Of Human Bondage (67 page)

  "I'm awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that
I'm very grateful for all you've done for me."

  He wondered what it was she saw in him.

  "Oh, it's always the same," she sighed, "if you want
men to behave well to you, you must be beastly to them; if you
treat them decently they make you suffer for it."

  She got up from the floor and said she must go. She
gave Philip a long, steady look. Then she sighed.

  "It's so inexplicable. What does it all mean?"

  Philip took a sudden determination.

  "I think I'd better tell you, I don't want you to
think too badly of me, I want you to see that I can't help myself.
Mildred's come back."

  The colour came to her face.

  "Why didn't you tell me at once? I deserved that
surely."

  "I was afraid to."

  She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat
straight.

  "Will you call me a cab," she said. "I don't feel I
can walk."

  He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom;
but when she followed him into the street he was startled to see
how white she was. There was a heaviness in her movements as though
she had suddenly grown older. She looked so ill that he had not the
heart to let her go alone.

  "I'll drive back with you if you don't mind."

  She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They
drove along in silence over the bridge, through shabby streets in
which children, with shrill cries, played in the road. When they
arrived at her door she did not immediately get out. It seemed as
though she could not summon enough strength to her legs to
move.

  "I hope you'll forgive me, Norah," he said.

  She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that
they were bright again with tears, but she forced a smile to her
lips.

  "Poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. You
mustn't bother. I don't blame you. I shall get over it all
right."

  Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him
that she bore no ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than
suggested; then she jumped out of the cab and let herself into her
house.

  Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred's
lodgings. There was a curious heaviness in his heart. He was
inclined to reproach himself. But why? He did not know what else he
could have done. Passing a fruiterer's, he remembered that Mildred
was fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he could show his love
for her by recollecting every whim she had.

  For the next three months Philip went every day to
see Mildred. He took his books with him and after tea worked, while
Mildred lay on the sofa reading novels. Sometimes he would look up
and watch her for a minute. A happy smile crossed his lips. She
would feel his eyes upon her.

  "Don't waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on
with your work," she said.

  "Tyrant," he answered gaily.

  He put aside his book when the landlady came in to
lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged
chaff with her. She was a little cockney, of middle age, with an
amusing humour and a quick tongue. Mildred had become great friends
with her and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of
the circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in. The
good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too
great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred's sense of propriety had
suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her brother. They
dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered
something which tempted Mildred's capricious appetite. It enchanted
him to see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from
sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in
the arm-chair by the fire, and he settled himself down on the floor
beside her, leaning against her knees, and smoked. Often they did
not talk at all, and sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen
into a doze. He dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat
very quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his
happiness.

  "Had a nice little nap?" he smiled, when she
woke.

  "I've not been sleeping," she answered. "I only just
closed my eyes."

  She would never acknowledge that she had been
asleep. She had a phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not
seriously inconvenience her. She took a lot of trouble about her
health and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. She
went for a `constitutional' every morning that it was fine and
remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she sat in
St. James' Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on
her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the
landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told
Philip with abundant detail the history of the landlady, of the
lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the people who lived in
the next house on either side. Now and then she was seized with
panic; she poured out her fears to Philip about the pain of the
confinement and was in terror lest she should die; she gave him a
full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the lady on
the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; "I'm one to keep
myself to myself," she said, "I'm not one to go about with
anybody.") and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror
and gusto; but for the most part she looked forward to the
occurrence with equanimity.

  "After all, I'm not the first one to have a baby, am
I? And the doctor says I shan't have any trouble. You see, it isn't
as if I wasn't well made."

  Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to
when her time came, had recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him
once a week. He was to charge fifteen guineas.

  "Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but
Mrs. Owen strongly recommended him, and I thought it wasn't worth
while to spoil the ship for a coat of tar."

  "If you feel happy and comfortable I don't mind a
bit about the expense," said Philip.

  She accepted all that Philip did for her as if it
were the most natural thing in the world, and on his side he loved
to spend money on her: each five-pound note he gave her caused him
a little thrill of happiness and pride; he gave her a good many,
for she was not economical.

  "I don't know where the money goes to," she said
herself, "it seems to slip through my fingers like water."

  "It doesn't matter," said Philip. "I'm so glad to be
able to do anything I can for you."

  She could not sew well and so did not make the
necessary things for the baby; she told Philip it was much cheaper
in the end to buy them. Philip had lately sold one of the mortgages
in which his money had been put; and now, with five hundred pounds
in the bank waiting to be invested in something that could be more
easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly well-to-do. They talked
often of the future. Philip was anxious that Mildred should keep
the child with her, but she refused: she had her living to earn,
and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also to look
after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one of the shops of the
company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put
with some decent woman in the country.

  "I can find someone who'll look after it well for
seven and sixpence a week. It'll be better for the baby and better
for me."

  It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to
reason with her she pretended to think he was concerned with the
expense.

  "You needn't worry about that," she said. "I shan't
ask YOU to pay for it."

  "You know I don't care how much I pay."

  At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the
child would be still-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip
saw that the thought was there. He was shocked at first; and then,
reasoning with himself, he was obliged to confess that for all
concerned such an event was to be desired.

  "It's all very fine to say this and that," Mildred
remarked querulously, "but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn
her living by herself; it doesn't make it any easier when she's got
a baby."

  "Fortunately you've got me to fall back on," smiled
Philip, taking her hand.

  "You've been good to me, Philip."

  "Oh, what rot!"

  "You can't say I didn't offer anything in return for
what you've done."

  "Good heavens, I don't want a return. If I've done
anything for you, I've done it because I love you. You owe me
nothing. I don't want you to do anything unless you love me."

  He was a little horrified by her feeling that her
body was a commodity which she could deliver indifferently as an
acknowledgment for services rendered.

  "But I do want to, Philip. You've been so good to
me."

  "Well, it won't hurt for waiting. When you're all
right again we'll go for our little honeymoon."

  "You are naughty," she said, smiling.

  Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and
as soon as she was well enough she was to go to the seaside for a
fortnight: that would give Philip a chance to work without
interruption for his examination; after that came the Easter
holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris together. Philip
talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was delightful
then. They would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the Latin
Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little
restaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to
music halls. It would amuse her to meet his friends. He had talked
to her about Cronshaw, she would see him; and there was Lawson, he
had gone to Paris for a couple of months; and they would go to the
Bal Bullier; there were excursions; they would make trips to
Versailles, Chartres, Fontainebleau.

  "It'll cost a lot of money," she said.

  "Oh, damn the expense. Think how I've been looking
forward to it. Don't you know what it means to me? I've never loved
anyone but you. I never shall."

  She listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He
thought he saw in them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to
her. She was much gentler than she used to be. There was in her no
longer the superciliousness which had irritated him. She was so
accustomed to him now that she took no pains to keep up before him
any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair with the old
elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the vast
fringe which she generally wore: the more careless style suited
her. Her face was so thin that it made her eyes seem very large;
there were heavy lines under them, and the pallor of her cheeks
made their colour more profound. She had a wistful look which was
infinitely pathetic. There seemed to Philip to be in her something
of the Madonna. He wished they could continue in that same way
always. He was happier than he had ever been in his life.

  He used to leave her at ten o'clock every night, for
she liked to go to bed early, and he was obliged to put in another
couple of hours' work to make up for the lost evening. He generally
brushed her hair for her before he went. He had made a ritual of
the kisses he gave her when he bade her good-night; first he kissed
the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers were, the nails were
beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring them,) then he
kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and then the left, and
at last he kissed her lips. He went home with a heart overflowing
with love. He longed for an opportunity to gratify the desire for
self-sacrifice which consumed him.

  Presently the time came for her to move to the
nursing-home where she was to be confined. Philip was then able to
visit her only in the afternoons. Mildred changed her story and
represented herself as the wife of a soldier who had gone to India
to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to the mistress of
the establishment as her brother-in-law.