Of Human Bondage
promised to give me seven pounds a week—he said he was earning fifteen,
and it was all a lie, he wasn’t. And then I was sick of going to the
shop every morning, and I wasn’t getting on very well with my aunt; she
wanted to treat me as a servant instead of a relation, said I ought to
do my own room, and if I didn’t do it 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?” she asked piteously.
“No,” he answered, looking up but away from her, “only I’m awfully
hurt.”
“Why?”
“You see, I was so dreadfully in love with you. I did everything I
could to make you care for me. I thought you were incapable of loving
anyone. It’s so horrible to know that you were willing to sacrifice
everything for that bounder. I wonder what you saw in him.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Philip. I regretted it bitterly afterwards, I
promise you that.”
He thought of Emil Miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his shifty
blue eyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he always 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 to marry 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 time while 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 since I
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 had returned to the familiar
companionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that they
should dine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted some
persuasion, for she had an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt
instinctively that it did not accord with her distressed condition to
go to a place of entertainment. At last Philip asked her to go simply
to please 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 little restaurant in
Soho to which they had so often been; he was infinitely grateful to
her, because her suggestion showed that happy memories were attached to
it. She grew much more cheerful as dinner proceeded. The Burgundy from
the public house at the corner warmed her heart, and she forgot that
she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance. Philip thought it safe to
speak to her of the future.
“I suppose you haven’t got a brass farthing, have you?” he asked, when
an opportunity presented itself.
“Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady three
pounds of that.”
“Well, I’d better give you a tenner to go on with. I’ll go and see my
solicitor and get him to write to Miller. We can make him pay up
something, I’m sure. If we can get a hundred pounds out of him it’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 leave you 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
own money last till he was qualified, and he must have something over
to keep him during the year he intended to spend as house physician and
house surgeon either at his own or at some other hospital. But Mildred
had told him various stories of Emil’s meanness, and he was afraid to
remonstrate with her in case she accused him 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 good for me in the state I’m in. You have to think of your
health, don’t you?”
“You needn’t bother about the present,” said Philip. “I can let you
have all you want till you’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 every sense of
the word.”
By degrees Philip learned how the separation had come about. It
appeared that the fellow’s wife had discovered the adventure he was
engaged in during his periodical visits to London, and had gone to the
head of the firm that employed him. She threatened to divorce him, and
they announced that they would dismiss him if she did. He was
passionately devoted to his children and 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 there
should be no child to make the entanglement more complicated; and when
Mildred, unable longer to conceal its approach, informed him of the
fact, he was seized with panic. He picked a quarrel and left her
without more ado.
“When d’you expect to be confined?” asked Philip.
“At the beginning of March.”
“Three months.”
It was necessary to discuss plans. Mildred declared she would not
remain in the rooms at Highbury, and Philip thought it more convenient
too that she should be nearer to him. He promised to look for something
next day. She suggested the Vauxhall Bridge Road as a likely
neighbourhood.
“And it would be near for afterwards,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I should only be able to stay there about two months or a little
more, and then I should have to go into a house. I know a very
respectable place, where they have a most superior class of people, and
they take you for four guineas a week and no extras. Of course the
doctor’s extra, but that’s all. A friend of mine went there, and the
lady who keeps it is a thorough lady. I mean to tell her that my
husband’s an officer in India and I’ve come to London for my baby,
because it’s better for my health.”
It seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this way. With
her delicate little features and her pale face she looked cold and
maidenly. When he thought of the passions that burnt within her, so
unexpected, his heart was strangely troubled. His pulse beat quickly.
LXX
Philip expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to his
rooms, but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following
morning. The silence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. They
had seen one another every day he had been in London since the previous
June; and it must seem odd to her that he should let two days go by
without visiting her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered
whether by an unlucky chance she had seen him with Mildred. He could
not bear to think that she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind
to call on her that afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her
because 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 the second 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 where you don’t see a soul pass
all day,” she said. “Give me a bit of life.”
Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with
apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that he was
treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick
temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her
frankly that Mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as
violent as 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 knew she
loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful;
but now it was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict
pain upon her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he
walked up the stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across
his mind. He knocked at the door. He felt that he was pale, and
wondered how to conceal his nervousness.
She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he
entered.
“I recognised your step,” she cried. “Where have you been hiding
yourself, you naughty boy?”
She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. She was
delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give himself
countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the fire to make
the kettle boil.
“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 had not 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; but they 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 it into 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 say that 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 for that 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 her he thought of Mildred and Mildred’s pale,
thin lips. The recollection of Mildred remained with him 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 bad manners.”
He reddened a little, wondering whether she had 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
break myself 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 that she should not resume
her position. While she talked he thought that she was worth ten of
Mildred; she amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she was
cleverer, and she had a much nicer nature. She was a good, brave,
honest little woman; and Mildred, he thought bitterly, deserved none of