Of Human Bondage
gallery, and the night was so fine that there was plenty of room.
Mildred’s eyes glistened. She enjoyed herself thoroughly. There was a
simple-mindedness in her which touched Philip. She was a puzzle to him.
Certain things in her still pleased him, and he thought that there was
a lot in her which was very good: she had been badly brought up, and
her life was hard; he had blamed her for much that she could not help;
and it was his own fault if he had asked virtues from her which it was
not in her power to give. Under different circumstances she might have
been a charming girl. She was extraordinarily unfit for the battle of
life. As he watched her now in profile, her mouth slightly open and
that delicate flush on her cheeks, he thought she looked strangely
virginal. He felt an overwhelming compassion for her, and with all his
heart he forgave her for the misery she had caused him. The smoky
atmosphere made Philip’s eyes ache, but when he suggested going she
turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to stay till the end.
He smiled and consented. She took his hand and held it for the rest of
the performance. When they streamed out with the audience into the
crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the
Westminster Bridge Road, looking at the people.
“I’ve not had such a good time as this for months,” she said.
Philip’s heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he
had carried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred and her baby into
his flat. It was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude. At last she
grew tired and they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and
when they got down and turned into their own street there was no one
about. Mildred slipped her arm through his.
“It’s just like old times, Phil,” she said.
She had never called him Phil before, that was what Griffiths called
him; and even now it gave him a curious pang. He remembered how much he
had wanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought
quite seriously of committing suicide. It all seemed very long ago. He
smiled at his past self. Now he felt nothing for Mildred but infinite
pity. They reached the house, and when they got into the sitting-room
Philip lit the gas.
“Is the baby all right?” he asked.
“I’ll just go in and see.”
When she came back it was to say that it had not stirred since she left
it. It was a wonderful child. Philip held out his hand.
“Well, good-night.”
“D’you want to go to bed already?”
“It’s nearly one. I’m not used to late hours these days,” said Philip.
She took his hand and holding it looked into his eyes with a little
smile.
“Phil, the other night in that room, when you asked me to come and stay
here, I didn’t mean what you thought I meant, when you said you didn’t
want me to be anything to you except just to cook and that sort of
thing.”
“Didn’t you?” answered Philip, withdrawing his hand. “I did.”
“Don’t be such an old silly,” she laughed.
He shook his head.
“I meant it quite seriously. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay here on
any other condition.”
“Why not?”
“I feel I couldn’t. I can’t explain it, but it would spoil it all.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, very well, it’s just as you choose. I’m not one to go down on my
hands and knees for that, and chance it.”
She went out, slamming the door behind her.
XCIII
Next morning Mildred was sulky and taciturn. She remained in her room
till it was time to get the dinner ready. She was a bad cook and could
do little more than chops and steaks; and she did not know how to use
up odds and ends, so that Philip was obliged to spend more money than
he had expected. When she served up she sat down opposite Philip, but
would eat nothing; he remarked on it; she said she had a bad headache
and was not hungry. He was glad that he had somewhere to spend the rest
of the day; the Athelnys were cheerful and friendly. It was a
delightful and an unexpected thing to realise that everyone in that
household looked forward with pleasure to his visit. Mildred had gone
to bed when he came back, but next day she was still silent. At supper
she sat with a haughty expression on her face and a little frown
between her eyes. It made Philip impatient, but he told himself that he
must be considerate to her; he was bound to make allowance.
“You’re very silent,” he said, with a pleasant smile.
“I’m paid to cook and clean, I didn’t know I was expected to talk as
well.”
He thought it an ungracious answer, but if they were going to live
together he must do all he could to make things go easily.
“I’m afraid you’re cross with me about the other night,” he said.
It was an awkward thing to speak about, but apparently it was necessary
to discuss it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered.
“Please don’t be angry with me. I should never have asked you to come
and live here if I’d not meant our relations to be merely friendly. I
suggested it because I thought you wanted a home and you would have a
chance of looking about for something to do.”
“Oh, don’t think I care.”
“I don’t for a moment,” he hastened to say. “You mustn’t think I’m
ungrateful. I realise that you only proposed it for my sake. It’s just
a feeling I have, and I can’t help it, it would make the whole thing
ugly and horrid.”
“You are funny,” she said, looking at him curiously. “I can’t make you
out.”
She was not angry with him now, but puzzled; she had no idea what he
meant: she accepted the situation, she had indeed a vague feeling that
he was behaving in a very noble fashion and that she ought to admire
it; but also she felt inclined to laugh at him and perhaps even to
despise him a little.
“He’s a rum customer,” she thought.
Life went smoothly enough with them. Philip spent all day at the
hospital and worked at home in the evening except when he went to the
Athelnys’ or to the tavern in Beak Street. Once the physician for whom
he clerked asked him to a solemn dinner, and two or three times he went
to parties given by fellow-students. Mildred accepted the monotony of
her life. If she minded that Philip left her sometimes by herself in
the evening she never mentioned it. Occasionally he took her to a music
hall. He carried out his intention that the only tie between them
should be the domestic service she did in return for board and lodging.
She had made up her mind that it was no use trying to get work that
summer, and with Philip’s approval determined to stay where she was
till the autumn. She thought it would be easy to get something to do
then.
“As far as I’m concerned you can stay on here when you’ve got a job if
it’s convenient. The room’s there, and the woman who did for me before
can come in to look after the baby.”
He grew very much attached to Mildred’s child. He had a naturally
affectionate disposition, which had had little opportunity to display
itself. Mildred was not unkind to the little girl. She looked after her
very well and once when she had a bad cold proved herself a devoted
nurse; but the child bored her, and she spoke to her sharply when she
bothered; she was fond of her, but had not the maternal passion which
might have induced her to forget herself. Mildred had no
demonstrativeness, and she found the manifestations of affection
ridiculous. When Philip sat with the baby on his knees, playing with it
and kissing it, she laughed at him.
“You couldn’t make more fuss of her if you was her father,” she said.
“You’re perfectly silly with the child.”
Philip flushed, for he hated to be laughed at. It was absurd to be so
devoted to another man’s baby, and he was a little ashamed of the
overflowing of his heart. But the child, feeling Philip’s attachment,
would put her face against his or nestle in his arms.
“It’s all very fine for you,” said Mildred. “You don’t have any of the
disagreeable part of it. How would you like being kept awake for an
hour in the middle of the night because her ladyship wouldn’t go to
sleep?”
Philip remembered all sorts of things of his childhood which he thought
he had long forgotten. He took hold of the baby’s toes.
“This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home.”
When he came home in the evening and entered the sitting-room his first
glance was for the baby sprawling on the floor, and it gave him a
little thrill of delight to hear the child’s crow of pleasure at seeing
him. Mildred taught her to call him daddy, and when the child did this
for the first time of her own accord, laughed immoderately.
“I wonder if you’re that stuck on baby because she’s mine,” asked
Mildred, “or if you’d be the same with anybody’s baby.”
“I’ve never known anybody else’s baby, so I can’t say,” said Philip.
Towards the end of his second term as in-patients’ clerk a piece of
good fortune befell Philip. It was the middle of July. He went one
Tuesday evening to the tavern in Beak Street and found nobody there but
Macalister. They sat together, chatting about their absent friends, and
after a while Macalister said to him:
“Oh, by the way, I heard of a rather good thing today, New
Kleinfonteins; it’s a gold mine in Rhodesia. If you’d like to have a
flutter you might make a bit.”
Philip had been waiting anxiously for such an opportunity, but now that
it came he hesitated. He was desperately afraid of losing money. He had
little of the gambler’s spirit.
“I’d love to, but I don’t know if I dare risk it. How much could I lose
if things went wrong?”
“I shouldn’t have spoken of it, only you seemed so keen about it,”
Macalister answered coldly.
Philip felt that Macalister looked upon him as rather a donkey.
“I’m awfully keen on making a bit,” he laughed.
“You can’t make money unless you’re prepared to risk money.”
Macalister began to talk of other things and Philip, while he was
answering him, kept thinking that if the venture turned out well the
stockbroker would be very facetious at his expense next time they met.
Macalister had a sarcastic tongue.
“I think I will have a flutter if you don’t mind,” said Philip
anxiously.
“All right. I’ll buy you two hundred and fifty shares and if I see a
half-crown rise I’ll sell them at once.”
Philip quickly reckoned out how much that would amount to, and his
mouth watered; thirty pounds would be a godsend just then, and he
thought the fates owed him something. He told Mildred what he had done
when he saw her at breakfast next morning. She thought him very silly.
“I never knew anyone who made money on the Stock Exchange,” she said.
“That’s what Emil always said, you can’t expect to make money on the
Stock Exchange, he said.”
Philip bought an evening paper on his way home and turned at once to
the money columns. He knew nothing about these things and had
difficulty in finding the stock which Macalister had spoken of. He saw
they had advanced a quarter. His heart leaped, and then he felt sick
with apprehension in case Macalister had forgotten or for some reason
had not bought. Macalister had promised to telegraph. Philip could not
wait to take a tram home. He jumped into a cab. It was an unwonted
extravagance.
“Is there a telegram for me?” he said, as he burst in.
“No,” said Mildred.
His face fell, and in bitter disappointment he sank heavily into a
chair.
“Then he didn’t buy them for me after all. Curse him,” he added
violently. “What cruel luck! And I’ve been thinking all day of what I’d
do with the money.”
“Why, what were you going to do?” she asked.
“What’s the good of thinking about that now? Oh, I wanted the money so
badly.”
She gave a laugh and handed him a telegram.
“I was only having a joke with you. I opened it.”
He tore it out of her hands. Macalister had bought him two hundred and