Of Human Bondage (71 page)

  Philip was silent for a moment. He did not know what
words he could use to make her see his point of view. He wanted to
speak coolly and deliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of
emotion that he could not clear his thoughts.

  "It's not worth while sacrificing everything for an
infatuation that you know can't last. After all, he doesn't care
for anyone more than ten days, and you're rather cold; that sort of
thing doesn't mean very much to you."

  "That's what you think."

  She made it more difficult for him by adopting a
cantankerous tone.

  "If you're in love with him you can't help it. I'll
just bear it as best I can. We get on very well together, you and
I, and I've not behaved badly to you, have I? I've always known
that you're not in love with me, but you like me all right, and
when we get over to Paris you'll forget about Griffiths. If you
make up your mind to put him out of your thoughts you won't find it
so hard as all that, and I've deserved that you should do something
for me."

  She did not answer, and they went on eating their
dinner. When the silence grew oppressive Philip began to talk of
indifferent things. He pretended not to notice that Mildred was
inattentive. Her answers were perfunctory, and she volunteered no
remarks of her own. At last she interrupted abruptly what he was
saying:

  "Philip, I'm afraid I shan't be able to go away on
Saturday. The doctor says I oughtn't to."

  He knew this was not true, but he answered:

  "When will you be able to come away?"

  She glanced at him, saw that his face was white and
rigid, and looked nervously away. She was at that moment a little
afraid of him.

  "I may as well tell you and have done with it, I
can't come away with you at all."

  "I thought you were driving at that. It's too late
to change your mind now. I've got the tickets and everything."

  "You said you didn't wish me to go unless I wanted
it too, and I don't."

  "I've changed my mind. I'm not going to have any
more tricks played with me. You must come."

  "I like you very much, Philip, as a friend. But I
can't bear to think of anything else. I don't like you that way. I
couldn't, Philip."

  "You were quite willing to a week ago."

  "It was different then."

  "You hadn't met Griffiths?"

  "You said yourself I couldn't help it if I'm in love
with him."

  Her face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her
eyes fixed on her plate. Philip was white with rage. He would have
liked to hit her in the face with his clenched fist, and in fancy
he saw how she would look with a black eye. There were two lads of
eighteen dining at a table near them, and now and then they looked
at Mildred; he wondered if they envied him dining with a pretty
girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his shoes. It was
Mildred who broke the silence.

  "What's the good of our going away together? I'd be
thinking of him all the time. It wouldn't be much fun for you."

  "That's my business," he answered.

  She thought over all his reply implicated, and she
reddened.

  "But that's just beastly."

  "What of it?"

  "I thought you were a gentleman in every sense of
the word."

  "You were mistaken."

  His reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said
it.

  "For God's sake don't laugh," she cried. "I can't
come away with you, Philip. I'm awfully sorry. I know I haven't
behaved well to you, but one can't force themselves."

  "Have you forgotten that when you were in trouble I
did everything for you? I planked out the money to keep you till
your baby was born, I paid for your doctor and everything, I paid
for you to go to Brighton, and I'm paying for the keep of your
baby, I'm paying for your clothes, I'm paying for every stitch
you've got on now."

  "If you was a gentleman you wouldn't throw what
you've done for me in my face."

  "Oh, for goodness' sake, shut up. What d'you suppose
I care if I'm a gentleman or not? If I were a gentleman I shouldn't
waste my time with a vulgar slut like you. I don't care a damn if
you like me or not. I'm sick of being made a blasted fool of.
You're jolly well coming to Paris with me on Saturday or you can
take the consequences."

  Her cheeks were red with anger, and when she
answered her voice had the hard commonness which she concealed
generally by a genteel enunciation.

  "I never liked you, not from the beginning, but you
forced yourself on me, I always hated it when you kissed me. I
wouldn't let you touch me now not if I was starving."

  Philip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but
the muscles of his throat refused to act. He gulped down something
to drink and lit a cigarette. He was trembling in every part. He
did not speak. He waited for her to move, but she sat in silence,
staring at the white tablecloth. If they had been alone he would
have flung his arms round her and kissed her passionately; he
fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he pressed
upon her mouth with his lips. They passed an hour without speaking,
and at last Philip thought the waiter began to stare at them
curiously. He called for the bill.

  "Shall we go?" he said then, in an even tone.

  She did not reply, but gathered together her bag and
her gloves. She put on her coat.

  "When are you seeing Griffiths again?"

  "Tomorrow," she answered indifferently.

  "You'd better talk it over with him."

  She opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of
paper in it. She took it out.

  "Here's the bill for this dress," she said
hesitatingly.

  "What of it?"

  "I promised I'd give her the money tomorrow."

  "Did you?"

  "Does that mean you won't pay for it after having
told me I could get it?"

  "It does."

  "I'll ask Harry," she said, flushing quickly.

  "He'll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds
at the moment, and he pawned his microscope last week, because he
was so broke."

  "You needn't think you can frighten me by that. I'm
quite capable of earning my own living."

  "It's the best thing you can do. I don't propose to
give you a farthing more."

  She thought of her rent due on Saturday and the
baby's keep, but did not say anything. They left the restaurant,
and in the street Philip asked her:

  "Shall I call a cab for you? I'm going to take a
little stroll."

  "I haven't got any money. I had to pay a bill this
afternoon."

  "It won't hurt you to walk. If you want to see me
tomorrow I shall be in about tea-time."

  He took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked
round in a moment and saw that she was standing helplessly where he
had left her, looking at the traffic. He went back and with a laugh
pressed a coin into her hand.

  "Here's two bob for you to get home with."

  Before she could speak he hurried away.

  Next day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room
and wondered whether Mildred would come. He had slept badly. He had
spent the morning in the club of the Medical School, reading one
newspaper after another. It was the vacation and few students he
knew were in London, but he found one or two people to talk to, he
played a game of chess, and so wore out the tedious hours. After
luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so, that he went
back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel. He had
not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned the night
before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into
Philip's room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip
heard him go out early. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him.
Suddenly there was a light tap at his door. Philip sprang to his
feet and opened it. Mildred stood on the threshold. She did not
move.

  "Come in," said Philip.

  He closed the door after her. She sat down. She
hesitated to begin.

  "Thank you for giving me that two shillings last
night," she said.

  "Oh, that's all right."

  She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of
the timid, ingratiating look of a puppy that has been beaten for
naughtiness and wants to reconcile himself with his master.

  "I've been lunching with Harry," she said.

  "Have you?"

  "If you still want me to go away with you on
Saturday, Philip, I'll come."

  A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart,
but it was a sensation that only lasted an instant; it was followed
by a suspicion.

  "Because of the money?" he asked.

  "Partly," she answered simply. "Harry can't do
anything. He owes five weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds,
and his tailor's pressing him for money. He'd pawn anything he
could, but he's pawned everything already. I had a job to put the
woman off about my new dress, and on Saturday there's the book at
my lodgings, and I can't get work in five minutes. It always means
waiting some little time till there's a vacancy."

  She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as
though she were recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be
borne as part of the natural order of things. Philip did not
answer. He knew what she told him well enough.

  "You said partly," he observed at last.

  "Well, Harry says you've been a brick to both of us.
You've been a real good friend to him, he says, and you've done for
me what p'raps no other man would have done. We must do the
straight thing, he says. And he said what you said about him, that
he's fickle by nature, he's not like you, and I should be a fool to
throw you away for him. He won't last and you will, he says so
himself."

  "D'you WANT to come away with me?" asked Philip.

  "I don't mind."

  He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth
turned down in an expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed,
and he was going to have his way. He gave a little laugh of
derision at his own humiliation. She looked at him quickly, but did
not speak.

  "I've looked forward with all my soul to going away
with you, and I thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was
going to be happy..."

  He did not finish what he was going to say. And then
on a sudden, without warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears.
She was sitting in the chair in which Norah had sat and wept, and
like her she hid her face on the back of it, towards the side where
there was a little bump formed by the sagging in the middle, where
the head had rested.

  "I'm not lucky with women," thought Philip.

  Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never
seen a woman cry with such an utter abandonment. It was horribly
painful, and his heart was torn. Without realising what he did, he
went up to her and put his arms round her; she did not resist, but
in her wretchedness surrendered herself to his comforting. He
whispered to her little words of solace. He scarcely knew what he
was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly.

  "Are you awfully unhappy?" he said at last.

  "I wish I was dead," she moaned. "I wish I'd died
when the baby come."

  Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for
her. He placed her head more comfortably in the chair, and then he
went and sat down at the table and looked at her.

  "It is awful, love, isn't it?" he said. "Fancy
anyone wanting to be in love."

  Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and
she sat in the chair, exhausted, with her head thrown back and her
arms hanging by her side. She had the grotesque look of one of
those painters' dummies used to hang draperies on.

  "I didn't know you loved him so much as all that,"
said Philip.

  He understood Griffiths' love well enough, for he
put himself in Griffiths' place and saw with his eyes, touched with
his hands; he was able to think himself in Griffiths' body, and he
kissed her with his lips, smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes.
It was her emotion that surprised him. He had never thought her
capable of passion, and this was passion: there was no mistaking
it. Something seemed to give way in his heart; it really felt to
him as though something were breaking, and he felt strangely
weak.