offenes feuer im wohnzimmer
chapter lxi he saw her then every day. he began going to lunch at the shop, butmildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he had to content himselfwith tea; but he always waited about to walk with her to the station; and once ortwice a week they dined together. he gave her little presents, a gold bangle,gloves, handkerchiefs, and the like. he was spending more than he could afford,but he could not help it: it was only when he gave her anything that she showed anyaffection. she knew the price of everything, and hergratitude was in exact proportion with the
value of his gift.he did not care. he was too happy when she volunteered tokiss him to mind by what means he got her demonstrativeness. he discovered that she found sundays athome tedious, so he went down to herne hill in the morning, met her at the end of theroad, and went to church with her. "i always like to go to church once," shesaid. "it looks well, doesn't it?" then she went back to dinner, he got ascrappy meal at a hotel, and in the afternoon they took a walk in brockwellpark.
they had nothing much to say to oneanother, and philip, desperately afraid she was bored (she was very easily bored),racked his brain for topics of conversation. he realised that these walks amused neitherof them, but he could not bear to leave her, and did all he could to lengthen themtill she became tired and out of temper. he knew that she did not care for him, andhe tried to force a love which his reason told him was not in her nature: she wascold. he had no claim on her, but he could nothelp being exacting. now that they were more intimate he foundit less easy to control his temper; he was
often irritable and could not help sayingbitter things. often they quarrelled, and she would notspeak to him for a while; but this always reduced him to subjection, and he crawledbefore her. he was angry with himself for showing solittle dignity. he grew furiously jealous if he saw herspeaking to any other man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed to be besidehimself. he would deliberately insult her, leave theshop and spend afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry andremorseful. next day he would go to the shop and appealfor forgiveness.
"don't be angry with me," he said."i'm so awfully fond of you that i can't help myself." "one of these days you'll go too far," sheanswered. he was anxious to come to her home in orderthat the greater intimacy should give him an advantage over the stray acquaintancesshe made during her working-hours; but she would not let him. "my aunt would think it so funny," shesaid. he suspected that her refusal was due onlyto a disinclination to let him see her aunt.
mildred had represented her as the widow ofa professional man (that was her formula of distinction), and was uneasily consciousthat the good woman could hardly be called distinguished. philip imagined that she was in point offact the widow of a small tradesman. he knew that mildred was a snob. but he found no means by which he couldindicate to her that he did not mind how common the aunt was. their worst quarrel took place one eveningat dinner when she told him that a man had asked her to go to a play with him.philip turned pale, and his face grew hard
and stern. "you're not going?" he said."why shouldn't i? he's a very nice gentlemanly fellow.""i'll take you anywhere you like." "but that isn't the same thing. i can't always go about with you.besides he's asked me to fix my own day, and i'll just go one evening when i'm notgoing out with you. it won't make any difference to you." "if you had any sense of decency, if youhad any gratitude, you wouldn't dream of going.""i don't know what you mean by gratitude.
if you're referring to the things you'vegiven me you can have them back. i don't want them."her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got. "it's not very lively, always going aboutwith you. it's always do you love me, do you love me,till i just get about sick of it." he knew it was madness to go on asking herthat, but he could not help himself. "oh, i like you all right," she wouldanswer. "is that all? i love you with all my heart.""i'm not that sort, i'm not one to say
much.""if you knew how happy just one word would make me!" "well, what i always say is, people musttake me as they find me, and if they don't like it they can lump it." but sometimes she expressed herself moreplainly still, and, when he asked the question, answered:"oh, don't go on at that again." then he became sulky and silent. he hated her.and now he said: "oh, well, if you feel like that about it iwonder you condescend to come out with me
at all." "it's not my seeking, you can be very sureof that, you just force me to." his pride was bitterly hurt, and heanswered madly. "you think i'm just good enough to standyou dinners and theatres when there's no one else to do it, and when someone elseturns up i can go to hell. thank you, i'm about sick of being made aconvenience." "i'm not going to be talked to like that byanyone. i'll just show you how much i want yourdirty dinner." she got up, put on her jacket, and walkedquickly out of the restaurant.
philip sat on. he determined he would not move, but tenminutes afterwards he jumped in a cab and followed her. he guessed that she would take a 'bus tovictoria, so that they would arrive about the same time. he saw her on the platform, escaped hernotice, and went down to herne hill in the same train. he did not want to speak to her till shewas on the way home and could not escape him.
as soon as she had turned out of the mainstreet, brightly lit and noisy with traffic, he caught her up."mildred," he called. she walked on and would neither look at himnor answer. he repeated her name.then she stopped and faced him. "what d'you want? i saw you hanging about victoria.why don't you leave me alone?" "i'm awfully sorry.won't you make it up?" "no, i'm sick of your temper and yourjealousy. i don't care for you, i never have caredfor you, and i never shall care for you.
i don't want to have anything more to dowith you." she walked on quickly, and he had to hurryto keep up with her. "you never make allowances for me," hesaid. "it's all very well to be jolly and amiablewhen you're indifferent to anyone. it's very hard when you're as much in loveas i am. have mercy on me.i don't mind that you don't care for me. after all you can't help it. i only want you to let me love you."she walked on, refusing to speak, and philip saw with agony that they had only afew hundred yards to go before they reached
her house. he abased himself.he poured out an incoherent story of love and penitence. "if you'll only forgive me this time ipromise you you'll never have to complain of me in future.you can go out with whoever you choose. i'll be only too glad if you'll come withme when you've got nothing better to do." she stopped again, for they had reached thecorner at which he always left her. "now you can take yourself off. i won't have you coming up to the door.""i won't go till you say you'll forgive
me.""i'm sick and tired of the whole thing." he hesitated a moment, for he had aninstinct that he could say something that would move her.it made him feel almost sick to utter the words. "it is cruel, i have so much to put upwith. you don't know what it is to be a cripple.of course you don't like me. i can't expect you to." "philip, i didn't mean that," she answeredquickly, with a sudden break of pity in her voice."you know it's not true."
he was beginning to act now, and his voicewas husky and low. "oh, i've felt it," he said.she took his hand and looked at him, and her own eyes were filled with tears. "i promise you it never made any differenceto me. i never thought about it after the firstday or two." he kept a gloomy, tragic silence. he wanted her to think he was overcome withemotion. "you know i like you awfully, philip.only you are so trying sometimes. let's make it up."
she put up her lips to his, and with a sighof relief he kissed her. "now are you happy again?" she asked."madly." she bade him good-night and hurried downthe road. next day he took her in a little watch witha brooch to pin on her dress. she had been hankering for it. but three or four days later, when shebrought him his tea, mildred said to him: "you remember what you promised the othernight? you mean to keep that, don't you?" "yes."he knew exactly what she meant and was
prepared for her next words."because i'm going out with that gentleman i told you about tonight." "all right.i hope you'll enjoy yourself." "you don't mind, do you?"he had himself now under excellent control. "i don't like it," he smiled, "but i'm notgoing to make myself more disagreeable than i can help."she was excited over the outing and talked about it willingly. philip wondered whether she did so in orderto pain him or merely because she was callous.he was in the habit of condoning her
cruelty by the thought of her stupidity. she had not the brains to see when she waswounding him. "it's not much fun to be in love with agirl who has no imagination and no sense of humour," he thought, as he listened. but the want of these things excused her.he felt that if he had not realised this he could never forgive her for the pain shecaused him. "he's got seats for the tivoli," she said. "he gave me my choice and i chose that.and we're going to dine at the cafe royal. he says it's the most expensive place inlondon."
"he's a gentleman in every sense of theword," thought philip, but he clenched his teeth to prevent himself from uttering asyllable. philip went to the tivoli and saw mildredwith her companion, a smooth-faced young man with sleek hair and the spruce look ofa commercial traveller, sitting in the second row of the stalls. mildred wore a black picture hat withostrich feathers in it, which became her well. she was listening to her host with thatquiet smile which philip knew; she had no vivacity of expression, and it requiredbroad farce to excite her laughter; but
philip could see that she was interestedand amused. he thought to himself bitterly that hercompanion, flashy and jovial, exactly suited her. her sluggish temperament made herappreciate noisy people. philip had a passion for discussion, but notalent for small-talk. he admired the easy drollery of which someof his friends were masters, lawson for instance, and his sense of inferiority madehim shy and awkward. the things which interested him boredmildred. she expected men to talk about football andracing, and he knew nothing of either.
he did not know the catchwords which onlyneed be said to excite a laugh. printed matter had always been a fetish tophilip, and now, in order to make himself more interesting, he read industriously thesporting times. chapter lxii philip did not surrender himself willinglyto the passion that consumed him. he knew that all things human aretransitory and therefore that it must cease one day or another. he looked forward to that day with eagerlonging. love was like a parasite in his heart,nourishing a hateful existence on his
life's blood; it absorbed his existence sointensely that he could take pleasure in nothing else. he had been used to delight in the grace ofst. james' park, and often he sat and looked at the branches of a treesilhouetted against the sky, it was like a japanese print; and he found a continual magic in the beautiful thames with itsbarges and its wharfs; the changing sky of london had filled his soul with pleasantfancies. but now beauty meant nothing to him. he was bored and restless when he was notwith mildred.
sometimes he thought he would console hissorrow by looking at pictures, but he walked through the national gallery like asight-seer; and no picture called up in him a thrill of emotion. he wondered if he could ever care again forall the things he had loved. he had been devoted to reading, but nowbooks were meaningless; and he spent his spare hours in the smoking-room of thehospital club, turning over innumerable periodicals. this love was a torment, and he resentedbitterly the subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he longed forfreedom.
sometimes he awoke in the morning and feltnothing; his soul leaped, for he thought he was free; he loved no longer; but in alittle while, as he grew wide awake, the pain settled in his heart, and he knew thathe was not cured yet. though he yearned for mildred so madly hedespised her. he thought to himself that there could beno greater torture in the world than at the same time to love and to contemn. philip, burrowing as was his habit into thestate of his feelings, discussing with himself continually his condition, came tothe conclusion that he could only cure himself of his degrading passion by makingmildred his mistress.
it was sexual hunger that he suffered from,and if he could satisfy this he might free himself from the intolerable chains thatbound him. he knew that mildred did not care for himat all in that way. when he kissed her passionately shewithdrew herself from him with instinctive distaste. she had no sensuality. sometimes he had tried to make her jealousby talking of adventures in paris, but they did not interest her; once or twice he hadsat at other tables in the tea-shop and affected to flirt with the waitress who
attended them, but she was entirelyindifferent. he could see that it was no pretence on herpart. "you didn't mind my not sitting at one ofyour tables this afternoon?" he asked once, when he was walking to the station withher. "yours seemed to be all full." this was not a fact, but she did notcontradict him. even if his desertion meant nothing to herhe would have been grateful if she had pretended it did. a reproach would have been balm to hissoul.
"i think it's silly of you to sit at thesame table every day. you ought to give the other girls a turnnow and again." but the more he thought of it the more hewas convinced that complete surrender on her part was his only way to freedom. he was like a knight of old, metamorphosedby magic spells, who sought the potions which should restore him to his fair andproper form. philip had only one hope. mildred greatly desired to go to paris. to her, as to most english people, it wasthe centre of gaiety and fashion: she had
heard of the magasin du louvre, where youcould get the very latest thing for about half the price you had to pay in london; a friend of hers had passed her honeymoon inparis and had spent all day at the louvre; and she and her husband, my dear, theynever went to bed till six in the morning all the time they were there; the moulinrouge and i don't know what all. philip did not care that if she yielded tohis desires it would only be the unwilling price she paid for the gratification of herwish. he did not care upon what terms hesatisfied his passion. he had even had a mad, melodramatic idea todrug her.
he had plied her with liquor in the hope ofexciting her, but she had no taste for wine; and though she liked him to orderchampagne because it looked well, she never drank more than half a glass. she liked to leave untouched a large glassfilled to the brim. "it shows the waiters who you are," shesaid. philip chose an opportunity when she seemedmore than usually friendly. he had an examination in anatomy at the endof march. easter, which came a week later, would givemildred three whole days holiday. "i say, why don't you come over to paristhen?" he suggested.
"we'd have such a ripping time." "how could you?it would cost no end of money." philip had thought of that.it would cost at least five-and-twenty pounds. it was a large sum to him.he was willing to spend his last penny on her."what does that matter? say you'll come, darling." "what next, i should like to know.i can't see myself going away with a man that i wasn't married to.you oughtn't to suggest such a thing."
"what does it matter?" he enlarged on the glories of the rue de lapaix and the garish splendour of the folies bergeres.he described the louvre and the bon marche. he told her about the cabaret du neant, theabbaye, and the various haunts to which foreigners go.he painted in glowing colours the side of paris which he despised. he pressed her to come with him."you know, you say you love me, but if you really loved me you'd want to marry me.you've never asked me to marry you." "you know i can't afford it.
after all, i'm in my first year, i shan'tearn a penny for six years." "oh, i'm not blaming you.i wouldn't marry you if you went down on your bended knees to me." he had thought of marriage more than once,but it was a step from which he shrank. in paris he had come by the opinion thatmarriage was a ridiculous institution of the philistines. he knew also that a permanent tie wouldruin him. he had middle-class instincts, and itseemed a dreadful thing to him to marry a waitress.
a common wife would prevent him fromgetting a decent practice. besides, he had only just enough money tolast him till he was qualified; he could not keep a wife even if they arranged notto have children. he thought of cronshaw bound to a vulgarslattern, and he shuddered with dismay. he foresaw what mildred, with her genteelideas and her mean mind, would become: it was impossible for him to marry her. but he decided only with his reason; hefelt that he must have her whatever happened; and if he could not get herwithout marrying her he would do that; the future could look after itself.
it might end in disaster; he did not care. when he got hold of an idea it obsessedhim, he could think of nothing else, and he had a more than common power to persuadehimself of the reasonableness of what he wished to do. he found himself overthrowing all thesensible arguments which had occurred to him against marriage. each day he found that he was morepassionately devoted to her; and his unsatisfied love became angry andresentful. "by george, if i marry her i'll make herpay for all the suffering i've endured," he
said to himself.at last he could bear the agony no longer. after dinner one evening in the littlerestaurant in soho, to which now they often went, he spoke to her."i say, did you mean it the other day that you wouldn't marry me if i asked you?" "yes, why not?""because i can't live without you. i want you with me always.i've tried to get over it and i can't. i never shall now. i want you to marry me."she had read too many novelettes not to know how to take such an offer."i'm sure i'm very grateful to you, philip.
i'm very much flattered at your proposal." "oh, don't talk rot.you will marry me, won't you?" "d'you think we should be happy?""no. but what does that matter?" the words were wrung out of him almostagainst his will. they surprised her."well, you are a funny chap. why d'you want to marry me then? the other day you said you couldn't affordit." "i think i've got about fourteen hundredpounds left. two can live just as cheaply as one.
that'll keep us till i'm qualified and havegot through with my hospital appointments, and then i can get an assistantship.""it means you wouldn't be able to earn anything for six years. we should have about four pounds a week tolive on till then, shouldn't we?" "not much more than three.there are all my fees to pay." "and what would you get as an assistant?" "three pounds a week.""d'you mean to say you have to work all that time and spend a small fortune just toearn three pounds a week at the end of it? i don't see that i should be any better offthan i am now."
he was silent for a moment."d'you mean to say you won't marry me?" he asked hoarsely. "does my great love mean nothing to you atall?" "one has to think of oneself in thosethings, don't one? i shouldn't mind marrying, but i don't wantto marry if i'm going to be no better off than what i am now.i don't see the use of it." "if you cared for me you wouldn't think ofall that." "p'raps not."he was silent. he drank a glass of wine in order to getrid of the choking in his throat.
"look at that girl who's just going out,"said mildred. "she got them furs at the bon marche atbrixton. i saw them in the window last time i wentdown there." philip smiled grimly. "what are you laughing at?" she asked."it's true. and i said to my aunt at the time, iwouldn't buy anything that had been in the window like that, for everyone to know howmuch you paid for it." "i can't understand you. you make me frightfully unhappy, and in thenext breath you talk rot that has nothing
to do with what we're speaking about.""you are nasty to me," she answered, aggrieved. "i can't help noticing those furs, becausei said to my aunt..." "i don't care a damn what you said to youraunt," he interrupted impatiently. "i wish you wouldn't use bad language whenyou speak to me philip. you know i don't like it."philip smiled a little, but his eyes were wild. he was silent for a while.he looked at her sullenly. he hated, despised, and loved her."if i had an ounce of sense i'd never see
you again," he said at last. "if you only knew how heartily i despisemyself for loving you!" "that's not a very nice thing to say tome," she replied sulkily. "it isn't," he laughed. "let's go to the pavilion.""that's what's so funny in you, you start laughing just when one doesn't expect youto. and if i make you that unhappy why d'youwant to take me to the pavilion? i'm quite ready to go home.""merely because i'm less unhappy with you than away from you."
"i should like to know what you reallythink of me." he laughed outright."my dear, if you did you'd never speak to me again." chapter lxiii philip did not pass the examination inanatomy at the end of march. he and dunsford had worked at the subjecttogether on philip's skeleton, asking each other questions till both knew by heartevery attachment and the meaning of every nodule and groove on the human bones; but in the examination room philip was seizedwith panic, and failed to give right
answers to questions from a sudden fearthat they might be wrong. he knew he was ploughed and did not eventrouble to go up to the building next day to see whether his number was up.the second failure put him definitely among the incompetent and idle men of his year. he did not care much.he had other things to think of. he told himself that mildred must havesenses like anybody else, it was only a question of awakening them; he had theoriesabout woman, the rip at heart, and thought that there must come a time with everyonewhen she would yield to persistence. it was a question of watching for theopportunity, keeping his temper, wearing
her down with small attentions, takingadvantage of the physical exhaustion which opened the heart to tenderness, making himself a refuge from the petty vexationsof her work. he talked to her of the relations betweenhis friends in paris and the fair ladies they admired. the life he described had a charm, an easygaiety, in which was no grossness. weaving into his own recollections theadventures of mimi and rodolphe, of musette and the rest of them, he poured intomildred's ears a story of poverty made picturesque by song and laughter, of
lawless love made romantic by beauty andyouth. he never attacked her prejudices directly,but sought to combat them by the suggestion that they were suburban. he never let himself be disturbed by herinattention, nor irritated by her indifference.he thought he had bored her. by an effort he made himself affable andentertaining; he never let himself be angry, he never asked for anything, henever complained, he never scolded. when she made engagements and broke them,he met her next day with a smiling face; when she excused herself, he said it didnot matter.
he never let her see that she pained him. he understood that his passionate grief hadwearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in the leastdegree troublesome. he was heroic. though she never mentioned the change, forshe did not take any conscious notice of it, it affected her nevertheless: shebecame more confidential with him; she took her little grievances to him, and she always had some grievance against themanageress of the shop, one of her fellow waitresses, or her aunt; she was talkativeenough now, and though she never said
anything that was not trivial philip wasnever tired of listening to her. "i like you when you don't want to makelove to me," she told him once. "that's flattering for me," he laughed. she did not realise how her words made hisheart sink nor what an effort it needed for him to answer so lightly."oh, i don't mind your kissing me now and then. it doesn't hurt me and it gives youpleasure." occasionally she went so far as to ask himto take her out to dinner, and the offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture.
"i wouldn't do it to anyone else," shesaid, by way of apology. "but i know i can with you.""you couldn't give me greater pleasure," he smiled. she asked him to give her something to eatone evening towards the end of april. "all right," he said."where would you like to go afterwards?" "oh, don't let's go anywhere. let's just sit and talk.you don't mind, do you?" "rather not."he thought she must be beginning to care for him.
three months before the thought of anevening spent in conversation would have bored her to death.it was a fine day, and the spring added to philip's high spirits. he was content with very little now. "i say, won't it be ripping when the summercomes along," he said, as they drove along on the top of a 'bus to soho--she hadherself suggested that they should not be so extravagant as to go by cab. "we shall be able to spend every sunday onthe river. we'll take our luncheon in a basket."she smiled slightly, and he was encouraged
to take her hand. she did not withdraw it."i really think you're beginning to like me a bit," he smiled."you are silly, you know i like you, or else i shouldn't be here, should i?" they were old customers at the littlerestaurant in soho by now, and the patronne gave them a smile as they came in.the waiter was obsequious. "let me order the dinner tonight," saidmildred. philip, thinking her more enchanting thanever, gave her the menu, and she chose her favourite dishes.
the range was small, and they had eatenmany times all that the restaurant could provide.philip was gay. he looked into her eyes, and he dwelt onevery perfection of her pale cheek. when they had finished mildred by way ofexception took a cigarette. she smoked very seldom. "i don't like to see a lady smoking," shesaid. she hesitated a moment and then spoke. "were you surprised, my asking you to takeme out and give me a bit of dinner tonight?""i was delighted."
"i've got something to say to you, philip." he looked at her quickly, his heart sank,but he had trained himself well. "well, fire away," he said, smiling."you're not going to be silly about it, are you? the fact is i'm going to get married.""are you?" said philip. he could think of nothing else to say. he had considered the possibility often andhad imagined to himself what he would do and say. he had suffered agonies when he thought ofthe despair he would suffer, he had thought
of suicide, of the mad passion of angerthat would seize him; but perhaps he had too completely anticipated the emotion he would experience, so that now he feltmerely exhausted. he felt as one does in a serious illnesswhen the vitality is so low that one is indifferent to the issue and wants only tobe left alone. "you see, i'm getting on," she said. "i'm twenty-four and it's time i settleddown." he was silent. he looked at the patronne sitting behindthe counter, and his eye dwelt on a red
feather one of the diners wore in her hat.mildred was nettled. "you might congratulate me," she said. "i might, mightn't i?i can hardly believe it's true. i've dreamt it so often. it rather tickles me that i should havebeen so jolly glad that you asked me to take you out to dinner.whom are you going to marry?" "miller," she answered, with a slightblush. "miller?" cried philip, astounded."but you've not seen him for months." "he came in to lunch one day last week andasked me then.
he's earning very good money.he makes seven pounds a week now and he's got prospects." philip was silent again.he remembered that she had always liked miller; he amused her; there was in hisforeign birth an exotic charm which she felt unconsciously. "i suppose it was inevitable," he said atlast. "you were bound to accept the highestbidder. when are you going to marry?" "on saturday next.i have given notice."
philip felt a sudden pang."as soon as that?" "we're going to be married at a registryoffice. emil prefers it."philip felt dreadfully tired. he wanted to get away from her. he thought he would go straight to bed.he called for the bill. "i'll put you in a cab and send you down tovictoria. i daresay you won't have to wait long for atrain." "won't you come with me?""i think i'd rather not if you don't mind." "it's just as you please," she answeredhaughtily.
"i suppose i shall see you at tea-timetomorrow?" "no, i think we'd better make a full stopnow. i don't see why i should go on makingmyself unhappy. i've paid the cab." he nodded to her and forced a smile on hislips, then jumped on a 'bus and made his way home.he smoked a pipe before he went to bed, but he could hardly keep his eyes open. he suffered no pain.he fell into a heavy sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
chapter lxiv but about three in the morning philip awokeand could not sleep again. he began to think of mildred.he tried not to, but could not help himself. he repeated to himself the same thing timeafter time till his brain reeled. it was inevitable that she should marry:life was hard for a girl who had to earn her own living; and if she found someonewho could give her a comfortable home she should not be blamed if she accepted. philip acknowledged that from her point ofview it would have been madness to marry
him: only love could have made such povertybearable, and she did not love him. it was no fault of hers; it was a fact thatmust be accepted like any other. philip tried to reason with himself. he told himself that deep down in his heartwas mortified pride; his passion had begun in wounded vanity, and it was this atbottom which caused now a great part of his wretchedness. he despised himself as much as he despisedher. then he made plans for the future, the sameplans over and over again, interrupted by recollections of kisses on her soft palecheek and by the sound of her voice with
its trailing accent; he had a great deal of work to do, since in the summer he wastaking chemistry as well as the two examinations he had failed in. he had separated himself from his friendsat the hospital, but now he wanted companionship. there was one happy occurrence: hayward afortnight before had written to say that he was passing through london and had askedhim to dinner; but philip, unwilling to be bothered, had refused. he was coming back for the season, andphilip made up his mind to write to him.
he was thankful when eight o'clock struckand he could get up. he was pale and weary. but when he had bathed, dressed, and hadbreakfast, he felt himself joined up again with the world at large; and his pain was alittle easier to bear. he did not feel like going to lectures thatmorning, but went instead to the army and navy stores to buy mildred a wedding-present. after much wavering he settled on adressing-bag. it cost twenty pounds, which was much morethan he could afford, but it was showy and vulgar: he knew she would be aware exactlyhow much it cost; he got a melancholy
satisfaction in choosing a gift which would give her pleasure and at the same timeindicate for himself the contempt he had for her. philip had looked forward with apprehensionto the day on which mildred was to be married; he was expecting an intolerableanguish; and it was with relief that he got a letter from hayward on saturday morning to say that he was coming up early on thatvery day and would fetch philip to help him to find rooms. philip, anxious to be distracted, looked upa time-table and discovered the only train
hayward was likely to come by; he went tomeet him, and the reunion of the friends was enthusiastic. they left the luggage at the station, andset off gaily. hayward characteristically proposed thatfirst of all they should go for an hour to the national gallery; he had not seenpictures for some time, and he stated that it needed a glimpse to set him in tune withlife. philip for months had had no one with whomhe could talk of art and books. since the paris days hayward had immersedhimself in the modern french versifiers, and, such a plethora of poets is there infrance, he had several new geniuses to tell
philip about. they walked through the gallery pointingout to one another their favourite pictures; one subject led to another; theytalked excitedly. the sun was shining and the air was warm. "let's go and sit in the park," saidhayward. "we'll look for rooms after luncheon."the spring was pleasant there. it was a day upon which one felt it goodmerely to live. the young green of the trees was exquisiteagainst the sky; and the sky, pale and blue, was dappled with little white clouds.
at the end of the ornamental water was thegray mass of the horse guards. the ordered elegance of the scene had thecharm of an eighteenth-century picture. it reminded you not of watteau, whoselandscapes are so idyllic that they recall only the woodland glens seen in dreams, butof the more prosaic jean-baptiste pater. philip's heart was filled with lightness. he realised, what he had only read before,that art (for there was art in the manner in which he looked upon nature) mightliberate the soul from pain. they went to an italian restaurant forluncheon and ordered themselves a fiaschetto of chianti.lingering over the meal they talked on.
they reminded one another of the peoplethey had known at heidelberg, they spoke of philip's friends in paris, they talked ofbooks, pictures, morals, life; and suddenly philip heard a clock strike three. he remembered that by this time mildred wasmarried. he felt a sort of stitch in his heart, andfor a minute or two he could not hear what hayward was saying. but he filled his glass with chianti.he was unaccustomed to alcohol and it had gone to his head.for the time at all events he was free from care.
his quick brain had lain idle for so manymonths that he was intoxicated now with he was thankful to have someone to talk towho would interest himself in the things that interested him."i say don't let's waste this beautiful day in looking for rooms. i'll put you up tonight.you can look for rooms tomorrow or monday." "all right.what shall we do?" answered hayward. "let's get on a penny steamboat and go downto greenwich." the idea appealed to hayward, and theyjumped into a cab which took them to westminster bridge.
they got on the steamboat just as she wasstarting. presently philip, a smile on his lips,spoke. "i remember when first i went to paris,clutton, i think it was, gave a long discourse on the subject that beauty is putinto things by painters and poets. they create beauty. in themselves there is nothing to choosebetween the campanile of giotto and a factory chimney. and then beautiful things grow rich withthe emotion that they have aroused in succeeding generations.that is why old things are more beautiful
than modern. the ode on a grecian urn is more lovely nowthan when it was written, because for a hundred years lovers have read it and thesick at heart taken comfort in its lines." philip left hayward to infer what in thepassing scene had suggested these words to him, and it was a delight to know that hecould safely leave the inference. it was in sudden reaction from the life hehad been leading for so long that he was now deeply affected. the delicate iridescence of the london airgave the softness of a pastel to the gray stone of the buildings; and in the wharfsand storehouses there was the severity of
grace of a japanese print. they went further down; and the splendidchannel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was crowded with traffic;philip thought of the painters and the poets who had made all these things so beautiful, and his heart was filled withgratitude. they came to the pool of london, and whocan describe its majesty? the imagination thrills, and heaven knowswhat figures people still its broad stream, doctor johnson with boswell by his side, anold pepys going on board a man-o'-war: the pageant of english history, and romance,and high adventure.
philip turned to hayward with shining eyes."dear charles dickens," he murmured, smiling a little at his own emotion. "aren't you rather sorry you chuckedpainting?" asked hayward. "no.""i suppose you like doctoring?" "no, i hate it, but there was nothing elseto do. the drudgery of the first two years isawful, and unfortunately i haven't got the scientific temperament." "well, you can't go on changingprofessions." "oh, no.i'm going to stick to this.
i think i shall like it better when i getinto the wards. i have an idea that i'm more interested inpeople than in anything else in the world. and as far as i can see, it's the onlyprofession in which you have your freedom. you carry your knowledge in your head; witha box of instruments and a few drugs you can make your living anywhere." "aren't you going to take a practice then?""not for a good long time at any rate," philip answered. "as soon as i've got through my hospitalappointments i shall get a ship; i want to go to the east--the malay archipelago,siam, china, and all that sort of thing--
and then i shall take odd jobs. something always comes along, cholera dutyin india and things like that. i want to go from place to place.i want to see the world. the only way a poor man can do that is bygoing in for the medical." they came to greenwich then.the noble building of inigo jones faced the river grandly. "i say, look, that must be the place wherepoor jack dived into the mud for pennies," said philip.they wandered in the park. ragged children were playing in it, and itwas noisy with their cries: here and there
old seamen were basking in the sun.there was an air of a hundred years ago. "it seems a pity you wasted two years inparis," said hayward. "waste? look at the movement of that child, look atthe pattern which the sun makes on the ground, shining through the trees, look atthat sky--why, i should never have seen that sky if i hadn't been to paris." hayward thought that philip choked a sob,and he looked at him with astonishment. "what's the matter with you?""nothing. i'm sorry to be so damned emotional, butfor six months i've been starved for
beauty.""you used to be so matter of fact. it's very interesting to hear you saythat." "damn it all, i don't want to beinteresting," laughed philip. "let's go and have a stodgy tea." chapter lxv hayward's visit did philip a great deal ofgood. each day his thoughts dwelt less onmildred. he looked back upon the past with disgust. he could not understand how he hadsubmitted to the dishonour of such a love;
and when he thought of mildred it was withangry hatred, because she had submitted him to so much humiliation. his imagination presented her to him nowwith her defects of person and manner exaggerated, so that he shuddered at thethought of having been connected with her. "it just shows how damned weak i am," hesaid to himself. the adventure was like a blunder that onehad committed at a party so horrible that one felt nothing could be done to excuseit: the only remedy was to forget. his horror at the degradation he hadsuffered helped him. he was like a snake casting its skin and helooked upon the old covering with nausea.
he exulted in the possession of himselfonce more; he realised how much of the delight of the world he had lost when hewas absorbed in that madness which they called love; he had had enough of it; he did not want to be in love any more if lovewas that. philip told hayward something of what hehad gone through. "wasn't it sophocles," he asked, "whoprayed for the time when he would be delivered from the wild beast of passionthat devoured his heart-strings?" philip seemed really to be born again. he breathed the circumambient air as thoughhe had never breathed it before, and he
took a child's pleasure in all the facts ofthe world. he called his period of insanity sixmonths' hard labour. hayward had only been settled in london afew days when philip received from blackstable, where it had been sent, a cardfor a private view at some picture gallery. he took hayward, and, on looking at thecatalogue, saw that lawson had a picture in it."i suppose he sent the card," said philip. "let's go and find him, he's sure to be infront of his picture." this, a profile of ruth chalice, was tuckedaway in a corner, and lawson was not far from it.
he looked a little lost, in his large softhat and loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered forthe private view. he greeted philip with enthusiasm, and withhis usual volubility told him that he had come to live in london, ruth chalice was ahussy, he had taken a studio, paris was played out, he had a commission for a portrait, and they'd better dine togetherand have a good old talk. philip reminded him of his acquaintancewith hayward, and was entertained to see that lawson was slightly awed by hayward'selegant clothes and grand manner. they sat upon him better than they had donein the shabby little studio which lawson
and philip had shared.at dinner lawson went on with his news. flanagan had gone back to america. clutton had disappeared.he had come to the conclusion that a man had no chance of doing anything so long ashe was in contact with art and artists: the only thing was to get right away. to make the step easier he had quarrelledwith all his friends in paris. he developed a talent for telling them hometruths, which made them bear with fortitude his declaration that he had done with thatcity and was settling in gerona, a little town in the north of spain which had
attracted him when he saw it from the trainon his way to barcelona. he was living there now alone."i wonder if he'll ever do any good," said philip. he was interested in the human side of thatstruggle to express something which was so obscure in the man's mind that he wasbecome morbid and querulous. philip felt vaguely that he was himself inthe same case, but with him it was the conduct of his life as a whole thatperplexed him. that was his means of self-expression, andwhat he must do with it was not clear. but he had no time to continue with thistrain of thought, for lawson poured out a
frank recital of his affair with ruthchalice. she had left him for a young student whohad just come from england, and was behaving in a scandalous fashion.lawson really thought someone ought to step in and save the young man. she would ruin him.philip gathered that lawson's chief grievance was that the rupture had come inthe middle of a portrait he was painting. "women have no real feeling for art," hesaid. "they only pretend they have." but he finished philosophically enough:"however, i got four portraits out of her,
and i'm not sure if the last i was workingon would ever have been a success." philip envied the easy way in which thepainter managed his love affairs. he had passed eighteen months pleasantlyenough, had got an excellent model for nothing, and had parted from her at the endwith no great pang. "and what about cronshaw?" asked philip. "oh, he's done for," answered lawson, withthe cheerful callousness of his youth. "he'll be dead in six months.he got pneumonia last winter. he was in the english hospital for sevenweeks, and when he came out they told him his only chance was to give up liquor.""poor devil," smiled the abstemious philip.
"he kept off for a bit. he used to go to the lilas all the same, hecouldn't keep away from that, but he used to drink hot milk, avec de la fleurd'oranger, and he was damned dull." "i take it you did not conceal the factfrom him." "oh, he knew it himself.a little while ago he started on whiskey again. he said he was too old to turn over any newleaves. he would rather be happy for six months anddie at the end of it than linger on for five years.
and then i think he's been awfully hard uplately. you see, he didn't earn anything while hewas ill, and the slut he lives with has been giving him a rotten time." "i remember, the first time i saw him iadmired him awfully," said philip. "i thought he was wonderful.it is sickening that vulgar, middle-class virtue should pay." "of course he was a rotter.he was bound to end in the gutter sooner or later," said lawson.philip was hurt because lawson would not see the pity of it.
of course it was cause and effect, but inthe necessity with which one follows the other lay all tragedy of life."oh, i'd forgotten," said lawson. "just after you left he sent round apresent for you. i thought you'd be coming back and i didn'tbother about it, and then i didn't think it worth sending on; but it'll come over tolondon with the rest of my things, and you can come to my studio one day and fetch itaway if you want it." "you haven't told me what it is yet.""oh, it's only a ragged little bit of carpet. i shouldn't think it's worth anything.i asked him one day what the devil he'd
sent the filthy thing for. he told me he'd seen it in a shop in therue de rennes and bought it for fifteen francs.it appears to be a persian rug. he said you'd asked him the meaning of lifeand that was the answer. but he was very drunk."philip laughed. "oh yes, i know. i'll take it.it was a favourite wheeze of his. he said i must find out for myself, or elsethe answer meant nothing." >
chapter lxvi philip worked well and easily; he had agood deal to do, since he was taking in july the three parts of the first conjointexamination, two of which he had failed in before; but he found life pleasant. he made a new friend. lawson, on the lookout for models, haddiscovered a girl who was understudying at one of the theatres, and in order to induceher to sit to him arranged a little luncheon-party one sunday. she brought a chaperon with her; and to herphilip, asked to make a fourth, was
instructed to confine his attentions. he found this easy, since she turned out tobe an agreeable chatterbox with an amusing tongue. she asked philip to go and see her; she hadrooms in vincent square, and was always in to tea at five o'clock; he went, wasdelighted 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, anda large mouth: the excessive contrasts of her colouring reminded one of a portrait by one of the modern french painters; her skinwas very white, her cheeks were very red,
her thick eyebrows, her hair, were veryblack. the effect was odd, a little unnatural, butfar from unpleasing. she was separated from her husband andearned her living and her child's by writing penny novelettes. there were one or two publishers who made aspecialty of that sort of thing, and she had as much work as she could do. it was ill-paid, she received fifteenpounds for a story of thirty thousand words; but she was satisfied. "after all, it only costs the readertwopence," 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 andthe rent and clothes for baby, and i go on again." besides, she walked on at various theatreswhere they wanted supers and earned by this when in work from sixteen shillings to aguinea a week. at the end of her day she was so tired thatshe slept like a top. she made the best of her difficult lot. her keen sense of humour enabled her to getamusement out of every vexatious circumstance.
sometimes things went wrong, and she foundherself with no money at all; then her trifling possessions found their way to apawnshop in the vauxhall bridge road, and she ate bread and butter till things grewbrighter. she never lost her cheerfulness. philip was interested in her shiftlesslife, and she made him laugh with the fantastic narration of her struggles. he asked her why she did not try her handat literary work of a better sort, but she knew that she had no talent, and theabominable 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 acontinuation of the life she led. she seemed to have no relations, and herfriends were as poor as herself. "i don't think of the future," she said. "as long as i have enough money for threeweeks' 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 findsomething always happens." soon philip grew in the habit of going into tea with her every day, and so that his visits might not embarrass her he took in acake or a pound of butter or some tea.
they started to call one another by theirchristian names. feminine sympathy was new to him, and hedelighted 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 withmildred; and he contrasted with the one's obstinate stupidity, which refused interestto everything she did not know, the other's quick appreciation and ready intelligence. his heart sank when he thought that hemight 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 forself-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 herhead 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 ather feet. "i can't tell you how heartily thankful iam it's all over," he sighed.
"poor thing, you must have had a rottentime," she murmured, and by way of showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder. he took it and kissed it, but she withdrewit quickly. "why did you do that?" she asked, with ablush. "have you any objection?" she looked at him for a moment withtwinkling eyes, and she smiled. "no," she said.he got up on his knees and faced her. she looked into his eyes steadily, and herlarge mouth trembled with a smile. "well?" she said."you know, you are a ripper.
i'm so grateful to you for being nice tome. i like you so much.""don't be idiotic," she said. philip took hold of her elbows and drew hertowards him. she made no resistance, but bent forward alittle, 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 handsoftly over his hair. "you know, it's awfully silly of you tobehave 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 betternature," replied philip, "you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're doingit." she gave a little chuckle, but she did notstop. "it's very wrong of me, isn't it?" shesaid. philip, surprised and a little amused,looked into her eyes, and as he looked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and therewas an expression in them that enchanted his heart was suddenly stirred, and tearscame to his eyes. "norah, you're not fond of me, are you?" heasked, incredulously. "you clever boy, you ask such stupidquestions."
"oh, my dear, it never struck me that youcould be." he flung his arms round her and kissed her,while she, laughing, blushing, and crying, surrendered herself willingly to hisembrace. presently he released her and sitting backon 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 sograteful." he took her hands and covered them withkisses.
this was the beginning for philip of ahappiness which seemed both solid and durable. they became lovers but remained friends. there was in norah a maternal instinctwhich received satisfaction in her love for philip; she wanted someone to pet, andscold, and make a fuss of; she had a domestic temperament and found pleasure inlooking after his health and his linen. she pitied his deformity, over which he wasso sensitive, and her pity expressed itself instinctively in tenderness. she was young, strong, and healthy, and itseemed quite natural to her to give her
love.she had high spirits and a merry soul. she liked philip because he laughed withher at all the amusing things in life that caught her fancy, and above all she likedhim 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 bewith her, amused and interested by her she restored his belief in himself and puthealing ointments, as it were, on all the bruises of his soul.he was immensely flattered that she cared
he admired her courage, her optimism, herimpudent defiance of fate; she had a little philosophy of her own, ingenuous andpractical. "you know, i don't believe in churches andparsons and all that," she said, "but i believe in god, and i don't believe heminds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over astile when you can. and i think people on the whole are verynice, and i'm sorry for those who aren't." "and what about afterwards?" asked philip. "oh, well, i don't know for certain, youknow," 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 delicateflattery. she thought that philip did a brave thingwhen he left paris because he was conscious he could not be a great artist; and he wasenchanted when she expressed enthusiastic admiration for him. he had never been quite certain whetherthis action indicated courage or infirmity of purpose.it was delightful to realise that she considered it heroic. she ventured to tackle him on a subjectwhich his friends instinctively avoided.
"it's very silly of you to be so sensitiveabout your club-foot," she said. she saw him bush darkly, but went on. "you know, people don't think about itnearly 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," hesaid 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 thata wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was the most charming friend he hadever had, with a sympathy that he had never
found in a man. the sexual relationship was no more thanthe strongest link in their friendship. it completed it, but was not essential. and because philip's appetites weresatisfied, he became more equable and easier to live with.he felt in complete possession of himself. he thought sometimes of the winter, duringwhich he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathingfor mildred and with horror of himself. his examinations were approaching, andnorah was as interested in them as he. he was flattered and touched by hereagerness.
she made him promise to come at once andtell her the results. he passed the three parts this time withoutmishap, 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?" sheasked. "i can take a holiday with a clearconscience. i have no work to do till the wintersession begins in october."
"i suppose you'll go down to your uncle'sat blackstable?" "you suppose quite wrong. i'm going to stay in london and play withyou." "i'd rather you went away.""why? are you tired of me?" she laughed and put her hands on hisshoulders. "because you've been working hard, and youlook 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 mymonth'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 toplease." "all that's nonsense," she said, "but i'lltell you one thing: i'm one of the few persons i ever met who are able to learnfrom experience." chapter lxvii
philip looked forward to his return tolondon with impatience. during the two months he spent atblackstable norah wrote to him frequently, long letters in a bold, large hand, inwhich with cheerful humour she described the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her landlady, richfood for laughter, the comic vexations of her rehearsals--she was walking on in animportant spectacle at one of the london theatres--and her odd adventures with thepublishers of novelettes. philip read a great deal, bathed, playedtennis, and sailed. at the beginning of october he settled downin london to work for the second conjoint
examination. he was eager to pass it, since that endedthe 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 atpoole, and had a number of sketches to show of the harbour and of the beach. he had a couple of commissions forportraits and proposed to stay in london till the bad light drove him away.
hayward, in london too, intended to spendthe winter abroad, but remained week after week from sheer inability to make up hismind to go. hayward had run to fat during the last twoor three years--it was five years since philip first met him in heidelberg--and hewas prematurely bald. he was very sensitive about it and wore hishair 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; theyhad a listless droop; and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and pale.
he still talked vaguely of the things hewas going to do in the future, but with less conviction; and he was conscious thathis friends no longer believed in him: when he had drank two or three glasses ofwhiskey he was inclined to be elegiac. "i'm a failure," he murmured, "i'm unfitfor the brutality of the struggle of life. all i can do is to stand aside and let thevulgar throng hustle by in their pursuit of the good things." he gave you the impression that to fail wasa 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 philipimpatiently. "would you?" he asked, raising hiseyebrows. 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 samething over and over again," said philip. "that's only a laborious form of idleness." "but are you under the impression that youhave so great a mind that you can understand the most profound writer at afirst reading?"
"i don't want to understand him, i'm not acritic. i'm not interested in him for his sake butfor mine." "why d'you read then?" "partly for pleasure, because it's a habitand i'm just as uncomfortable if i don't read as if i don't smoke, and partly toknow myself. when i read a book i seem to read it withmy 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 getanything more if i read it a dozen times.
you see, it seems to me, one's like aclosed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there arecertain things that have a peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; andat 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 clearabout. "you want to do things, you want to becomethings," 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 hadto be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he mingled idleness andidealism so that he could not separate them. at lawson's studio one day he met ajournalist, who was charmed by his conversation, and a week later the editorof a paper wrote to suggest that he should do some criticism for him. for forty-eight hours hayward lived in anagony of indecision. he had talked of getting occupation of thissort so long that he had not the face to refuse outright, but the thought of doinganything filled him with panic.
at last he declined the offer and breathedfreely. "it would have interfered with my work," hetold philip. "what work?" asked philip brutally. "my inner life," he answered. then he went on to say beautiful thingsabout amiel, the professor of geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which wasnever fulfilled; till at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse were at once manifest in the minute, wonderfuljournal which was found among his papers. hayward smiled enigmatically.
but hayward could still talk delightfullyabout books; his taste was exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had aconstant interest in ideas, which made him an entertaining companion. they meant nothing to him really, sincethey never had any effect on him; but he treated them as he might have pieces ofchina 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 tookphilip and lawson to a tavern situated in beak street, remarkable not only in itselfand for its history--it had memories of eighteenth-century glories which excited the romantic imagination--but for itssnuff, 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 vastallegories of the school of haydon; but smoke, gas, and the london atmosphere had given them a richness which made them looklike old masters.
the dark panelling, the massive, tarnishedgold 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 oppositethe 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 treatof the excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of thisnarrative, are inadequate to the task; and
pompous terms, jewelled, exotic phrasesrise 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 andto appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision ofmathematics. only one of its qualities was comparable toanything 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 byronin a stanza of don juan, aiming at the impossible, might have achieved the
sublime; oscar wilde, heaping jewels ofispahan upon brocades of byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty. considering it, the mind reeled undervisions of the feasts of elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of debussy mingledwith 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 thispriceless beverage was to be obtained by meeting in the street a man calledmacalister who had been at cambridge with
he was a stockbroker and a philosopher. he was accustomed to go to the tavern oncea week; and soon philip, lawson, and hayward got into the habit of meeting thereevery tuesday evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to persons who took pleasure inconversation. macalister was a big-boned fellow, much tooshort for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft voice. he was a student of kant and judgedeverything 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 thatnothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy inthe affairs of life. the neat little system which he had formedas the result of his meditations at blackstable had not been of conspicuous useduring his infatuation for mildred. he could not be positive that reason wasmuch help in the conduct of life. it seemed to him that life lived itself. he remembered very vividly the violence ofthe emotion which had possessed him and his inability, as if he were tied down to theground with ropes, to react against it.
he read many wise things in books, but hecould only judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was differentfrom other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an action, the benefits which must befall him if he didit, the harm which might result from the omission; but his whole being was urged onirresistibly. he did not act with a part of himself butaltogether. the power that possessed him seemed to havenothing to do with reason: all that reason did was to point out the methods ofobtaining what his whole soul was striving for.
macalister reminded him of the categoricalimperative. "act so that every action of yours shouldbe capable of becoming a universal rule of action for all men." "that seems to me perfect nonsense," saidphilip. "you're a bold man to say that of anythingstated by immanuel kant," retorted macalister. "why?reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality: there's a damned sighttoo much reverence in the world. kant thought things not because they weretrue, but because he was kant."
"well, what is your objection to thecategorical imperative?" (they talked as though the fate of empireswere in the balance.) "it suggests that one can choose one'scourse by an effort of will. and it suggests that reason is the surestguide. why should its dictates be any better thanthose 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 hotmadness 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," hethought. and yet even as he said it he was not quitesure whether he spoke sincerely. when he was under the influence of passionhe had felt a singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. he was more alive, there was an excitementin sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, which made life now a trifle dull.
for all the misery he had endured there wasa compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence. but philip's unlucky words engaged him in adiscussion 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 hecould only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with logic and batteredhim 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, buti believe it is only an illusion. but it is an illusion which is one of thestrongest motives of my actions. before i do anything i feel that i havechoice, and that influences what i do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, ibelieve that it was inevitable from all eternity." "what do you deduce from that?" askedhayward. "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." chapter lxviii one morning philip on getting up felt hishead 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 breakfasthe called to her through the open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of teaand a piece of toast. a few minutes later there was a knock athis door, and griffiths came in. they had lived in the same house for over ayear, but had never done more than nod to
one another in the passage. "i say, i hear you're seedy," saidgriffiths. "i thought i'd come in and see what was thematter with you." philip, blushing he knew not why, madelight 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 philipirritably. "come on."philip put the thermometer in his mouth. griffiths sat on the side of the bed andchatted brightly for a moment, then he took
it out and looked at it. "now, look here, old man, you must stay inbed, 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 stayin bed. you will, won't you?" there was a peculiar charm in his manner, amingling 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 lookfor 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 oldman round as soon as he's done the wards." it seemed hours before anyone came tophilip. his head felt as if it would split, anguishrent his limbs, and he was afraid he was
going to cry. then there was a knock at the door andgriffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in."here's doctor deacon," he said. the physician stepped forward, an elderlyman 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 dingylodging-house room.
"wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? they'll put you in a private ward, and youcan 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 wasalways 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 griffithsat once. "oh, very well."he wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left. "now you've got to do exactly as i tellyou," 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'sforehead, a large cool, dry hand, and the touch seemed to him good. "i'm just going to take this round to thedispensary 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 hecame down.
"i'll leave the door open so that you cangive me a shout if you want anything." later in the day philip, awaking from anuneasy 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 someoneelse entered the room and expressed his surprise at finding griffiths there.philip heard him explain. "i'm looking after a second year's manwho's got these rooms. the wretched blighter's down withinfluenza.
no whist tonight, old man." presently griffiths was left alone andphilip called him. "i say, you're not putting off a partytonight, 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 awokefrom 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 iput a mattress down i should sleep so
soundly that i shouldn't hear you if youwanted 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 wouldwash 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 asthey 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 wentoff to get dressed and have something to eat. a few minutes before ten he came back witha 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 betweenthem. though griffiths was the same age as philiphe adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. he was a thoughtful fellow, gentle andencouraging; but his greatest quality was a
vitality which seemed to give health toeveryone with whom he came in contact. philip was unused to the petting which mostpeople enjoy from mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the femininetenderness of this strong young man. philip grew better. then griffiths, sitting idly in philip'sroom, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. he was a flirtatious creature, capable ofcarrying on three or four affairs at a time; and his account of the devices he wasforced to in order to keep out of difficulties made excellent hearing.
he had a gift for throwing a romanticglamour over everything that happened to he was crippled with debts, everything hehad of any value was pawned, but he managed always to be cheerful, extravagant, andgenerous. he was the adventurer by nature. he loved people of doubtful occupations andshifty purposes; and his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars oflondon was enormous. loose women, treating him as a friend, toldhim the troubles, difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-poundnotes.
he was ploughed in his examinations timeafter time; but he bore this cheerfully, and submitted with such a charming grace tothe parental expostulations that his father, a doctor in practice at leeds, had not the heart to be seriously angry withhim. "i'm an awful fool at books," he saidcheerfully, "but i can't work." life was much too jolly. but it was clear that when he had gotthrough the exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be atremendous success in practice. he would cure people by the sheer charm ofhis manner.
philip worshipped him as at school he hadworshipped boys who were tall and straight and high of spirits. by the time he was well they were fastfriends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to philip that griffiths seemed to enjoysitting in his little parlour, wasting philip's time with his amusing chatter andsmoking innumerable cigarettes. philip took him sometimes to the tavern offregent street. hayward found him stupid, but lawsonrecognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a picturesque figure with hisblue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. often they discussed things he knew nothingabout, and then he sat quietly, with a
good-natured smile on his handsome face,feeling quite rightly that his presence was sufficient contribution to theentertainment of the company. when he discovered that macalister was astockbroker he was eager for tips; and macalister, with his grave smile, told himwhat fortunes he could have made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. it made philip's mouth water, for in oneway and another he was spending more than he had expected, and it would have suitedhim very well to make a little money by the easy method macalister suggested. "next time i hear of a really good thingi'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 howdelightful it would be to make fifty pounds, so that he could give norah thefurs she so badly needed for the winter. he looked at the shops in regent street andpicked out the articles he could buy for the money.she deserved everything. she made his life very happy. chapter lxix one afternoon, when he went back to hisrooms from the hospital to wash and tidy himself before going to tea as usual withnorah, as he let himself in with his latch-
key, his landlady opened the door for him. "there's a lady waiting to see you," shesaid. "me?" exclaimed philip.he was surprised. it would only be norah, and he had no ideawhat had brought her. "i shouldn't 'ave let her in, only she'sbeen three times, and she seemed that upset at not finding you, so i told her she couldwait." he pushed past the explaining landlady andburst into the room. his heart turned sick.it was mildred. she was sitting down, but got up hurriedlyas 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, butkept them hanging by the side of her body. she looked like a housemaid applying for asituation. there was a dreadful humility in herbearing. philip did not know what feelings came overhim. he had a sudden impulse to turn round andescape from the room. "i didn't think i'd ever see you again," hesaid at last.
"i wish i was dead," she moaned.philip left her standing where she was. he could only think at the moment ofsteadying 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 satin it. he mixed her whiskey and soda, and, sobbingstill, she drank it. she looked at him with great, mournfuleyes. 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 seemedto swell his heart. he could not keep the distance from herwhich 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 andburst 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," shesaid.
"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 youcan'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 thefriday, 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 hearfrom him by return i'd go up to birmingham, and this morning i got a solicitor's letterto say i had no claim on him, and if i molested him he'd seek the protection ofthe 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 allright.
i didn't think he meant it. he was frightened, because i told him ababy 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 tohave known better. if you'd only heard the things he said tome! but i found out precious quick that hewasn't a gentleman. he left me without a penny. he hadn't paid the rent, and i hadn't gotthe money to pay it, and the woman who kept the house said such things to me--well, imight 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 giveme anything to be extravagant with." she had an extraordinary way of mixing thetrivial 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 thathe 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 daybefore and was able to give her five "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 hadbeen there for two hours. he was extraordinarily happy. "poor thing, poor thing," he murmured tohimself, 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 fromher. is anything the matter?norah. he did not know what to do nor what toanswer. he could fetch her after the play, in whichshe was walking on, was over and stroll home with her as he sometimes did; but hiswhole soul revolted against the idea of seeing her that evening. he thought of writing to her, but he couldnot 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 littleface, with its high cheekbones and the crude colour. there was a coarseness in her skin whichgave him goose-flesh. he knew that his telegram must be followedby 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 theafternoon, 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 openedthe 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 reallycouldn't. emil didn't marry me.he couldn't. he had a wife already and three children." philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy andanguish. 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 atfirst, and when he told me i gave him a piece of my mind. and then i didn't see him for months, andwhen 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 thethings he said. and there was something about him--he saidi'd never regret it, he promised to give me seven pounds a week--he said he was earningfifteen, and it was all a lie, he wasn't.
and then i was sick of going to the shopevery morning, and i wasn't getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to treat meas a servant instead of a relation, said i ought to do my own room, and if i didn't doit 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?" sheasked piteously. "no," he answered, looking up but away fromher, "only i'm awfully hurt."
"why?" "you see, i was so dreadfully in love withyou. i did everything i could to make you carefor me. i thought you were incapable of lovinganyone. it's so horrible to know that you werewilling to sacrifice everything for that bounder. i wonder what you saw in him.""i'm awfully sorry, philip. i regretted it bitterly afterwards, ipromise you that." he thought of emil miller, with his pasty,unhealthy look, his shifty blue eyes, and
the vulgar smartness of his appearance; healways 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 tomarry 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 timewhile 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 sincei 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 hadreturned to the familiar companionship of old days.it grew late. philip suggested that they should dinetogether and go to a music-hall. she wanted some persuasion, for she had anidea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it did not accordwith her distressed condition to go to a place of entertainment. at last philip asked her to go simply toplease 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 littlerestaurant in soho to which they had so often been; he was infinitely grateful toher, because her suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to it. she grew much more cheerful as dinnerproceeded. the burgundy from the public house at thecorner warmed her heart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorouscountenance. philip thought it safe to speak to her ofthe future.
"i suppose you haven't got a brassfarthing, have you?" he asked, when an opportunity presented itself. "only what you gave me yesterday, and i hadto give the landlady three pounds of that." "well, i'd better give you a tenner to goon with. i'll go and see my solicitor and get him towrite to miller. we can make him pay up something, i'm sure. if we can get a hundred pounds out of himit'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 leaveyou 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 ownmoney last till he was qualified, and he must have something over to keep him duringthe year he intended to spend as house physician and house surgeon either at hisown or at some other hospital. but mildred had told him various stories ofemil's meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate with her in case she accusedhim 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 goodfor me in the state i'm in. you have to think of your health, don'tyou?" "you needn't bother about the present,"said philip. "i can let you have all you want tillyou'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 everysense of the word." by degrees philip learned how theseparation had come about. it appeared that the fellow's wife haddiscovered the adventure he was engaged in
during his periodical visits to london, andhad gone to the head of the firm that employed him. she threatened to divorce him, and theyannounced that they would dismiss him if she did. he was passionately devoted to his childrenand 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 thereshould be no child to make the entanglement more complicated; and when mildred, unablelonger to conceal its approach, informed
him of the fact, he was seized with panic. he picked a quarrel and left her withoutmore ado. "when d'you expect to be confined?" askedphilip. "at the beginning of march." "three months."it was necessary to discuss plans. mildred declared she would not remain inthe rooms at highbury, and philip thought it more convenient too that she should benearer to him. he promised to look for something next day. she suggested the vauxhall bridge road as alikely neighbourhood.
"and it would be near for afterwards," shesaid. "what do you mean?" "well, i should only be able to stay thereabout two months or a little more, and then i should have to go into a house. i know a very respectable place, where theyhave a most superior class of people, and they take you for four guineas a week andno extras. of course the doctor's extra, but that'sall. a friend of mine went there, and the ladywho keeps it is a thorough lady. i mean to tell her that my husband's anofficer in india and i've come to london
for my baby, because it's better for myhealth." it seemed extraordinary to philip to hearher talking in this way. with her delicate little features and herpale face she looked cold and maidenly. when he thought of the passions that burntwithin her, so unexpected, his heart was strangely troubled.his pulse beat quickly. chapter lxx philip expected to find a letter from norahwhen he got back to his rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one thefollowing morning. the silence irritated and at the same timealarmed him.
they had seen one another every day he hadbeen in london since the previous june; and it must seem odd to her that he should lettwo days go by without visiting her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an unlucky chance shehad seen him with mildred. he could not bear to think that she washurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that afternoon. he was almost inclined to reproach herbecause 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 thesecond 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 whereyou don't see a soul pass all day," she said."give me a bit of life." then he forced himself to go to vincentsquare. he was sick with apprehension when he rangthe bell. he had an uneasy sense that he was treatingnorah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick temper, and he hatedscenes: perhaps the best way would be to
tell her frankly that mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as violentas 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 knewshe loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but now itwas horrible. she had not deserved that he should inflictpain upon her. he asked himself how she would greet himnow, and as he walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashedacross his mind. he knocked at the door.
he felt that he was pale, and wondered howto conceal his nervousness. she was writing away industriously, but shesprang to her feet as he entered. "i recognised your step," she cried. "where have you been hiding yourself, younaughty boy?" she came towards him joyfully and put herarms round his neck. she was delighted to see him. he kissed her, and then, to give himselfcountenance, said he was dying for tea. she bustled the fire to make the kettleboil. "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 hadnot 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; butthey 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 itinto 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 saythat 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 forthat 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 herhe thought of mildred and mildred's pale, thin lips. the recollection of mildred remained withhim 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 badmanners." he reddened a little, wondering whether shehad 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 breakmyself 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 thatshe should not resume her position. while she talked he thought that she wasworth ten of mildred; she amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she wascleverer, 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 tonorah, she would make him much happier than
he would ever be with mildred: after allshe loved him, and mildred was only grateful for his help. but when all was said the important thingwas to love rather than to be loved; and he yearned for mildred with his whole soul. he would sooner have ten minutes with herthan a whole afternoon with norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more thanall 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, heloved her.
he would rather have misery with the onethan 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 sayso. he made up his mind that he would send awire. mildred saw the rooms in the morning, wassatisfied with them, and after luncheon philip went up with her to highbury. she had a trunk for her clothes and anotherfor the various odds and ends, cushions,
lampshades, photograph frames, with whichshe had tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or three large cardboard boxes besides, but in all therewas no more than could be put on the roof of a four-wheeler. as they drove through victoria streetphilip sat well back in the cab in case norah should happen to be passing. he had not had an opportunity to telegraphand could not do so from the post office in the vauxhall bridge road, since she wouldwonder what he was doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could
have no excuse for not going into theneighbouring square where she lived. he made up his mind that he had better goin and see her for half an hour; but the necessity irritated him: he was angry withnorah, because she forced him to vulgar and degrading shifts. but he was happy to be with mildred. it amused him to help her with theunpacking; and he experienced a charming sense of possession in installing her inthese 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 elseseemed desirous to do for her. he unpacked her clothes and put them away. she was not proposing to go out again, sohe got her slippers and took off her boots. it delighted him to perform menial offices. "you do spoil me," she said, running herfingers affectionately through his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning herboots. 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," hesaid. 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 forthe intimacy her request showed. he undid the hooks and eyes with clumsyfingers. "that first day i came into the shop inever thought i'd be doing this for you now," he said, with a laugh which heforced.
"somebody must do it," she answered. she went into the bed-room and slipped intoa 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 withyou," 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 askedhim what the appointment was, but she showed no curiosity. he had ordered dinner for the two of themwhen 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 tonorah at once that he could not stay more than a few minutes. "i say, i've got only just time to say howd'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 forcehim to tell lies, and he knew that he
reddened when he answered that there was ademonstration at the hospital which he was bound to go to. he fancied that she looked as though shedid 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 incommon 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 scenewhich he would have given anything to avoid.the colour on norah's cheeks grew brighter. "but i've asked the gordons to lunch"--theywere an actor and his wife who were touring the provinces and in london for sunday--"itold 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 toaccount for all one's movements." norah suddenly changed. with an effort of self-control she got thebetter of her temper, and going up to him took his hands. "don't disappoint me tomorrow, philip, i'vebeen 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'sa bother.
won't you get out of your horridengagement--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 moreurgent 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 thelast few days, you've been quite different."he looked at his watch. "i'm afraid i'll have to be going," hesaid. "you won't come tomorrow?""no." "in that case you needn't trouble to comeagain," she cried, losing her temper for good."that's just as you like," he answered.
"don't let me detain you any longer," sheadded 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 himselfon getting out of the affair so easily. he went into victoria street and bought afew 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 withvegetables and a sweet. philip had ordered burgundy, which was herfavourite wine.
with the curtains drawn, a bright fire, andone of mildred's shades on the lamp, the room was cosy. "it's really just like home," smiledphilip. "i might be worse off, mightn't i?" sheanswered. 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?" heasked. "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 imight spend sunday with you." he thought that if she loved him she wouldsay that in that case she would stay with he knew very well that norah would not havehesitated. "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 feelingspassed 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 ableto 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 besttime you can. i only want you to be happy."
there was a little book bound in blue paperlying 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 ofherself. "i have an immense popularity amongkitchen-maids. they think me so genteel." chapter lxxi
philip, in return for griffiths'confidences, had told him the details of his own complicated amours, and on sundaymorning, after breakfast when they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the scene of theprevious day. griffiths congratulated him because he hadgot out of his difficulties so easily. "it's the simplest thing in the world tohave an affair with a woman," he remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil of anuisance to get out of it." philip felt a little inclined to pathimself on the back for his skill in managing the business.at all events he was immensely relieved.
he thought of mildred enjoying herself intulse hill, and he found in himself a real satisfaction because she was happy. it was an act of self-sacrifice on his partthat 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 tablea letter from norah. she wrote:dearest, i'm sorry i was cross on saturday. forgive me and come to tea in the afternoonas usual.
i love you.your norah. his heart sank, and he did not know what todo. he took the note to griffiths and showed itto him. "you'd better leave it unanswered," saidhe. "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 forthe postman's knock. i do, and i can't expose anybody else tothat torture." "my dear fellow, one can't break that sortof 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 deservedthat he should make her suffer; and what did griffiths know about the degrees ofanguish she was capable of? he remembered his own pain when mildred hadtold him she was going to be married. he did not want anyone to experience whathe 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 notlet the matter rest.
she must have seen that he had no more loveto give her. they said women were so quick at seeingthose 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 withamusement. "look here, there's only one thing you cando.
write to her, and tell her the thing'sover. put it so that there can be no mistakeabout it. it'll hurt her, but it'll hurt her less ifyou 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 weleft them on saturday. i don't think there's any use in lettingthese 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 askedhim what he thought of it. griffiths read it and looked at philip withtwinkling 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 heimagined with great detail what norah would feel when she received his letter. he tortured himself with the thought of hertears.
but at the same time he was relieved. imagined grief was more easy to bear thangrief seen, and he was free now to love mildred with all his soul. his heart leaped at the thought of going tosee her that afternoon, when his day's work at the hospital was over. when as usual he went back to his rooms totidy himself, he had no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voicebehind him. "may i come in? i've been waiting for you for half anhour."
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 therewas a rupture between them. he felt himself cornered. he was sick with fear, but he did his bestto smile. "yes, do," he said.he opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. he was nervous and, to give himselfcountenance, 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 havemade me perfectly wretched." "it was meant seriously," he answeredgravely. "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 toapologise again. after all, you're your own master and ihave no claims upon you. i don't want you to do anything you don'twant to."
she got up from the chair in which she wassitting 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 hishands, but he could not look at her. "i'm afraid it's too late," he said. she let herself down on the floor by hisside and clasped his knees. "philip, don't be silly. i'm quick-tempered too and i can understandthat 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 hishand. "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 anymore?" "i'm afraid so." "you were just looking for an opportunityto 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 hadleft her, leaning against the arm-chair. she began to cry quite silently, withouttrying to hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after theother. 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 wereoverwhelmed, 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 thebetter of her, and he was prepared for that. at the back of his mind was a feeling thata real quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would in some way be ajustification of his behaviour. the time passed. at last he grew frightened by her silentcrying; 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 glassand drank two or three mouthfuls. then in an exhausted whisper she asked himfor a handkerchief. she dried her eyes. "of course i knew you never loved me asmuch as i loved you," she moaned. "i'm afraid that's always the case," hesaid. "there's always one who loves and one wholets himself be loved." he thought of mildred, and a bitter paintraversed his heart. norah did not answer for a long time.
"i'd been so miserably unhappy, and my lifewas so hateful," she said at last. she did not speak to him, but to herself. he had never heard her before complain ofthe 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 sogood to me. and i admired you because you were cleverand 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 shewas 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 gratefulfor all you've done for me." he wondered what it was she saw in him. "oh, it's always the same," she sighed, "ifyou want men to behave well to you, you
must be beastly to them; if you treat themdecently they make you suffer for it." she got up from the floor and said she mustgo. 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 wantyou 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 sether 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 passinghansom; but when she followed him into the street he was startled to see how white shewas. there was a heaviness in her movements asthough she had suddenly grown older. she looked so ill that he had not the heartto let her go alone. "i'll drive back with you if you don'tmind." she did not answer, and he got into thecab.
they drove along in silence over thebridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill cries, played in theroad. when they arrived at her door she did notimmediately get out. it seemed as though she could not summonenough strength to her legs to move. "i hope you'll forgive me, norah," he said. she turned her eyes towards him, and he sawthat 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 toshow 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 tomildred'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 havedone. passing a fruiterer's, he remembered thatmildred was fond of grapes.
he was so grateful that he could show hislove for her by recollecting every whim she had. chapter lxxii for the next three months philip went everyday to see mildred. he took his books with him and after teaworked, while mildred lay on the sofa reading novels. sometimes he would look up and watch herfor 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 landladycame in to lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff withher. she was a little cockney, of middle age,with an amusing humour and a quick tongue. mildred had become great friends with herand had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the circumstanceswhich had brought her to the pass she was in. the good-hearted little woman was touchedand found no trouble too great to make mildred comfortable.
mildred's sense of propriety had suggestedthat philip should pass himself off as her brother. they dined together, and philip wasdelighted when he had ordered something which tempted mildred's capriciousappetite. it enchanted him to see her sittingopposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it. after dinner she sat in the arm-chair bythe fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against herknees, and smoked. often they did not talk at all, andsometimes 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 hadbeen asleep. she had a phlegmatic temperament, and hercondition did not seriously inconvenience her. she took a lot of trouble about her healthand accepted the advice of anyone who chose
to offer it. she went for a 'constitutional' everymorning 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 quitehappily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with thelandlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told philip with abundant detail the history of the landlady, of thelodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the people who lived in the next house oneither side.
now and then she was seized with panic; shepoured out her fears to philip about the pain of the confinement and was in terrorlest 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 oneto go about with anybody.") and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the most part shelooked 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 anytrouble. you see, it isn't as if i wasn't wellmade." mrs. owen, the owner of the house she wasgoing to when her time came, had recommended a doctor, and mildred saw himonce a week. he was to charge fifteen guineas. "of course i could have got it donecheaper, but mrs. owen strongly recommended him, and i thought it wasn't worth while tospoil the ship for a coat of tar." "if you feel happy and comfortable i don'tmind a bit about the expense," said philip. she accepted all that philip did for her asif it were the most natural thing in the
world, and on his side he loved to spendmoney 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 shewas not economical. "i don't know where the money goes to," shesaid 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 makethe necessary things for the baby; she told philip it was much cheaper in the end tobuy them.
philip had lately sold one of the mortgagesin which his money had been put; and now, with five hundred pounds in the bankwaiting to be invested in something that could be more easily realised, he felthimself uncommonly well-to-do. they talked often of the future. philip was anxious that mildred should keepthe child with her, but she refused: she had her living to earn, and it would bemore easy to do this if she had not also to look after a baby. her plan was to get back into one of theshops of the company for which she had worked before, and the child could be putwith some decent woman in the country.
"i can find someone who'll look after itwell for seven and sixpence a week. it'll be better for the baby and better forme." it seemed callous to philip, but when hetried 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 anevent 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 herliving by herself; it doesn't make it any easier when she's got a baby." "fortunately you've got me to fall backon," smiled philip, taking her hand. "you've been good to me, philip.""oh, what rot!" "you can't say i didn't offer anything inreturn 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 feelingthat her body was a commodity which she could deliver indifferently as anacknowledgment 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 forour little honeymoon." "you are naughty," she said, smiling. mildred expected to be confined early inmarch, and as soon as she was well enough
she was to go to the seaside for afortnight: that would give philip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after that came the easterholidays, 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 heknew in the latin quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming littlerestaurants; 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, shewould see him; and there was lawson, he had gone to paris for a couple of months; andthey would go to the bal bullier; there were excursions; they would make trips toversailles, 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 shetook no pains to keep up before him any pretences. she no longer troubled to do her hair withthe old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the vast fringewhich she generally wore: the more careless style suited her. her face was so thin that it made her eyesseem very large; there were heavy lines
under them, and the pallor of her cheeksmade their colour more profound. she had a wistful look which was infinitelypathetic. there seemed to philip to be in hersomething of the madonna. he wished they could continue in that sameway always. he was happier than he had ever been in hislife. he used to leave her at ten o'clock everynight, for she liked to go to bed early, and he was obliged to put in another coupleof hours' work to make up for the lost evening. he generally brushed her hair for herbefore he went.
he had made a ritual of the kisses he gaveher when he bade her good-night; first he kissed the palms of her hands (how thin thefingers were, the nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first theright 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 thedesire for self-sacrifice which consumed presently the time came for her to move tothe nursing-home where she was to be confined.philip was then able to visit her only in
the afternoons. mildred changed her story and representedherself as the wife of a soldier who had gone to india to join his regiment, andphilip 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 yourswent 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 lookedat it curiously. "it's a funny-looking little thing, isn'tit? 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 itembarrassed him because the nurse who owned the house was standing by his side; and hefelt by the way she was looking at him
that, disbelieving mildred's complicatedstory, she thought he was the father. "what are you going to call her?" askedphilip. "i can't make up my mind if i shall callher madeleine or cecilia." the nurse left them alone for a fewminutes, 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. chapter lxxiii three weeks later philip saw mildred andher baby off to brighton. she had made a quick recovery and lookedbetter than he had ever seen her. she was going to a boarding-house where shehad spent a couple of weekends with emil miller, and had written to say that herhusband was obliged to go to germany on business and she was coming down with herbaby. she got pleasure out of the stories sheinvented, and she showed a certain
fertility of invention in the working outof the details. mildred proposed to find in brighton somewoman who would be willing to take charge of the baby. philip was startled at the callousness withwhich she insisted on getting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense thatthe poor child had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. philip had expected the maternal instinctto make itself felt when she had had the baby two or three weeks and had counted onthis to help him persuade her to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred.
mildred was not unkind to her baby; she didall that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and she talked about it a gooddeal; but at heart she was indifferent to it. she could not look upon it as part ofherself. she fancied it resembled its fatheralready. she was continually wondering how she wouldmanage when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such afool as to have it at all. "if i'd only known then all i do now," shesaid. she laughed at philip, because he wasanxious about its welfare.
"you couldn't make more fuss if you was thefather," she said. "i'd like to see emil getting into such astew about it." philip's mind was full of the stories hehad heard of baby-farming and the ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children thatselfish, 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 but when you're going to pay so much a weekit's to their interest to look after it well." philip insisted that mildred should placethe child with people who had no children
of their own and would promise to take noother. "don't haggle about the price," he said. "i'd rather pay half a guinea a week thanrun 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 inthe 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 itsnakedness. as the train started he kissed mildred. he would have kissed the baby too, but hewas 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 hemade a final effort. he was very anxious to pass, first to savehimself time and expense, for money had been slipping through his fingers duringthe last four months with incredible speed;
and then because this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that thestudent had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of which was morevivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had been hitherto concerned. philip looked forward with interest to therest of the curriculum. nor did he want to have to confess tomildred that he had failed: though the examination was difficult and the majorityof candidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she would think less well of him if he did not succeed; she hada peculiarly humiliating way of showing
what she thought. mildred sent him a postcard to announce hersafe arrival, and he snatched half an hour every day to write a long letter to her. he had always a certain shyness inexpressing himself by word of mouth, but he found he could tell her, pen in hand, allsorts of things which it would have made him feel ridiculous to say. profiting by the discovery he poured out toher his whole heart. he had never been able to tell her beforehow 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, thehappiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her. he asked himself (he had often askedhimself before but had never put it into words) what it was in her that filled himwith such extravagant delight; he did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, and when she was awayfrom him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he knew only that when he thought ofher his heart seemed to grow big in his body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against his lungs) and itthrobbed, 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 wantof food. he looked forward eagerly to her answers. he did not expect her to write often, forhe knew that letter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quitecontent with the clumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his. she spoke of the boarding-house in whichshe had taken a room, of the weather and the baby, told him she had been for a walkon 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 goingto 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 thematter, 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 papersthat gave him trouble. he knew that he had done well, and thoughthe second part of the examination was viva voce and he was more nervous, he managed toanswer the questions adequately.
he sent a triumphant telegram to mildredwhen the result was announced. when he got back to his rooms philip founda letter from her, saying that she thought it would be better for her to stay anotherweek in brighton. she had found a woman who would be glad totake 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 daysmore would do her no end of good. she hated asking philip for money, butwould he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat, she couldn'tgo about with her lady-friend always in the same hat, and her lady-friend was sodressy.
philip had a moment of bitterdisappointment. it took away all his pleasure at gettingthrough his examination. "if she loved me one quarter as much as ilove 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 anythingelse. but he had nothing to do now; he mightspend 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 beforemildred 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 bepleased to see him; she had made friends in brighton; he was quiet, and she likedboisterous joviality; he realised that she amused herself more with other people thanwith him. it would torture him if he felt for aninstant 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 seeher every day.
she knew he had nothing to do; if shewanted him to come she would have asked him to. he dared not risk the anguish he wouldsuffer 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 caredto see him for the week-end he would be glad to run down; but she was by no meansto alter any plans she had made. he awaited her answer with impatience. in it she said that if she had only knownbefore she could have arranged it, but she
had promised to go to a music-hall on thesaturday night; besides, it would make the people at the boarding-house talk if hestayed there. why did he not come on sunday morning andspend the day? they could lunch at the metropole, and shewould take him afterwards to see the very superior lady-like person who was going totake 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!" hecried, 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 ithink 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 nobodyall these months. it was dull sometimes." she looked very smart in her new hat, alarge black straw with a great many
inexpensive flowers on it; and round herneck floated a long boa of imitation swansdown. she was still very thin, and she stooped alittle 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 ofhis limp and walked stiffly in the attempt to conceal it. "are you glad to see me?" he asked, lovedancing 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 andhad amused her often with the narration of some adventure which griffiths under theseal of secrecy had imparted to him. mildred had listened, with some pretence ofdisgust sometimes, but generally with curiosity; and philip, admiringly, hadenlarged upon his friend's good looks and charm.
"i'm sure you'll like him just as much as ido. he's so jolly and amusing, and he's such anawfully good sort." philip told her how, when they were perfectstrangers, 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," saidmildred. "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 bylittle 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 herappearance, and griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how whiteher face was, and he laughed at philip when he talked of the charm of her pale, thinlips. "by jove, i'm glad i don't take things sobadly 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 andwine and the air one breathed and whatever else was essential to existence. griffiths knew that philip had looked afterthe 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 andmildred sat in one of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched thepeople pass.
there were the brighton shop-boys whowalked 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 comedown from london for the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. there were many jews, stout ladies in tightsatin dresses and diamonds, little corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. there were middle-aged gentlemen spending aweek-end in one of the large hotels, carefully dressed; and they walkedindustriously after too substantial a
breakfast to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: theyexchanged 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 leatherboots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbed stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had comefrom 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 bluesea was trim and neat.
after luncheon they went to hove to see thewoman who was to take charge of the baby. she lived in a small house in a backstreet, 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 philipthought she seemed kind. "won't you find it an awful nuisance tolook after a baby?" he asked her. she explained that her husband was acurate, a good deal older than herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent worksince vicars wanted young men to assist them; he earned a little now and then by
doing locums when someone took a holiday orfell ill, and a charitable institution gave them a small pension; but her life waslonely, 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 thingsgoing. 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 themetropole. mildred liked the crowd and the band. philip was tired of talking, and he watchedher face as she looked with keen eyes at
the dresses of the women who came in. she had a peculiar sharpness for reckoningup what things cost, and now and then she leaned over to him and whispered the resultof 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 amusedand touched him.
the band played sentimental music. after dinner they walked down to thestation, and philip took her arm. he told her what arrangements he had madefor their journey to france. she was to come up to london at the end ofthe week, but she told him that she could not go away till the saturday of the weekafter that. he had already engaged a room in a hotel inparis. he was looking forward eagerly to takingthe tickets. "you won't mind going second-class, willyou? we mustn't be extravagant, and it'll be allthe better if we can do ourselves pretty
well when we get there." he had talked to her a hundred times of thequarter. they would wander through its pleasant oldstreets, and they would sit idly in the charming gardens of the luxembourg. if the weather was fine perhaps, when theyhad 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 morebeautiful than anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the happy painof love. mildred listened quietly.
he turned to her and tried to look deepinto 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 toit. i don't know how i shall get through thenext days. i'm so afraid something will happen toprevent it. it maddens me sometimes that i can't tellyou 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 barelytime to say good-night.
he kissed her quickly and ran towards thewicket as fast as he could. she stood where he left her.he was strangely grotesque when he ran.