Of Human Bondage (86 page)

  "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 put the
baby to bed.

  "I think you'll do well to turn in early yourself,"
said Philip. "You look absolute done up."

  "I think I will after I've washed up."

  Philip lit his pipe and began to read. It was
pleasant to hear somebody moving about in the next room. Sometimes
his loneliness had oppressed him. Mildred came in to clear the
table, and he heard the clatter of plates as she washed up. Philip
smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of her that she
should do all that in a black silk dress. But he had work to do,
and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading Osler's
Medicine, which had recently taken the place in the students'
favour of Taylor's work, for many years the text-book most in use.
Presently Mildred came in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave
her a casual glance, but did not move; the occasion was curious,
and he felt a little nervous. He feared that Mildred might imagine
he was going to make a nuisance of himself, and he did not quite
know how without brutality to reassure her.

  "By the way, I've got a lecture at nine, so I should
want breakfast at a quarter past eight. Can you manage that?"

  "Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I
used to catch the eight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning."

  "I hope you'll find your room comfortable. You'll be
a different woman tomorrow after a long night in bed."

  "I suppose you work till late?"

  "I generally work till about eleven or
half-past."

  "I'll say good-night then."

  "Good-night."

  The table was between them. He did not offer to
shake hands with her. She shut the door quietly. He heard her
moving about in the bed-room, and in a little while he heard the
creaking of the bed as she got in.

  XCII

  The following day was Tuesday. Philip as usual
hurried through his breakfast and dashed off to get to his lecture
at nine. He had only time to exchange a few words with Mildred.
When he came back in the evening he found her seated at the window,
darning his socks.

  "I say, you are industrious," he smiled. "What have
you been doing with yourself all day?"

  "Oh, I gave the place a good cleaning and then I
took baby out for a little."

  She was wearing an old black dress, the same as she
had worn as uniform when she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby,
but she looked better in it than in the silk of the day before. The
baby was sitting on the floor. She looked up at Philip with large,
mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh when he sat down beside her
and began playing with her bare toes. The afternoon sun came into
the room and shed a mellow light.

  "It's rather jolly to come back and find someone
about the place. A woman and a baby make very good decoration in a
room."

  He had gone to the hospital dispensary and got a
bottle of Blaud's Pills, He gave them to Mildred and told her she
must take them after each meal. It was a remedy she was used to,
for she had taken it off and on ever since she was sixteen.