Of Human Bondage
Then Griffiths, sitting idly in Philip’s room, amused him with gay
stories of amorous adventure. He was a flirtatious creature, capable of
carrying on three or four affairs at a time; and his account of the
devices he was forced to in order to keep out of difficulties made
excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing a romantic glamour over
everything that happened to him. He was crippled with debts, everything
he had of any value was pawned, but he managed always to be cheerful,
extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by nature. He loved
people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and his
acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was
enormous. Loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles,
difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers,
respecting his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound
notes. He was ploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore
this cheerfully, and submitted with such a charming grace to the
parental expostulations that his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds,
had not the heart to be seriously angry with him.
“I’m an awful fool at books,” he said cheerfully, “but I CAN’T work.”
Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got through
the exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a
tremendous success in practice. He would cure people by the sheer charm
of his manner.
Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who were tall
and straight and high of spirits. By the time he was well they were
fast friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to Philip that
Griffiths seemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting
Philip’s time with his amusing chatter and smoking innumerable
cigarettes. Philip took him sometimes to the tavern off Regent Street.
Hayward found him stupid, but Lawson recognised his charm and was eager
to paint him; he was a picturesque figure with his blue eyes, white
skin, and curly hair. Often they discussed things he knew nothing
about, and then he sat quietly, with a good-natured smile on his
handsome face, feeling quite rightly that his presence was sufficient
contribution to the entertainment of the company. When he discovered
that Macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for tips; and
Macalister, with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he could have
made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. It made Philip’s
mouth water, for in one way and another he was spending more than he
had expected, and it would have suited him very well to make a little
money by the easy method Macalister suggested.
“Next time I hear of a really good thing I’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 how delightful it would be to make fifty
pounds, so that he could give Norah the furs she so badly needed for
the winter. He looked at the shops in Regent Street and picked out the
articles he could buy for the money. She deserved everything. She made
his life very happy.
LXIX
One afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from the hospital to wash
and tidy himself before going to tea as usual with Norah, as he let
himself in with his latch-key, his landlady opened the door for him.
“There’s a lady waiting to see you,” she said.
“Me?” exclaimed Philip.
He was surprised. It would only be Norah, and he had no idea what had
brought her.
“I shouldn’t ’ave let her in, only she’s been three times, and she
seemed that upset at not finding you, so I told her she could wait.”
He pushed past the explaining landlady and burst into the room. His
heart turned sick. It was Mildred. She was sitting down, but got up
hurriedly as 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, but kept them hanging by the side of her body. She looked like a
housemaid applying for a situation. There was a dreadful humility in
her bearing. Philip did not know what feelings came over him. He had a
sudden impulse to turn round and escape from the room.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said at last.
“I wish I was dead,” she moaned.
Philip left her standing where she was. He could only think at the
moment of steadying 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 sat in it. He mixed her whiskey
and soda, and, sobbing still, she drank it. She looked at him with
great, mournful eyes. 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 seemed to swell his heart. He could
not keep the distance from her which 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 and burst 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,” she said. “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 you can’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 the Friday, 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 hear from him by return I’d go up to
Birmingham, and this morning I got a solicitor’s letter to say I had no
claim on him, and if I molested him he’d seek the protection of the
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 all right. I didn’t
think he meant it. He was frightened, because I told him a baby 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 to have known better. If you’d
only heard the things he said to me! But I found out precious quick
that he wasn’t a gentleman. He left me without a penny. He hadn’t paid
the rent, and I hadn’t got the money to pay it, and the woman who kept
the house said such things to me—well, I might 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 give
me anything to be extravagant with.”
She had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial 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 that he 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 day before and was able to give her five pounds.
“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 had been there for two hours. He
was extraordinarily happy.
“Poor thing, poor thing,” he murmured to himself, 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 from her.
Is anything the matter? Norah.
He did not know what to do nor what to answer. He could fetch her after
the play, in which she was walking on, was over and stroll home with
her as he sometimes did; but his whole soul revolted against the idea
of seeing her that evening. He thought of writing to her, but he could
not 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 little face,
with its high cheekbones and the crude colour. There was a coarseness
in her skin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew that his telegram must
be followed by 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 the afternoon, 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 opened
the 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 really couldn’t. Emil didn’t marry me. He couldn’t. He had
a wife already and three children.”
Philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. 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 at first, and when he
told me I gave him a piece of my mind. And then I didn’t see him for
months, and when 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 the things he said.
And there was something about him—he said I’d never regret it, he