Of Human Bondage
“I’ll ask Harry,” she said, flushing quickly.
“He’ll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds at the moment, and
he pawned his microscope last week, because he was so broke.”
“You needn’t think you can frighten me by that. I’m quite capable of
earning my own living.”
“It’s the best thing you can do. I don’t propose to give you a farthing
more.”
She thought of her rent due on Saturday and the baby’s keep, but did
not say anything. They left the restaurant, and in the street Philip
asked her:
“Shall I call a cab for you? I’m going to take a little stroll.”
“I haven’t got any money. I had to pay a bill this afternoon.”
“It won’t hurt you to walk. If you want to see me tomorrow I shall be
in about tea-time.”
He took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked round in a moment and
saw that she was standing helplessly where he had left her, looking at
the traffic. He went back and with a laugh pressed a coin into her
hand.
“Here’s two bob for you to get home with.”
Before she could speak he hurried away.
LXXVI
Next day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room and wondered whether
Mildred would come. He had slept badly. He had spent the morning in the
club of the Medical School, reading one newspaper after another. It was
the vacation and few students he knew were in London, but he found one
or two people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out
the tedious hours. After luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching
so, that he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a
novel. He had not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned
the night before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look
into Philip’s room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip
heard him go out early. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him.
Suddenly there was a light tap at his door. Philip sprang to his feet
and opened it. Mildred stood on the threshold. She did not move.
“Come in,” said Philip.
He closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to begin.
“Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night,” she said.
“Oh, that’s all right.”
She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid,
ingratiating look of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and
wants to reconcile himself with his master.
“I’ve been lunching with Harry,” she said.
“Have you?”
“If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip, I’ll
come.”
A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a
sensation that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion.
“Because of the money?” he asked.
“Partly,” she answered simply. “Harry can’t do anything. He owes five
weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor’s pressing him
for money. He’d pawn anything he could, but he’s pawned everything
already. I had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on
Saturday there’s the book at my lodgings, and I can’t get work in five
minutes. It always means waiting some little time till there’s a
vacancy.”
She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were
recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the
natural order of things. Philip did not answer. He knew what she told
him well enough.
“You said partly,” he observed at last.
“Well, Harry says you’ve been a brick to both of us. You’ve been a real
good friend to him, he says, and you’ve done for me what p’raps no
other man would have done. We must do the straight thing, he says. And
he said what you said about him, that he’s fickle by nature, he’s not
like you, and I should be a fool to throw you away for him. He won’t
last and you will, he says so himself.”
“D’you WANT to come away with me?” asked Philip.
“I don’t mind.”
He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an
expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have
his way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. She
looked at him quickly, but did not speak.
“I’ve looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and I
thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going to be happy…”
He did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a sudden,
without warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears. She was sitting
in the chair in which Norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her
face on the back of it, towards the side where there was a little bump
formed by the sagging in the middle, where the head had rested.
“I’m not lucky with women,” thought Philip.
Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a woman cry
with such an utter abandonment. It was horribly painful, and his heart
was torn. Without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his
arms round her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered
herself to his comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace.
He scarcely knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her
repeatedly.
“Are you awfully unhappy?” he said at last.
“I wish I was dead,” she moaned. “I wish I’d died when the baby come.”
Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He placed her
head more comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at
the table and looked at her.
“It is awful, love, isn’t it?” he said. “Fancy anyone wanting to be in
love.”
Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the
chair, exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her
side. She had the grotesque look of one of those painters’ dummies used
to hang draperies on.
“I didn’t know you loved him so much as all that,” said Philip.
He understood Griffiths’ love well enough, for he put himself in
Griffiths’ place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was
able to think himself in Griffiths’ body, and he kissed her with his
lips, smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It was her emotion that
surprised him. He had never thought her capable of passion, and this
was passion: there was no mistaking it. Something seemed to give way in
his heart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and
he felt strangely weak.
“I don’t want to make you unhappy. You needn’t come away with me if you
don’t want to. I’ll give you the money all the same.”
She shook her head.
“No, I said I’d come, and I’ll come.”
“What’s the good, if you’re sick with love for him?”
“Yes, that’s the word. I’m sick with love. I know it won’t last, just
as well as he does, but just now…”
She paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. A
strange idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came, without
stopping to think it out.
“Why don’t you go away with him?”
“How can I? You know we haven’t got the money.”
“I’ll give you the money.”
“You?”
She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the colour
came into her cheeks.
“Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you’d come
back to me.”
Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet
the torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. She stared at
him with open eyes.
“Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn’t think of it.”
“Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him.”
Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his
heart to refuse vehemently.
“I’ll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to Monday.
You could easily do that. On Monday he’s going home till he takes up
his appointment at the North London.”
“Oh, Philip, do you mean that?” she cried, clasping her hands. “If you
could only let us go—I would love you so much afterwards, I’d do
anything for you. I’m sure I shall get over it if you’ll only do that.
Would you really give us the money?”
“Yes,” he said.
She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see that she
was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by Philip’s side, taking
his hands.
“You are a brick, Philip. You’re the best fellow I’ve ever known. Won’t
you be angry with me afterwards?”
He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart!
“May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you don’t mind?
He won’t consent unless you promise it doesn’t matter. Oh, you don’t
know how I love him! And afterwards I’ll do anything you like. I’ll
come over to Paris with you or anywhere on Monday.”
She got up and put on her hat.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to ask him if he’ll take me.”
“Already?”
“D’you want me to stay? I’ll stay if you like.”
She sat down, but he gave a little laugh.
“No, it doesn’t matter, you’d better go at once. There’s only one
thing: I can’t bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt me too
awfully. Say I have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that,
but ask him to keep out of my way.”
“All right.” She sprang up and put on her gloves. “I’ll let you know
what he says.”
“You’d better dine with me tonight.”
“Very well.”
She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips
to hers she threw her arms round his neck.
“You are a darling, Philip.”
She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a
headache and could not dine with him. Philip had almost expected it. He
knew that she was dining with Griffiths. He was horribly jealous, but
the sudden passion which had seized the pair of them seemed like
something that had come from the outside, as though a god had visited
them with it, and he felt himself helpless. It seemed so natural that
they should love one another. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths
had over himself and confessed that in Mildred’s place he would have
done as Mildred did. What hurt him most was Griffiths’ treachery; they
had been such good friends, and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted
he was to Mildred: he might have spared him.
He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of
her by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of
her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he
suddenly hated her. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another,
Griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but
had shut his eyes to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his
concealed an utter selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to
his appetites. And how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars
and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another!
He never read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous
and vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine: the word most common
on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or woman.
Smart! It was no wonder he pleased Mildred. They suited one another.
Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He
knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity.
He did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off
dining with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to
make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised
peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her;
but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not
take exception to them. At last she got up.
“I think I must be going off now,” she said.
“I daresay you’ve got a lot to do,” he answered.
She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door
for her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that
his cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem
so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having
discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same