Of Human Bondage
these epithets. If he had any sense he would stick to Norah, she would
make him much happier than he would ever be with Mildred: after all she
loved him, and Mildred was only grateful for his help. But when all was
said the important thing was to love rather than to be loved; and he
yearned for Mildred with his whole soul. He would sooner have ten
minutes with her than a whole afternoon with Norah, he prized one kiss
of her cold lips more than all Norah could give him.
“I can’t help myself,” he thought. “I’ve just got her in my bones.”
He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and
grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the one than
happiness with the other.
When he got up to go Norah said casually:
“Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan’t I?”
“Yes,” he answered.
He knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to help
Mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say so. He made
up his mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw the rooms in the
morning, was satisfied with them, and after luncheon Philip went up
with her to Highbury. She had a trunk for her clothes and another for
the various odds and ends, cushions, lampshades, photograph frames,
with which she had tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she
had two or three large cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no
more than could be put on the roof of a four-wheeler. As they drove
through Victoria Street Philip sat well back in the cab in case Norah
should happen to be passing. He had not had an opportunity to telegraph
and could not do so from the post office in the Vauxhall Bridge Road,
since she would wonder what he was doing in that neighbourhood; and if
he was there he could have no excuse for not going into the
neighbouring square where she lived. He made up his mind that he had
better go in and see her for half an hour; but the necessity irritated
him: he was angry with Norah, because she forced him to vulgar and
degrading shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It amused him to
help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming sense of
possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had found and
was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It was a pleasure
to do things for her, and she had no desire to do what somebody else
seemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked her clothes and put them
away. She was not proposing to go out again, so he got her slippers and
took off her boots. It delighted him to perform menial offices.
“You do spoil me,” she said, running her fingers affectionately through
his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her boots.
He took her hands and kissed them.
“It is nipping to have you here.”
He arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had several
jars of green earthenware.
“I’ll get you some flowers for them,” he said.
He looked round at his work proudly.
“As I’m not going out any more I think I’ll get into a tea-gown,” she
said. “Undo me behind, will you?”
She turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His sex
meant nothing to her. But his heart was filled with gratitude for the
intimacy her request showed. He undid the hooks and eyes with clumsy
fingers.
“That first day I came into the shop I never thought I’d be doing this
for you now,” he said, with a laugh which he forced.
“Somebody must do it,” she answered.
She went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown
decorated with a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled her on a
sofa and made tea for her.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay and have it with you,” he said regretfully.
“I’ve got a beastly appointment. But I shall be back in half an hour.”
He wondered what he should say if she asked him what the appointment
was, but she showed no curiosity. He had ordered dinner for the two of
them when he took the rooms, and proposed to spend the evening with her
quietly. He was in such a hurry to get back that he took a tram along
the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He thought he had better break the fact to
Norah at once that he could not stay more than a few minutes.
“I say, I’ve got only just time to say how d’you do,” he said, as soon
as he got into her rooms. “I’m frightfully busy.”
Her face fell.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
It exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and he knew
that he reddened when he answered that there was a demonstration at the
hospital which he was bound to go to. He fancied that she looked as
though she did not believe him, and this irritated him all the more.
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I shall have you all
tomorrow.”
He looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking
forward to spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that he must
do that in common decency; he could not leave her by herself in a
strange house.
“I’m awfully sorry, I’m engaged tomorrow.”
He knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have given
anything to avoid. The colour on Norah’s cheeks grew brighter.
“But I’ve asked the Gordons to lunch”—they were an actor and his wife
who were touring the provinces and in London for Sunday—“I told you
about it a week ago.”
“I’m awfully sorry, I forgot.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t
possibly come. Isn’t there somebody else you can get?”
“What are you doing tomorrow then?”
“I wish you wouldn’t cross-examine me.”
“Don’t you want to tell me?”
“I don’t in the least mind telling you, but it’s rather annoying to be
forced to account for all one’s movements.”
Norah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got the
better of her temper, and going up to him took his hands.
“Don’t disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I’ve been looking forward so
much to spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see you, and
we’ll have such a jolly time.”
“I’d love to if I could.”
“I’m not very exacting, am I? I don’t often ask you to do anything
that’s a bother. Won’t you get out of your horrid engagement—just this
once?”
“I’m awfully sorry, I don’t see how I can,” he replied sullenly.
“Tell me what it is,” she said coaxingly.
He had had time to invent something. “Griffiths’ two sisters are up for
the week-end and we’re taking them out.”
“Is that all?” she said joyfully. “Griffiths can so easily get another
man.”
He wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It was a
clumsy lie.
“No, I’m awfully sorry, I can’t—I’ve promised and I mean to keep my
promise.”
“But you promised me too. Surely I come first.”
“I wish you wouldn’t persist,” he said.
She flared up.
“You won’t come because you don’t want to. I don’t know what you’ve
been doing the last few days, you’ve been quite different.”
He looked at his watch.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to be going,” he said.
“You won’t come tomorrow?”
“No.”
“In that case you needn’t trouble to come again,” she cried, losing her
temper for good.
“That’s just as you like,” he answered.
“Don’t let me detain you any longer,” she added ironically.
He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that it had
gone no worse. There had been no tears. As he walked along he
congratulated himself on getting out of the affair so easily. He went
into Victoria Street and bought a few flowers to take in to Mildred.
The little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a small pot
of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady
brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet. Philip had
ordered Burgundy, which was her favourite wine. With the curtains
drawn, a bright fire, and one of Mildred’s shades on the lamp, the room
was cosy.
“It’s really just like home,” smiled Philip.
“I might be worse off, mightn’t I?” she answered.
When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire,
and they sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt happy and
generous.
“What would you like to do tomorrow?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the shop,
well, she’s married now, and she’s asked me to go and spend the day
with her. Of course she thinks I’m married too.”
Philip’s heart sank.
“But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with you.”
He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she
would stay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not have
hesitated.
“Well, you were a silly to do that. I’ve promised to go for three weeks
and more.”
“But how can you go alone?”
“Oh, I shall say that Emil’s away on business. Her husband’s in the
glove trade, and he’s a very superior fellow.”
Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart. She
gave him a sidelong glance.
“You don’t grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it’s the last
time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don’t know how long, and I
had promised.”
He took her hand and smiled.
“No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only want you
to be happy.”
There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards,
on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a twopenny novelette,
and the author was Courtenay Paget. That was the name under which Norah
wrote.
“I do like his books,” said Mildred. “I read them all. They’re so
refined.”
He remembered what Norah had said of herself.
“I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me so
genteel.”
LXXI
Philip, in return for Griffiths’ confidences, had told him the details
of his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning, after breakfast
when they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he
recounted the scene of the previous day. Griffiths congratulated him
because he had got out of his difficulties so easily.
“It’s the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman,”
he remarked sententiously, “but it’s a devil of a nuisance to get out
of it.”
Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill
in managing the business. At all events he was immensely relieved. He
thought of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill, and he found in
himself a real satisfaction because she was happy. It was an act of
self-sacrifice on his part that he did not grudge her pleasure even
though paid for by his own disappointment, and it filled his heart with
a comfortable glow.
But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah. She
wrote:
Dearest,
I’m sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in the
afternoon as usual. I love you.
Your Norah.
His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note to
Griffiths and showed it to him.
“You’d better leave it unanswered,” said he.
“Oh, I can’t,” cried Philip. “I should be miserable if I thought of her
waiting and waiting. You don’t know what it is to be sick for the
postman’s knock. I do, and I can’t expose anybody else to that
torture.”
“My dear fellow, one can’t break that sort of affair off without
somebody suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One thing is,
it doesn’t last very long.”
Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer;
and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was
capable of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had told him she
was going to be married. He did not want anyone to experience what he
had experienced then.
“If you’re so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her,” said
Griffiths.
“I can’t do that.”
He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was angry with
Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She must have seen that
he had no more love to give her. They said women were so quick at
seeing those things.