here I am, mother."
She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fire
leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. Of late Philip had only
seen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at the
dressmaker's, and there was something very charming in the print dress she
wore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed
her strong, round arms. She too had a sun-bonnet.
"You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story," said Philip, as he shook
hands with her.
"She's the belle of the hop-fields," said Athelny. "My word, if the
Squire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage before you can
say Jack Robinson."
"The Squire hasn't got a son, father," said Sally.
She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made room for her
beside him. She looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires. She was
like some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom
old Herrick had praised in exquisite numbers. The supper was simple, bread
and butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs.
Athelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate.
He flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives upon
Brillat-Savarin.
"There's one thing one can say for you, Athelny," said his wife, "you do
enjoy your food and no mistake!"
"Cooked by your hand, my Betty," he said, stretching out an eloquent
forefinger.
Philip felt himself very comfortable. He looked happily at the line of
fires, with people grouped about them, and the colour of the flames
against the night; at the end of the meadow was a line of great elms, and
above the starry sky. The children talked and laughed, and Athelny, a
child among them, made them roar by his tricks and fancies.
"They think a rare lot of Athelny down here," said his wife. "Why, Mrs.
Bridges said to me, I don't know what we should do without Mr. Athelny
now, she said. He's always up to something, he's more like a schoolboy
than the father of a family."
Sally sat in silence, but she attended to Philip's wants in a thoughtful
fashion that charmed him. It was pleasant to have her beside him, and now
and then he glanced at her sunburned, healthy face. Once he caught her
eyes, and she smiled quietly. When supper was over Jane and a small
brother were sent down to a brook that ran at the bottom of the meadow to
fetch a pail of water for washing up.
"You children, show your Uncle Philip where we sleep, and then you must be
thinking of going to bed."
Small hands seized Philip, and he was dragged towards the hut. He went in
and struck a match. There was no furniture in it; and beside a tin box, in
which clothes were kept, there was nothing but the beds; there were three
of them, one against each wall. Athelny followed Philip in and showed them
proudly.
"That's the stuff to sleep on," he cried. "None of your spring-mattresses
and swansdown. I never sleep so soundly anywhere as here. YOU will
sleep between sheets. My dear fellow, I pity you from the bottom of my
soul."
The beds consisted of a thick layer of hopvine, on the top of which was a
coating of straw, and this was covered with a blanket. After a day in the
open air, with the aromatic scent of the hops all round them, the happy
pickers slept like tops. By nine o'clock all was quiet in the meadow and
everyone in bed but one or two men who still lingered in the public-house
and would not come back till it was closed at ten. Athelny walked there
with Philip. But before he went Mrs. Athelny said to him:
"We breakfast about a quarter to six, but I daresay you won't want to get
up as early as that. You see, we have to set to work at six."
"Of course he must get up early," cried Athelny, "and he must work like
the rest of us. He's got to earn his board. No work, no dinner, my lad."
"The children go down to bathe before breakfast, and they can give you a
call on their way back. They pass The Jolly Sailor."
"If they'll wake me I'll come and bathe with them," said Philip.
Jane and Harold and Edward shouted with delight at the prospect, and next
morning Philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by their bursting into
his room. The boys jumped on his bed, and he had to chase them out with
his slippers. He put on a coat and a pair of trousers and went down. The
day had only just broken, and there was a nip in the air; but the sky was
cloudless, and the sun was shining yellow. Sally, holding Connie's hand,
was standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a bathing-dress
over her arm. He saw now that her sun-bonnet was of the colour of
lavender, and against it her face, red and brown, was like an apple. She
greeted him with her slow, sweet smile, and he noticed suddenly that her
teeth were small and regular and very white. He wondered why they had
never caught his attention before.
"I was for letting you sleep on," she said, "but they would go up and wake
you. I said you didn't really want to come."
"Oh, yes, I did."
They walked down the road and then cut across the marshes. That way it was
under a mile to the sea. The water looked cold and gray, and Philip
shivered at the sight of it; but the others tore off their clothes and ran
in shouting. Sally did everything a little slowly, and she did not come
into the water till all the rest were splashing round Philip. Swimming was
his only accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he had
them all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a drowning
man, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair. The bathe was uproarious,
and it was necessary for Sally to be very severe to induce them all to
come out.
"You're as bad as any of them," she said to Philip, in her grave, maternal
way, which was at once comic and touching. "They're not anything like so
naughty when you're not here."
They walked back, Sally with her bright hair streaming over one shoulder
and her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to the huts Mrs. Athelny
had already started for the hop-garden. Athleny, in a pair of the oldest
trousers anyone had ever worn, his jacket buttoned up to show he had no
shirt on, and in a wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fire
of sticks. He was delighted with himself: he looked every inch a brigand.
As soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches' chorus from
Macbeth over the odorous kippers.
"You mustn't dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be angry," he said,
when they came up.
And in a few minutes, Harold and Jane with pieces of bread and butter in
their hands, they sauntered through the meadow into the hop-field. They
were the last to leave. A hop-garden was one of the sights connected with
Philip's boyhood and the oast-houses to him the most typical feature of
the Kentish scene. It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he
were at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines of the
hops. The sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow. Philip feasted his
eyes on the richness of the green leaves. The hops were yellowing, and to
him they had the beauty and the passion which poets in Sicily have found
in the purple grape. As they walked along Philip felt himself overwhelmed
by the rich luxuriance. A sweet scent arose from the fat Kentish soil, and
the fitful September breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of the hops.
Athelstan felt the exhilaration instinctively, for he lifted up his voice
and sang; it was the cracked voice of the boy of fifteen, and Sally turned
round.
"You be quiet, Athelstan, or we shall have a thunderstorm."
In a moment they heard the hum of voices, and in a moment more came upon
the pickers. They were all hard at work, talking and laughing as they
picked. They sat on chairs, on stools, on boxes, with their baskets by
their sides, and some stood by the bin throwing the hops they picked
straight into it. There were a lot of children about and a good many
babies, some in makeshift cradles, some tucked up in a rug on the soft
brown dry earth. The children picked a little and played a great deal. The
women worked busily, they had been pickers from childhood, and they could
pick twice as fast as foreigners from London. They boasted about the
number of bushels they had picked in a day, but they complained you could
not make money now as in former times: then they paid you a shilling for
five bushels, but now the rate was eight and even nine bushels to the
shilling. In the old days a good picker could earn enough in the season to
keep her for the rest of the year, but now there was nothing in it; you
got a holiday for nothing, and that was about all. Mrs. Hill had bought
herself a pianner out of what she made picking, so she said, but she was
very near, one wouldn't like to be near like that, and most people thought
it was only what she said, if the truth was known perhaps it would be
found that she had put a bit of money from the savings bank towards it.
The hoppers were divided into bin companies of ten pickers, not counting
children, and Athelny loudly boasted of the day when he would have a
company consisting entirely of his own family. Each company had a bin-man,
whose duty it was to supply it with strings of hops at their bins (the bin
was a large sack on a wooden frame, about seven feet high, and long rows
of them were placed between the rows of hops;) and it was to this position
that Athelny aspired when his family was old enough to form a company.
Meanwhile he worked rather by encouraging others than by exertions of his
own. He sauntered up to Mrs. Athelny, who had been busy for half an hour
and had already emptied a basket into the bin, and with his cigarette
between his lips began to pick. He asserted that he was going to pick more
than anyone that day, but mother; of course no one could pick so much as
mother; that reminded him of the trials which Aphrodite put upon the
curious Psyche, and he began to tell his children the story of her love
for the unseen bridegroom. He told it very well. It seemed to Philip,
listening with a smile on his lips, that the old tale fitted in with the
scene. The sky was very blue now, and he thought it could not be more
lovely even in Greece. The children with their fair hair and rosy cheeks,
strong, healthy, and vivacious; the delicate form of the hops; the
challenging emerald of the leaves, like a blare of trumpets; the magic of
the green alley, narrowing to a point as you looked down the row, with the
pickers in their sun-bonnets: perhaps there was more of the Greek spirit
there than you could find in the books of professors or in museums. He was
thankful for the beauty of England. He thought of the winding white roads
and the hedgerows, the green meadows with their elm-trees, the delicate
line of the hills and the copses that crowned them, the flatness of the
marshes, and the melancholy of the North Sea. He was very glad that he
felt its loveliness. But presently Athelny grew restless and announced
that he would go and ask how Robert Kemp's mother was. He knew everyone in
the garden and called them all by their Christian names; he knew their
family histories and all that had happened to them from birth. With
harmless vanity he played the fine gentleman among them, and there was a
touch of condescension in his familiarity. Philip would not go with him.
"I'm going to earn my dinner," he said.
"Quite right, my boy," answered Athelny, with a wave of the hand, as he
strolled away. "No work, no dinner."
CXIX
Philip had not a basket of his own, but sat with Sally. Jane thought it
monstrous that he should help her elder sister rather than herself, and he
had to promise to pick for her when Sally's basket was full. Sally was
almost as quick as her mother.
"Won't it hurt your hands for sewing?" asked Philip.
"Oh, no, it wants soft hands. That's why women pick better than men. If
your hands are hard and your fingers all stiff with a lot of rough work
you can't pick near so well."
He liked to see her deft movements, and she watched him too now and then
with that maternal spirit of hers which was so amusing and yet so
charming. He was clumsy at first, and she laughed at him. When she bent
over and showed him how best to deal with a whole line their hands met. He
was surprised to see her blush. He could not persuade himself that she was
a woman; because he had known her as a flapper, he could not help looking
upon her as a child still; yet the number of her admirers showed that she
was a child no longer; and though they had only been down a few days one
of Sally's cousins was already so attentive that she had to endure a lot
of chaffing. His name was Peter Gann, and he was the son of Mrs. Athelny's
sister, who had married a farmer near Ferne. Everyone knew why he found it
necessary to walk through the hop-field every day.
A call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for breakfast at eight, and
though Mrs. Athelny told them they had not deserved it, they ate it very
heartily. They set to work again and worked till twelve, when the horn
sounded once more for dinner. At intervals the measurer went his round
from bin to bin, accompanied by the booker, who entered first in his own
book and then in the hopper's the number of bushels picked. As each bin
was filled it was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag called a
poke; and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried off between them
and put on the waggon. Athelny came back now and then with stories of how
much Mrs. Heath or Mrs. Jones had picked, and he conjured his family to
beat her: he was always wanting to make records, and sometimes in his
enthusiasm picked steadily for an hour. His chief amusement in it,
however, was that it showed the beauty of his graceful hands, of which he
was excessively proud. He spent much time manicuring them. He told Philip,
as he stretched out his tapering fingers, that the Spanish grandees had
always slept in oiled gloves to preserve their whiteness. The hand that
wrung the throat of Europe, he remarked dramatically, was as shapely and
exquisite as a woman's; and he looked at his own, as he delicately picked
the hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction. When he grew tired of this he
rolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to Philip of art and literature.
In the afternoon it grew very hot. Work did not proceed so actively and
conversation halted. The incessant chatter of the morning dwindled now to
desultory remarks. Tiny beads of sweat stood on Sally's upper lip, and as
she worked her lips were slightly parted. She was like a rosebud bursting
into flower.
Calling-off time depended on the state of the oast-house. Sometimes it was
filled early, and as many hops had been picked by three or four as could
be dried during the night. Then work was stopped. But generally the last
measuring of the day began at five. As each company had its bin measured
it gathered up its things and, chatting again now that work was over,
sauntered out of the garden. The women went back to the huts to clean up
and prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down the
road to the public-house. A glass of beer was very pleasant after the
day's work.
The Athelnys' bin was the last to be dealt with. When the measurer came
Mrs. Athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood up and stretched her arms: she
had been sitting in the same position for many hours and was stiff.
"Now, let's go to The Jolly Sailor," said Athelny. "The rites of the day
must be duly performed, and there is none more sacred than that."
"Take a jug with you, Athelny," said his wife, "and bring back a pint and
a half for supper."
She gave him the money, copper by copper. The bar-parlour was already well
filled. It had a sanded floor, benches round it, and yellow pictures of
Victorian prize-fighters on the walls. The licencee knew all his customers
by name, and he leaned over his bar smiling benignly at two young men who
were throwing rings on a stick that stood up from the floor: their failure
was greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the company.
Room was made for the new arrivals. Philip found himself sitting between
an old labourer in corduroys, with string tied under his knees, and a
shiny-faced lad of seventeen with a love-lock neatly plastered on his red
forehead. Athelny insisted on trying his hand at the throwing of rings. He
backed himself for half a pint and won it. As he drank the loser's health
he said:
"I would sooner have won this than won the Derby, my boy."
He was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed hat and pointed beard,
among those country folk, and it was easy to see that they thought him
very queer; but his spirits were so high, his enthusiasm so contagious,
that it was impossible not to like him. Conversation went easily. A
certain number of pleasantries were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of
the Isle of Thanet, and there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of
the local wag. A pleasant gathering! It would have been a hard-hearted
person who did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows. Philip's
eyes wandered out of the window where it was bright and sunny still; there
were little white curtains in it tied up with red ribbon like those of a
cottage window, and on the sill were pots of geraniums. In due course one
by one the idlers got up and sauntered back to the meadow where supper was
cooking.
"I expect you'll be ready for your bed," said Mrs. Athelny to Philip.
"You're not used to getting up at five and staying in the open air all
day."
"You're coming to bathe with us, Uncle Phil, aren't you?" the boys cried.
"Rather."
He was tired and happy. After supper, balancing himself against the wall
of the hut on a chair without a back, he smoked his pipe and looked at the
night. Sally was busy. She passed in and out of the hut, and he lazily
watched her methodical actions. Her walk attracted his notice; it was not
particularly graceful, but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs
from the hips, and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision.
Athelny had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently
Philip heard his wife address the world in general.
"There now, I'm out of tea and I wanted Athelny to go down to Mrs. Black's
and get some." A pause, and then her voice was raised: "Sally, just run
down to Mrs. Black's and get me half a pound of tea, will you? I've run
quite out of it."
"All right, mother."
Mrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and she
combined the office of postmistress with that of universal provider. Sally
came out of the hut, turning down her sleeves.
"Shall I come with you, Sally?" asked Philip.
"Don't you trouble. I'm not afraid to go alone."
"I didn't think you were; but it's getting near my bedtime, and I was just
thinking I'd like to stretch my legs."
Sally did not answer, and they set out together. The road was white and
silent. There was not a sound in the summer night. They did not speak
much.
"It's quite hot even now, isn't it?" said Philip.
"I think it's wonderful for the time of year."
But their silence did not seem awkward. They found it was pleasant to walk
side by side and felt no need of words. Suddenly at a stile in the
hedgerow they heard a low murmur of voices, and in the darkness they saw
the outline of two people. They were sitting very close to one another and
did not move as Philip and Sally passed.
"I wonder who that was," said Sally.
"They looked happy enough, didn't they?"
"I expect they took us for lovers too."
They saw the light of the cottage in front of them, and in a minute went
into the little shop. The glare dazzled them for a moment.
"You are late," said Mrs. Black. "I was just going to shut up." She looked
at the clock. "Getting on for nine."
Sally asked for her half pound of tea (Mrs. Athelny could never bring
herself to buy more than half a pound at a time), and they set off up the
road again. Now and then some beast of the night made a short, sharp
sound, but it seemed only to make the silence more marked.
"I believe if you stood still you could hear the sea," said Sally.
They strained their ears, and their fancy presented them with a faint
sound of little waves lapping up against the shingle. When they passed the
stile again the lovers were still there, but now they were not speaking;
they were in one another's arms, and the man's lips were pressed against
the girl's.
"They seem busy," said Sally.
They turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat for a moment against
their faces. The earth gave forth its freshness. There was something
strange in the tremulous night, and something, you knew not what, seemed
to be waiting; the silence was on a sudden pregnant with meaning. Philip
had a queer feeling in his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt
(the hackneyed phrases expressed precisely the curious sensation), he felt
happy and anxious and expectant. To his memory came back those lines in
which Jessica and Lorenzo murmur melodious words to one another, capping
each other's utterance; but passion shines bright and clear through the
conceits that amuse them. He did not know what there was in the air that
made his senses so strangely alert; it seemed to him that he was pure soul
to enjoy the scents and the sounds and the savours of the earth. He had
never felt such an exquisite capacity for beauty. He was afraid that Sally
by speaking would break the spell, but she said never a word, and he
wanted to hear the sound of her voice. Its low richness was the voice of
the country night itself.
They arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get back to the
huts. Philip went in to hold the gate open for her.
"Well, here I think I'll say good-night."
"Thank you for coming all that way with me."
She gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said:
"If you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like the rest of the
family."
"I don't mind," she said.
Philip had spoken in jest. He merely wanted to kiss her, because he was
happy and he liked her and the night was so lovely.
"Good-night then," he said, with a little laugh, drawing her towards him.
She gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he lingered a
little, they were like a flower; then, he knew not how, without meaning
it, he flung his arms round her. She yielded quite silently. Her body was
firm and strong. He felt her heart beat against his. Then he lost his
head. His senses overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. He drew
her into the darker shadow of the hedge.
CXX
Philip slept like a log and awoke with a start to find Harold tickling his
face with a feather. There was a shout of delight when he opened his eyes.
He was drunken with sleep.
"Come on, lazybones," said Jane. "Sally says she won't wait for you unless
you hurry up."
Then he remembered what had happened. His heart sank, and, half out of bed
already, he stopped; he did not know how he was going to face her; he was
overwhelmed with a sudden rush of self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly,
he regretted what he had done. What would she say to him that morning? He
dreaded meeting her, and he asked himself how he could have been such a
fool. But the children gave him no time; Edward took his bathing-drawers
and his towel, Athelstan tore the bed-clothes away; and in three minutes
they all clattered down into the road. Sally gave him a smile. It was as
sweet and innocent as it had ever been.
"You do take a time to dress yourself," she said. "I thought you was never
coming."
There was not a particle of difference in her manner. He had expected some
change, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the way
she treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; but
there was nothing. She was exactly the same as before. They walked towards
the sea all together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but she
was always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and
gentle. She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it. Philip
was astounded. He had expected the incident of the night before to have
caused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing had
happened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a little
girl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while he
chatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought for an explanation. He
wondered whether Sally meant the affair to be forgotten. Perhaps her
senses had run away with her just as his had, and, treating what had
occurred as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that she
had decided to put the matter out of her mind. It was ascribing to her a
power of thought and a mature wisdom which fitted neither with her age nor
with her character. But he realised that he knew nothing of her. There had
been in her always something enigmatic.
They played leap-frog in the water, and the bathe was as uproarious as on
the previous day. Sally mothered them all, keeping a watchful eye on them,
and calling to them when they went out too far. She swam staidly backwards
and forwards while the others got up to their larks, and now and then
turned on her back to float. Presently she went out and began drying
herself; she called to the others more or less peremptorily, and at last
only Philip was left in the water. He took the opportunity to have a good
hard swim. He was more used to the cold water this second morning, and he
revelled in its salt freshness; it rejoiced him to use his limbs freely,
and he covered the water with long, firm strokes. But Sally, with a towel
round her, went down to the water's edge.
"You're to come out this minute, Philip," she called, as though he were a
small boy under her charge.
And when, smiling with amusement at her authoritative way, he came towards
her, she upbraided him.
"It is naughty of you to stay in so long. Your lips are quite blue, and
just look at your teeth, they're chattering."
"All right. I'll come out."
She had never talked to him in that manner before. It was as though what
had happened gave her a sort of right over him, and she looked upon him as
a child to be cared for. In a few minutes they were dressed, and they
started to walk back. Sally noticed his hands.
"Just look, they're quite blue."
"Oh, that's all right. It's only the circulation. I shall get the blood
back in a minute."
"Give them to me."
She took his hands in hers and rubbed them, first one and then the other,
till the colour returned. Philip, touched and puzzled, watched her. He
could not say anything to her on account of the children, and he did not
meet her eyes; but he was sure they did not avoid his purposely, it just
happened that they did not meet. And during the day there was nothing in
her behaviour to suggest a consciousness in her that anything had passed
between them. Perhaps she was a little more talkative than usual. When
they were all sitting again in the hop-field she told her mother how
naughty Philip had been in not coming out of the water till he was blue
with cold. It was incredible, and yet it seemed that the only effect of
the incident of the night before was to arouse in her a feeling of
protection towards him: she had the same instinctive desire to mother him
as she had with regard to her brothers and sisters.
It was not till the evening that he found himself alone with her. She was
cooking the supper, and Philip was sitting on the grass by the side of the
fire. Mrs. Athelny had gone down to the village to do some shopping, and
the children were scattered in various pursuits of their own. Philip
hesitated to speak. He was very nervous. Sally attended to her business
with serene competence and she accepted placidly the silence which to him
was so embarrassing. He did not know how to begin. Sally seldom spoke
unless she was spoken to or had something particular to say. At last he
could not bear it any longer.
"You're not angry with me, Sally?" he blurted out suddenly.
She raised her eyes quietly and looked at him without emotion.
"Me? No. Why should I be?"
He was taken aback and did not reply. She took the lid off the pot,
stirred the contents, and put it on again. A savoury smell spread over the
air. She looked at him once more, with a quiet smile which barely
separated her lips; it was more a smile of the eyes.
"I always liked you," she said.
His heart gave a great thump against his ribs, and he felt the blood
rushing to his cheeks. He forced a faint laugh.
"I didn't know that."
"That's because you're a silly."
"I don't know why you liked me."
"I don't either." She put a little more wood on the fire. "I knew I liked
you that day you came when you'd been sleeping out and hadn't had anything
to eat, d'you remember? And me and mother, we got Thorpy's bed ready for
you."
He flushed again, for he did not know that she was aware of that incident.
He remembered it himself with horror and shame.
"That's why I wouldn't have anything to do with the others. You remember
that young fellow mother wanted me to have? I let him come to tea because
he bothered so, but I knew I'd say no."
Philip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. There was a queer
feeling in his heart; he did not know what it was, unless it was
happiness. Sally stirred the pot once more.
"I wish those children would make haste and come. I don't know where
they've got to. Supper's ready now."
"Shall I go and see if I can find them?" said Philip.
It was a relief to talk about practical things.
"Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, I must say.... There's mother coming."
Then, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment.
"Shall I come for a walk with you tonight when I've put the children to
bed?"
"Yes."
"Well, you wait for me down by the stile, and I'll come when I'm ready."
He waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with their
ripening blackberries were high on each side of him. From the earth rose
rich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still. His heart was
beating madly. He could not understand anything of what happened to him.
He associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was
nothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but passion could
have caused her to give herself. But passion for him? He would not have
been surprised if she had fallen to her cousin, Peter Gann, tall, spare,
and straight, with his sunburned face and long, easy stride. Philip
wondered what she saw in him. He did not know if she loved him as he
reckoned love. And yet? He was convinced of her purity. He had a vague
inkling that many things had combined, things that she felt though was
unconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the hops and the night,
the healthy instincts of the natural woman, a tenderness that overflowed,
and an affection that had in it something maternal and something sisterly;
and she gave all she had to give because her heart was full of charity.
He heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the darkness.
"Sally," he murmured.
She stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet, clean odours
of the country-side. She seemed to carry with her scents of the new-mown
hay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass. Her
lips were soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was firm
within his arms.
"Milk and honey," he said. "You're like milk and honey."
He made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and then the
other. Her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the elbow; he passed his
hand over it and wondered at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; she
had the skin that Rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent, and
on one side were little golden hairs. It was the arm of a Saxon goddess;
but no immortal had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and Philip thought
of a cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men's hearts,
of the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is called York and
Lancaster, and of love--in-a-mist and Sweet William, and honeysuckle,
larkspur, and London Pride.
"How can you care for me?" he said. "I'm insignificant and crippled and
ordinary and ugly."
She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips.
"You're an old silly, that's what you are," she said.
CXXI
When the hops were picked, Philip with the news in his pocket that he had
got the appointment as assistant house-physician at St. Luke's,
accompanied the Athelnys back to London. He took modest rooms in
Westminster and at the beginning of October entered upon his duties. The
work was interesting and varied; every day he learned something new; he
felt himself of some consequence; and he saw a good deal of Sally. He
found life uncommonly pleasant. He was free about six, except on the days
on which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at which Sally
worked to meet her when she came out. There were several young men, who
hung about opposite the `trade entrance' or a little further along, at the
first corner; and the girls, coming out two and two or in little groups,
nudged one another and giggled as they recognised them. Sally in her plain
black dress looked very different from the country lass who had picked
hops side by side with him. She walked away from the shop quickly, but she
slackened her pace when they met, and greeted him with her quiet smile.
They walked together through the busy street. He talked to her of his work
at the hospital, and she told him what she had been doing in the shop that
day. He came to know the names of the girls she worked with. He found that
Sally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and she made
remarks about the girls or the men who were set over them which amused him
by their unexpected drollery. She had a way of saying a thing which was
very characteristic, quite gravely, as though there were nothing funny in
it at all, and yet it was so sharp-sighted that Philip broke into
delighted laughter. Then she would give him a little glance in which the
smiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. They met with
a handshake and parted as formally. Once Philip asked her to come and have
tea with him in his rooms, but she refused.
"No, I won't do that. It would look funny."
Never a word of love passed between them. She seemed not to desire
anything more than the companionship of those walks. Yet Philip was
positive that she was glad to be with him. She puzzled him as much as she
had done at the beginning. He did not begin to understand her conduct; but
the more he knew her the fonder he grew of her; she was competent and self
controlled, and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that you
could rely upon her in every circumstance.
"You are an awfully good sort," he said to her once a propos of nothing
at all.
"I expect I'm just the same as everyone else," she answered.
He knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that he felt
for her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he had
a feeling for her which seemed to him ridiculous to entertain towards a
shop-girl of nineteen: he respected her. And he admired her magnificent
healthiness. She was a splendid animal, without defect; and physical
perfection filled him always with admiring awe. She made him feel
unworthy.
Then, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to London as
they walked together, he noticed that she was unusually silent. The
serenity of her expression was altered by a slight line between the
eyebrows: it was the beginning of a frown.
"What's the matter, Sally?" he asked.
She did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her colour
darkened.
"I don't know."
He understood at once what she meant. His heart gave a sudden, quick beat,
and he felt the colour leave his cheeks.
"What d'you mean? Are you afraid that... ?"
He stopped. He could not go on. The possibility that anything of the sort
could happen had never crossed his mind. Then he saw that her lips were
trembling, and she was trying not to cry.
"I'm not certain yet. Perhaps it'll be all right."
They walked on in silence till they came to the corner of Chancery Lane,
where he always left her. She held out her hand and smiled.
"Don't worry about it yet. Let's hope for the best."
He walked away with a tumult of thoughts in his head. What a fool he had
been! That was the first thing that struck him, an abject, miserable fool,
and he repeated it to himself a dozen times in a rush of angry feeling. He
despised himself. How could he have got into such a mess? But at the same
time, for his thoughts chased one another through his brain and yet seemed
to stand together, in a hopeless confusion, like the pieces of a jig-saw
puzzle seen in a nightmare, he asked himself what he was going to do.
Everything was so clear before him, all he had aimed at so long within
reach at last, and now his inconceivable stupidity had erected this new
obstacle. Philip had never been able to surmount what he acknowledged was
a defect in his resolute desire for a well ordered life, and that was his
passion for living in the future; and no sooner was he settled in his work
at the hospital than he had busied himself with arrangements for his
travels. In the past he had often tried not to think too circumstantially
of his plans for the future, it was only discouraging; but now that his
goal was so near he saw no harm in giving away to a longing that was so
difficult to resist. First of all he meant to go to Spain. That was the
land of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its romance
and colour and history and grandeur; he felt that it had a message for him
in particular which no other country could give. He knew the fine old
cities already as though he had trodden their tortuous streets from
childhood. Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Leon, Tarragona, Burgos. The great
painters of Spain were the painters of his soul, and his pulse beat
quickly as he pictured his ecstasy on standing face to face with those
works which were more significant than any others to his own tortured,
restless heart. He had read the great poets, more characteristic of their
race than the poets of other lands; for they seemed to have drawn their
inspiration not at all from the general currents of the world's literature
but directly from the torrid, scented plains and the bleak mountains of
their country. A few short months now, and he would hear with his own ears
all around him the language which seemed most apt for grandeur of soul and
passion. His fine taste had given him an inkling that Andalusia was too
soft and sensuous, a little vulgar even, to satisfy his ardour; and his
imagination dwelt more willingly among the wind-swept distances of Castile
and the rugged magnificence of Aragon and Leon. He did not know quite what
those unknown contacts would give him, but he felt that he would gather
from them a strength and a purpose which would make him more capable of
affronting and comprehending the manifold wonders of places more distant
and more strange.
For this was only a beginning. He had got into communication with the
various companies which took surgeons out on their ships, and knew exactly
what were their routes, and from men who had been on them what were the
advantages and disadvantages of each line. He put aside the Orient and the
P. & O. It was difficult to get a berth with them; and besides their
passenger traffic allowed the medical officer little freedom; but there
were other services which sent large tramps on leisurely expeditions to
the East, stopping at all sorts of ports for various periods, from a day
or two to a fortnight, so that you had plenty of time, and it was often
possible to make a trip inland. The pay was poor and the food no more than
adequate, so that there was not much demand for the posts, and a man with
a London degree was pretty sure to get one if he applied. Since there were
no passengers other than a casual man or so, shipping on business from
some out-of-the-way port to another, the life on board was friendly and
pleasant. Philip knew by heart the list of places at which they touched;
and each one called up in him visions of tropical sunshine, and magic
colour, and of a teeming, mysterious, intense life. Life! That was what he
wanted. At last he would come to close quarters with Life. And perhaps,
from Tokyo or Shanghai it would be possible to tranship into some other
line and drip down to the islands of the South Pacific. A doctor was
useful anywhere. There might be an opportunity to go up country in Burmah,
and what rich jungles in Sumatra or Borneo might he not visit? He was
young still and time was no object to him. He had no ties in England, no
friends; he could go up and down the world for years, learning the beauty
and the wonder and the variedness of life.
Now this thing had come. He put aside the possibility that Sally was
mistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right; after all, it was
so likely; anyone could see that Nature had built her to be the mother of
children. He knew what he ought to do. He ought not to let the incident
divert him a hair's breadth from his path. He thought of Griffiths; he
could easily imagine with what indifference that young man would have
received such a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisance
and would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he would
have left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she could. Philip
told himself that if this had happened it was because it was inevitable.
He was no more to blame than Sally; she was a girl who knew the world and
the facts of life, and she had taken the risk with her eyes open. It would
be madness to allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of his
life. He was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of the
transitoriness of life, and how necessary it was to make the most of it.
He would do what he could for Sally; he could afford to give her a
sufficient sum of money. A strong man would never allow himself to be
turned from his purpose.
Philip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it. He simply
could not. He knew himself.
"I'm so damned weak," he muttered despairingly.
She had trusted him and been kind to him. He simply could not do a thing
which, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was horrible. He knew he
would have no peace on his travels if he had the thought constantly with
him that she was wretched. Besides, there were her father and mother: they
had always treated him well; it was not possible to repay them with
ingratitude. The only thing was to marry Sally as quickly as possible. He
would write to Doctor South, tell him he was going to be married at once,
and say that if his offer still held he was willing to accept it. That
sort of practice, among poor people, was the only one possible for him;
there his deformity did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simple
manners of his wife. It was curious to think of her as his wife, it gave
him a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him as he
thought of the child which was his. He had little doubt that Doctor South
would be glad to have him, and he pictured to himself the life he would
lead with Sally in the fishing village. They would have a little house
within sight of the sea, and he would watch the mighty ships passing to
the lands he would never know. Perhaps that was the wisest thing. Cronshaw
had told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who by the
power of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and time. It was true.
Forever wilt thou love and she be fair!
His wedding present to his wife would be all his high hopes.
Self-sacrifice! Philip was uplifted by its beauty, and all through the
evening he thought of it. He was so excited that he could not read. He
seemed to be driven out of his rooms into the streets, and he walked up
and down Birdcage Walk, his heart throbbing with joy. He could hardly bear
his impatience. He wanted to see Sally's happiness when he made her his
offer, and if it had not been so late he would have gone to her there and
then. He pictured to himself the long evenings he would spend with Sally
in the cosy sitting-room, the blinds undrawn so that they could watch the
sea; he with his books, while she bent over her work, and the shaded lamp
made her sweet face more fair. They would talk over the growing child, and
when she turned her eyes to his there was in them the light of love. And
the fishermen and their wives who were his patients would come to feel a
great affection for them, and they in their turn would enter into the
pleasures and pains of those simple lives. But his thoughts returned to
the son who would be his and hers. Already he felt in himself a passionate
devotion to it. He thought of passing his hands over his little perfect
limbs, he knew he would be beautiful; and he would make over to him all
his dreams of a rich and varied life. And thinking over the long
pilgrimage of his past he accepted it joyfully. He accepted the deformity
which had made life so hard for him; he knew that it had warped his
character, but now he saw also that by reason of it he had acquired that
power of introspection which had given him so much delight. Without it he
would never have had his keen appreciation of beauty, his passion for art
and literature, and his interest in the varied spectacle of life. The
ridicule and the contempt which had so often been heaped upon him had
turned his mind inward and called forth those flowers which he felt would
never lose their fragrance. Then he saw that the normal was the rarest
thing in the world. Everyone had some defect, of body or of mind: he
thought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a
sick-house, and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long
procession, deformed in body and warped in mind, some with illness of the
flesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit,
languor of will, or a craving for liquor. At this moment he could feel a
holy compassion for them all. They were the helpless instruments of blind
chance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and Mildred for the
pain she had caused him. They could not help themselves. The only
reasonable thing was to accept the good of men and be patient with their
faults. The words of the dying God crossed his memory:
Forgive them, for they know not what they do.
CXXII
He had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was
to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to
lunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his
exultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in
the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to
himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his
impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his
pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "Sacking the mumpish
fool. When will you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was
a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance
in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance,
and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed
Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he
saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the same
figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so
characteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he
hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it
was someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with
a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved,
but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was
seized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion?
At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a
strange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That
love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never
quite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire.
But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her
kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile.
He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the first
room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always
comforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, but
allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to
work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be
pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual
figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had
learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and
he was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a
rarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black,
with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They
shook hands.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?"
"Not very."
"Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?"
"If you like."
They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed having
her near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow of life seemed
like an aureole to shine about her.
"Well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile.
"Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm."
"Was it?"
"Aren't you glad?"
An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally's
suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant
that there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly
overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than
a dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! He
need give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him
to do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. His
heart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. It
was as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters,
with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as
he was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out
again into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these
soft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean
filled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness and
the tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes.
"Aren't you glad?" she asked again. "I thought you'd be as pleased as
Punch."
He met her gaze haggardly. "I'm not sure," he muttered.
"You are funny. Most men would."
He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that
had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home
and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was
seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world.
What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to
him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands?
America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had
followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings,
had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his
course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what
he wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a
gesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present
always, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of
his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad,
meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern,
that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was
likewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was
to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories.
He glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and then
looked away again.
"I was going to ask you to marry me," he said.
"I thought p'raps you might, but I shouldn't have liked to stand in your
way."
"You wouldn't have done that."
"How about your travels, Spain and all that?"
"How d'you know I want to travel?"
"I ought to know something about it. I've heard you and Dad talk about it
till you were blue in the face."
"I don't care a damn about all that." He paused for an instant and then
spoke in a low, hoarse whisper. "I don't want to leave you! I can't leave
you."
She did not answer. He could not tell what she thought.
"I wonder if you'll marry me, Sally."
She did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her face, but she
did not look at him when she answered.
"If you like."
"Don't you want to?"
"Oh, of course I'd like to have a house of my own, and it's about time I
was settling down."
He smiled a little. He knew her pretty well by now, and her manner did not
surprise him.
"But don't you want to marry ME?"
"There's no one else I would marry."
"Then that settles it."
"Mother and Dad will be surprised, won't they?"
"I'm so happy."
"I want my lunch," she said.
"Dear!"
He smiled and took her hand and pressed it. They got up and walked out of
the gallery. They stood for a moment at the balustrade and looked at
Trafalgar Square. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds
passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining.