Of Human Bondage (69 page)

  "I'm sure you'll like him just as much as I do. He's
so jolly and amusing, and he's such an awfully good sort."

  Philip told her how, when they were perfect
strangers, Griffiths had nursed him through an illness; and in the
telling Griffiths' self-sacrifice lost nothing.

  "You can't help liking him," said Philip.

  "I don't like good-looking men," said Mildred.
"They're too conceited for me."

  "He wants to know you. I've talked to him about you
an awful lot."

  "What have you said?" asked Mildred.

  Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his
love for Mildred, and little by little had told him the whole story
of his connection with her. He described her to him fifty times. He
dwelt amorously on every detail of her appearance, and Griffiths
knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped and how white her face
was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the charm of her
pale, thin lips.

  "By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as
that," he said. "Life wouldn't be worth living."

  Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of
being so madly in love that it was like meat and wine and the air
one breathed and whatever else was essential to existence.
Griffiths knew that Philip had looked after the girl while she was
having her baby and was now going away with her.

  "Well, I must say you've deserved to get something,"
he remarked. "It must have cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you
can afford it."

  "I can't," said Philip. "But what do I care!"

  Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred
sat in one of the shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and
watched the people pass. There were the Brighton shop-boys who
walked in twos and threes, swinging their canes, and there were the
Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in giggling bunches. They
could tell the people who had come down from London for the day;
the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were many
Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little
corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were middle-aged
gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully
dressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a
breakfast to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a
luncheon: they exchanged the time of day with friends and talked of
Dr. Brighton or London-by-the-Sea. Here and there a well-known
actor passed, elaborately unconscious of the attention he excited:
sometimes he wore patent leather boots, a coat with an astrakhan
collar, and carried a silver-knobbed stick; and sometimes, looking
as though he had come from a day's shooting, he strolled in
knickerbockers, and ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat on the
back of his head. The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea
was trim and neat.

  After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman
who was to take charge of the baby. She lived in a small house in a
back street, but it was clean and tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding.
She was an elderly, stout person, with gray hair and a red, fleshy
face. She looked motherly in her cap, and Philip thought she seemed
kind.

  "Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a
baby?" he asked her.

  She explained that her husband was a curate, a good
deal older than herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent
work since vicars wanted young men to assist them; he earned a
little now and then by doing locums when someone took a holiday or
fell ill, and a charitable institution gave them a small pension;
but her life was lonely, it would be something to do to look after
a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help her to
keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed.

  "Quite the lady, isn't she?" said Mildred, when they
went away.

  They went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred
liked the crowd and the band. Philip was tired of talking, and he
watched her face as she looked with keen eyes at the dresses of the
women who came in. She had a peculiar sharpness for reckoning up
what things cost, and now and then she leaned over to him and
whispered the result of her meditations.

  "D'you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit
of seven guineas."

  Or: "Look at that ermine, Philip. That's rabbit,
that is – that's not ermine." She laughed triumphantly. "I'd know
it a mile off."

  Philip smiled happily. He was glad to see her
pleasure, and the ingenuousness of her conversation amused and
touched him. The band played sentimental music.

  After dinner they walked down to the station, and
Philip took her arm. He told her what arrangements he had made for
their journey to France. She was to come up to London at the end of
the week, but she told him that she could not go away till the
Saturday of the week after that. He had already engaged a room in a
hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly to taking the
tickets.

  "You won't mind going second-class, will you? We
mustn't be extravagant, and it'll be all the better if we can do
ourselves pretty well when we get there."

  He had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter.
They would wander through its pleasant old streets, and they would
sit idly in the charming gardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather
was fine perhaps, when they had had enough of Paris, they might go
to Fontainebleau. The trees would be just bursting into leaf. The
green of the forest in spring was more beautiful than anything he
knew; it was like a song, and it was like the happy pain of love.
Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and tried to look deep
into her eyes.

  "You do want to come, don't you?" he said.

  "Of course I do," she smiled.

  "You don't know how I'm looking forward to it. I
don't know how I shall get through the next days. I'm so afraid
something will happen to prevent it. It maddens me sometimes that I
can't tell you how much I love you. And at last, at last..."

  He broke off. They reached the station, but they had
dawdled on the way, and Philip had barely time to say good-night.
He kissed her quickly and ran towards the wicket as fast as he
could. She stood where he left her. He was strangely grotesque when
he ran.

  The following Saturday Mildred returned, and that
evening Philip kept her to himself. He took seats for the play, and
they drank champagne at dinner. It was her first gaiety in London
for so long that she enjoyed everything ingenuously. She cuddled up
to Philip when they drove from the theatre to the room he had taken
for her in Pimlico.

  "I really believe you're quite glad to see me," he
said.

  She did not answer, but gently pressed his hand.
Demonstrations of affection were so rare with her that Philip was
enchanted.

  "I've asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow," he
told her.

  "Oh, I'm glad you've done that. I wanted to meet
him."

  There was no place of entertainment to take her to
on Sunday night, and Philip was afraid she would be bored if she
were alone with him all day. Griffiths was amusing; he would help
them to get through the evening; and Philip was so fond of them
both that he wanted them to know and to like one another. He left
Mildred with the words:

  "Only six days more."

  They had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano's
on Sunday, because the dinner was excellent and looked as though it
cost a good deal more than it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first
and had to wait some time for Griffiths.

  "He's an unpunctual devil," said Philip. "He's
probably making love to one of his numerous flames."

  But presently he appeared. He was a handsome
creature, tall and thin; his head was placed well on the body, it
gave him a conquering air which was attractive; and his curly hair,
his bold, friendly blue eyes, his red mouth, were charming. Philip
saw Mildred look at him with appreciation, and he felt a curious
satisfaction. Griffiths greeted them with a smile.

  "I've heard a great deal about you," he said to
Mildred, as he took her hand.

  "Not so much as I've heard about you," she
answered.

  "Nor so bad," said. Philip.

  "Has he been blackening my character?"

  Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred
noticed how white and regular his teeth were and how pleasant his
smile.

  "You ought to feel like old friends," said Philip.
"I've talked so much about you to one another."

  Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for,
having at length passed his final examination, he was qualified,
and he had just been appointed house-surgeon at a hospital in the
North of London. He was taking up his duties at the beginning of
May and meanwhile was going home for a holiday; this was his last
week in town, and he was determined to get as much enjoyment into
it as he could. He began to talk the gay nonsense which Philip
admired because he could not copy it. There was nothing much in
what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There flowed from him
a force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was almost
as sensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively than Philip
had ever known her, and he was delighted to see that his little
party was a success. She was amusing herself enormously. She
laughed louder and louder. She quite forgot the genteel reserve
which had become second nature to her.

  Presently Griffiths said:

  "I say, it's dreadfully difficult for me to call you
Mrs. Miller. Philip never calls you anything but Mildred."

  "I daresay she won't scratch your eyes out if you
call her that too," laughed Philip.

  "Then she must call me Harry."

  Philip sat silent while they chattered away and
thought how good it was to see people happy. Now and then Griffiths
teased him a little, kindly, because he was always so serious.

  "I believe he's quite fond of you, Philip," smiled
Mildred.

  "He isn't a bad old thing," answered Griffiths, and
taking Philip's hand he shook it gaily.

  It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked
Philip. They were all sober people, and the wine they had drunk
went to their heads. Griffiths became more talkative and so
boisterous that Philip, amused, had to beg him to be quiet. He had
a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost nothing of their
romance and their laughter in his narration. He played in all of
them a gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with
excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote.
When the lights began to be turned out she was astonished.

  "My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it
wasn't more than half past nine."

  They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she
added:

  "I'm coming to have tea at Philip's room tomorrow.
You might look in if you can."

  "All right," he smiled.

  On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing
but Griffiths. She was taken with his good looks, his well-cut
clothes, his voice, his gaiety.

  "I am glad you like him," said Philip. "D'you
remember you were rather sniffy about meeting him?"

  "I think it's so nice of him to be so fond of you,
Philip. He is a nice friend for you to have."

  She put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her.
It was a thing she did rarely.

  "I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank
you so much."

  "Don't be so absurd," he laughed, touched by her
appreciation so that he felt the moisture come to his eyes.

  She opened her door and just before she went in,
turned again to Philip.

  "Tell Harry I'm madly in love with him," she
said.

  "All right," he laughed. "Good-night."

  Next day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came
in. He sank lazily into an arm-chair. There was something strangely
sensual in the slow movements of his large limbs. Philip remained
silent, while the others chattered away, but he was enjoying
himself. He admired them both so much that it seemed natural enough
for them to admire one another. He did not care if Griffiths
absorbed Mildred's attention, he would have her to himself during
the evening: he had something of the attitude of a loving husband,
confident in his wife's affection, who looks on with amusement
while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger. But at half past seven
he looked at his watch and said: