LXX
Philip expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to his rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following morning. The silence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. They had seen one another every day he had been in London since the previous June; and it must seem odd to her that he should let two days go by without visiting her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an unlucky chance she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think that she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because he had allowed himself to get on such intimate terms with her. The thought of continuing them filled him with disgust.
He found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she liked the rattle of traffic under her windows.
“I don’t like a dead and alive street where you don’t see a soul pass all day,” she said. “Give me a bit of life.”
Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that he was treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her frankly that Mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as violent as it had ever been; he was very sorry, but he had nothing to offer Norah any more. Then he thought of her anguish, for he knew she loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but now it was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain upon her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across his mind. He knocked at the door. He felt that he was pale, and wondered how to conceal his nervousness.
She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he entered.
“I recognised your step,” she cried. “Where have you been hiding yourself, you naughty boy?”
She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. She was delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give himself countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the fire to make the kettle boil.
“I’ve been awfully busy,” he said lamely.
She began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new commission she had to provide a novelette for a firm which had not hitherto employed her. She was to get fifteen guineas for it.
“It’s money from the clouds. I’ll tell you what we’ll do, we’ll stand ourselves a little jaunt. Let’s go and spend a day at Oxford, shall we? I’d love to see the colleges.”
He looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach in her eyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was overjoyed to see him. His heart sank. He could not tell her the brutal truth. She made some toast for him, and cut it into little pieces, and gave it him as though he were a child.
“Is the brute fed?” she asked.
He nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as she loved to do, she came and sat on his knees. She was very light. She leaned back in his arms with a sigh of delicious happiness.
“Say something nice to me,” she murmured.
“What shall I say?”
“You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked me.”
“You know I do that.”
He had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace at all events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her. That would be easier. He could not bear to think of her crying. She made him kiss her, and as he kissed her he thought of Mildred and Mildred’s pale, thin lips. The recollection of Mildred remained with him all the time, like an incorporated form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight continually distracted his attention.
“You’re very quiet today,” Norah said.
Her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered:
“You never let me get a word in, and I’ve got out of the habit of talking.”
“But you’re not listening, and that’s bad manners.”
He reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of his secret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. The weight of her irked him this afternoon, and he did not want her to touch him.
“My foot’s gone to sleep,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” she cried, jumping up. “I shall have to bant if I can’t break myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen’s knees.”
He went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and walking about. Then he stood in front of the fire so that she should not resume her position. While she talked he thought that she was worth ten of Mildred; she amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and she had a much nicer nature. She was a good, brave, honest little woman; and Mildred, he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. If he had any sense he would stick to Norah, she would make him much happier than he would ever be with Mildred: after all she loved him, and Mildred was only grateful for his help. But when all was said the important thing was to love rather than to be loved; and he yearned for Mildred with his whole soul. He would sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole afternoon with Norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all Norah could give him.
“I can’t help myself,” he thought. “I’ve just got her in my bones.”
He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the one than happiness with the other.
When he got up to go Norah said casually:
“Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan’t I?”
“Yes,” he answered.
He knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to help Mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say so. He made up his mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw the rooms in the morning, was satisfied with them, and after luncheon Philip went up with her to Highbury. She had a trunk for her clothes and another for the various odds and ends, cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or three large cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no more than could be put on the roof of a four-wheeler. As they drove through Victoria Street Philip sat well back in the cab in case Norah should happen to be passing. He had not had an opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post office in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, since she would wonder what he was doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could have no excuse for not going into the neighbouring square where she lived. He made up his mind that he had better go in and see her for half an hour; but the necessity irritated him: he was angry with Norah, because she forced him to vulgar and degrading shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It amused him to help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming sense of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had found and was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It was a pleasure to do things for her, and she had no desire to do what somebody else seemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked her clothes and put them away. She was not proposing to go out again, so he got her slippers and took off her boots. It delighted him to perform menial offices.
“You do spoil me,” she said, running her fingers affectionately through his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her boots.
He took her hands and kissed them.
“It is nipping to have you here.”
He arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had several jars of green earthenware.
“I’ll get you some flowers for them,” he said.
He looked round at his work proudly.
“As I’m not going out any more I think I’ll get into a tea-gown,” she said. “Undo me behind, will you?”
She turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His sex meant nothing to her. But his heart was filled with gratitude for the intimacy her request showed. He undid the hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers.
“That first day I came into the shop I never thought I’d be doing this for you now,” he said, with a laugh which he forced.
“Somebody must do it,” she answered.
She went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown decorated with a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled her on a sofa and made tea for her.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay and have it with you,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a beastly appointment. But I shall be back in half an hour.”
He wondered what he should say if she asked him what the appointment was, but she showed no curiosity. He had ordered dinner for the two of them when he took the rooms, and proposed to spend the evening with her quietly. He was in such a hurry to get back that he took a tram along the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He thought he had better break the fact to Norah at once that he could not stay more than a few minutes.
“I say, I’ve got only just time to say how d’you do,” he said, as soon as he got into her rooms. “I’m frightfully busy.”
Her face fell.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
It exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and he knew that he reddened when he answered that there was a demonstration at the hospital which he was bound to go to. He fancied that she looked as though she did not believe him, and this irritated him all the more.
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I shall have you all tomorrow.”
He looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking forward to spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that he must do that in common decency; he could not leave her by herself in a strange house.
“I’m awfully sorry, I’m engaged tomorrow.”
He knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have given anything to avoid. The colour on Norah’s cheeks grew brighter.
“But I’ve asked the Gordons to lunch” they were an actor and his wife who were touring the provinces and in London for Sunday “I told you about it a week ago.”
“I’m awfully sorry, I forgot.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly come. Isn’t there somebody else you can get?”
“What are you doing tomorrow then?”
“I wish you wouldn’t cross-examine me.”
“Don’t you want to tell me?”
“I don’t in the least mind telling you, but it’s rather annoying to be forced to account for all one’s movements.”
Norah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got the better of her temper, and going up to him took his hands.
“Don’t disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I’ve been looking forward so much to spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see you, and we’ll have such a jolly time.”
“I’d love to if I could.”
“I’m not very exacting, am I? I don’t often ask you to do anything that’s a bother. Won’t you get out of your horrid engagement just this once?”
“I’m awfully sorry, I don’t see how I can,” he replied sullenly.
“Tell me what it is,” she said coaxingly.
He had had time to invent something. “Griffiths’ two sisters are up for the week-end and we’re taking them out.”
“Is that all?” she said joyfully. “Griffiths can so easily get another man.”
He wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It was a clumsy lie.
“No, I’m awfully sorry, I can’t I’ve promised and I mean to keep my promise.”
“But you promised me too. Surely I come first.”
“I wish you wouldn’t persist,” he said.
She flared up.
“You won’t come because you don’t want to. I don’t know what you’ve been doing the last few days, you’ve been quite different.”
He looked at his watch.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to be going,” he said.
“You won’t come tomorrow?”
“No.”
“In that case you needn’t trouble to come again,” she cried, losing her temper for good.
“That’s just as you like,” he answered.
“Don’t let me detain you any longer,” she added ironically.
He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that it had gone no worse. There had been no tears. As he walked along he congratulated himself on getting out of the affair so easily. He went into Victoria Street and bought a few flowers to take in to Mildred.
The little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a small pot of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy, which was her favourite wine. With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and one of Mildred’s shades on the lamp, the room was cosy.
“It’s really just like home,” smiled Philip.
“I might be worse off, mightn’t I?” she answered.
When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire, and they sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt happy and generous.
“What would you like to do tomorrow?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the shop, well, she’s married now, and she’s asked me to go and spend the day with her. Of course she thinks I’m married too.”
Philip’s heart sank.
“But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with you.”
He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she would stay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not have hesitated.
“Well, you were a silly to do that. I’ve promised to go for three weeks and more.”
“But how can you go alone?”
“Oh, I shall say that Emil’s away on business. Her husband’s in the glove trade, and he’s a very superior fellow.”
Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart. She gave him a sidelong glance.
“You don’t grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it’s the last time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don’t know how long, and I had promised.”
He took her hand and smiled.
“No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only want you to be happy.”
There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a twopenny novelette, and the author was Courtenay Paget. That was the name under which Norah wrote.
“I do like his books,” said Mildred. “I read them all. They’re so refined.”
He remembered what Norah had said of herself.
“I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me so genteel.”
LXXI
Philip, in return for Griffiths’ confidences, had told him the details of his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning, after breakfast when they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the scene of the previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got out of his difficulties so easily.
“It’s the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman,” he remarked sententiously, “but it’s a devil of a nuisance to get out of it.”
Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill in managing the business. At all events he was immensely relieved. He thought of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill, and he found in himself a real satisfaction because she was happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his part that he did not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.
But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah. She wrote:
Dearest,
I’m sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in the afternoon as usual. I love you.
Your Norah.
His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note to Griffiths and showed it to him.
“You’d better leave it unanswered,” said he.
“Oh, I can’t,” cried Philip. “I should be miserable if I thought of her waiting and waiting. You don’t know what it is to be sick for the postman’s knock. I do, and I can’t expose anybody else to that torture.”
“My dear fellow, one can’t break that sort of affair off without somebody suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One thing is, it doesn’t last very long.”
Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer; and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was capable of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had told him she was going to be married. He did not want anyone to experience what he had experienced then.
“If you’re so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her,” said Griffiths.
“I can’t do that.”
He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was angry with Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She must have seen that he had no more love to give her. They said women were so quick at seeing those things.
“You might help me,” he said to Griffiths.
“My dear fellow, don’t make such a fuss about it. People do get over these things, you know. She probably isn’t so wrapped up in you as you think, either. One’s always rather apt to exaggerate the passion one’s inspired other people with.”
He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.
“Look here, there’s only one thing you can do. Write to her, and tell her the thing’s over. Put it so that there can be no mistake about it. It’ll hurt her, but it’ll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally than if you try half-hearted ways.”
Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:
My dear Norah,
I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let things remain where we left them on Saturday. I don’t think there’s any use in letting these things drag on when they’ve ceased to be amusing. You told me to go and I went. I do not propose to come back. Good-bye. Philip Carey.
He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought of it. Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling eyes. He did not say what he felt.
“I think that’ll do the trick,” he said.
Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable morning, for he imagined with great detail what Norah would feel when she received his letter. He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at the same time he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief seen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day’s work at the hospital was over.
When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him.
“May I come in? I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”
It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile.
“Yes, do,” he said.
He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. She looked at him brightly.
“Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I’d taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched.”
“It was meant seriously,” he answered gravely.
“Don’t be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and apologised. You weren’t satisfied, so I’ve come here to apologise again. After all, you’re your own master and I have no claims upon you. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”
She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands.
“Let’s make friends again, Philip. I’m so sorry if I offended you.”
He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at her.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” he said.
She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees.
“Philip, don’t be silly. I’m quick-tempered too and I can understand that I hurt you, but it’s so stupid to sulk over it. What’s the good of making us both unhappy? It’s been so jolly, our friendship.” She passed her fingers slowly over his hand. “I love you, Philip.”
He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the room.
“I’m awfully sorry, I can’t do anything. The whole thing’s over.”
“D’you mean to say you don’t love me any more?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took that one?”
He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the other. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned away.
“I’m awfully sorry to hurt you. It’s not my fault if I don’t love you.”
She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been easier to bear if she had reproached him. He had thought her temper would get the better of her, and he was prepared for that. At the back of his mind was a feeling that a real quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would in some way be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At last he grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room and got a glass of water; he leaned over her.
“Won’t you drink a little? It’ll relieve you.”
She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three mouthfuls. Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a handkerchief. She dried her eyes.
“Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you,” she moaned.
“I’m afraid that’s always the case,” he said. “There’s always one who loves and one who lets himself be loved.”
He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart. Norah did not answer for a long time.
“I’d been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful,” she said at last.
She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her before complain of the life she had led with her husband or of her poverty. He had always admired the bold front she displayed to the world.
“And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I admired you because you were clever and it was so heavenly to have someone I could put my trust in. I loved you. I never thought it could come to an end. And without any fault of mine at all.”
Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of herself, and she hid her face in Philip’s handkerchief. She tried hard to control herself.
“Give me some more water,” she said.
She wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me.”
He wondered what it was she saw in him.
“Oh, it’s always the same,” she sighed, “if you want men to behave well to you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you suffer for it.”
She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip a long, steady look. Then she sighed.
“It’s so inexplicable. What does it all mean?”
Philip took a sudden determination.
“I think I’d better tell you, I don’t want you to think too badly of me, I want you to see that I can’t help myself. Mildred’s come back.”
The colour came to her face.
“Why didn’t you tell me at once? I deserved that surely.”
“I was afraid to.”
She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight.
“Will you call me a cab,” she said. “I don’t feel I can walk.”
He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed him into the street he was startled to see how white she was. There was a heaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older. She looked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone.
“I’ll drive back with you if you don’t mind.”
She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill cries, played in the road. When they arrived at her door she did not immediately get out. It seemed as though she could not summon enough strength to her legs to move.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Norah,” he said.
She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips.
“Poor fellow, you’re quite worried about me. You mustn’t bother. I don’t blame you. I shall get over it all right.”
Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than suggested; then she jumped out of the cab and let herself into her house.
Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred’s lodgings. There was a curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to reproach himself. But why? He did not know what else he could have done. Passing a fruiterer’s, he remembered that Mildred was fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he could show his love for her by recollecting every whim she had.
LXXII
For the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. A happy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her.
“Don’t waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work,” she said.
“Tyrant,” he answered gaily.
He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue. Mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in. The good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred’s sense of propriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered something which tempted Mildred’s capricious appetite. It enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against her knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his happiness.
“Had a nice little nap?” he smiled, when she woke.
“I’ve not been sleeping,” she answered. “I only just closed my eyes.”
She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her. She took a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. She went for a ‘constitutional’ every morning that it was fine and remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she sat in St. James’ Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant detail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. Now and then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; “I’m one to keep myself to myself,” she said, “I’m not one to go about with anybody.” ) and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.
“After all, I’m not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the doctor says I shan’t have any trouble. You see, it isn’t as if I wasn’t well made.”
Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came, had recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week. He was to charge fifteen guineas.
“Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen strongly recommended him, and I thought it wasn’t worth while to spoil the ship for a coat of tar.”
“If you feel happy and comfortable I don’t mind a bit about the expense,” said Philip.
She accepted all that Philip did for her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend money on her: each five-pound note he gave her caused him a little thrill of happiness and pride; he gave her a good many, for she was not economical.
“I don’t know where the money goes to,” she said herself, “it seems to slip through my fingers like water.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Philip. “I’m so glad to be able to do anything I can for you.”
She could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things for the baby; she told Philip it was much cheaper in the end to buy them. Philip had lately sold one of the mortgages in which his money had been put; and now, with five hundred pounds in the bank waiting to be invested in something that could be more easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly well-to-do. They talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that Mildred should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also to look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one of the shops of the company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put with some decent woman in the country.
“I can find someone who’ll look after it well for seven and sixpence a week. It’ll be better for the baby and better for me.”
It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with her she pretended to think he was concerned with the expense.
“You needn’t worry about that,” she said. “I shan’t ask YOU to pay for it.”
“You know I don’t care how much I pay.”
At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be still-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that the thought was there. He was shocked at first; and then, reasoning with himself, he was obliged to confess that for all concerned such an event was to be desired.
“It’s all very fine to say this and that,” Mildred remarked querulously, “but it’s jolly difficult for a girl to earn her living by herself; it doesn’t make it any easier when she’s got a baby.”
“Fortunately you’ve got me to fall back on,” smiled Philip, taking her hand.
“You’ve been good to me, Philip.”
“Oh, what rot!”
“You can’t say I didn’t offer anything in return for what you’ve done.”
“Good heavens, I don’t want a return. If I’ve done anything for you, I’ve done it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I don’t want you to do anything unless you love me.”
He was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a commodity which she could deliver indifferently as an acknowledgment for services rendered.
“But I do want to, Philip. You’ve been so good to me.”
“Well, it won’t hurt for waiting. When you’re all right again we’ll go for our little honeymoon.”
“You are naughty,” she said, smiling.
Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as she was well enough she was to go to the seaside for a fortnight: that would give Philip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after that came the Easter holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris together. Philip talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was delightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the Latin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little restaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to music halls. It would amuse her to meet his friends. He had talked to her about Cronshaw, she would see him; and there was Lawson, he had gone to Paris for a couple of months; and they would go to the Bal Bullier; there were excursions; they would make trips to Versailles, Chartres, Fontainebleau.
“It’ll cost a lot of money,” she said.
“Oh, damn the expense. Think how I’ve been looking forward to it. Don’t you know what it means to me? I’ve never loved anyone but you. I never shall.”
She listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He thought he saw in them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. She was much gentler than she used to be. There was in her no longer the superciliousness which had irritated him. She was so accustomed to him now that she took no pains to keep up before him any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair with the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the vast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless style suited her. Her face was so thin that it made her eyes seem very large; there were heavy lines under them, and the pallor of her cheeks made their colour more profound. She had a wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. There seemed to Philip to be in her something of the Madonna. He wished they could continue in that same way always. He was happier than he had ever been in his life.
He used to leave her at ten o’clock every night, for she liked to go to bed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple of hours’ work to make up for the lost evening. He generally brushed her hair for her before he went. He had made a ritual of the kisses he gave her when he bade her good-night; first he kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers were, the nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and then the left, and at last he kissed her lips. He went home with a heart overflowing with love. He longed for an opportunity to gratify the desire for self-sacrifice which consumed him.
Presently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home where she was to be confined. Philip was then able to visit her only in the afternoons. Mildred changed her story and represented herself as the wife of a soldier who had gone to India to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to the mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law.
“I have to be rather careful what I say,” she told him, “as there’s another lady here whose husband’s in the Indian Civil.”
“I wouldn’t let that disturb me if I were you,” said Philip. “I’m convinced that her husband and yours went out on the same boat.”
“What boat?” she asked innocently.
“The Flying Dutchman.”
Mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when Philip was allowed to see her the child was lying by her side. Mildred was very weak, but relieved that everything was over. She showed him the baby, and herself looked at it curiously.
“It’s a funny-looking little thing, isn’t it? I can’t believe it’s mine.”
It was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled when he looked at it. He did not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him because the nurse who owned the house was standing by his side; and he felt by the way she was looking at him that, disbelieving Mildred’s complicated story, she thought he was the father.
“What are you going to call her?” asked Philip.
“I can’t make up my mind if I shall call her Madeleine or Cecilia.”
The nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip bent down and kissed Mildred on the mouth.
“I’m so glad it’s all over happily, darling.”
She put her thin arms round his neck.
“You have been a brick to me, Phil dear.”
“Now I feel that you’re mine at last. I’ve waited so long for you, my dear.”
They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up. The nurse entered. There was a slight smile on her lips.
LXXIII
Three weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to Brighton. She had made a quick recovery and looked better than he had ever seen her. She was going to a boarding-house where she had spent a couple of weekends with Emil Miller, and had written to say that her husband was obliged to go to Germany on business and she was coming down with her baby. She got pleasure out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain fertility of invention in the working out of the details. Mildred proposed to find in Brighton some woman who would be willing to take charge of the baby. Philip was startled at the callousness with which she insisted on getting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor child had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. Philip had expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she had had the baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to help him persuade her to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred. Mildred was not unkind to her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and she talked about it a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it. She could not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied it resembled its father already. She was continually wondering how she would manage when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such a fool as to have it at all.
“If I’d only known then all I do now,” she said.
She laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare.
“You couldn’t make more fuss if you was the father,” she said. “I’d like to see Emil getting into such a stew about it.”
Philip’s mind was full of the stories he had heard of baby-farming and the ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children that selfish, cruel parents have put in their charge.
“Don’t be so silly,” said Mildred. “That’s when you give a woman a sum down to look after a baby. But when you’re going to pay so much a week it’s to their interest to look after it well.”
Philip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people who had no children of their own and would promise to take no other.
“Don’t haggle about the price,” he said. “I’d rather pay half a guinea a week than run any risk of the kid being starved or beaten.”
“You’re a funny old thing, Philip,” she laughed.
To him there was something very touching in the child’s helplessness. It was small, ugly, and querulous. Its birth had been looked forward to with shame and anguish. Nobody wanted it. It was dependent on him, a stranger, for food, shelter, and clothes to cover its nakedness.
As the train started he kissed Mildred. He would have kissed the baby too, but he was afraid she would laugh at him.
“You will write to me, darling, won’t you? And I shall look forward to your coming back with oh! such impatience.”
“Mind you get through your exam.”
He had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten days before him he made a final effort. He was very anxious to pass, first to save himself time and expense, for money had been slipping through his fingers during the last four months with incredible speed; and then because this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that the student had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of which was more vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had been hitherto concerned. Philip looked forward with interest to the rest of the curriculum. Nor did he want to have to confess to Mildred that he had failed: though the examination was difficult and the majority of candidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she would think less well of him if he did not succeed; she had a peculiarly humiliating way of showing what she thought.
Mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he snatched half an hour every day to write a long letter to her. He had always a certain shyness in expressing himself by word of mouth, but he found he could tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of things which it would have made him feel ridiculous to say. Profiting by the discovery he poured out to her his whole heart. He had never been able to tell her before how his adoration filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his thoughts, were touched with it. He wrote to her of the future, the happiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her. He asked himself (he had often asked himself before but had never put it into words) what it was in her that filled him with such extravagant delight; he did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, and when she was away from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he knew only that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against his lungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her presence was almost pain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely weak as though, not having eaten, he were tremulous from want of food. He looked forward eagerly to her answers. He did not expect her to write often, for he knew that letter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the clumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his. She spoke of the boarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather and the baby, told him she had been for a walk on the front with a lady-friend whom she had met in the boarding-house and who had taken such a fancy to baby, she was going to the theatre on Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up. It touched Philip because it was so matter-of-fact. The crabbed style, the formality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to take her in his arms and kiss her.
He went into the examination with happy confidence. There was nothing in either of the papers that gave him trouble. He knew that he had done well, and though the second part of the examination was viva voce and he was more nervous, he managed to answer the questions adequately. He sent a triumphant telegram to Mildred when the result was announced.
When he got back to his rooms Philip found a letter from her, saying that she thought it would be better for her to stay another week in Brighton. She had found a woman who would be glad to take the baby for seven shillings a week, but she wanted to make inquiries about her, and she was herself benefiting so much by the sea-air that she was sure a few days more would do her no end of good. She hated asking Philip for money, but would he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat, she couldn’t go about with her lady-friend always in the same hat, and her lady-friend was so dressy. Philip had a moment of bitter disappointment. It took away all his pleasure at getting through his examination.
“If she loved me one quarter as much as I love her she couldn’t bear to stay away a day longer than necessary.”
He put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure selfishness; of course her health was more important than anything else. But he had nothing to do now; he might spend the week with her in Brighton, and they could be together all day. His heart leaped at the thought. It would be amusing to appear before Mildred suddenly with the information that he had taken a room in the boarding-house. He looked out trains. But he paused. He was not certain that she would be pleased to see him; she had made friends in Brighton; he was quiet, and she liked boisterous joviality; he realised that she amused herself more with other people than with him. It would torture him if he felt for an instant that he was in the way. He was afraid to risk it. He dared not even write and suggest that, with nothing to keep him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could see her every day. She knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him to come she would have asked him to. He dared not risk the anguish he would suffer if he proposed to come and she made excuses to prevent him.
He wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the end of his letter said that if she were very nice and cared to see him for the week-end he would be glad to run down; but she was by no means to alter any plans she had made. He awaited her answer with impatience. In it she said that if she had only known before she could have arranged it, but she had promised to go to a music-hall on the Saturday night; besides, it would make the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. Why did he not come on Sunday morning and spend the day? They could lunch at the Metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see the very superior lady-like person who was going to take the baby.
Sunday. He blessed the day because it was fine. As the train approached Brighton the sun poured through the carriage window. Mildred was waiting for him on the platform.
“How jolly of you to come and meet me!” he cried, as he seized her hands.
“You expected me, didn’t you?”
“I hoped you would. I say, how well you’re looking.”
“It’s done me a rare lot of good, but I think I’m wise to stay here as long as I can. And there are a very nice class of people at the boarding-house. I wanted cheering up after seeing nobody all these months. It was dull sometimes.”
She looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with a great many inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck floated a long boa of imitation swansdown. She was still very thin, and she stooped a little when she walked (she had always done that,) but her eyes did not seem so large; and though she never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthy look it had. They walked down to the sea. Philip, remembering he had not walked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp and walked stiffly in the attempt to conceal it.
“Are you glad to see me?” he asked, love dancing madly in his heart.
“Of course I am. You needn’t ask that.”
“By the way, Griffiths sends you his love.”
“What cheek!”
He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her how flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of some adventure which Griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him. Mildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, but generally with curiosity; and Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his friend’s good looks and charm.
“I’m sure you’ll like him just as much as I do. He’s so jolly and amusing, and he’s such an awfully good sort.”
Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths had nursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths’ self-sacrifice lost nothing.
“You can’t help liking him,” said Philip.
“I don’t like good-looking men,” said Mildred. “They’re too conceited for me.”
“He wants to know you. I’ve talked to him about you an awful lot.”
“What have you said?” asked Mildred.
Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for Mildred, and little by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her. He described her to him fifty times. He dwelt amorously on every detail of her appearance, and Griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how white her face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the charm of her pale, thin lips.
“By Jove, I’m glad I don’t take things so badly as that,” he said. “Life wouldn’t be worth living.”
Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly in love that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whatever else was essential to existence. Griffiths knew that Philip had looked after the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away with her.
“Well, I must say you’ve deserved to get something,” he remarked. “It must have cost you a pretty penny. It’s lucky you can afford it.”
“I can’t,” said Philip. “But what do I care!”
Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass. There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swinging their canes, and there were the Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in giggling bunches. They could tell the people who had come down from London for the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were many Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were middle-aged gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully dressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfast to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: they exchanged the time of day with friends and talked of Dr. Brighton or London-by-the-Sea. Here and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately unconscious of the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather boots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbed stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had come from a day’s shooting, he strolled in knickerbockers, and ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat on the back of his head. The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea was trim and neat.
After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to take charge of the baby. She lived in a small house in a back street, but it was clean and tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding. She was an elderly, stout person, with gray hair and a red, fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, and Philip thought she seemed kind.
“Won’t you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?” he asked her.
She explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older than herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since vicars wanted young men to assist them; he earned a little now and then by doing locums when someone took a holiday or fell ill, and a charitable institution gave them a small pension; but her life was lonely, it would be something to do to look after a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help her to keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed.
“Quite the lady, isn’t she?” said Mildred, when they went away.
They went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred liked the crowd and the band. Philip was tired of talking, and he watched her face as she looked with keen eyes at the dresses of the women who came in. She had a peculiar sharpness for reckoning up what things cost, and now and then she leaned over to him and whispered the result of her meditations.
“D’you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit of seven guineas.”
Or: “Look at that ermine, Philip. That’s rabbit, that is that’s not ermine.” She laughed triumphantly. “I’d know it a mile off.”
Philip smiled happily. He was glad to see her pleasure, and the ingenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. The band played sentimental music.
After dinner they walked down to the station, and Philip took her arm. He told her what arrangements he had made for their journey to France. She was to come up to London at the end of the week, but she told him that she could not go away till the Saturday of the week after that. He had already engaged a room in a hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly to taking the tickets.
“You won’t mind going second-class, will you? We mustn’t be extravagant, and it’ll be all the better if we can do ourselves pretty well when we get there.”
He had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter. They would wander through its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly in the charming gardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather was fine perhaps, when they had had enough of Paris, they might go to Fontainebleau. The trees would be just bursting into leaf. The green of the forest in spring was more beautiful than anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the happy pain of love. Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and tried to look deep into her eyes.
“You do want to come, don’t you?” he said.
“Of course I do,” she smiled.
“You don’t know how I’m looking forward to it. I don’t know how I shall get through the next days. I’m so afraid something will happen to prevent it. It maddens me sometimes that I can’t tell you how much I love you. And at last, at last…”
He broke off. They reached the station, but they had dawdled on the way, and Philip had barely time to say good-night. He kissed her quickly and ran towards the wicket as fast as he could. She stood where he left her. He was strangely grotesque when he ran.