Of Human Bondage
Philip did not answer, and in a moment she broke into a sob.
“You don’t think I do it because I like it, do you?”
“Oh, my dear,” he cried. “I’m so sorry, I’m so awfully sorry.”
“That’ll do me a fat lot of good.”
Again Philip found nothing to say. He was desperately afraid of saying
anything which she might take for a reproach or a sneer.
“Where’s the baby?” he asked at last.
“I’ve got her with me in London. I hadn’t got the money to keep her on
at Brighton, so I had to take her. I’ve got a room up Highbury way. I
told them I was on the stage. It’s a long way to have to come down to
the West End every day, but it’s a rare job to find anyone who’ll let
to ladies at all.”
“Wouldn’t they take you back at the shop?”
“I couldn’t get any work to do anywhere. I walked my legs off looking
for work. I did get a job once, but I was off for a week because I was
queer, and when I went back they said they didn’t want me any more. You
can’t blame them either, can you? Them places, they can’t afford to
have girls that aren’t strong.”
“You don’t look very well now,” said Philip.
“I wasn’t fit to come out tonight, but I couldn’t help myself, I wanted
the money. I wrote to Emil and told him I was broke, but he never even
answered the letter.”
“You might have written to me.”
“I didn’t like to, not after what happened, and I didn’t want you to
know I was in difficulties. I shouldn’t have been surprised if you’d
just told me I’d only got what I deserved.”
“You don’t know me very well, do you, even now?”
For a moment he remembered all the anguish he had suffered on her
account, and he was sick with the recollection of his pain. But it was
no more than recollection. When he looked at her he knew that he no
longer loved her. He was very sorry for her, but he was glad to be
free. Watching her gravely, he asked himself why he had been so
besotted with passion for her.
“You’re a gentleman in every sense of the word,” she said. “You’re the
only one I’ve ever met.” She paused for a minute and then flushed. “I
hate asking you, Philip, but can you spare me anything?”
“It’s lucky I’ve got some money on me. I’m afraid I’ve only got two
pounds.”
He gave her the sovereigns.
“I’ll pay you back, Philip.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he smiled. “You needn’t worry.”
He had said nothing that he wanted to say. They had talked as if the
whole thing were natural; and it looked as though she would go now,
back to the horror of her life, and he would be able to do nothing to
prevent it. She had got up to take the money, and they were both
standing.
“Am I keeping you?” she asked. “I suppose you want to be getting home.”
“No, I’m in no hurry,” he answered.
“I’m glad to have a chance of sitting down.”
Those words, with all they implied, tore his heart, and it was
dreadfully painful to see the weary way in which she sank back into the
chair. The silence lasted so long that Philip in his embarrassment lit
a cigarette.
“It’s very good of you not to have said anything disagreeable to me,
Philip. I thought you might say I didn’t know what all.”
He saw that she was crying again. He remembered how she had come to him
when Emil Miller had deserted her and how she had wept. The
recollection of her suffering and of his own humiliation seemed to
render more overwhelming the compassion he felt now.
“If I could only get out of it!” she moaned. “I hate it so. I’m unfit
for the life, I’m not the sort of girl for that. I’d do anything to get
away from it, I’d be a servant if I could. Oh, I wish I was dead.”
And in pity for herself she broke down now completely. She sobbed
hysterically, and her thin body was shaken.
“Oh, you don’t know what it is. Nobody knows till they’ve done it.”
Philip could not bear to see her cry. He was tortured by the horror of
her position.
“Poor child,” he whispered. “Poor child.”
He was deeply moved. Suddenly he had an inspiration. It filled him with
a perfect ecstasy of happiness.
“Look here, if you want to get away from it, I’ve got an idea. I’m
frightfully hard up just now, I’ve got to be as economical as I can;
but I’ve got a sort of little flat now in Kennington and I’ve got a
spare room. If you like you and the baby can come and live there. I pay
a woman three and sixpence a week to keep the place clean and to do a
little cooking for me. You could do that and your food wouldn’t come to
much more than the money I should save on her. It doesn’t cost any more
to feed two than one, and I don’t suppose the baby eats much.”
She stopped crying and looked at him.
“D’you mean to say that you could take me back after all that’s
happened?”
Philip flushed a little in embarrassment at what he had to say.
“I don’t want you to mistake me. I’m just giving you a room which
doesn’t cost me anything and your food. I don’t expect anything more
from you than that you should do exactly the same as the woman I have
in does. Except for that I don’t want anything from you at all. I
daresay you can cook well enough for that.”
She sprang to her feet and was about to come towards him.
“You are good to me, Philip.”
“No, please stop where you are,” he said hurriedly, putting out his
hand as though to push her away.
He did not know why it was, but he could not bear the thought that she
should touch him.
“I don’t want to be anything more than a friend to you.”
“You are good to me,” she repeated. “You are good to me.”
“Does that mean you’ll come?”
“Oh, yes, I’d do anything to get away from this. You’ll never regret
what you’ve done, Philip, never. When can I come, Philip?”
“You’d better come tomorrow.”
Suddenly she burst into tears again.
“What on earth are you crying for now?” he smiled.
“I’m so grateful to you. I don’t know how I can ever make it up to
you?”
“Oh, that’s all right. You’d better go home now.”
He wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past
five he would be ready for her. It was so late that he had to walk
home, but it did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with
delight; he seemed to walk on air.
XCI
Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told
the woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more.
Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window,
went down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it
consisted now of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown
paper, for she had been obliged to sell everything that was not
absolutely needful. She wore the same black silk dress she had worn the
night before, and, though she had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was
still about her eyes the black which remained after a perfunctory wash
in the morning: it made her look very ill. She was a pathetic figure as
she stepped out of the cab with the baby in her arms. She seemed a
little shy, and they found nothing but commonplace things to say to one
another.
“So you’ve got here all right.”
“I’ve never lived in this part of London before.”
Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died.
Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going
back to it; and since Cronshaw’s death he had remained in the little
room, sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order
to make his friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly.
“You don’t recognise her, I expect,” said Mildred.
“I’ve not seen her since we took her down to Brighton.”
“Where shall I put her? She’s so heavy I can’t carry her very long.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got a cradle,” said Philip, with a nervous laugh.
“Oh, she’ll sleep with me. She always does.”
Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She
recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings.
Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had
painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the
chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.
“In some ways I like it and in some ways I don’t. I think you’re better
looking than that.”
“Things are looking up,” laughed Philip. “You’ve never told me I was
good-looking before.”
“I’m not one to worry myself about a man’s looks. I don’t like
good-looking men. They’re too conceited for me.”
Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a
looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her
large fringe.
“What’ll the other people in the house say to my being here?” she asked
suddenly.
“Oh, there’s only a man and his wife living here. He’s out all day, and
I never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely
to themselves. I’ve not spoken two words to either of them since I
came.”
Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away.
Philip tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in
his chair, smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the
sleeping child. He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not
at all in love with Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had
left him so completely; he discerned in himself a faint physical
repulsion from her; and he thought that if he touched her it would give
him goose-flesh. He could not understand himself. Presently, knocking
at the door, she came in again.
“I say, you needn’t knock,” he said. “Have you made the tour of the
mansion?”
“It’s the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts,” he
retorted lightly.
“I see there’s nothing in. I’d better go out and get something.”
“Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical.”
“What shall I get for supper?”
“You’d better get what you think you can cook,” laughed Philip.
He gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later
and put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing
the stairs.
“I say, you are anaemic,” said Philip. “I’ll have to dose you with
Blaud’s Pills.”
“It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That’s
tasty, isn’t it? And you can’t eat much of it, so it’s more economical
than butcher’s meat.”
There was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver
on, Mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth.
“Why are you only laying one place?” asked Philip. “Aren’t you going to
eat anything?”
Mildred flushed.
“I thought you mightn’t like me to have my meals with you.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Well, I’m only a servant, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be an ass. How can you be so silly?”
He smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor
thing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He
hesitated for an instant.
“Don’t think I’m conferring any benefit on you,” he said. “It’s simply
a business arrangement, I’m giving you board and lodging in return for
your work. You don’t owe me anything. And there’s nothing humiliating
to you in it.”
She did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip
knew from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked
upon service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient
with her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired
and ill. He got up and helped her to lay another place at the table.
The baby was awake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin’s Food for
it. The liver and bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy’s
sake Philip had given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the
house a half a bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do
Mildred good. He did his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but
Mildred was subdued and exhausted. When they had finished she got up to