Of Human Bondage
he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel less hungry. In the
very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold. One night he went
into his room to change his linen; he slipped in about three, when he
was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again at five; he lay
on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones ached, and as
he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was so delicious that he
did not want to go to sleep. He was growing used to want of food and
did not feel very hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at the back of
his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he used all
the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the
temptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to help
himself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commit
suicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over the
impression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite
seriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which
he was bound to recover. Every night he swore that nothing would induce
him to put up with such another and determined next morning to write to
his uncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the
time came he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession
of his utter failure. He did not know how Lawson would take it. In
their friendship Lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided
himself on his common sense. He would have to tell the whole history of
his folly. He had an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him,
would turn the cold shoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would
of course do something for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did
not want anyone to reproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated
that what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened.
Regret was absurd.
The days were unending, and the five shillings Lawson had lent him
would not last much longer. Philip longed for Sunday to come so that he
could go to Athelny’s. He did not know what prevented him from going
there sooner, except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on
his own; for Athelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the
only person who could do anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he
could bring himself to tell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip
repeated to himself over and over again what he should say to him. He
was dreadfully afraid that Athelny would put him off with airy phrases:
that would be so horrible that he wanted to delay as long as possible
the putting of him to the test. Philip had lost all confidence in his
fellows.
Saturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered horribly. From midday
on Saturday till he dragged himself wearily to Athelny’s house he ate
nothing. He spent his last twopence on Sunday morning on a wash and a
brush up in the lavatory at Charing Cross.
CI
When Philip rang a head was put out of the window, and in a minute he
heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children ran down to let him
in. It was a pale, anxious, thin face that he bent down for them to
kiss. He was so moved by their exuberant affection that, to give
himself time to recover, he made excuses to linger on the stairs. He
was in a hysterical state and almost anything was enough to make him
cry. They asked him why he had not come on the previous Sunday, and he
told them he had been ill; they wanted to know what was the matter with
him; and Philip, to amuse them, suggested a mysterious ailment, the
name of which, double-barrelled and barbarous with its mixture of Greek
and Latin (medical nomenclature bristled with such), made them shriek
with delight. They dragged Philip into the parlour and made him repeat
it for their father’s edification. Athelny got up and shook hands with
him. He stared at Philip, but with his round, bulging eyes he always
seemed to stare, Philip did not know why on this occasion it made him
self-conscious.
“We missed you last Sunday,” he said.
Philip could never tell lies without embarrassment, and he was scarlet
when he finished his explanation for not coming. Then Mrs. Athelny
entered and shook hands with him.
“I hope you’re better, Mr. Carey,” she said.
He did not know why she imagined that anything had been the matter with
him, for the kitchen door was closed when he came up with the children,
and they had not left him.
“Dinner won’t be ready for another ten minutes,” she said, in her slow
drawl. “Won’t you have an egg beaten up in a glass of milk while you’re
waiting?”
There was a look of concern on her face which made Philip
uncomfortable. He forced a laugh and answered that he was not at all
hungry. Sally came in to lay the table, and Philip began to chaff her.
It was the family joke that she would be as fat as an aunt of Mrs.
Athelny, called Aunt Elizabeth, whom the children had never seen but
regarded as the type of obscene corpulence.
“I say, what HAS happened since I saw you last, Sally?” Philip began.
“Nothing that I know of.”
“I believe you’ve been putting on weight.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” she retorted. “You’re a perfect skeleton.”
Philip reddened.
“That’s a tu quoque, Sally,” cried her father. “You will be fined one
golden hair of your head. Jane, fetch the shears.”
“Well, he is thin, father,” remonstrated Sally. “He’s just skin and
bone.”
“That’s not the question, child. He is at perfect liberty to be thin,
but your obesity is contrary to decorum.”
As he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist and looked at her
with admiring eyes.
“Let me get on with the table, father. If I am comfortable there are
some who don’t seem to mind it.”
“The hussy!” cried Athelny, with a dramatic wave of the hand. “She
taunts me with the notorious fact that Joseph, a son of Levi who sells
jewels in Holborn, has made her an offer of marriage.”
“Have you accepted him, Sally?” asked Philip.
“Don’t you know father better than that by this time? There’s not a
word of truth in it.”
“Well, if he hasn’t made you an offer of marriage,” cried Athelny, “by
Saint George and Merry England, I will seize him by the nose and demand
of him immediately what are his intentions.”
“Sit down, father, dinner’s ready. Now then, you children, get along
with you and wash your hands all of you, and don’t shirk it, because I
mean to look at them before you have a scrap of dinner, so there.”
Philip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat, but then
discovered that his stomach turned against food, and he could eat
hardly at all. His brain was weary; and he did not notice that Athelny,
contrary to his habit, spoke very little. Philip was relieved to be
sitting in a comfortable house, but every now and then he could not
prevent himself from glancing out of the window. The day was
tempestuous. The fine weather had broken; and it was cold, and there
was a bitter wind; now and again gusts of rain drove against the
window. Philip wondered what he should do that night. The Athelnys went
to bed early, and he could not stay where he was after ten o’clock. His
heart sank at the thought of going out into the bleak darkness. It
seemed more terrible now that he was with his friends than when he was
outside and alone. He kept on saying to himself that there were plenty
more who would be spending the night out of doors. He strove to
distract his mind by talking, but in the middle of his words a spatter
of rain against the window would make him start.
“It’s like March weather,” said Athelny. “Not the sort of day one would
like to be crossing the Channel.”
Presently they finished, and Sally came in and cleared away.
“Would you like a twopenny stinker?” said Athelny, handing him a cigar.
Philip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight. It soothed him
extraordinarily. When Sally had finished Athelny told her to shut the
door after her.
“Now we shan’t be disturbed,” he said, turning to Philip. “I’ve
arranged with Betty not to let the children come in till I call them.”
Philip gave him a startled look, but before he could take in the
meaning of his words, Athelny, fixing his glasses on his nose with the
gesture habitual to him, went on.
“I wrote to you last Sunday to ask if anything was the matter with you,
and as you didn’t answer I went to your rooms on Wednesday.”
Philip turned his head away and did not answer. His heart began to beat
violently. Athelny did not speak, and presently the silence seemed
intolerable to Philip. He could not think of a single word to say.
“Your landlady told me you hadn’t been in since Saturday night, and she
said you owed her for the last month. Where have you been sleeping all
this week?”
It made Philip sick to answer. He stared out of the window.
“Nowhere.”
“I tried to find you.”
“Why?” asked Philip.
“Betty and I have been just as broke in our day, only we had babies to
look after. Why didn’t you come here?”
“I couldn’t.”
Philip was afraid he was going to cry. He felt very weak. He shut his
eyes and frowned, trying to control himself. He felt a sudden flash of
anger with Athelny because he would not leave him alone; but he was
broken; and presently, his eyes still closed, slowly in order to keep
his voice steady, he told him the story of his adventures during the
last few weeks. As he spoke it seemed to him that he had behaved
inanely, and it made it still harder to tell. He felt that Athelny
would think him an utter fool.
“Now you’re coming to live with us till you find something to do,” said
Athelny, when he had finished.
Philip flushed, he knew not why.
“Oh, it’s awfully kind of you, but I don’t think I’ll do that.”
“Why not?”
Philip did not answer. He had refused instinctively from fear that he
would be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of accepting
favours. He knew besides that the Athelnys lived from hand to mouth,
and with their large family had neither space nor money to entertain a
stranger.
“Of course you must come here,” said Athelny. “Thorpe will tuck in with
one of his brothers and you can sleep in his bed. You don’t suppose
your food’s going to make any difference to us.”
Philip was afraid to speak, and Athelny, going to the door, called his
wife.
“Betty,” he said, when she came in, “Mr. Carey’s coming to live with
us.”
“Oh, that is nice,” she said. “I’ll go and get the bed ready.”
She spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone, taking everything for
granted, that Philip was deeply touched. He never expected people to be
kind to him, and when they were it surprised and moved him. Now he
could not prevent two large tears from rolling down his cheeks. The
Athelnys discussed the arrangements and pretended not to notice to what
a state his weakness had brought him. When Mrs. Athelny left them
Philip leaned back in his chair, and looking out of the window laughed
a little.
“It’s not a very nice night to be out, is it?”
CII
Athelny told Philip that he could easily get him something to do in the
large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. Several of the
assistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and Sedley with patriotic zeal
had promised to keep their places open for them. They put the work of
the heroes on those who remained, and since they did not increase the
wages of these were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an
economy; but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the
holidays were coming, when numbers of the staff went away for a
fortnight at a time: they were bound to engage more assistants.
Philip’s experience had made him doubtful whether even then they would
engage him; but Athelny, representing himself as a person of
consequence in the firm, insisted that the manager could refuse him