part medical students are industrious young men of the middle-class

with a sufficient allowance to live in the respectable fashion they

have been used to; many are the sons of doctors who have already

something of the professional manner; their career is mapped out: as

soon as they are qualified they propose to apply for a hospital

appointment, after holding which (and perhaps a trip to the Far East as

a ship’s doctor), they will join their father and spend the rest of

their days in a country practice. One or two are marked out as

exceptionally brilliant: they will take the various prizes and

scholarships which are open each year to the deserving, get one

appointment after another at the hospital, go on the staff, take a

consulting-room in Harley Street, and, specialising in one subject or

another, become prosperous, eminent, and titled.

The medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at any age

with some chance of making a living. Among the men of Philip’s year

were three or four who were past their first youth: one had been in the

Navy, from which according to report he had been dismissed for

drunkenness; he was a man of thirty, with a red face, a brusque manner,

and a loud voice. Another was a married man with two children, who had

lost money through a defaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if

the world were too much for him; he went about his work silently, and

it was plain that he found it difficult at his age to commit facts to

memory. His mind worked slowly. His effort at application was painful

to see.

Philip made himself at home in his tiny rooms. He arranged his books

and hung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he possessed. Above

him, on the drawing-room floor, lived a fifth-year man called

Griffiths; but Philip saw little of him, partly because he was occupied

chiefly in the wards and partly because he had been to Oxford. Such of

the students as had been to a university kept a good deal together:

they used a variety of means natural to the young in order to impress

upon the less fortunate a proper sense of their inferiority; the rest

of the students found their Olympian serenity rather hard to bear.

Griffiths was a tall fellow, with a quantity of curly red hair and blue

eyes, a white skin and a very red mouth; he was one of those fortunate

people whom everybody liked, for he had high spirits and a constant

gaiety. He strummed a little on the piano and sang comic songs with

gusto; and evening after evening, while Philip was reading in his

solitary room, he heard the shouts and the uproarious laughter of

Griffiths’ friends above him. He thought of those delightful evenings

in Paris when they would sit in the studio, Lawson and he, Flanagan and

Clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the present,

and the fame of the future. He felt sick at heart. He found that it was

easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results. The

worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious. He had got

out of the habit of being asked questions by demonstrators. His

attention wandered at lectures. Anatomy was a dreary science, a mere

matter of learning by heart an enormous number of facts; dissection

bored him; he did not see the use of dissecting out laboriously nerves

and arteries when with much less trouble you could see in the diagrams

of a book or in the specimens of the pathological museum exactly where

they were.

He made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he seemed to

have nothing in particular to say to his companions. When he tried to

interest himself in their concerns, he felt that they found him

patronising. He was not of those who can talk of what moves them

without caring whether it bores or not the people they talk to. One

man, hearing that he had studied art in Paris, and fancying himself on

his taste, tried to discuss art with him; but Philip was impatient of

views which did not agree with his own; and, finding quickly that the

other’s ideas were conventional, grew monosyllabic. Philip desired

popularity but could bring himself to make no advances to others. A

fear of rebuff prevented him from affability, and he concealed his

shyness, which was still intense, under a frigid taciturnity. He was

going through the same experience as he had done at school, but here

the freedom of the medical students’ life made it possible for him to

live a good deal by himself.

It was through no effort of his that he became friendly with Dunsford,

the fresh-complexioned, heavy lad whose acquaintance he had made at the

beginning of the session. Dunsford attached himself to Philip merely

because he was the first person he had known at St. Luke’s. He had no

friends in London, and on Saturday nights he and Philip got into the

habit of going together to the pit of a music-hall or the gallery of a

theatre. He was stupid, but he was good-humoured and never took

offence; he always said the obvious thing, but when Philip laughed at

him merely smiled. He had a very sweet smile. Though Philip made him

his butt, he liked him; he was amused by his candour and delighted with

his agreeable nature: Dunsford had the charm which himself was acutely

conscious of not possessing.

They often went to have tea at a shop in Parliament Street, because

Dunsford admired one of the young women who waited. Philip did not find

anything attractive in her. She was tall and thin, with narrow hips and

the chest of a boy.

“No one would look at her in Paris,” said Philip scornfully.

“She’s got a ripping face,” said Dunsford.

“What DOES the face matter?”

She had the small regular features, the blue eyes, and the broad low

brow, which the Victorian painters, Lord Leighton, Alma Tadema, and a

hundred others, induced the world they lived in to accept as a type of

Greek beauty. She seemed to have a great deal of hair: it was arranged

with peculiar elaboration and done over the forehead in what she called

an Alexandra fringe. She was very anaemic. Her thin lips were pale, and

her skin was delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red

even in the cheeks. She had very good teeth. She took great pains to

prevent her work from spoiling her hands, and they were small, thin,

and white. She went about her duties with a bored look.

Dunsford, very shy with women, had never succeeded in getting into

conversation with her; and he urged Philip to help him.

“All I want is a lead,” he said, “and then I can manage for myself.”

Philip, to please him, made one or two remarks, but she answered with

monosyllables. She had taken their measure. They were boys, and she

surmised they were students. She had no use for them. Dunsford noticed

that a man with sandy hair and a bristly moustache, who looked like a

German, was favoured with her attention whenever he came into the shop;

and then it was only by calling her two or three times that they could

induce her to take their order. She used the clients whom she did not

know with frigid insolence, and when she was talking to a friend was

perfectly indifferent to the calls of the hurried. She had the art of

treating women who desired refreshment with just that degree of

impertinence which irritated them without affording them an opportunity

of complaining to the management. One day Dunsford told him her name

was Mildred. He had heard one of the other girls in the shop address

her.

“What an odious name,” said Philip.

“Why?” asked Dunsford.

“I like it.”

“It’s so pretentious.”

It chanced that on this day the German was not there, and, when she

brought the tea, Philip, smiling, remarked:

“Your friend’s not here today.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said coldly.

“I was referring to the nobleman with the sandy moustache. Has he left

you for another?”

“Some people would do better to mind their own business,” she retorted.

She left them, and, since for a minute or two there was no one to

attend to, sat down and looked at the evening paper which a customer

had left behind him.

“You are a fool to put her back up,” said Dunsford.

“I’m really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae,”

replied Philip.

But he was piqued. It irritated him that when he tried to be agreeable

with a woman she should take offence. When he asked for the bill, he

hazarded a remark which he meant to lead further.

“Are we no longer on speaking terms?” he smiled.

“I’m here to take orders and to wait on customers. I’ve got nothing to

say to them, and I don’t want them to say anything to me.”

She put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum they had

to pay, and walked back to the table at which she had been sitting.

Philip flushed with anger.

“That’s one in the eye for you, Carey,” said Dunsford, when they got

outside.

“Ill-mannered slut,” said Philip. “I shan’t go there again.”

His influence with Dunsford was strong enough to get him to take their

tea elsewhere, and Dunsford soon found another young woman to flirt

with. But the snub which the waitress had inflicted on him rankled. If

she had treated him with civility he would have been perfectly

indifferent to her; but it was obvious that she disliked him rather

than otherwise, and his pride was wounded. He could not suppress a

desire to be even with her. He was impatient with himself because he

had so petty a feeling, but three or four days’ firmness, during which

he would not go to the shop, did not help him to surmount it; and he

came to the conclusion that it would be least trouble to see her.

Having done so he would certainly cease to think of her. Pretexting an

appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little ashamed of his

weakness, he left Dunsford and went straight to the shop which he had

vowed never again to enter. He saw the waitress the moment he came in

and sat down at one of her tables. He expected her to make some

reference to the fact that he had not been there for a week, but when

she came up for his order she said nothing. He had heard her say to

other customers:

“You’re quite a stranger.”

She gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. In order to see

whether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his tea, he

asked:

“Have you seen my friend tonight?”

“No, he’s not been in here for some days.”

He wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he was

strangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. She gave him no

opportunity, but at once went away. He had no chance of saying anything

till he asked for his bill.

“Filthy weather, isn’t it?” he said.

It was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a phrase as

that. He could not make out why she filled him with such embarrassment.

“It don’t make much difference to me what the weather is, having to be

in here all day.”

There was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated him. A

sarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be silent.

“I wish to God she’d say something really cheeky,” he raged to himself,

“so that I could report her and get her sacked. It would serve her

damned well right.”

LVI

He could not get her out of his mind. He laughed angrily at his own

foolishness: it was absurd to care what an anaemic little waitress said

to him; but he was strangely humiliated. Though no one knew of the

humiliation but Dunsford, and he had certainly forgotten, Philip felt

that he could have no peace till he had wiped it out. He thought over

what he had better do. He made up his mind that he would go to the shop

every day; it was obvious that he had made a disagreeable impression on

her, but he thought he had the wits to eradicate it; he would take care

not to say anything at which the most susceptible person could be

offended. All this he did, but it had no effect. When he went in and

said good-evening she answered with the same words, but when once he

omitted to say it in order to see whether she would say it first, she

said nothing at all. He murmured in his heart an expression which

though frequently applicable to members of the female sex is not often

used of them in polite society; but with an unmoved face he ordered his

tea. He made up his mind not to speak a word, and left the shop without

his usual good-night. He promised himself that he would not go any

more, but the next day at tea-time he grew restless. He tried to think

of other things, but he had no command over his thoughts. At last he

said desperately:

“After all there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go if I want to.”

The struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was getting on

for seven when he entered the shop.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” the girl said to him, when he sat down.

His heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. “I was

detained. I couldn’t come before.”

“Cutting up people, I suppose?”

“Not so bad as that.”

“You are a stoodent, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

But that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. She went away and, since at

that late hour there was nobody else at her tables, she immersed

herself in a novelette. This was before the time of the sixpenny

reprints. There was a regular supply of inexpensive fiction written to

order by poor hacks for the consumption of the illiterate. Philip was

elated; she had addressed him of her own accord; he saw the time

approaching when his turn would come and he would tell her exactly what

he thought of her. It would be a great comfort to express the immensity

of his contempt. He looked at her. It was true that her profile was

beautiful; it was extraordinary how English girls of that class had so

often a perfection of outline which took your breath away, but it was

as cold as marble; and the faint green of her delicate skin gave an

impression of unhealthiness. All the waitresses were dressed alike, in

plain black dresses, with a white apron, cuffs, and a small cap. On a

half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket Philip made a sketch of

her as she sat leaning over her book (she outlined the words with her

lips as she read), and left it on the table when he went away. It was

an inspiration, for next day, when he came in, she smiled at him.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” she said.

“I was an art-student in Paris for two years.”

“I showed that drawing you left be’ind you last night to the manageress

and she WAS struck with it. Was it meant to be me?”

“It was,” said Philip.

When she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to him.

“I saw that picture you done of Miss Rogers. It was the very image of

her,” she said.

That was the first time he had heard her name, and when he wanted his

bill he called her by it.

“I see you know my name,” she said, when she came.

“Your friend mentioned it when she said something to me about that

drawing.”

“She wants you to do one of her. Don’t you do it. If you once begin

you’ll have to go on, and they’ll all be wanting you to do them.” Then

without a pause, with peculiar inconsequence, she said: “Where’s that

young fellow that used to come with you? Has he gone away?”

“Fancy your remembering him,” said Philip.

“He was a nice-looking young fellow.”

Philip felt quite a peculiar sensation in his heart. He did not know

what it was. Dunsford had jolly curling hair, a fresh complexion, and a

beautiful smile. Philip thought of these advantages with envy.

“Oh, he’s in love,” said he, with a little laugh.

Philip repeated every word of the conversation to himself as he limped

home. She was quite friendly with him now. When opportunity arose he

would offer to make a more finished sketch of her, he was sure she

would like that; her face was interesting, the profile was lovely, and

there was something curiously fascinating about the chlorotic colour.

He tried to think what it was like; at first he thought of pea soup;

but, driving away that idea angrily, he thought of the petals of a

yellow rosebud when you tore it to pieces before it had burst. He had

no ill-feeling towards her now.

“She’s not a bad sort,” he murmured.

It was silly of him to take offence at what she had said; it was

doubtless his own fault; she had not meant to make herself

disagreeable: he ought to be accustomed by now to making at first sight

a bad impression on people. He was flattered at the success of his

drawing; she looked upon him with more interest now that she was aware

of this small talent. He was restless next day. He thought of going to

lunch at the tea-shop, but he was certain there would be many people

there then, and Mildred would not be able to talk to him. He had

managed before this to get out of having tea with Dunsford, and,

punctually at half past four (he had looked at his watch a dozen

times), he went into the shop.

Mildred had her back turned to him. She was sitting down, talking to

the German whom Philip had seen there every day till a fortnight ago

and since then had not seen at all. She was laughing at what he said.

Philip thought she had a common laugh, and it made him shudder. He

called her, but she took no notice; he called her again; then, growing

angry, for he was impatient, he rapped the table loudly with his stick.

She approached sulkily.

“How d’you do?” he said.

“You seem to be in a great hurry.”

She looked down at him with the insolent manner which he knew so well.

“I say, what’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“If you’ll kindly give your order I’ll get what you want. I can’t stand

talking all night.”

“Tea and toasted bun, please,” Philip answered briefly.

He was furious with her. He had The Star with him and read it

elaborately when she brought the tea.

“If you’ll give me my bill now I needn’t trouble you again,” he said

icily.

She wrote out the slip, placed it on the table, and went back to the

German. Soon she was talking to him with animation. He was a man of

middle height, with the round head of his nation and a sallow face; his

moustache was large and bristling; he had on a tail-coat and gray

trousers, and he wore a massive gold watch-chain. Philip thought the

other girls looked from him to the pair at the table and exchanged

significant glances. He felt certain they were laughing at him, and his

blood boiled. He detested Mildred now with all his heart. He knew that

the best thing he could do was to cease coming to the tea-shop, but he

could not bear to think that he had been worsted in the affair, and he

devised a plan to show her that he despised her. Next day he sat down

at another table and ordered his tea from another waitress. Mildred’s

friend was there again and she was talking to him. She paid no

attention to Philip, and so when he went out he chose a moment when she

had to cross his path: as he passed he looked at her as though he had

never seen her before. He repeated this for three or four days. He

expected that presently she would take the opportunity to say something

to him; he thought she would ask why he never came to one of her tables

now, and he had prepared an answer charged with all the loathing he

felt for her. He knew it was absurd to trouble, but he could not help

himself. She had beaten him again. The German suddenly disappeared, but

Philip still sat at other tables. She paid no attention to him.

Suddenly he realised that what he did was a matter of complete

indifference to her; he could go on in that way till doomsday, and it

would have no effect.

“I’ve not finished yet,” he said to himself.

The day after he sat down in his old seat, and when she came up said

good-evening as though he had not ignored her for a week. His face was

placid, but he could not prevent the mad beating of his heart. At that

time the musical comedy had lately leaped into public favour, and he

was sure that Mildred would be delighted to go to one.

“I say,” he said suddenly, “I wonder if you’d dine with me one night

and come to The Belle of New York. I’ll get a couple of stalls.”

He added the last sentence in order to tempt her. He knew that when the

girls went to the play it was either in the pit, or, if some man took

them, seldom to more expensive seats than the upper circle. Mildred’s

pale face showed no change of expression.

“I don’t mind,” she said.

“When will you come?”

“I get off early on Thursdays.”

They made arrangements. Mildred lived with an aunt at Herne Hill. The

play began at eight so they must dine at seven. She proposed that he

should meet her in the second-class waiting-room at Victoria Station.

She showed no pleasure, but accepted the invitation as though she

conferred a favour. Philip was vaguely irritated.

LVII

Philip arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before the time

which Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-class

waiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He began to grow anxious,

and walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; the

hour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her.

Philip was impatient. He went into the other waiting-rooms and looked

at the people sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud.

“There you are. I thought you were never coming.”

“I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half a mind

to go back home again.”

“But you said you’d come to the second-class waiting-room.”

“I didn’t say any such thing. It isn’t exactly likely I’d sit in the

second-class room when I could sit in the first is it?”

Though Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, and

they got into a cab.

“Where are we dining?” she asked.

“I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?”

“I don’t mind where we dine.”

She spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting and

answered Philip’s attempt at conversation with monosyllables. She wore

a long cloak of some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her

head. They reached the restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked

round with satisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables,

the gold of the decorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a

sumptuous air.

“I’ve never been here before.”

She gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw that

she wore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was

more elaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered champagne and when

it came her eyes sparkled.

“You are going it,” she said.

“Because I’ve ordered fiz?” he asked carelessly, as though he never

drank anything else.

“I WAS surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you.”

Conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much

to say; and Philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her.

She listened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners,

and made no pretence that she was interested in him. He made one or two

little jokes, but she took them quite seriously. The only sign of

vivacity he got was when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she

could not bear the manageress and told him all her misdeeds at length.

“I can’t stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself.

Sometimes I’ve got more than half a mind to tell her something she

doesn’t think I know anything about.”

“What is that?” asked Philip.

“Well, I happen to know that she’s not above going to Eastbourne with a

man for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has a married

sister who goes there with her husband, and she’s seen her. She was

staying at the same boarding-house, and she ’ad a wedding-ring on, and

I know for one she’s not married.”

Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more

affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. He

noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and

when she drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics

of conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered

with irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and

laughing with the German. They finished dinner and went to the play.

Philip was a very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy

with scorn. He thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it

seemed to him that they did these things much better in France; but

Mildred enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached,

looking at Philip now and then when something tickled her to exchange a

glance of pleasure; and she applauded rapturously.

“This is the seventh time I’ve been,” she said, after the first act,

“and I don’t mind if I come seven times more.”

She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls.

She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore

false hair.

“It is horrible, these West-end people,” she said. “I don’t know how

they can do it.” She put her hand to her hair. “Mine’s all my own,

every bit of it.”

She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to

say something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that

next day she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out

and that he had bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew

not why, he wanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:

“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself?”

“Rather.”

“Will you come out with me again one evening?”

“I don’t mind.”

He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference

maddened him.

“That sounds as if you didn’t much care if you came or not.”

“Oh, if you don’t take me out some other fellow will. I need never want

for men who’ll take me to the theatre.”

Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the

booking-office.

“I’ve got my season,” she said.

“I thought I’d take you home as it’s rather late, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if it gives you any pleasure.”

He took a single first for her and a return for himself.

“Well, you’re not mean, I will say that for you,” she said, when he

opened the carriage-door.

Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people

entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and

he accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.

“I’ll say good-night to you here,” she said, holding out her hand.

“You’d better not come up to the door. I know what people are, and I

don’t want to have anybody talking.”

She said good-night and walked quickly away. He could see the white

shawl in the darkness. He thought she might turn round, but she did

not. Philip saw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked

along to look at it. It was a trim, common little house of yellow

brick, exactly like all the other little houses in the street. He stood

outside for a few minutes, and presently the window on the top floor

was darkened. Philip strolled slowly back to the station. The evening

had been unsatisfactory. He felt irritated, restless, and miserable.

When he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of

the railway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. He

did not know how he was to get through the hours that must pass before

his eyes rested on her again. He thought drowsily of her thin face,

with its delicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was

not happy with her, but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit

by her side and look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted… the

thought came to him and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide

awake… he wanted to kiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. The

truth came to him at last. He was in love with her. It was incredible.

He had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which

he had pictured to himself over and over again. He saw himself coming

into a ball-room; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women

talking; and one of the women turned round. Her eyes fell upon him, and

he knew that the gasp in his throat was in her throat too. He stood

quite still. She was tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the

night; she was dressed in white, and in her black hair shone diamonds;

they stared at one another, forgetting that people surrounded them. He

went straight up to her, and she moved a little towards him. Both felt

that the formality of introduction was out of place. He spoke to her.

“I’ve been looking for you all my life,” he said.

“You’ve come at last,” she murmured.

“Will you dance with me?”

She surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced.

(Philip always pretended that he was not lame.) She danced divinely.

“I’ve never danced with anyone who danced like you,” she said.

She tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening.

“I’m so thankful that I waited for you,” he said to her. “I knew that

in the end I must meet you.”

People in the ball-room stared. They did not care. They did not wish to

hide their passion. At last they went into the garden. He flung a light

cloak over her shoulders and put her in a waiting cab. They caught the

midnight train to Paris; and they sped through the silent, star-lit

night into the unknown.

He thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible that he

should be in love with Mildred Rogers. Her name was grotesque. He did

not think her pretty; he hated the thinness of her, only that evening

he had noticed how the bones of her chest stood out in evening-dress;

he went over her features one by one; he did not like her mouth, and

the unhealthiness of her colour vaguely repelled him. She was common.

Her phrases, so bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness

of her mind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the

musical comedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully extended

when she held her glass to her mouth; her manners like her

conversation, were odiously genteel. He remembered her insolence;

sometimes he had felt inclined to box her ears; and suddenly, he knew

not why, perhaps it was the thought of hitting her or the recollection

of her tiny, beautiful ears, he was seized by an uprush of emotion. He

yearned for her. He thought of taking her in his arms, the thin,

fragile body, and kissing her pale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers

down the slightly greenish cheeks. He wanted her.

He had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all the

world seemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an ecstatic

happiness; but this was not happiness; it was a hunger of the soul, it

was a painful yearning, it was a bitter anguish, he had never known

before. He tried to think when it had first come to him. He did not

know. He only remembered that each time he had gone into the shop,

after the first two or three times, it had been with a little feeling

in the heart that was pain; and he remembered that when she spoke to

him he felt curiously breathless. When she left him it was

wretchedness, and when she came to him again it was despair.

He stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. He wondered

how he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his soul.

LVIII

Philip woke early next morning, and his first thought was of Mildred.

It struck him that he might meet her at Victoria Station and walk with

her to the shop. He shaved quickly, scrambled into his clothes, and

took a bus to the station. He was there by twenty to eight and watched

the incoming trains. Crowds poured out of them, clerks and shop-people

at that early hour, and thronged up the platform: they hurried along,

sometimes in pairs, here and there a group of girls, but more often

alone. They were white, most of them, ugly in the early morning, and

they had an abstracted look; the younger ones walked lightly, as though

the cement of the platform were pleasant to tread, but the others went

as though impelled by a machine: their faces were set in an anxious

frown.

At last Philip saw Mildred, and he went up to her eagerly.

“Good-morning,” he said. “I thought I’d come and see how you were after

last night.”

She wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. It was very clear that

she was not pleased to see him.

“Oh, I’m all right. I haven’t got much time to waste.”

“D’you mind if I walk down Victoria Street with you?”

“I’m none too early. I shall have to walk fast,” she answered, looking

down at Philip’s club-foot.

He turned scarlet.

“I beg your pardon. I won’t detain you.”

“You can please yourself.”

She went on, and he with a sinking heart made his way home to

breakfast. He hated her. He knew he was a fool to bother about her; she

was not the sort of woman who would ever care two straws for him, and

she must look upon his deformity with distaste. He made up his mind

that he would not go in to tea that afternoon, but, hating himself, he

went. She nodded to him as he came in and smiled.

“I expect I was rather short with you this morning,” she said. “You

see, I didn’t expect you, and it came like a surprise.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter at all.”

He felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him. He was

infinitely grateful for one word of kindness.

“Why don’t you sit down?” he asked. “Nobody’s wanting you just now.”

“I don’t mind if I do.”

He looked at her, but could think of nothing to say; he racked his

brains anxiously, seeking for a remark which should keep her by him; he

wanted to tell her how much she meant to him; but he did not know how

to make love now that he loved in earnest.

“Where’s your friend with the fair moustache? I haven’t seen him

lately.”

“Oh, he’s gone back to Birmingham. He’s in business there. He only

comes up to London every now and again.”

“Is he in love with you?”

“You’d better ask him,” she said, with a laugh. “I don’t know what it’s

got to do with you if he is.”

A bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was learning

self-restraint.

“I wonder why you say things like that,” was all he permitted himself

to say.

She looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers.

“It looks as if you didn’t set much store on me,” he added.

“Why should I?”

“No reason at all.”

He reached over for his paper.

“You are quick-tempered,” she said, when she saw the gesture. “You do

take offence easily.”

He smiled and looked at her appealingly.

“Will you do something for me?” he asked.

“That depends what it is.”

“Let me walk back to the station with you tonight.”

“I don’t mind.”

He went out after tea and went back to his rooms, but at eight o’clock,

when the shop closed, he was waiting outside.

“You are a caution,” she said, when she came out. “I don’t understand

you.”

“I shouldn’t have thought it was very difficult,” he answered bitterly.

“Did any of the girls see you waiting for me?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“They all laugh at you, you know. They say you’re spoony on me.”

“Much you care,” he muttered.

“Now then, quarrelsome.”

At the station he took a ticket and said he was going to accompany her

home.

“You don’t seem to have much to do with your time,” she said.

“I suppose I can waste it in my own way.”

They seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel. The fact was that

he hated himself for loving her. She seemed to be constantly

humiliating him, and for each snub that he endured he owed her a

grudge. But she was in a friendly mood that evening, and talkative: she

told him that her parents were dead; she gave him to understand that

she did not have to earn her living, but worked for amusement.

“My aunt doesn’t like my going to business. I can have the best of

everything at home. I don’t want you to think I work because I need

to.” Philip knew that she was not speaking the truth. The gentility of

her class made her use this pretence to avoid the stigma attached to

earning her living.

“My family’s very well-connected,” she said.

Philip smiled faintly, and she noticed it.

“What are you laughing at?” she said quickly. “Don’t you believe I’m

telling you the truth?”

“Of course I do,” he answered.

She looked at him suspiciously, but in a moment could not resist the

temptation to impress him with the splendour of her early days.

“My father always kept a dog-cart, and we had three servants. We had a

cook and a housemaid and an odd man. We used to grow beautiful roses.

People used to stop at the gate and ask who the house belonged to, the

roses were so beautiful. Of course it isn’t very nice for me having to

mix with them girls in the shop, it’s not the class of person I’ve been

used to, and sometimes I really think I’ll give up business on that

account. It’s not the work I mind, don’t think that; but it’s the class

of people I have to mix with.”

They were sitting opposite one another in the train, and Philip,

listening sympathetically to what she said, was quite happy. He was

amused at her naivete and slightly touched. There was a very faint

colour in her cheeks. He was thinking that it would be delightful to

kiss the tip of her chin.

“The moment you come into the shop I saw you was a gentleman in every

sense of the word. Was your father a professional man?”

“He was a doctor.”

“You can always tell a professional man. There’s something about them,

I don’t know what it is, but I know at once.”

They walked along from the station together.

“I say, I want you to come and see another play with me,” he said.

“I don’t mind,” she said.

“You might go so far as to say you’d like to.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s fix a day. Would Saturday night suit you?”

“Yes, that’ll do.”

They made further arrangements, and then found themselves at the corner

of the road in which she lived. She gave him her hand, and he held it.

“I say, I do so awfully want to call you Mildred.”

“You may if you like, I don’t care.”

“And you’ll call me Philip, won’t you?”

“I will if I can think of it. It seems more natural to call you Mr.

Carey.”

He drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned back.

“What are you doing?”

“Won’t you kiss me good-night?” he whispered.

“Impudence!” she said.

She snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house.

Philip bought tickets for Saturday night. It was not one of the days on

which she got off early and therefore she would have no time to go home

and change; but she meant to bring a frock up with her in the morning

and hurry into her clothes at the shop. If the manageress was in a good

temper she would let her go at seven. Philip had agreed to wait outside

from a quarter past seven onwards. He looked forward to the occasion

with painful eagerness, for in the cab on the way from the theatre to

the station he thought she would let him kiss her. The vehicle gave

every facility for a man to put his arm round a girl’s waist (an

advantage which the hansom had over the taxi of the present day), and

the delight of that was worth the cost of the evening’s entertainment.

But on Saturday afternoon when he went in to have tea, in order to

confirm the arrangements, he met the man with the fair moustache coming

out of the shop. He knew by now that he was called Miller. He was a

naturalized German, who had anglicised his name, and he had lived many

years in England. Philip had heard him speak, and, though his English

was fluent and natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native.

Philip knew that he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly

jealous of him; but he took comfort in the coldness of her temperament,

which otherwise distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion,

he looked upon his rival as no better off than himself. But his heart

sank now, for his first thought was that Miller’s sudden appearance

might interfere with the jaunt which he had so looked forward to. He

entered, sick with apprehension. The waitress came up to him, took his

order for tea, and presently brought it.

“I’m awfully sorry,” she said, with an expression on her face of real

distress. “I shan’t be able to come tonight after all.”

“Why?” said Philip.

“Don’t look so stern about it,” she laughed. “It’s not my fault. My

aunt was taken ill last night, and it’s the girl’s night out so I must

go and sit with her. She can’t be left alone, can she?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you home instead.”

“But you’ve got the tickets. It would be a pity to waste them.”

He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up.

“What are you doing that for?”

“You don’t suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by

myself, do you? I only took seats there for your sake.”

“You can’t see me home if that’s what you mean?”

“You’ve made other arrangements.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that. You’re just as selfish as all the

rest of them. You only think of yourself. It’s not my fault if my

aunt’s queer.”

She quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip knew very little

about women, or he would have been aware that one should accept their

most transparent lies. He made up his mind that he would watch the shop

and see for certain whether Mildred went out with the German. He had an

unhappy passion for certainty. At seven he stationed himself on the

opposite pavement. He looked about for Miller, but did not see him. In

ten minutes she came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had

worn when he took her to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that

she was not going home. She saw him before he had time to move away,

started a little, and then came straight up to him.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“Taking the air,” he answered.

“You’re spying on me, you dirty little cad. I thought you was a

gentleman.”

“Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in

you?” he murmured.

There was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse. He

wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him.

“I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I’m not obliged to come out

with you. I tell you I’m going home, and I won’t be followed or spied

upon.”

“Have you seen Miller today?”

“That’s no business of yours. In point of fact I haven’t, so you’re

wrong again.”

“I saw him this afternoon. He’d just come out of the shop when I went

in.”

“Well, what if he did? I can go out with him if I want to, can’t I? I

don’t know what you’ve got to say to it.”

“He’s keeping you waiting, isn’t he?”

“Well, I’d rather wait for him than have you wait for me. Put that in

your pipe and smoke it. And now p’raps you’ll go off home and mind your

own business in future.”

His mood changed suddenly from anger to despair, and his voice trembled

when he spoke.

“I say, don’t be beastly with me, Mildred. You know I’m awfully fond of

you. I think I love you with all my heart. Won’t you change your mind?

I was looking forward to this evening so awfully. You see, he hasn’t

come, and he can’t care twopence about you really. Won’t you dine with

me? I’ll get some more tickets, and we’ll go anywhere you like.”

“I tell you I won’t. It’s no good you talking. I’ve made up my mind,

and when I make up my mind I keep to it.”

He looked at her for a moment. His heart was torn with anguish. People

were hurrying past them on the pavement, and cabs and omnibuses rolled

by noisily. He saw that Mildred’s eyes were wandering. She was afraid

of missing Miller in the crowd.

“I can’t go on like this,” groaned Philip. “It’s too degrading. If I go

now I go for good. Unless you’ll come with me tonight you’ll never see

me again.”

“You seem to think that’ll be an awful thing for me. All I say is, good

riddance to bad rubbish.”

“Then good-bye.”

He nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with all his heart that

she would call him back. At the next lamp-post he stopped and looked

over his shoulder. He thought she might beckon to him—he was willing to

forget everything, he was ready for any humiliation—but she had turned

away, and apparently had ceased to trouble about him. He realised that

she was glad to be quit of him.

LIX

Philip passed the evening wretchedly. He had told his landlady that he

would not be in, so there was nothing for him to eat, and he had to go

to Gatti’s for dinner. Afterwards he went back to his rooms, but

Griffiths on the floor above him was having a party, and the noisy

merriment made his own misery more hard to bear. He went to a

music-hall, but it was Saturday night and there was standing-room only:

after half an hour of boredom his legs grew tired and he went home. He

tried to read, but he could not fix his attention; and yet it was

necessary that he should work hard. His examination in biology was in

little more than a fortnight, and, though it was easy, he had neglected

his lectures of late and was conscious that he knew nothing. It was

only a viva, however, and he felt sure that in a fortnight he could

find out enough about the subject to scrape through. He had confidence

in his intelligence. He threw aside his book and gave himself up to

thinking deliberately of the matter which was in his mind all the time.

He reproached himself bitterly for his behaviour that evening. Why had

he given her the alternative that she must dine with him or else never

see him again? Of course she refused. He should have allowed for her

pride. He had burnt his ships behind him. It would not be so hard to

bear if he thought that she was suffering now, but he knew her too

well: she was perfectly indifferent to him. If he hadn’t been a fool he

would have pretended to believe her story; he ought to have had the

strength to conceal his disappointment and the self-control to master

his temper. He could not tell why he loved her. He had read of the

idealisation that takes place in love, but he saw her exactly as she

was. She was not amusing or clever, her mind was common; she had a

vulgar shrewdness which revolted him, she had no gentleness nor

softness. As she would have put it herself, she was on the make. What

aroused her admiration was a clever trick played on an unsuspecting

person; to ‘do’ somebody always gave her satisfaction. Philip laughed

savagely as he thought of her gentility and the refinement with which

she ate her food; she could not bear a coarse word, so far as her

limited vocabulary reached she had a passion for euphemisms, and she

scented indecency everywhere; she never spoke of trousers but referred

to them as nether garments; she thought it slightly indelicate to blow

her nose and did it in a deprecating way. She was dreadfully anaemic

and suffered from the dyspepsia which accompanies that ailing. Philip

was repelled by her flat breast and narrow hips, and he hated the

vulgar way in which she did her hair. He loathed and despised himself

for loving her.

The fact remained that he was helpless. He felt just as he had felt

sometimes in the hands of a bigger boy at school. He had struggled

against the superior strength till his own strength was gone, and he

was rendered quite powerless—he remembered the peculiar languor he had

felt in his limbs, almost as though he were paralysed—so that he could

not help himself at all. He might have been dead. He felt just that

same weakness now. He loved the woman so that he knew he had never

loved before. He did not mind her faults of person or of character, he

thought he loved them too: at all events they meant nothing to him. It

did not seem himself that was concerned; he felt that he had been

seized by some strange force that moved him against his will, contrary

to his interests; and because he had a passion for freedom he hated the

chains which bound him. He laughed at himself when he thought how often

he had longed to experience the overwhelming passion. He cursed himself

because he had given way to it. He thought of the beginnings; nothing

of all this would have happened if he had not gone into the shop with

Dunsford. The whole thing was his own fault. Except for his ridiculous

vanity he would never have troubled himself with the ill-mannered slut.

At all events the occurrences of that evening had finished the whole

affair. Unless he was lost to all sense of shame he could not go back.

He wanted passionately to get rid of the love that obsessed him; it was

degrading and hateful. He must prevent himself from thinking of her. In

a little while the anguish he suffered must grow less. His mind went

back to the past. He wondered whether Emily Wilkinson and Fanny Price

had endured on his account anything like the torment that he suffered

now. He felt a pang of remorse.

“I didn’t know then what it was like,” he said to himself.

He slept very badly. The next day was Sunday, and he worked at his

biology. He sat with the book in front of him, forming the words with

his lips in order to fix his attention, but he could remember nothing.

He found his thoughts going back to Mildred every minute, and he

repeated to himself the exact words of the quarrel they had had. He had

to force himself back to his book. He went out for a walk. The streets

on the South side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but

there was an energy, a coming and going, which gave them a sordid

vivacity; but on Sundays, with no shops open, no carts in the roadway,

silent and depressed, they were indescribably dreary. Philip thought

that day would never end. But he was so tired that he slept heavily,

and when Monday came he entered upon life with determination. Christmas

was approaching, and a good many of the students had gone into the

country for the short holiday between the two parts of the winter

session; but Philip had refused his uncle’s invitation to go down to

Blackstable. He had given the approaching examination as his excuse,

but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave London and Mildred.

He had neglected his work so much that now he had only a fortnight to

learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to work

seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred. He

congratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he suffered

was no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be

expected to feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no

bones were broken, were bruised all over and shaken. Philip found that

he was able to observe with curiosity the condition he had been in

during the last few weeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He

was a little amused at himself. One thing that struck him was how

little under those circumstances it mattered what one thought; the

system of personal philosophy, which had given him great satisfaction

to devise, had not served him. He was puzzled by this.

But sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like

Mildred that his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he could not help

himself, he hurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find

that it was a total stranger. Men came back from the country, and he

went with Dunsford to have tea at an A. B. C. shop. The well-known

uniform made him so miserable that he could not speak. The thought came

to him that perhaps she had been transferred to another establishment

of the firm for which she worked, and he might suddenly find himself

face to face with her. The idea filled him with panic, so that he

feared Dunsford would see that something was the matter with him: he

could not think of anything to say; he pretended to listen to what

Dunsford was talking about; the conversation maddened him; and it was

all he could do to prevent himself from crying out to Dunsford for

Heaven’s sake to hold his tongue.

Then came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn arrived,

went forward to the examiner’s table with the utmost confidence. He

answered three or four questions. Then they showed him various

specimens; he had been to very few lectures and, as soon as he was

asked about things which he could not learn from books, he was floored.

He did what he could to hide his ignorance, the examiner did not

insist, and soon his ten minutes were over. He felt certain he had

passed; but next day, when he went up to the examination buildings to

see the result posted on the door, he was astounded not to find his

number among those who had satisfied the examiners. In amazement he

read the list three times. Dunsford was with him.

“I say, I’m awfully sorry you’re ploughed,” he said.

He had just inquired Philip’s number. Philip turned and saw by his

radiant face that Dunsford had passed.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter a bit,” said Philip. “I’m jolly glad you’re all

right. I shall go up again in July.”

He was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back

along The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things.

Dunsford good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of Philip’s

failure, but Philip was obstinately casual. He was horribly mortified;

and the fact that Dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but

quite stupid fellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear. He

had always been proud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself

desperately whether he was not mistaken in the opinion he held of

himself. In the three months of the winter session the students who had

joined in October had already shaken down into groups, and it was clear

which were brilliant, which were clever or industrious, and which were

‘rotters.’ Philip was conscious that his failure was a surprise to no

one but himself. It was tea-time, and he knew that a lot of men would

be having tea in the basement of the Medical School: those who had

passed the examination would be exultant, those who disliked him would

look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who had failed would

sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. His instinct was not

to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would be no more

thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he went: he

wanted to inflict suffering upon himself. He forgot for the moment his

maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for the

policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it,

there must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made

him take a grim pleasure in self-torture.

But later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced

himself, going out into the night after the noisy conversation in the

smoking-room, he was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness. He

seemed to himself absurd and futile. He had an urgent need of

consolation, and the temptation to see Mildred was irresistible. He

thought bitterly that there was small chance of consolation from her;

but he wanted to see her even if he did not speak to her; after all,

she was a waitress and would be obliged to serve him. She was the only

person in the world he cared for. There was no use in hiding that fact

from himself. Of course it would be humiliating to go back to the shop

as though nothing had happened, but he had not much self-respect left.

Though he would not confess it to himself, he had hoped each day that

she would write to him; she knew that a letter addressed to the

hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was evident that

she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. And he kept on repeating

to himself:

“I must see her. I must see her.”

The desire was so great that he could not give the time necessary to

walk, but jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to use one when it could

possibly be avoided. He stood outside the shop for a minute or two. The

thought came to him that perhaps she had left, and in terror he walked

in quickly. He saw her at once. He sat down and she came up to him.

“A cup of tea and a muffin, please,” he ordered.

He could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment that he was going to

cry.

“I almost thought you was dead,” she said.

She was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have forgotten completely that

last scene which Philip had repeated to himself a hundred times.

“I thought if you’d wanted to see me you’d write,” he answered.

“I’ve got too much to do to think about writing letters.”

It seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. Philip cursed the

fate which chained him to such a woman. She went away to fetch his tea.

“Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?” she said, when she

brought it.

“Yes.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“I’ve been in London.”

“I thought you’d gone away for the holidays. Why haven’t you been in

then?”

Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes.

“Don’t you remember that I said I’d never see you again?”

“What are you doing now then?”

She seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his humiliation; but

he knew her well enough to know that she spoke at random; she hurt him

frightfully, and never even tried to. He did not answer.

“It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that. I

always thought you was a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

“Don’t be beastly to me, Mildred. I can’t bear it.”

“You are a funny feller. I can’t make you out.”

“It’s very simple. I’m such a blasted fool as to love you with all my

heart and soul, and I know that you don’t care twopence for me.”

“If you had been a gentleman I think you’d have come next day and

begged my pardon.”

She had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought how he would like

to jab it with the knife he had for his muffin. He knew enough anatomy

to make pretty certain of getting the carotid artery. And at the same

time he wanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses.

“If I could only make you understand how frightfully I’m in love with

you.”

“You haven’t begged my pardon yet.”

He grew very white. She felt that she had done nothing wrong on that

occasion. She wanted him now to humble himself. He was very proud. For

one instant he felt inclined to tell her to go to hell, but he dared

not. His passion made him abject. He was willing to submit to anything

rather than not see her.

“I’m very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon.”

He had to force the words out. It was a horrible effort.

“Now you’ve said that I don’t mind telling you that I wish I had come

out with you that evening. I thought Miller was a gentleman, but I’ve

discovered my mistake now. I soon sent him about his business.”

Philip gave a little gasp.

“Mildred, won’t you come out with me tonight? Let’s go and dine

somewhere.”

“Oh, I can’t. My aunt’ll be expecting me home.”

“I’ll send her a wire. You can say you’ve been detained in the shop;

she won’t know any better. Oh, do come, for God’s sake. I haven’t seen

you for so long, and I want to talk to you.”

She looked down at her clothes.

“Never mind about that. We’ll go somewhere where it doesn’t matter how

you’re dressed. And we’ll go to a music-hall afterwards. Please say

yes. It would give me so much pleasure.”

She hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully appealing eyes.

“Well, I don’t mind if I do. I haven’t been out anywhere since I don’t

know how long.”

It was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself from

seizing her hand there and then to cover it with kisses.

LX

They dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy. It was not one of

the more crowded of those cheap restaurants where the respectable and

needy dine in the belief that it is bohemian and the assurance that it

is economical. It was a humble establishment, kept by a good man from

Rouen and his wife, that Philip had discovered by accident. He had been

attracted by the Gallic look of the window, in which was generally an

uncooked steak on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw

vegetables. There was one seedy French waiter, who was attempting to

learn English in a house where he never heard anything but French; and

the customers were a few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or two, who

had their own napkins reserved for them, and a few queer men who came

in for hurried, scanty meals.

Here Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to themselves. Philip

sent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from the neighbouring tavern,

and they had a potage aux herbes, a steak from the window aux pommes,

and an omelette au kirsch. There was really an air of romance in the

meal and in the place. Mildred, at first a little reserved in her

appreciation—“I never quite trust these foreign places, you never know

what there is in these messed up dishes”—was insensibly moved by it.

“I like this place, Philip,” she said. “You feel you can put your

elbows on the table, don’t you?”

A tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and a ragged thin

beard. He wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake hat. He nodded to

Philip, who had met him there before.

“He looks like an anarchist,” said Mildred.

“He is, one of the most dangerous in Europe. He’s been in every prison

on the Continent and has assassinated more persons than any gentleman

unhung. He always goes about with a bomb in his pocket, and of course

it makes conversation a little difficult because if you don’t agree

with him he lays it on the table in a marked manner.”

She looked at the man with horror and surprise, and then glanced

suspiciously at Philip. She saw that his eyes were laughing. She

frowned a little.

“You’re getting at me.”

He gave a little shout of joy. He was so happy. But Mildred didn’t like

being laughed at.

“I don’t see anything funny in telling lies.”

“Don’t be cross.”

He took her hand, which was lying on the table, and pressed it gently.

“You are lovely, and I could kiss the ground you walk on,” he said.

The greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and her thin white

lips had an extraordinary fascination. Her anaemia made her rather

short of breath, and she held her mouth slightly open. It seemed to add

somehow to the attractiveness of her face.

“You do like me a bit, don’t you?” he asked.

“Well, if I didn’t I suppose I shouldn’t be here, should I? You’re a

gentleman in every sense of the word, I will say that for you.”

They had finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. Philip,

throwing economy to the winds, smoked a three-penny cigar.

“You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to me just to sit opposite and

look at you. I’ve yearned for you. I was sick for a sight of you.”

Mildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. She was not then suffering

from the dyspepsia which generally attacked her immediately after a

meal. She felt more kindly disposed to Philip than ever before, and the

unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. He knew

instinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his

only chance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the

untamed passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take

advantage of his weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her

all the agony he had endured during the separation from her; he told

her of his struggles with himself, how he had tried to get over his

passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he found out that it was as

strong as ever. He knew that he had never really wanted to get over it.

He loved her so much that he did not mind suffering. He bared his heart

to her. He showed her proudly all his weakness.

Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby

restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted entertainment. She was

restless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere

else. He dared not bore her.

“I say, how about going to a music-hall?” he said.

He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she

preferred to stay there.

“I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going,” she

answered.

“Come on then.”

Philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had made

up his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he

passed his arm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. But he

drew it back quickly with a little cry. He had pricked himself. She

laughed.

“There, that comes of putting your arm where it’s got no business to

be,” she said. “I always know when men try and put their arm round my

waist. That pin always catches them.”

“I’ll be more careful.”

He put his arm round again. She made no objection.

“I’m so comfortable,” he sighed blissfully.

“So long as you’re happy,” she retorted.

They drove down St. James’ Street into the Park, and Philip quickly

kissed her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his

courage. She turned her lips to him without speaking. She neither

seemed to mind nor to like it.

“If you only knew how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.

He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.

“Once is enough,” she said.

On the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to Herne

Hill with her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked

her:

“Won’t you give me another kiss?”

She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see

that no one was in sight.

“I don’t mind.”

He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed

him away.

“Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy,” she said.

LXI

He saw her then every day. He began going to lunch at the shop, but

Mildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he had to

content himself with tea; but he always waited about to walk with her

to the station; and once or twice a week they dined together. He gave

her little presents, a gold bangle, gloves, handkerchiefs, and the

like. He was spending more than he could afford, but he could not help

it: it was only when he gave her anything that she showed any

affection. She knew the price of everything, and her gratitude was in

exact proportion with the value of his gift. He did not care. He was

too happy when she volunteered to kiss him to mind by what means he got

her demonstrativeness. He discovered that she found Sundays at home

tedious, so he went down to Herne Hill in the morning, met her at the

end of the road, and went to church with her.

“I always like to go to church once,” she said. “It looks well, doesn’t

it?”

Then she went back to dinner, he got a scrappy meal at a hotel, and in

the afternoon they took a walk in Brockwell Park. They had nothing much

to say to one another, and Philip, desperately afraid she was bored

(she was very easily bored), racked his brain for topics of

conversation. He realised that these walks amused neither of them, but

he could not bear to leave her, and did all he could to lengthen them

till she became tired and out of temper. He knew that she did not care

for him, and he tried to force a love which his reason told him was not

in her nature: she was cold. He had no claim on her, but he could not

help being exacting. Now that they were more intimate he found it less

easy to control his temper; he was often irritable and could not help

saying bitter things. Often they quarrelled, and she would not speak to

him for a while; but this always reduced him to subjection, and he

crawled before her. He was angry with himself for showing so little

dignity. He grew furiously jealous if he saw her speaking to any other

man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed to be beside

himself. He would deliberately insult her, leave the shop and spend

afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and

remorseful. Next day he would go to the shop and appeal for

forgiveness.

“Don’t be angry with me,” he said. “I’m so awfully fond of you that I

can’t help myself.”

“One of these days you’ll go too far,” she answered.

He was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater intimacy

should give him an advantage over the stray acquaintances she made

during her working-hours; but she would not let him.

“My aunt would think it so funny,” she said.

He suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let

him see her aunt. Mildred had represented her as the widow of a

professional man (that was her formula of distinction), and was

uneasily conscious that the good woman could hardly be called

distinguished. Philip imagined that she was in point of fact the widow

of a small tradesman. He knew that Mildred was a snob. But he found no

means by which he could indicate to her that he did not mind how common

the aunt was.

Their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him

that a man had asked her to go to a play with him. Philip turned pale,

and his face grew hard and stern.

“You’re not going?” he said.

“Why shouldn’t I? He’s a very nice gentlemanly fellow.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you like.”

“But that isn’t the same thing. I can’t always go about with you.

Besides he’s asked me to fix my own day, and I’ll just go one evening

when I’m not going out with you. It won’t make any difference to you.”

“If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you

wouldn’t dream of going.”

“I don’t know what you mean by gratitude. If you’re referring to the

things you’ve given me you can have them back. I don’t want them.”

Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got.

“It’s not very lively, always going about with you. It’s always do you

love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it.”

He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help

himself.

“Oh, I like you all right,” she would answer.

“Is that all? I love you with all my heart.”

“I’m not that sort, I’m not one to say much.”

“If you knew how happy just one word would make me!”

“Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and

if they don’t like it they can lump it.”

But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he

asked the question, answered:

“Oh, don’t go on at that again.”

Then he became sulky and silent. He hated her.

And now he said:

“Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you condescend to

come out with me at all.”

“It’s not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me

to.”

His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly.

“You think I’m just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when

there’s no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up I can go

to hell. Thank you, I’m about sick of being made a convenience.”

“I’m not going to be talked to like that by anyone. I’ll just show you

how much I want your dirty dinner.”

She got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the

restaurant. Philip sat on. He determined he would not move, but ten

minutes afterwards he jumped in a cab and followed her. He guessed that

she would take a ’bus to Victoria, so that they would arrive about the

same time. He saw her on the platform, escaped her notice, and went

down to Herne Hill in the same train. He did not want to speak to her

till she was on the way home and could not escape him.

As soon as she had turned out of the main street, brightly lit and

noisy with traffic, he caught her up.

“Mildred,” he called.

She walked on and would neither look at him nor answer. He repeated her

name. Then she stopped and faced him.

“What d’you want? I saw you hanging about Victoria. Why don’t you leave

me alone?”

“I’m awfully sorry. Won’t you make it up?”

“No, I’m sick of your temper and your jealousy. I don’t care for you, I

never have cared for you, and I never shall care for you. I don’t want

to have anything more to do with you.”

She walked on quickly, and he had to hurry to keep up with her.

“You never make allowances for me,” he said. “It’s all very well to be

jolly and amiable when you’re indifferent to anyone. It’s very hard

when you’re as much in love as I am. Have mercy on me. I don’t mind

that you don’t care for me. After all you can’t help it. I only want

you to let me love you.”

She walked on, refusing to speak, and Philip saw with agony that they

had only a few hundred yards to go before they reached her house. He

abased himself. He poured out an incoherent story of love and

penitence.

“If you’ll only forgive me this time I promise you you’ll never have to

complain of me in future. You can go out with whoever you choose. I’ll

be only too glad if you’ll come with me when you’ve got nothing better

to do.”

She stopped again, for they had reached the corner at which he always

left her.

“Now you can take yourself off. I won’t have you coming up to the

door.”

“I won’t go till you say you’ll forgive me.”

“I’m sick and tired of the whole thing.”

He hesitated a moment, for he had an instinct that he could say

something that would move her. It made him feel almost sick to utter

the words.

“It is cruel, I have so much to put up with. You don’t know what it is

to be a cripple. Of course you don’t like me. I can’t expect you to.”

“Philip, I didn’t mean that,” she answered quickly, with a sudden break

of pity in her voice. “You know it’s not true.”

He was beginning to act now, and his voice was husky and low.

“Oh, I’ve felt it,” he said.

She took his hand and looked at him, and her own eyes were filled with

tears.

“I promise you it never made any difference to me. I never thought

about it after the first day or two.”

He kept a gloomy, tragic silence. He wanted her to think he was

overcome with emotion.

“You know I like you awfully, Philip. Only you are so trying sometimes.

Let’s make it up.”

She put up her lips to his, and with a sigh of relief he kissed her.

“Now are you happy again?” she asked.

“Madly.”

She bade him good-night and hurried down the road. Next day he took her

in a little watch with a brooch to pin on her dress. She had been

hankering for it.

But three or four days later, when she brought him his tea, Mildred

said to him:

“You remember what you promised the other night? You mean to keep that,

don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He knew exactly what she meant and was prepared for her next words.

“Because I’m going out with that gentleman I told you about tonight.”

“All right. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

He had himself now under excellent control.

“I don’t like it,” he smiled, “but I’m not going to make myself more

disagreeable than I can help.”

She was excited over the outing and talked about it willingly. Philip

wondered whether she did so in order to pain him or merely because she

was callous. He was in the habit of condoning her cruelty by the

thought of her stupidity. She had not the brains to see when she was

wounding him.

“It’s not much fun to be in love with a girl who has no imagination and

no sense of humour,” he thought, as he listened.

But the want of these things excused her. He felt that if he had not

realised this he could never forgive her for the pain she caused him.

“He’s got seats for the Tivoli,” she said. “He gave me my choice and I

chose that. And we’re going to dine at the Cafe Royal. He says it’s the

most expensive place in London.”

“He’s a gentleman in every sense of the word,” thought Philip, but he

clenched his teeth to prevent himself from uttering a syllable.

Philip went to the Tivoli and saw Mildred with her companion, a

smooth-faced young man with sleek hair and the spruce look of a

commercial traveller, sitting in the second row of the stalls. Mildred

wore a black picture hat with ostrich feathers in it, which became her

well. She was listening to her host with that quiet smile which Philip

knew; she had no vivacity of expression, and it required broad farce to

excite her laughter; but Philip could see that she was interested and

amused. He thought to himself bitterly that her companion, flashy and

jovial, exactly suited her. Her sluggish temperament made her

appreciate noisy people. Philip had a passion for discussion, but no

talent for small-talk. He admired the easy drollery of which some of

his friends were masters, Lawson for instance, and his sense of

inferiority made him shy and awkward. The things which interested him

bored Mildred. She expected men to talk about football and racing, and

he knew nothing of either. He did not know the catchwords which only

need be said to excite a laugh.

Printed matter had always been a fetish to Philip, and now, in order to

make himself more interesting, he read industriously The Sporting

Times.

LXII

Philip did not surrender himself willingly to the passion that consumed

him. He knew that all things human are transitory and therefore that it

must cease one day or another. He looked forward to that day with eager

longing. Love was like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful

existence on his life’s blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely

that he could take pleasure in nothing else. He had been used to

delight in the grace of St. James’ Park, and often he sat and looked at

the branches of a tree silhouetted against the sky, it was like a

Japanese print; and he found a continual magic in the beautiful Thames

with its barges and its wharfs; the changing sky of London had filled

his soul with pleasant fancies. But now beauty meant nothing to him. He

was bored and restless when he was not with Mildred. Sometimes he

thought he would console his sorrow by looking at pictures, but he

walked through the National Gallery like a sight-seer; and no picture

called up in him a thrill of emotion. He wondered if he could ever care

again for all the things he had loved. He had been devoted to reading,

but now books were meaningless; and he spent his spare hours in the

smoking-room of the hospital club, turning over innumerable

periodicals. This love was a torment, and he resented bitterly the

subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he longed for

freedom.

Sometimes he awoke in the morning and felt nothing; his soul leaped,

for he thought he was free; he loved no longer; but in a little while,

as he grew wide awake, the pain settled in his heart, and he knew that

he was not cured yet. Though he yearned for Mildred so madly he

despised her. He thought to himself that there could be no greater

torture in the world than at the same time to love and to contemn.

Philip, burrowing as was his habit into the state of his feelings,

discussing with himself continually his condition, came to the

conclusion that he could only cure himself of his degrading passion by

making Mildred his mistress. It was sexual hunger that he suffered

from, and if he could satisfy this he might free himself from the

intolerable chains that bound him. He knew that Mildred did not care

for him at all in that way. When he kissed her passionately she

withdrew herself from him with instinctive distaste. She had no

sensuality. Sometimes he had tried to make her jealous by talking of

adventures in Paris, but they did not interest her; once or twice he

had sat at other tables in the tea-shop and affected to flirt with the

waitress who attended them, but she was entirely indifferent. He could

see that it was no pretence on her part.

“You didn’t mind my not sitting at one of your tables this afternoon?”

he asked once, when he was walking to the station with her. “Yours

seemed to be all full.”

This was not a fact, but she did not contradict him. Even if his

desertion meant nothing to her he would have been grateful if she had

pretended it did. A reproach would have been balm to his soul.

“I think it’s silly of you to sit at the same table every day. You

ought to give the other girls a turn now and again.”

But the more he thought of it the more he was convinced that complete

surrender on her part was his only way to freedom. He was like a knight

of old, metamorphosed by magic spells, who sought the potions which

should restore him to his fair and proper form. Philip had only one

hope. Mildred greatly desired to go to Paris. To her, as to most

English people, it was the centre of gaiety and fashion: she had heard

of the Magasin du Louvre, where you could get the very latest thing for

about half the price you had to pay in London; a friend of hers had

passed her honeymoon in Paris and had spent all day at the Louvre; and

she and her husband, my dear, they never went to bed till six in the

morning all the time they were there; the Moulin Rouge and I don’t know

what all. Philip did not care that if she yielded to his desires it

would only be the unwilling price she paid for the gratification of her

wish. He did not care upon what terms he satisfied his passion. He had

even had a mad, melodramatic idea to drug her. He had plied her with

liquor in the hope of exciting her, but she had no taste for wine; and

though she liked him to order champagne because it looked well, she

never drank more than half a glass. She liked to leave untouched a

large glass filled to the brim.

“It shows the waiters who you are,” she said.

Philip chose an opportunity when she seemed more than usually friendly.

He had an examination in anatomy at the end of March. Easter, which

came a week later, would give Mildred three whole days holiday.

“I say, why don’t you come over to Paris then?” he suggested. “We’d

have such a ripping time.”

“How could you? It would cost no end of money.”

Philip had thought of that. It would cost at least five-and-twenty

pounds. It was a large sum to him. He was willing to spend his last

penny on her.

“What does that matter? Say you’ll come, darling.”

“What next, I should like to know. I can’t see myself going away with a

man that I wasn’t married to. You oughtn’t to suggest such a thing.”

“What does it matter?”

He enlarged on the glories of the Rue de la Paix and the garish

splendour of the Folies Bergeres. He described the Louvre and the Bon

Marche. He told her about the Cabaret du Neant, the Abbaye, and the

various haunts to which foreigners go. He painted in glowing colours

the side of Paris which he despised. He pressed her to come with him.

“You know, you say you love me, but if you really loved me you’d want

to marry me. You’ve never asked me to marry you.”

“You know I can’t afford it. After all, I’m in my first year, I shan’t

earn a penny for six years.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you. I wouldn’t marry you if you went down on your

bended knees to me.”

He had thought of marriage more than once, but it was a step from which

he shrank. In Paris he had come by the opinion that marriage was a

ridiculous institution of the philistines. He knew also that a

permanent tie would ruin him. He had middle-class instincts, and it

seemed a dreadful thing to him to marry a waitress. A common wife would

prevent him from getting a decent practice. Besides, he had only just

enough money to last him till he was qualified; he could not keep a

wife even if they arranged not to have children. He thought of Cronshaw

bound to a vulgar slattern, and he shuddered with dismay. He foresaw

what Mildred, with her genteel ideas and her mean mind, would become:

it was impossible for him to marry her. But he decided only with his

reason; he felt that he must have her whatever happened; and if he

could not get her without marrying her he would do that; the future

could look after itself. It might end in disaster; he did not care.

When he got hold of an idea it obsessed him, he could think of nothing

else, and he had a more than common power to persuade himself of the

reasonableness of what he wished to do. He found himself overthrowing

all the sensible arguments which had occurred to him against marriage.

Each day he found that he was more passionately devoted to her; and his

unsatisfied love became angry and resentful.

“By George, if I marry her I’ll make her pay for all the suffering I’ve

endured,” he said to himself.

At last he could bear the agony no longer. After dinner one evening in

the little restaurant in Soho, to which now they often went, he spoke

to her.

“I say, did you mean it the other day that you wouldn’t marry me if I

asked you?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Because I can’t live without you. I want you with me always. I’ve

tried to get over it and I can’t. I never shall now. I want you to

marry me.”

She had read too many novelettes not to know how to take such an offer.

“I’m sure I’m very grateful to you, Philip. I’m very much flattered at

your proposal.”

“Oh, don’t talk rot. You will marry me, won’t you?”

“D’you think we should be happy?”

“No. But what does that matter?”

The words were wrung out of him almost against his will. They surprised

her.

“Well, you are a funny chap. Why d’you want to marry me then? The other

day you said you couldn’t afford it.”

“I think I’ve got about fourteen hundred pounds left. Two can live just

as cheaply as one. That’ll keep us till I’m qualified and have got

through with my hospital appointments, and then I can get an

assistantship.”

“It means you wouldn’t be able to earn anything for six years. We

should have about four pounds a week to live on till then, shouldn’t

we?”

“Not much more than three. There are all my fees to pay.”

“And what would you get as an assistant?”

“Three pounds a week.”

“D’you mean to say you have to work all that time and spend a small

fortune just to earn three pounds a week at the end of it? I don’t see

that I should be any better off than I am now.”

He was silent for a moment.

“D’you mean to say you won’t marry me?” he asked hoarsely. “Does my

great love mean nothing to you at all?”

“One has to think of oneself in those things, don’t one? I shouldn’t

mind marrying, but I don’t want to marry if I’m going to be no better

off than what I am now. I don’t see the use of it.”

“If you cared for me you wouldn’t think of all that.”

“P’raps not.”

He was silent. He drank a glass of wine in order to get rid of the

choking in his throat.

“Look at that girl who’s just going out,” said Mildred. “She got them

furs at the Bon Marche at Brixton. I saw them in the window last time I

went down there.”

Philip smiled grimly.

“What are you laughing at?” she asked. “It’s true. And I said to my

aunt at the time, I wouldn’t buy anything that had been in the window

like that, for everyone to know how much you paid for it.”

“I can’t understand you. You make me frightfully unhappy, and in the

next breath you talk rot that has nothing to do with what we’re

speaking about.”

“You are nasty to me,” she answered, aggrieved. “I can’t help noticing

those furs, because I said to my aunt…”

“I don’t care a damn what you said to your aunt,” he interrupted

impatiently.

“I wish you wouldn’t use bad language when you speak to me Philip. You

know I don’t like it.”

Philip smiled a little, but his eyes were wild. He was silent for a

while. He looked at her sullenly. He hated, despised, and loved her.

“If I had an ounce of sense I’d never see you again,” he said at last.

“If you only knew how heartily I despise myself for loving you!”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to me,” she replied sulkily.

“It isn’t,” he laughed. “Let’s go to the Pavilion.”

“That’s what’s so funny in you, you start laughing just when one

doesn’t expect you to. And if I make you that unhappy why d’you want to

take me to the Pavilion? I’m quite ready to go home.”

“Merely because I’m less unhappy with you than away from you.”

“I should like to know what you really think of me.”

He laughed outright.

“My dear, if you did you’d never speak to me again.”

LXIII

Philip did not pass the examination in anatomy at the end of March. He

and Dunsford had worked at the subject together on Philip’s skeleton,

asking each other questions till both knew by heart every attachment

and the meaning of every nodule and groove on the human bones; but in

the examination room Philip was seized with panic, and failed to give

right answers to questions from a sudden fear that they might be wrong.

He knew he was ploughed and did not even trouble to go up to the

building next day to see whether his number was up. The second failure

put him definitely among the incompetent and idle men of his year.

He did not care much. He had other things to think of. He told himself

that Mildred must have senses like anybody else, it was only a question

of awakening them; he had theories about woman, the rip at heart, and

thought that there must come a time with everyone when she would yield

to persistence. It was a question of watching for the opportunity,

keeping his temper, wearing her down with small attentions, taking

advantage of the physical exhaustion which opened the heart to

tenderness, making himself a refuge from the petty vexations of her

work. He talked to her of the relations between his friends in Paris

and the fair ladies they admired. The life he described had a charm, an

easy gaiety, in which was no grossness. Weaving into his own

recollections the adventures of Mimi and Rodolphe, of Musette and the

rest of them, he poured into Mildred’s ears a story of poverty made

picturesque by song and laughter, of lawless love made romantic by

beauty and youth. He never attacked her prejudices directly, but sought

to combat them by the suggestion that they were suburban. He never let

himself be disturbed by her inattention, nor irritated by her

indifference. He thought he had bored her. By an effort he made himself

affable and entertaining; he never let himself be angry, he never asked

for anything, he never complained, he never scolded. When she made

engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling face;

when she excused herself, he said it did not matter. He never let her

see that she pained him. He understood that his passionate grief had

wearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in

the least degree troublesome. He was heroic.

Though she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any

conscious notice of it, it affected her nevertheless: she became more

confidential with him; she took her little grievances to him, and she

always had some grievance against the manageress of the shop, one of

her fellow waitresses, or her aunt; she was talkative enough now, and

though she never said anything that was not trivial Philip was never

tired of listening to her.

“I like you when you don’t want to make love to me,” she told him once.

“That’s flattering for me,” he laughed.

She did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what an

effort it needed for him to answer so lightly.

“Oh, I don’t mind your kissing me now and then. It doesn’t hurt me and

it gives you pleasure.”

Occasionally she went so far as to ask him to take her out to dinner,

and the offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture.

“I wouldn’t do it to anyone else,” she said, by way of apology. “But I

know I can with you.”

“You couldn’t give me greater pleasure,” he smiled.

She asked him to give her something to eat one evening towards the end

of April.

“All right,” he said. “Where would you like to go afterwards?”

“Oh, don’t let’s go anywhere. Let’s just sit and talk. You don’t mind,

do you?”

“Rather not.”

He thought she must be beginning to care for him. Three months before

the thought of an evening spent in conversation would have bored her to

death. It was a fine day, and the spring added to Philip’s high

spirits. He was content with very little now.

“I say, won’t it be ripping when the summer comes along,” he said, as

they drove along on the top of a ’bus to Soho—she had herself suggested

that they should not be so extravagant as to go by cab. “We shall be

able to spend every Sunday on the river. We’ll take our luncheon in a

basket.”

She smiled slightly, and he was encouraged to take her hand. She did

not withdraw it.

“I really think you’re beginning to like me a bit,” he smiled.

“You ARE silly, you know I like you, or else I shouldn’t be here,

should I?”

They were old customers at the little restaurant in Soho by now, and

the patronne gave them a smile as they came in. The waiter was

obsequious.

“Let me order the dinner tonight,” said Mildred.

Philip, thinking her more enchanting than ever, gave her the menu, and

she chose her favourite dishes. The range was small, and they had eaten

many times all that the restaurant could provide. Philip was gay. He

looked into her eyes, and he dwelt on every perfection of her pale

cheek. When they had finished Mildred by way of exception took a

cigarette. She smoked very seldom.

“I don’t like to see a lady smoking,” she said.

She hesitated a moment and then spoke.

“Were you surprised, my asking you to take me out and give me a bit of

dinner tonight?”

“I was delighted.”

“I’ve got something to say to you, Philip.”

He looked at her quickly, his heart sank, but he had trained himself

well.

“Well, fire away,” he said, smiling.

“You’re not going to be silly about it, are you? The fact is I’m going

to get married.”

“Are you?” said Philip.

He could think of nothing else to say. He had considered the

possibility often and had imagined to himself what he would do and say.

He had suffered agonies when he thought of the despair he would suffer,

he had thought of suicide, of the mad passion of anger that would seize

him; but perhaps he had too completely anticipated the emotion he would

experience, so that now he felt merely exhausted. He felt as one does

in a serious illness when the vitality is so low that one is

indifferent to the issue and wants only to be left alone.

“You see, I’m getting on,” she said. “I’m twenty-four and it’s time I

settled down.”

He was silent. He looked at the patronne sitting behind the counter,

and his eye dwelt on a red feather one of the diners wore in her hat.

Mildred was nettled.

“You might congratulate me,” she said.

“I might, mightn’t I? I can hardly believe it’s true. I’ve dreamt it so

often. It rather tickles me that I should have been so jolly glad that

you asked me to take you out to dinner. Whom are you going to marry?”

“Miller,” she answered, with a slight blush.

“Miller?” cried Philip, astounded. “But you’ve not seen him for

months.”

“He came in to lunch one day last week and asked me then. He’s earning

very good money. He makes seven pounds a week now and he’s got

prospects.”

Philip was silent again. He remembered that she had always liked

Miller; he amused her; there was in his foreign birth an exotic charm

which she felt unconsciously.

“I suppose it was inevitable,” he said at last. “You were bound to

accept the highest bidder. When are you going to marry?”

“On Saturday next. I have given notice.”

Philip felt a sudden pang.

“As soon as that?”

“We’re going to be married at a registry office. Emil prefers it.”

Philip felt dreadfully tired. He wanted to get away from her. He

thought he would go straight to bed. He called for the bill.

“I’ll put you in a cab and send you down to Victoria. I daresay you

won’t have to wait long for a train.”

“Won’t you come with me?”

“I think I’d rather not if you don’t mind.”

“It’s just as you please,” she answered haughtily. “I suppose I shall

see you at tea-time tomorrow?”

“No, I think we’d better make a full stop now. I don’t see why I should

go on making myself unhappy. I’ve paid the cab.”

He nodded to her and forced a smile on his lips, then jumped on a ’bus

and made his way home. He smoked a pipe before he went to bed, but he

could hardly keep his eyes open. He suffered no pain. He fell into a

heavy sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

LXIV

But about three in the morning Philip awoke and could not sleep again.

He began to think of Mildred. He tried not to, but could not help

himself. He repeated to himself the same thing time after time till his

brain reeled. It was inevitable that she should marry: life was hard

for a girl who had to earn her own living; and if she found someone who

could give her a comfortable home she should not be blamed if she

accepted. Philip acknowledged that from her point of view it would have

been madness to marry him: only love could have made such poverty

bearable, and she did not love him. It was no fault of hers; it was a

fact that must be accepted like any other. Philip tried to reason with

himself. He told himself that deep down in his heart was mortified

pride; his passion had begun in wounded vanity, and it was this at

bottom which caused now a great part of his wretchedness. He despised

himself as much as he despised her. Then he made plans for the future,

the same plans over and over again, interrupted by recollections of

kisses on her soft pale cheek and by the sound of her voice with its

trailing accent; he had a great deal of work to do, since in the summer

he was taking chemistry as well as the two examinations he had failed

in. He had separated himself from his friends at the hospital, but now

he wanted companionship. There was one happy occurrence: Hayward a

fortnight before had written to say that he was passing through London

and had asked him to dinner; but Philip, unwilling to be bothered, had

refused. He was coming back for the season, and Philip made up his mind

to write to him.

He was thankful when eight o’clock struck and he could get up. He was

pale and weary. But when he had bathed, dressed, and had breakfast, he

felt himself joined up again with the world at large; and his pain was

a little easier to bear. He did not feel like going to lectures that

morning, but went instead to the Army and Navy Stores to buy Mildred a

wedding-present. After much wavering he settled on a dressing-bag. It

cost twenty pounds, which was much more than he could afford, but it

was showy and vulgar: he knew she would be aware exactly how much it

cost; he got a melancholy satisfaction in choosing a gift which would

give her pleasure and at the same time indicate for himself the

contempt he had for her.

Philip had looked forward with apprehension to the day on which Mildred

was to be married; he was expecting an intolerable anguish; and it was

with relief that he got a letter from Hayward on Saturday morning to

say that he was coming up early on that very day and would fetch Philip

to help him to find rooms. Philip, anxious to be distracted, looked up

a time-table and discovered the only train Hayward was likely to come

by; he went to meet him, and the reunion of the friends was

enthusiastic. They left the luggage at the station, and set off gaily.

Hayward characteristically proposed that first of all they should go

for an hour to the National Gallery; he had not seen pictures for some

time, and he stated that it needed a glimpse to set him in tune with

life. Philip for months had had no one with whom he could talk of art

and books. Since the Paris days Hayward had immersed himself in the

modern French versifiers, and, such a plethora of poets is there in

France, he had several new geniuses to tell Philip about. They walked

through the gallery pointing out to one another their favourite

pictures; one subject led to another; they talked excitedly. The sun

was shining and the air was warm.

“Let’s go and sit in the Park,” said Hayward. “We’ll look for rooms

after luncheon.”

The spring was pleasant there. It was a day upon which one felt it good

merely to live. The young green of the trees was exquisite against the

sky; and the sky, pale and blue, was dappled with little white clouds.

At the end of the ornamental water was the gray mass of the Horse

Guards. The ordered elegance of the scene had the charm of an

eighteenth-century picture. It reminded you not of Watteau, whose

landscapes are so idyllic that they recall only the woodland glens seen

in dreams, but of the more prosaic Jean-Baptiste Pater. Philip’s heart

was filled with lightness. He realised, what he had only read before,

that art (for there was art in the manner in which he looked upon

nature) might liberate the soul from pain.

They went to an Italian restaurant for luncheon and ordered themselves

a fiaschetto of Chianti. Lingering over the meal they talked on. They

reminded one another of the people they had known at Heidelberg, they

spoke of Philip’s friends in Paris, they talked of books, pictures,

morals, life; and suddenly Philip heard a clock strike three. He

remembered that by this time Mildred was married. He felt a sort of

stitch in his heart, and for a minute or two he could not hear what

Hayward was saying. But he filled his glass with Chianti. He was

unaccustomed to alcohol and it had gone to his head. For the time at

all events he was free from care. His quick brain had lain idle for so

many months that he was intoxicated now with conversation. He was

thankful to have someone to talk to who would interest himself in the

things that interested him.

“I say don’t let’s waste this beautiful day in looking for rooms. I’ll

put you up tonight. You can look for rooms tomorrow or Monday.”

“All right. What shall we do?” answered Hayward.

“Let’s get on a penny steamboat and go down to Greenwich.”

The idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a cab which took

them to Westminster Bridge. They got on the steamboat just as she was

starting. Presently Philip, a smile on his lips, spoke.

“I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think it was, gave a

long discourse on the subject that beauty is put into things by

painters and poets. They create beauty. In themselves there is nothing

to choose between the Campanile of Giotto and a factory chimney. And

then beautiful things grow rich with the emotion that they have aroused

in succeeding generations. That is why old things are more beautiful

than modern. The Ode on a Grecian Urn is more lovely now than when it

was written, because for a hundred years lovers have read it and the

sick at heart taken comfort in its lines.”

Philip left Hayward to infer what in the passing scene had suggested

these words to him, and it was a delight to know that he could safely

leave the inference. It was in sudden reaction from the life he had

been leading for so long that he was now deeply affected. The delicate

iridescence of the London air gave the softness of a pastel to the gray

stone of the buildings; and in the wharfs and storehouses there was the

severity of grace of a Japanese print. They went further down; and the

splendid channel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was

crowded with traffic; Philip thought of the painters and the poets who

had made all these things so beautiful, and his heart was filled with

gratitude. They came to the Pool of London, and who can describe its

majesty? The imagination thrills, and Heaven knows what figures people

still its broad stream, Doctor Johnson with Boswell by his side, an old

Pepys going on board a man-o’-war: the pageant of English history, and

romance, and high adventure. Philip turned to Hayward with shining

eyes.

“Dear Charles Dickens,” he murmured, smiling a little at his own

emotion.

“Aren’t you rather sorry you chucked painting?” asked Hayward.

“No.”

“I suppose you like doctoring?”

“No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudgery of the

first two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven’t got the

scientific temperament.”

“Well, you can’t go on changing professions.”

“Oh, no. I’m going to stick to this. I think I shall like it better

when I get into the wards. I have an idea that I’m more interested in

people than in anything else in the world. And as far as I can see,

it’s the only profession in which you have your freedom. You carry your

knowledge in your head; with a box of instruments and a few drugs you

can make your living anywhere.”

“Aren’t you going to take a practice then?”

“Not for a good long time at any rate,” Philip answered. “As soon as

I’ve got through my hospital appointments I shall get a ship; I want to

go to the East—the Malay Archipelago, Siam, China, and all that sort of

thing—and then I shall take odd jobs. Something always comes along,

cholera duty in India and things like that. I want to go from place to

place. I want to see the world. The only way a poor man can do that is

by going in for the medical.”

They came to Greenwich then. The noble building of Inigo Jones faced

the river grandly.

“I say, look, that must be the place where Poor Jack dived into the mud

for pennies,” said Philip.

They wandered in the park. Ragged children were playing in it, and it

was noisy with their cries: here and there old seamen were basking in

the sun. There was an air of a hundred years ago.

“It seems a pity you wasted two years in Paris,” said Hayward.

“Waste? Look at the movement of that child, look at the pattern which

the sun makes on the ground, shining through the trees, look at that

sky—why, I should never have seen that sky if I hadn’t been to Paris.”

Hayward thought that Philip choked a sob, and he looked at him with

astonishment.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry to be so damned emotional, but for six months I’ve

been starved for beauty.”

“You used to be so matter of fact. It’s very interesting to hear you

say that.”

“Damn it all, I don’t want to be interesting,” laughed Philip. “Let’s

go and have a stodgy tea.”

LXV

Hayward’s visit did Philip a great deal of good. Each day his thoughts

dwelt less on Mildred. He looked back upon the past with disgust. He

could not understand how he had submitted to the dishonour of such a

love; and when he thought of Mildred it was with angry hatred, because

she had submitted him to so much humiliation. His imagination presented

her to him now with her defects of person and manner exaggerated, so

that he shuddered at the thought of having been connected with her.

“It just shows how damned weak I am,” he said to himself. The adventure

was like a blunder that one had committed at a party so horrible that

one felt nothing could be done to excuse it: the only remedy was to

forget. His horror at the degradation he had suffered helped him. He

was like a snake casting its skin and he looked upon the old covering

with nausea. He exulted in the possession of himself once more; he

realised how much of the delight of the world he had lost when he was

absorbed in that madness which they called love; he had had enough of

it; he did not want to be in love any more if love was that. Philip

told Hayward something of what he had gone through.

“Wasn’t it Sophocles,” he asked, “who prayed for the time when he would

be delivered from the wild beast of passion that devoured his

heart-strings?”

Philip seemed really to be born again. He breathed the circumambient

air as though he had never breathed it before, and he took a child’s

pleasure in all the facts of the world. He called his period of

insanity six months’ hard labour.

Hayward had only been settled in London a few days when Philip received

from Blackstable, where it had been sent, a card for a private view at

some picture gallery. He took Hayward, and, on looking at the

catalogue, saw that Lawson had a picture in it.

“I suppose he sent the card,” said Philip. “Let’s go and find him, he’s

sure to be in front of his picture.”

This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and

Lawson was not far from it. He looked a little lost, in his large soft

hat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had

gathered for the private view. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and

with his usual volubility told him that he had come to live in London,

Ruth Chalice was a hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played out,

he had a commission for a portrait, and they’d better dine together and

have a good old talk. Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with

Hayward, and was entertained to see that Lawson was slightly awed by

Hayward’s elegant clothes and grand manner. They sat upon him better

than they had done in the shabby little studio which Lawson and Philip

had shared.

At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back to

America. Clutton had disappeared. He had come to the conclusion that a

man had no chance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with

art and artists: the only thing was to get right away. To make the step

easier he had quarrelled with all his friends in Paris. He developed a

talent for telling them home truths, which made them bear with

fortitude his declaration that he had done with that city and was

settling in Gerona, a little town in the north of Spain which had

attracted him when he saw it from the train on his way to Barcelona. He

was living there now alone.

“I wonder if he’ll ever do any good,” said Philip.

He was interested in the human side of that struggle to express

something which was so obscure in the man’s mind that he was become

morbid and querulous. Philip felt vaguely that he was himself in the

same case, but with him it was the conduct of his life as a whole that

perplexed him. That was his means of self-expression, and what he must

do with it was not clear. But he had no time to continue with this

train of thought, for Lawson poured out a frank recital of his affair

with Ruth Chalice. She had left him for a young student who had just

come from England, and was behaving in a scandalous fashion. Lawson

really thought someone ought to step in and save the young man. She

would ruin him. Philip gathered that Lawson’s chief grievance was that

the rupture had come in the middle of a portrait he was painting.

“Women have no real feeling for art,” he said. “They only pretend they

have.” But he finished philosophically enough: “However, I got four

portraits out of her, and I’m not sure if the last I was working on

would ever have been a success.”

Philip envied the easy way in which the painter managed his love

affairs. He had passed eighteen months pleasantly enough, had got an

excellent model for nothing, and had parted from her at the end with no

great pang.

“And what about Cronshaw?” asked Philip.

“Oh, he’s done for,” answered Lawson, with the cheerful callousness of

his youth. “He’ll be dead in six months. He got pneumonia last winter.

He was in the English hospital for seven weeks, and when he came out

they told him his only chance was to give up liquor.”

“Poor devil,” smiled the abstemious Philip.

“He kept off for a bit. He used to go to the Lilas all the same, he

couldn’t keep away from that, but he used to drink hot milk, avec de la

fleur d’oranger, and he was damned dull.”

“I take it you did not conceal the fact from him.”

“Oh, he knew it himself. A little while ago he started on whiskey

again. He said he was too old to turn over any new leaves. He would

rather be happy for six months and die at the end of it than linger on

for five years. And then I think he’s been awfully hard up lately. You

see, he didn’t earn anything while he was ill, and the slut he lives

with has been giving him a rotten time.”

“I remember, the first time I saw him I admired him awfully,” said

Philip. “I thought he was wonderful. It is sickening that vulgar,

middle-class virtue should pay.”

“Of course he was a rotter. He was bound to end in the gutter sooner or

later,” said Lawson.

Philip was hurt because Lawson would not see the pity of it. Of course

it was cause and effect, but in the necessity with which one follows

the other lay all tragedy of life.

“Oh, I’d forgotten,” said Lawson. “Just after you left he sent round a

present for you. I thought you’d be coming back and I didn’t bother

about it, and then I didn’t think it worth sending on; but it’ll come

over to London with the rest of my things, and you can come to my

studio one day and fetch it away if you want it.”

“You haven’t told me what it is yet.”

“Oh, it’s only a ragged little bit of carpet. I shouldn’t think it’s

worth anything. I asked him one day what the devil he’d sent the filthy

thing for. He told me he’d seen it in a shop in the Rue de Rennes and

bought it for fifteen francs. It appears to be a Persian rug. He said

you’d asked him the meaning of life and that was the answer. But he was

very drunk.”

Philip laughed.

“Oh yes, I know. I’ll take it. It was a favourite wheeze of his. He

said I must find out for myself, or else the answer meant nothing.”

LXVI

Philip worked well and easily; he had a good deal to do, since he was

taking in July the three parts of the First Conjoint examination, two

of which he had failed in before; but he found life pleasant. He made a

new friend. Lawson, on the lookout for models, had discovered a girl

who was understudying at one of the theatres, and in order to induce

her to sit to him arranged a little luncheon-party one Sunday. She

brought a chaperon with her; and to her Philip, asked to make a fourth,

was instructed to confine his attentions. He found this easy, since she

turned out to be an agreeable chatterbox with an amusing tongue. She

asked Philip to go and see her; she had rooms in Vincent Square, and

was always in to tea at five o’clock; he went, was delighted with his

welcome, and went again. Mrs. Nesbit was not more than twenty-five,

very small, with a pleasant, ugly face; she had very bright eyes, high

cheekbones, and a large mouth: the excessive contrasts of her colouring

reminded one of a portrait by one of the modern French painters; her

skin was very white, her cheeks were very red, her thick eyebrows, her

hair, were very black. The effect was odd, a little unnatural, but far

from unpleasing. She was separated from her husband and earned her

living and her child’s by writing penny novelettes. There were one or

two publishers who made a specialty of that sort of thing, and she had

as much work as she could do. It was ill-paid, she received fifteen

pounds for a story of thirty thousand words; but she was satisfied.

“After all, it only costs the reader twopence,” she said, “and they

like the same thing over and over again. I just change the names and

that’s all. When I’m bored I think of the washing and the rent and

clothes for baby, and I go on again.”

Besides, she walked on at various theatres where they wanted supers and

earned by this when in work from sixteen shillings to a guinea a week.

At the end of her day she was so tired that she slept like a top. She

made the best of her difficult lot. Her keen sense of humour enabled

her to get amusement out of every vexatious circumstance. Sometimes

things went wrong, and she found herself with no money at all; then her

trifling possessions found their way to a pawnshop in the Vauxhall

Bridge Road, and she ate bread and butter till things grew brighter.

She never lost her cheerfulness.

Philip was interested in her shiftless life, and she made him laugh

with the fantastic narration of her struggles. He asked her why she did

not try her hand at literary work of a better sort, but she knew that

she had no talent, and the abominable stuff she turned out by the

thousand words was not only tolerably paid, but was the best she could

do. She had nothing to look forward to but a continuation of the life

she led. She seemed to have no relations, and her friends were as poor

as herself.

“I don’t think of the future,” she said. “As long as I have enough

money for three weeks’ rent and a pound or two over for food I never

bother. Life wouldn’t be worth living if I worried over the future as

well as the present. When things are at their worst I find something

always happens.”

Soon Philip grew in the habit of going in to tea with her every day,

and so that his visits might not embarrass her he took in a cake or a

pound of butter or some tea. They started to call one another by their

Christian names. Feminine sympathy was new to him, and he delighted in

someone who gave a willing ear to all his troubles. The hours went

quickly. He did not hide his admiration for her. She was a delightful

companion. He could not help comparing her with Mildred; and he

contrasted with the one’s obstinate stupidity, which refused interest

to everything she did not know, the other’s quick appreciation and

ready intelligence. His heart sank when he thought that he might have

been tied for life to such a woman as Mildred. One evening he told

Norah the whole story of his love. It was not one to give him much

reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant to receive such

charming sympathy.

“I think you’re well out of it,” she said, when he had finished.

She had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side like an

Aberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright chair, sewing, for she

had no time to do nothing, and Philip had made himself comfortable at

her feet.

“I can’t tell you how heartily thankful I am it’s all over,” he sighed.

“Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time,” she murmured, and by way

of showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder.

He took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, with a blush.

“Have you any objection?”

She looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she smiled.

“No,” she said.

He got up on his knees and faced her. She looked into his eyes

steadily, and her large mouth trembled with a smile.

“Well?” she said.

“You know, you are a ripper. I’m so grateful to you for being nice to

me. I like you so much.”

“Don’t be idiotic,” she said.

Philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. She made no

resistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her red lips.

“Why did you do that?” she asked again.

“Because it’s comfortable.”

She did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and she

passed her hand softly over his hair.

“You know, it’s awfully silly of you to behave like this. We were such

good friends. It would be so jolly to leave it at that.”

“If you really want to appeal to my better nature,” replied Philip,

“you’ll do well not to stroke my cheek while you’re doing it.”

She gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop.

“It’s very wrong of me, isn’t it?” she said.

Philip, surprised and a little amused, looked into her eyes, and as he

looked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and there was an expression

in them that enchanted him. His heart was suddenly stirred, and tears

came to his eyes.

“Norah, you’re not fond of me, are you?” he asked, incredulously.

“You clever boy, you ask such stupid questions.”

“Oh, my dear, it never struck me that you could be.”

He flung his arms round her and kissed her, while she, laughing,

blushing, and crying, surrendered herself willingly to his embrace.

Presently he released her and sitting back on his heels looked at her

curiously.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m so surprised.”

“And pleased?”

“Delighted,” he cried with all his heart, “and so proud and so happy

and so grateful.”

He took her hands and covered them with kisses. This was the beginning

for Philip of a happiness which seemed both solid and durable. They

became lovers but remained friends. There was in Norah a maternal

instinct which received satisfaction in her love for Philip; she wanted

someone to pet, and scold, and make a fuss of; she had a domestic

temperament and found pleasure in looking after his health and his

linen. She pitied his deformity, over which he was so sensitive, and

her pity expressed itself instinctively in tenderness. She was young,

strong, and healthy, and it seemed quite natural to her to give her

love. She had high spirits and a merry soul. She liked Philip because

he laughed with her at all the amusing things in life that caught her

fancy, and above all she liked him because he was he.

When she told him this he answered gaily:

“Nonsense. You like me because I’m a silent person and never want to

get a word in.”

Philip did not love her at all. He was extremely fond of her, glad to

be with her, amused and interested by her conversation. She restored

his belief in himself and put healing ointments, as it were, on all the

bruises of his soul. He was immensely flattered that she cared for him.

He admired her courage, her optimism, her impudent defiance of fate;

she had a little philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical.

“You know, I don’t believe in churches and parsons and all that,” she

said, “but I believe in God, and I don’t believe He minds much about

what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a

stile when you can. And I think people on the whole are very nice, and

I’m sorry for those who aren’t.”

“And what about afterwards?” asked Philip.

“Oh, well, I don’t know for certain, you know,” she smiled, “but I hope

for the best. And anyhow there’ll be no rent to pay and no novelettes

to write.”

She had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. She thought that Philip

did a brave thing when he left Paris because he was conscious he could

not be a great artist; and he was enchanted when she expressed

enthusiastic admiration for him. He had never been quite certain

whether this action indicated courage or infirmity of purpose. It was

delightful to realise that she considered it heroic. She ventured to

tackle him on a subject which his friends instinctively avoided.

“It’s very silly of you to be so sensitive about your club-foot,” she

said. She saw him blush darkly, but went on. “You know, people don’t

think about it nearly as much as you do. They notice it the first time

they see you, and then they forget about it.”

He would not answer.

“You’re not angry with me, are you?”

“No.”

She put her arm round his neck.

“You know, I only speak about it because I love you. I don’t want it to

make you unhappy.”

“I think you can say anything you choose to me,” he answered, smiling.

“I wish I could do something to show you how grateful I am to you.”

She took him in hand in other ways. She would not let him be bearish

and laughed at him when he was out of temper. She made him more urbane.

“You can make me do anything you like,” he said to her once.

“D’you mind?”

“No, I want to do what you like.”

He had the sense to realise his happiness. It seemed to him that she

gave him all that a wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was

the most charming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had

never found in a man. The sexual relationship was no more than the

strongest link in their friendship. It completed it, but was not

essential. And because Philip’s appetites were satisfied, he became

more equable and easier to live with. He felt in complete possession of

himself. He thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been

obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing for

Mildred and with horror of himself.

His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested in them

as he. He was flattered and touched by her eagerness. She made him

promise to come at once and tell her the results. He passed the three

parts this time without mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst

into tears.

“Oh, I’m so glad, I was so anxious.”

“You silly little thing,” he laughed, but he was choking.

No one could help being pleased with the way she took it.

“And what are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I have no work to do

till the winter session begins in October.”

“I suppose you’ll go down to your uncle’s at Blackstable?”

“You suppose quite wrong. I’m going to stay in London and play with

you.”

“I’d rather you went away.”

“Why? Are you tired of me?”

She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Because you’ve been working hard, and you look utterly washed out. You

want some fresh air and a rest. Please go.”

He did not answer for a moment. He looked at her with loving eyes.

“You know, I’d never believe it of anyone but you. You’re only thinking

of my good. I wonder what you see in me.”

“Will you give me a good character with my month’s notice?” she laughed

gaily.

“I’ll say that you’re thoughtful and kind, and you’re not exacting; you

never worry, you’re not troublesome, and you’re easy to please.”

“All that’s nonsense,” she said, “but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m one

of the few persons I ever met who are able to learn from experience.”

LXVII

Philip looked forward to his return to London with impatience. During

the two months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him frequently,

long letters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she

described the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles

of her landlady, rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her

rehearsals—she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the

London theatres—and her odd adventures with the publishers of

novelettes. Philip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and

sailed. At the beginning of October he settled down in London to work

for the Second Conjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since

that ended the drudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the

student became an out-patients’ clerk, and was brought in contact with

men and women as well as with text-books. Philip saw Norah every day.

Lawson had been spending the summer at Poole, and had a number of

sketches to show of the harbour and of the beach. He had a couple of

commissions for portraits and proposed to stay in London till the bad

light drove him away. Hayward, in London too, intended to spend the

winter abroad, but remained week after week from sheer inability to

make up his mind to go. Hayward had run to fat during the last two or

three years—it was five years since Philip first met him in

Heidelberg—and he was prematurely bald. He was very sensitive about it

and wore his hair long to conceal the unsightly patch on the crown of

his head. His only consolation was that his brow was now very noble.

His blue eyes had lost their colour; they had a listless droop; and his

mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and pale. He still talked

vaguely of the things he was going to do in the future, but with less

conviction; and he was conscious that his friends no longer believed in

him: when he had drank two or three glasses of whiskey he was inclined

to be elegiac.

“I’m a failure,” he murmured, “I’m unfit for the brutality of the

struggle of life. All I can do is to stand aside and let the vulgar

throng hustle by in their pursuit of the good things.”

He gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a more

exquisite thing, than to succeed. He insinuated that his aloofness was

due to distaste for all that was common and low. He talked beautifully

of Plato.

“I should have thought you’d got through with Plato by now,” said

Philip impatiently.

“Would you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

He was not inclined to pursue the subject. He had discovered of late

the effective dignity of silence.

“I don’t see the use of reading the same thing over and over again,”

said Philip. “That’s only a laborious form of idleness.”

“But are you under the impression that you have so great a mind that

you can understand the most profound writer at a first reading?”

“I don’t want to understand him, I’m not a critic. I’m not interested

in him for his sake but for mine.”

“Why d’you read then?”

“Partly for pleasure, because it’s a habit and I’m just as

uncomfortable if I don’t read as if I don’t smoke, and partly to know

myself. When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now

and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a

meaning for ME, and it becomes part of me; I’ve got out of the book all

that’s any use to me, and I can’t get anything more if I read it a

dozen times. You see, it seems to me, one’s like a closed bud, and most

of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are certain

things that have a peculiar significance for one, and they open a

petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is

there.”

Philip was not satisfied with his metaphor, but he did not know how

else to explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear about.

“You want to do things, you want to become things,” said Hayward, with

a shrug of the shoulders. “It’s so vulgar.”

Philip knew Hayward very well by now. He was weak and vain, so vain

that you had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he

mingled idleness and idealism so that he could not separate them. At

Lawson’s studio one day he met a journalist, who was charmed by his

conversation, and a week later the editor of a paper wrote to suggest

that he should do some criticism for him. For forty-eight hours Hayward

lived in an agony of indecision. He had talked of getting occupation of

this sort so long that he had not the face to refuse outright, but the

thought of doing anything filled him with panic. At last he declined

the offer and breathed freely.

“It would have interfered with my work,” he told Philip.

“What work?” asked Philip brutally.

“My inner life,” he answered.

Then he went on to say beautiful things about Amiel, the professor of

Geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which was never

fulfilled; till at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse

were at once manifest in the minute, wonderful journal which was found

among his papers. Hayward smiled enigmatically.

But Hayward could still talk delightfully about books; his taste was

exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a constant

interest in ideas, which made him an entertaining companion. They meant

nothing to him really, since they never had any effect on him; but he

treated them as he might have pieces of china in an auction-room,

handling them with pleasure in their shape and their glaze, pricing

them in his mind; and then, putting them back into their case, thought

of them no more.

And it was Hayward who made a momentous discovery. One evening, after

due preparation, he took Philip and Lawson to a tavern situated in Beak

Street, remarkable not only in itself and for its history—it had

memories of eighteenth-century glories which excited the romantic

imagination—but for its snuff, which was the best in London, and above

all for its punch. Hayward led them into a large, long room, dingily

magnificent, with huge pictures on the walls of nude women: they were

vast allegories of the school of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London

atmosphere had given them a richness which made them look like old

masters. The dark panelling, the massive, tarnished gold of the

cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room an air of sumptuous

comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall were soft and

easy. There was a ram’s head on a table opposite the door, and this

contained the celebrated snuff. They ordered punch. They drank it. It

was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the

excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this

narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled,

exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and

cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the

mind at once to utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had

the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of

its qualities was comparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a

good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be

described in words. Charles Lamb, with his infinite tact, attempting

to, might have drawn charming pictures of the life of his day; Lord

Byron in a stanza of Don Juan, aiming at the impossible, might have

achieved the sublime; Oscar Wilde, heaping jewels of Ispahan upon

brocades of Byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty.

Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the feasts of

Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the musty,

fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs,

hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of lilies

of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese.

Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to

be obtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had

been at Cambridge with him. He was a stockbroker and a philosopher. He

was accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip,

Lawson, and Hayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday

evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an

advantage to persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was

a big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy

face and a soft voice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything

from the standpoint of pure reason. He was fond of expounding his

doctrines. Philip listened with excited interest. He had long come to

the conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he

was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life. The neat

little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations at

Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for

Mildred. He could not be positive that reason was much help in the

conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived itself. He remembered

very vividly the violence of the emotion which had possessed him and

his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground with ropes, to

react against it. He read many wise things in books, but he could only

judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was different

from other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an

action, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which

might result from the omission; but his whole being was urged on

irresistibly. He did not act with a part of himself but altogether. The

power that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all

that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his

whole soul was striving for.

Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative.

“Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a

universal rule of action for all men.”

“That seems to me perfect nonsense,” said Philip.

“You’re a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant,”

retorted Macalister.

“Why? Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality:

there’s a damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant thought

things not because they were true, but because he was Kant.”

“Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?” (They

talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.)

“It suggests that one can choose one’s course by an effort of will. And

it suggests that reason is the surest guide. Why should its dictates be

any better than those of passion? They’re different. That’s all.”

“You seem to be a contented slave of your passions.”

“A slave because I can’t help myself, but not a contented one,” laughed

Philip.

While he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in

pursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed against it and how

he had felt the degradation of it.

“Thank God, I’m free from all that now,” he thought.

And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke

sincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a

singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. He was

more alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence

of soul, which made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery he had

endured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming

existence.

But Philip’s unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom

of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out

argument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics,

and he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners

from which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him

up with logic and battered him with authorities.

At last Philip said:

“Well, I can’t say anything about other people. I can only speak for

myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can’t

get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an

illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I

do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do;

but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was

inevitable from all eternity.”

“What do you deduce from that?” asked Hayward.

“Why, merely the futility of regret. It’s no good crying over spilt

milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.”

LXVIII

One morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going back to

bed suddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs ached and he shivered

with cold. When the landlady brought in his breakfast he called to her

through the open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of tea

and a piece of toast. A few minutes later there was a knock at his

door, and Griffiths came in. They had lived in the same house for over

a year, but had never done more than nod to one another in the passage.

“I say, I hear you’re seedy,” said Griffiths. “I thought I’d come in

and see what was the matter with you.”

Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. He

would be all right in an hour or two.

“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 meet 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 beat 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