Authors: W. Somerset Maugham
"I'm sure Lawson would love that green skin of
yours," said Philip. "He'd say it was so paintable, but I'm
terribly matter of fact nowadays, and I shan't be happy till you're
as pink and white as a milkmaid."
"I feel better already."
After a frugal supper Philip filled his pouch with
tobacco and put on his hat. It was on Tuesdays that he generally
went to the tavern in Beak Street, and he was glad that this day
came so soon after Mildred's arrival, for he wanted to make his
relations with her perfectly clear.
"Are you going out?" she said.
"Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off. I shall
see you tomorrow. Good-night."
Philip always went to the tavern with a sense of
pleasure. Macalister, the philosophic stockbroker, was generally
there and glad to argue upon any subject under the sun; Hayward
came regularly when he was in London; and though he and Macalister
disliked one another they continued out of habit to meet on that
one evening in the week. Macalister thought Hayward a poor
creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked
satirically about Hayward's literary work and received with
scornful smiles his vague suggestions of future masterpieces; their
arguments were often heated; but the punch was good, and they were
both fond of it; towards the end of the evening they generally
composed their differences and thought each other capital fellows.
This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson also; Lawson
came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in London
and went out to dinner a good deal. They were all on excellent
terms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing
on the Stock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds
apiece. It was a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and
earned little money: he had arrived at that stage of the
portrait-painter's career when he was noticed a good deal by the
critics and found a number of aristocratic ladies who were willing
to allow him to paint them for nothing (it advertised them both,
and gave the great ladies quite an air of patronesses of the arts);
but he very seldom got hold of the solid philistine who was ready
to pay good money for a portrait of his wife. Lawson was brimming
over with satisfaction.
"It's the most ripping way of making money that I've
ever struck," he cried. "I didn't have to put my hand in my pocket
for sixpence."
"You lost something by not being here last Tuesday,
young man," said Macalister to Philip.
"My God, why didn't you write to me?" said Philip.
"If you only knew how useful a hundred pounds would be to me."
"Oh, there wasn't time for that. One has to be on
the spot. I heard of a good thing last Tuesday, and I asked these
fellows if they'd like to have a flutter, I bought them a thousand
shares on Wednesday morning, and there was a rise in the afternoon
so I sold them at once. I made fifty pounds for each of them and a
couple of hundred for myself."
Philip was sick with envy. He had recently sold the
last mortgage in which his small fortune had been invested and now
had only six hundred pounds left. He was panic-stricken sometimes
when he thought of the future. He had still to keep himself for two
years before he could be qualified, and then he meant to try for
hospital appointments, so that he could not expect to earn anything
for three years at least. With the most rigid economy he would not
have more than a hundred pounds left then. It was very little to
have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn money or
found himself at any time without work. A lucky gamble would make
all the difference to him.
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," said Macalister.
"Something is sure to turn up soon. There'll be a boom in South
Africans again one of these days, and then I'll see what I can do
for you."
Macalister was in the Kaffir market and often told
them stories of the sudden fortunes that had been made in the great
boom of a year or two back.
"Well, don't forget next time."
They sat on talking till nearly midnight, and
Philip, who lived furthest off, was the first to go. If he did not
catch the last tram he had to walk, and that made him very late. As
it was he did not reach home till nearly half past twelve. When he
got upstairs he was surprised to find Mildred still sitting in his
arm-chair.
"Why on earth aren't you in bed?" he cried.
"I wasn't sleepy."
"You ought to go to bed all the same. It would rest
you."
She did not move. He noticed that since supper she
had changed into her black silk dress.
"I thought I'd rather wait up for you in case you
wanted anything."
She looked at him, and the shadow of a smile played
upon her thin pale lips. Philip was not sure whether he understood
or not. He was slightly embarrassed, but assumed a cheerful,
matter-of-fact air.
"It's very nice of you, but it's very naughty also.
Run off to bed as fast as you can, or you won't be able to get up
tomorrow morning."
"I don't feel like going to bed."
"Nonsense," he said coldly.
She got up, a little sulkily, and went into her
room. He smiled when he heard her lock the door loudly.
The next few days passed without incident. Mildred
settled down in her new surroundings. When Philip hurried off after
breakfast she had the whole morning to do the housework. They ate
very simply, but she liked to take a long time to buy the few
things they needed; she could not be bothered to cook anything for
her dinner, but made herself some cocoa and ate bread and butter;
then she took the baby out in the gocart, and when she came in
spent the rest of the afternoon in idleness. She was tired out, and
it suited her to do so little. She made friends with Philip's
forbidding landlady over the rent, which he left with Mildred to
pay, and within a week was able to tell him more about his
neighbours than he had learned in a year.
"She's a very nice woman," said Mildred. "Quite the
lady. I told her we was married."
"D'you think that was necessary?"
"Well, I had to tell her something. It looks so
funny me being here and not married to you. I didn't know what
she'd think of me."
"I don't suppose she believed you for a moment."
"That she did, I lay. I told her we'd been married
two years – I had to say that, you know, because of baby – only
your people wouldn't hear of it, because you was only a student" –
she pronounced it stoodent – "and so we had to keep it a secret,
but they'd given way now and we were all going down to stay with
them in the summer."
"You're a past mistress of the cock-and-bull story,"
said Philip.
He was vaguely irritated that Mildred still had this
passion for telling fibs. In the last two years she had learnt
nothing. But he shrugged his shoulders.
"When all's said and done," he reflected, "she
hasn't had much chance."
It was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and
the people of South London seemed to have poured out into the
streets. There was that restlessness in the air which seizes the
cockney sometimes when a turn in the weather calls him into the
open. After Mildred had cleared away the supper she went and stood
at the window. The street noises came up to them, noises of people
calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of a barrel-organ
in the distance.
"I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?" she asked
him, with a wistful expression.
"I ought, but I don't know that I must. Why, d'you
want me to do anything else?"
"I'd like to go out for a bit. Couldn't we take a
ride on the top of a tram?"
"If you like."
"I'll just go and put on my hat," she said
joyfully.
The night made it almost impossible to stay indoors.
The baby was asleep and could be safely left; Mildred said she had
always left it alone at night when she went out; it never woke. She
was in high spirits when she came back with her hat on. She had
taken the opportunity to put on a little rouge. Philip thought it
was excitement which had brought a faint colour to her pale cheeks;
he was touched by her child-like delight, and reproached himself
for the austerity with which he had treated her. She laughed when
she got out into the air. The first tram they saw was going towards
Westminster Bridge and they got on it. Philip smoked his pipe, and
they looked at the crowded street. The shops were open, gaily lit,
and people were doing their shopping for the next day. They passed
a music-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out:
"Oh, Philip, do let's go there. I haven't been to a
music-hall for months."
"We can't afford stalls, you know."
"Oh, I don't mind, I shall be quite happy in the
gallery."
They got down and walked back a hundred yards till
they came to the doors. They got capital seats for sixpence each,
high up but not in the gallery, and the night was so fine that
there was plenty of room. Mildred's eyes glistened. She enjoyed
herself thoroughly. There was a simple-mindedness in her which
touched Philip. She was a puzzle to him. Certain things in her
still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which
was very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was
hard; he had blamed her for much that she could not help; and it
was his own fault if he had asked virtues from her which it was not
in her power to give. Under different circumstances she might have
been a charming girl. She was extraordinarily unfit for the battle
of life. As he watched her now in profile, her mouth slightly open
and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he thought she looked
strangely virginal. He felt an overwhelming compassion for her, and
with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had caused
him. The smoky atmosphere made Philip's eyes ache, but when he
suggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked
him to stay till the end. He smiled and consented. She took his
hand and held it for the rest of the performance. When they
streamed out with the audience into the crowded street she did not
want to go home; they wandered up the Westminster Bridge Road,
looking at the people.
"I've not had such a good time as this for months,"
she said.
Philip's heart was full, and he was thankful to the
fates because he had carried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred
and her baby into his flat. It was very pleasant to see her happy
gratitude. At last she grew tired and they jumped on a tram to go
home; it was late now, and when they got down and turned into their
own street there was no one about. Mildred slipped her arm through
his.
"It's just like old times, Phil," she said.
She had never called him Phil before, that was what
Griffiths called him; and even now it gave him a curious pang. He
remembered how much he had wanted to die then; his pain had been so
great that he had thought quite seriously of committing suicide. It
all seemed very long ago. He smiled at his past self. Now he felt
nothing for Mildred but infinite pity. They reached the house, and
when they got into the sitting-room Philip lit the gas.
"Is the baby all right?" he asked.
"I'll just go in and see."
When she came back it was to say that it had not
stirred since she left it. It was a wonderful child. Philip held
out his hand.
"Well, good-night."
"D'you want to go to bed already?"
"It's nearly one. I'm not used to late hours these
days," said Philip.
She took his hand and holding it looked into his
eyes with a little smile.
"Phil, the other night in that room, when you asked
me to come and stay here, I didn't mean what you thought I meant,
when you said you didn't want me to be anything to you except just
to cook and that sort of thing."
"Didn't you?" answered Philip, withdrawing his hand.
"I did."
"Don't be such an old silly," she laughed.
He shook his head.
"I meant it quite seriously. I shouldn't have asked
you to stay here on any other condition."
"Why not?"
"I feel I couldn't. I can't explain it, but it would
spoil it all."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, very well, it's just as you choose. I'm not one
to go down on my hands and knees for that, and chance it."
She went out, slamming the door behind her.
XCIII
Next morning Mildred was sulky and taciturn. She
remained in her room till it was time to get the dinner ready. She
was a bad cook and could do little more than chops and steaks; and
she did not know how to use up odds and ends, so that Philip was
obliged to spend more money than he had expected. When she served
up she sat down opposite Philip, but would eat nothing; he remarked
on it; she said she had a bad headache and was not hungry. He was
glad that he had somewhere to spend the rest of the day; the
Athelnys were cheerful and friendly. It was a delightful and an
unexpected thing to realise that everyone in that household looked
forward with pleasure to his visit. Mildred had gone to bed when he
came back, but next day she was still silent. At supper she sat
with a haughty expression on her face and a little frown between
her eyes. It made Philip impatient, but he told himself that he
must be considerate to her; he was bound to make allowance.
"You're very silent," he said, with a pleasant
smile.
"I'm paid to cook and clean, I didn't know I was
expected to talk as well."
He thought it an ungracious answer, but if they were
going to live together he must do all he could to make things go
easily.
"I'm afraid you're cross with me about the other
night," he said.
It was an awkward thing to speak about, but
apparently it was necessary to discuss it.