Of Human Bondage
“You might help me,” he said to Griffiths.
“My dear fellow, don’t make such a fuss about it. People do get over
these things, you know. She probably isn’t so wrapped up in you as you
think, either. One’s always rather apt to exaggerate the passion one’s
inspired other people with.”
He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.
“Look here, there’s only one thing you can do. Write to her, and tell
her the thing’s over. Put it so that there can be no mistake about it.
It’ll hurt her, but it’ll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally
than if you try half-hearted ways.”
Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:
My dear Norah,
I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let things
remain where we left them on Saturday. I don’t think there’s any use in
letting these things drag on when they’ve ceased to be amusing. You
told me to go and I went. I do not propose to come back. Good-bye.
Philip Carey.
He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought of it.
Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling eyes. He did not
say what he felt.
“I think that’ll do the trick,” he said.
Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable morning, for
he imagined with great detail what Norah would feel when she received
his letter. He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at
the same time he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear
than grief seen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul.
His heart leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon,
when his day’s work at the hospital was over.
When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no
sooner put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him.
“May I come in? I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.”
It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke
gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to
indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself
cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile.
“Yes, do,” he said.
He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was
nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and
lit one for himself. She looked at him brightly.
“Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I’d
taken it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched.”
“It was meant seriously,” he answered gravely.
“Don’t be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and
apologised. You weren’t satisfied, so I’ve come here to apologise
again. After all, you’re your own master and I have no claims upon you.
I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”
She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him
impulsively, with outstretched hands.
“Let’s make friends again, Philip. I’m so sorry if I offended you.”
He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look
at her.
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” he said.
She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees.
“Philip, don’t be silly. I’m quick-tempered too and I can understand
that I hurt you, but it’s so stupid to sulk over it. What’s the good of
making us both unhappy? It’s been so jolly, our friendship.” She passed
her fingers slowly over his hand. “I love you, Philip.”
He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of
the room.
“I’m awfully sorry, I can’t do anything. The whole thing’s over.”
“D’you mean to say you don’t love me any more?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took
that one?”
He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed
intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her,
leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without
trying to hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one
after the other. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her.
Philip turned away.
“I’m awfully sorry to hurt you. It’s not my fault if I don’t love you.”
She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were
overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been
easier to bear if she had reproached him. He had thought her temper
would get the better of her, and he was prepared for that. At the back
of his mind was a feeling that a real quarrel, in which each said to
the other cruel things, would in some way be a justification of his
behaviour. The time passed. At last he grew frightened by her silent
crying; he went into his bed-room and got a glass of water; he leaned
over her.
“Won’t you drink a little? It’ll relieve you.”
She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three
mouthfuls. Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a
handkerchief. She dried her eyes.
“Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you,” she
moaned.
“I’m afraid that’s always the case,” he said. “There’s always one who
loves and one who lets himself be loved.”
He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart. Norah did
not answer for a long time.
“I’d been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful,” she said
at last.
She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her before
complain of the life she had led with her husband or of her poverty. He
had always admired the bold front she displayed to the world.
“And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I admired you
because you were clever and it was so heavenly to have someone I could
put my trust in. I loved you. I never thought it could come to an end.
And without any fault of mine at all.”
Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of
herself, and she hid her face in Philip’s handkerchief. She tried hard
to control herself.
“Give me some more water,” she said.
She wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I’m very grateful
for all you’ve done for me.”
He wondered what it was she saw in him.
“Oh, it’s always the same,” she sighed, “if you want men to behave well
to you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they
make you suffer for it.”
She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip a long,
steady look. Then she sighed.
“It’s so inexplicable. What does it all mean?”
Philip took a sudden determination.
“I think I’d better tell you, I don’t want you to think too badly of
me, I want you to see that I can’t help myself. Mildred’s come back.”
The colour came to her face.
“Why didn’t you tell me at once? I deserved that surely.”
“I was afraid to.”
She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight.
“Will you call me a cab,” she said. “I don’t feel I can walk.”
He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed
him into the street he was startled to see how white she was. There was
a heaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older.
She looked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone.
“I’ll drive back with you if you don’t mind.”
She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in
silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with
shrill cries, played in the road. When they arrived at her door she did
not immediately get out. It seemed as though she could not summon
enough strength to her legs to move.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Norah,” he said.
She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again
with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips.
“Poor fellow, you’re quite worried about me. You mustn’t bother. I
don’t blame you. I shall get over it all right.”
Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no
ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than suggested; then she
jumped out of the cab and let herself into her house.
Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred’s lodgings. There was a
curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to reproach himself.
But why? He did not know what else he could have done. Passing a
fruiterer’s, he remembered that Mildred was fond of grapes. He was so
grateful that he could show his love for her by recollecting every whim
she had.
LXXII
For the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took
his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa
reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute.
A happy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her.
“Don’t waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work,” she
said.
“Tyrant,” he answered gaily.
He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for
dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a
little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick
tongue. Mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an
elaborate but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought
her to the pass she was in. The good-hearted little woman was touched
and found no trouble too great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred’s
sense of propriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as
her brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had
ordered something which tempted Mildred’s capricious appetite. It
enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then
from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in
the arm-chair by the fire, and he settled himself down on the floor
beside her, leaning against her knees, and smoked. Often they did not
talk at all, and sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen into a
doze. He dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very
quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his happiness.
“Had a nice little nap?” he smiled, when she woke.
“I’ve not been sleeping,” she answered. “I only just closed my eyes.”
She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a
phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously
inconvenience her. She took a lot of trouble about her health and
accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. She went for a
‘constitutional’ every morning that it was fine and remained out a
definite time. When it was not too cold she sat in St. James’ Park. But
the rest of the day she spent quite happily on her sofa, reading one
novel after another or chatting with the landlady; she had an
inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant detail
the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor,
and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. Now and
then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip
about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should
die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady
and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her;
“I’m one to keep myself to myself,” she said, “I’m not one to go about
with anybody.”) and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror
and gusto; but for the most part she looked forward to the occurrence
with equanimity.
“After all, I’m not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the doctor
says I shan’t have any trouble. You see, it isn’t as if I wasn’t well
made.”
Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came,
had recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week. He was to
charge fifteen guineas.
“Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen strongly
recommended him, and I thought it wasn’t worth while to spoil the ship