Of Human Bondage (103 page)

  The autumn passed into winter. Philip had left his
address with Mrs. Foster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she
might communicate with him, but still went once a week to the
hospital on the chance of there being a letter. One evening he saw
his name on an envelope in a handwriting he had hoped never to see
again. It gave him a queer feeling. For a little while he could not
bring himself to take it. It brought back a host of hateful
memories. But at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open the
envelope.

7 William Street,

Fitzroy Square.

  Dear Phil,

  Can I see you for a minute or two as soon as
possible. I am in awful trouble and don't know what to do. It's not
money.

Yours truly,

Mildred.

  He tore the letter into little bits and going out
into the street scattered them in the darkness.

  "I'll see her damned," he muttered.

  A feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought
of seeing her again. He did not care if she was in distress, it
served her right whatever it was, he thought of her with hatred,
and the love he had had for her aroused his loathing. His
recollections filled him with nausea, and as he walked across the
Thames he drew himself aside in an instinctive withdrawal from his
thought of her. He went to bed, but he could not sleep; he wondered
what was the matter with her, and he could not get out of his head
the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would not have written to
him unless she were desperate. He was angry with himself for his
weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace unless he saw
her. Next morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on his way
to the shop. He made it as stiff as he could and said merely that
he was sorry she was in difficulties and would come to the address
she had given at seven o'clock that evening.

  It was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid
street; and when, sick at the thought of seeing her, he asked
whether she was in, a wild hope seized him that she had left. It
looked the sort of place people moved in and out of frequently. He
had not thought of looking at the postmark on her letter and did
not know how many days it had lain in the rack. The woman who
answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry, but silently
preceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at the
back.

  "Mrs. Miller, a gentleman to see you," she
called.

  The door was slightly opened, and Mildred looked out
suspiciously.

  "Oh, it's you," she said. "Come in."

  He walked in and she closed the door. It was a very
small bed-room, untidy as was every place she lived in; there was a
pair of shoes on the floor, lying apart from one another and
uncleaned; a hat was on the chest of drawers, with false curls
beside it; and there was a blouse on the table. Philip looked for
somewhere to put his hat. The hooks behind the door were laden with
skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at the hem.

  "Sit down, won't you?" she said. Then she gave a
little awkward laugh. "I suppose you were surprised to hear from me
again."

  "You're awfully hoarse," he answered. "Have you got
a sore throat?"

  "Yes, I have had for some time."

  He did not say anything. He waited for her to
explain why she wanted to see him. The look of the room told him
clearly enough that she had gone back to the life from which he had
taken her. He wondered what had happened to the baby; there was a
photograph of it on the chimney-piece, but no sign in the room that
a child was ever there. Mildred was holding her handkerchief. She
made it into a little ball, and passed it from hand to hand. He saw
that she was very nervous. She was staring at the fire, and he
could look at her without meeting her eyes. She was much thinner
than when she had left him; and the skin, yellow and dryish, was
drawn more tightly over her cheekbones. She had dyed her hair and
it was now flaxen: it altered her a good deal, and made her look
more vulgar.

  "I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you,"
she said at last. "I thought p'raps you weren't at the 'ospital any
more."

  Philip did not speak.

  "I suppose you're qualified by now, aren't you?"

  "No."

  "How's that?"

  "I'm no longer at the hospital. I had to give it up
eighteen months ago."

  "You are changeable. You don't seem as if you could
stick to anything."

  Philip was silent for another moment, and when he
went on it was with coldness.

  "I lost the little money I had in an unlucky
speculation and I couldn't afford to go on with the medical. I had
to earn my living as best I could."

  "What are you doing then?"

  "I'm in a shop."

  "Oh!"

  She gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away
at once. He thought that she reddened. She dabbed her palms
nervously with the handkerchief.

  "You've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?"
She jerked the words out quite oddly.

  "Not entirely."

  "Because that's why I wanted to see you." Her voice
sank to a hoarse whisper. "I don't know what's the matter with
me."

  "Why don't you go to a hospital?"

  "I don't like to do that, and have all the stoodents
staring at me, and I'm afraid they'd want to keep me."

  "What are you complaining of?" asked Philip coldly,
with the stereotyped phrase used in the out-patients' room.

  "Well, I've come out in a rash, and I can't get rid
of it."

  Philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat
broke out on his forehead.

  "Let me look at your throat?"

  He took her over to the window and made such
examination as he could. Suddenly he caught sight of her eyes.
There was deadly fear in them. It was horrible to see. She was
terrified. She wanted him to reassure her; she looked at him
pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but with all her
nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her.

  "I'm afraid you're very ill indeed," he said.

  "What d'you think it is?"

  When he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips
even turned, yellow. she began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first
and then with choking sobs.

  "I'm awfully sorry," he said at last. "But I had to
tell you."

  "I may just as well kill myself and have done with
it."

  He took no notice of the threat.

  "Have you got any money?" he asked.

  "Six or seven pounds."

  "You must give up this life, you know. Don't you
think you could find some work to do? I'm afraid I can't help you
much. I only get twelve bob a week."

  "What is there I can do now?" she cried
impatiently.

  "Damn it all, you MUST try to get something."

  He spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own
danger and the danger to which she exposed others, and she listened
sullenly. He tried to console her. At last he brought her to a
sulky acquiescence in which she promised to do all he advised. He
wrote a prescription, which he said he would leave at the nearest
chemist's, and he impressed upon her the necessity of taking her
medicine with the utmost regularity. Getting up to go, he held out
his hand.

  "Don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your
throat."

  But as he went her face became suddenly distorted,
and she caught hold of his coat.

  "Oh, don't leave me," she cried hoarsely. "I'm so
afraid, don't leave me alone yet. Phil, please. There's no one else
I can go to, you're the only friend I've ever had."

  He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely
like that terror he had seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared
that he might die. Philip looked down. Twice that woman had come
into his life and made him wretched; she had no claim upon him; and
yet, he knew not why, deep in his heart was a strange aching; it
was that which, when he received her letter, had left him no peace
till he obeyed her summons.

  "I suppose I shall never really quite get over it,"
he said to himself.

  What perplexed him was that he felt a curious
physical distaste, which made it uncomfortable for him to be near
her.

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

  "Let's go out and dine together. I'll pay."

  He hesitated. He felt that she was creeping back
again into his life when he thought she was gone out of it for
ever. She watched him with sickening anxiety.

  "Oh, I know I've treated you shocking, but don't
leave me alone now. You've had your revenge. If you leave me by
myself now I don't know what I shall do."

  "All right, I don't mind," he said, "but we shall
have to do it on the cheap, I haven't got money to throw away these
days."

  She sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her
skirt and put on a hat; and they walked out together till they
found a restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road. Philip had got out
of the habit of eating at those hours, and Mildred's throat was so
sore that she could not swallow. They had a little cold ham and
Philip drank a glass of beer. They sat opposite one another, as
they had so often sat before; he wondered if she remembered; they
had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in silence if
Philip had not forced himself to talk. In the bright light of the
restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an
endless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip was anxious to
know about the child, but he had not the courage to ask. At last
she said:

  "You know baby died last summer."

  "Oh!" he said.

  "You might say you're sorry."

  "I'm not," he answered, "I'm very glad."

  She glanced at him and, understanding what he meant,
looked away

  "You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you?
I always thought it funny like how you could see so much in another
man's child."

  When they had finished eating they called at the
chemist's for the medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to
the shabby room he made her take a dose. Then they sat together
till it was time for Philip to go back to Harrington Street. He was
hideously bored.

  Philip went to see her every day. She took the
medicine he had prescribed and followed his directions, and soon
the results were so apparent that she gained the greatest
confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew better she grew less
despondent. She talked more freely.

  "As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right,"
she said. "I've had my lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No
more racketing about for yours truly."

  Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had
found work. She told him not to worry, she would find something to
do as soon as she wanted it; she had several strings to her bow; it
was all the better not to do anything for a week or two. He could
not deny this, but at the end of that time he became more
insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more cheerful now, and
said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories of the
manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some
eating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing
definite was fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the
beginning of the following week: there was no use hurrying, and it
would be a mistake to take something unsuitable.

  "It's absurd to talk like that," he said
impatiently. "You must take anything you can get. I can't help you,
and your money won't last for ever."

  "Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and
chance it."

  He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since
his first visit, and she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion
seized him. He remembered some of the things she had said. He put
two and two together. He wondered whether she had made any attempt
to find work. Perhaps she had been lying to him all the time. It
was very strange that her money should have lasted so long.

  "What is your rent here?"

  "Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what
some of them are; she's quite willing to wait till it's convenient
for me to pay."

  He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible
that he hesitated. It was no use to ask her, she would deny
everything; if he wanted to know he must find out for himself. He
was in the habit of leaving her every evening at eight, and when
the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to Harrington
Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so that
he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him
that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of
going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door
of No. 7 opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the
darkness and watched her walk towards him. She had on the hat with
a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she
wore a dress he recognized, too showy for the street and unsuitable
to the time of year. He followed her slowly till she came into the
Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened her pace; at the corner
of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and crossed over to a
music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the arm. He saw
that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips.

  "Where are you going, Mildred?"

  She started at the sound of his voice and reddened
as she always did when she was caught in a lie; then the flash of
anger which he knew so well came into her eyes as she instinctively
sought to defend herself by abuse. But she did not say the words
which were on the tip of her tongue.

  "Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me
the hump sitting every night by myself."

  He did not pretend to believe her.

  "You mustn't. Good heavens, I've told you fifty
times how dangerous it is. You must stop this sort of thing at
once."