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.