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.