Of Human Bondage (72 page)

  "I don't want to make you unhappy. You needn't come
away with me if you don't want to. I'll give you the money all the
same."

  She shook her head.

  "No, I said I'd come, and I'll come."

  "What's the good, if you're sick with love for
him?"

  "Yes, that's the word. I'm sick with love. I know it
won't last, just as well as he does, but just now..."

  She paused and shut her eyes as though she were
going to faint. A strange idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as
it came, without stopping to think it out.

  "Why don't you go away with him?"

  "How can I? You know we haven't got the money."

  "I'll give you the money"

  "You?"

  She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to
shine, and the colour came into her cheeks.

  "Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and
then you'd come back to me."

  Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with
anguish, and yet the torture of it gave him a strange, subtle
sensation. She stared at him with open eyes.

  "Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn't
think of it."

  "Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him."

  Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted
her with all his heart to refuse vehemently.

  "I'll give you a fiver, and you can go away from
Saturday to Monday. You could easily do that. On Monday he's going
home till he takes up his appointment at the North London."

  "Oh, Philip, do you mean that?" she cried, clasping
her hands. "if you could only let us go – I would love you so much
afterwards, I'd do anything for you. I'm sure I shall get over it
if you'll only do that. Would you really give us the money?"

  "Yes," he said.

  She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He
could see that she was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by
Philip's side, taking his hands.

  "You are a brick, Philip. You're the best fellow
I've ever known. Won't you be angry with me afterwards?"

  He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in
his heart!

  "May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him
that you don't mind? He won't consent unless you promise it doesn't
matter. Oh, you don't know how I love him! And afterwards I'll do
anything you like. I'll come over to Paris with you or anywhere on
Monday."

  She got up and put on her hat.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to ask him if he'll take me."

  "Already?"

  "D'you want me to stay? I'll stay if you like."

  She sat down, but he gave a little laugh.

  "No, it doesn't matter, you'd better go at once.
There's only one thing: I can't bear to see Griffiths just now, it
would hurt me too awfully. Say I have no ill-feeling towards him or
anything like that, but ask him to keep out of my way."

  "All right." She sprang up and put on her gloves.
"I'll let you know what he says."

  "You'd better dine with me tonight."

  "Very well."

  She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he
pressed his lips to hers she threw her arms round his neck.

  "You are a darling, Philip."

  She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say
that she had a headache and could not dine with him. Philip had
almost expected it. He knew that she was dining with Griffiths. He
was horribly jealous, but the sudden passion which had seized the
pair of them seemed like something that had come from the outside,
as though a god had visited them with it, and he felt himself
helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one another.
He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over himself and
confessed that in Mildred's place he would have done as Mildred
did. What hurt him most was Griffiths' treachery; they had been
such good friends, and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he
was to Mildred: he might have spared him.

  He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was
sick for a sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised
that he had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were
engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated her. He saw now why she
and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was stupid, oh so
stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it,
stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter
selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites.
And how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking
in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never
read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous and
vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine: the word most common
on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or
woman. Smart! It was no wonder he pleased Mildred. They suited one
another.

  Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to
neither of them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he
gave her no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that two
evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial
excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her think he was
suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in
saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were
so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take
exception to them. At last she got up.

  "I think I must be going off now," she said.

  "I daresay you've got a lot to do," he answered.

  She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye,
and opened the door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak
about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated
her. Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally
he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when
occasion arose to assume the same manner.

  "You haven't forgotten what you promised?" she said
at last, as he held open the door.

  "What is that?"

  "About the money"

  "How much d'you want?"

  He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his
words peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him
at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she
prevented herself from flying out at him. He wanted to make her
suffer.

  "There's the dress and the book tomorrow. That's
all. Harry won't come, so we shan't want money for that."

  Philip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs,
and he let the door handle go. The door swung to.

  "Why not?"

  "He says we couldn't, not on your money."

  A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which
was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he
wished that Griffiths and Mildred should not go away together, he
could not help himself; he set himself to persuade Griffiths
through her.

  "I don't see why not, if I'm willing," he said.

  "That's what I told him."

  "I should have thought if he really wanted to go he
wouldn't hesitate."

  "Oh, it's not that, he wants to all right. He'd go
at once if he had the money."

  "If he's squeamish about it I'll give YOU the
money."

  "I said you'd lend it if he liked, and we'd pay it
back as soon as we could."

  "It's rather a change for you going on your knees to
get a man to take you away for a week-end."

  "It is rather, isn't it?" she said, with a shameless
little laugh. It sent a cold shudder down Philip's spine.

  "What are you going to do then?" he asked.

  "Nothing. He's going home tomorrow. He must."

  That would be Philip's salvation. With Griffiths out
of the way he could get Mildred back. She knew no one in London,
she would be thrown on to his society, and when they were alone
together he could soon make her forget this infatuation. If he said
nothing more he was safe. But he had a fiendish desire to break
down their scruples, he wanted to know how abominably they could
behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more they would
yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their dishonour.
Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the torture a
horrible delight.

  "It looks as if it were now or never."

  "That's what I told him," she said.

  There was a passionate note in her voice which
struck Philip. He was biting his nails in his nervousness.

  "Where were you thinking of going?"

  "Oh, to Oxford. He was at the 'Varsity there, you
know. He said he'd show me the colleges."

  Philip remembered that once he had suggested going
to Oxford for the day, and she had expressed firmly the boredom she
felt at the thought of sights.

  "And it looks as if you'd have fine weather. It
ought to be very jolly there just now."

  "I've done all I could to persuade him."

  "Why don't you have another try?"

  "Shall I say you want us to go?"

  "I don't think you must go as far as that," said
Philip.

  She paused for a minute or two, looking at him.
Philip forced himself to look at her in a friendly way. He hated
her, he despised her, he loved her with all his heart.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go and see if he
can't arrange it. And then, if he says yes, I'll come and fetch the
money tomorrow. When shall you be in?"

  "I'll come back here after luncheon and wait."

  "All right."

  "I'll give you the money for your dress and your
room now."

  He went to his desk and took out what money he had.
The dress was six guineas; there was besides her rent and her food,
and the baby's keep for a week. He gave her eight pounds ten.

  "Thanks very much," she said.

  She left him.

  After lunching in the basement of the Medical School
Philip went back to his rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the
landlady was cleaning the stairs.

  "Is Mr. Griffiths in?" he asked.

  "No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you
went out."

  "Isn't he coming back?"

  "I don't think so, sir. He's taken his luggage."

  Philip wondered what this could mean. He took a book
and began to read. It was Burton's Journey to Meccah, which he had
just got out of the Westminster Public Library; and he read the
first page, but could make no sense of it, for his mind was
elsewhere; he was listening all the time for a ring at the bell. He
dared not hope that Griffiths had gone away already, without
Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would be coming
presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he tried
desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched
themselves in his brain by the force of his effort, but they were
distorted by the agony he was enduring. He wished with all his
heart that he had not made the horrible proposition to give them
money; but now that he had made it he lacked the strength to go
back on it, not on Mildred's account, but on his own. There was a
morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the thing he had
determined. He discovered that the three pages he had read had made
no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from the
beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over
again; and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly,
like some formula in a nightmare. One thing he could do was to go
out and keep away till midnight; they could not go then; and he saw
them calling at the house every hour to ask if he was in. He
enjoyed the thought of their disappointment. He repeated that
sentence to himself mechanically. But he could not do that. Let
them come and take the money, and he would know then to what depths
of infamy it was possible for men to descend. He could not read any
more now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned back in his
chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for
Mildred.

  The landlady came in.

  "Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?"