Chapter 29

He slept very badly. The next day was Sunday, and he worked at his biology. He sat with the book in front of him, forming the words with his lips in order to fix his attention, but he could remember nothing. He found his thoughts going back to Mildred every minute, and he repeated to himself the exact words of the quarrel they had had. He had to force himself back to his book. He went out for a walk. The streets on the South side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy, a coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on Sundays, with no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and depressed, they were indescribably dreary. Philip thought that day would never end. But he was so tired that he slept heavily, and when Monday came he entered upon life with determination. Christmas was approaching, and a good many of the students had gone into the country for the short holiday between the two parts of the winter session; but Philip had refused his uncle’s invitation to go down to Blackstable. He had given the approaching examination as his excuse, but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave London and Mildred. He had neglected his work so much that now he had only a fortnight to learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to work seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred. He congratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he suffered was no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be expected to feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no bones were broken, were bruised all over and shaken. Philip found that he was able to observe with curiosity the condition he had been in during the last few weeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He was a little amused at himself. One thing that struck him was how little under those circumstances it mattered what one thought; the system of personal philosophy, which had given him great satisfaction to devise, had not served him. He was puzzled by this.

But sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like Mildred that his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he could not help himself, he hurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find that it was a total stranger. Men came back from the country, and he went with Dunsford to have tea at an A. B. C. shop. The well-known uniform made him so miserable that he could not speak. The thought came to him that perhaps she had been transferred to another establishment of the firm for which she worked, and he might suddenly find himself face to face with her. The idea filled him with panic, so that he feared Dunsford would see that something was the matter with him: he could not think of anything to say; he pretended to listen to what Dunsford was talking about; the conversation maddened him; and it was all he could do to prevent himself from crying out to Dunsford for Heaven’s sake to hold his tongue.

Then came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn arrived, went forward to the examiner’s table with the utmost confidence. He answered three or four questions. Then they showed him various specimens; he had been to very few lectures and, as soon as he was asked about things which he could not learn from books, he was floored. He did what he could to hide his ignorance, the examiner did not insist, and soon his ten minutes were over. He felt certain he had passed; but next day, when he went up to the examination buildings to see the result posted on the door, he was astounded not to find his number among those who had satisfied the examiners. In amazement he read the list three times. Dunsford was with him.

“I say, I’m awfully sorry you’re ploughed,” he said.

He had just inquired Philip’s number. Philip turned and saw by his radiant face that Dunsford had passed.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter a bit,” said Philip. “I’m jolly glad you’re all right. I shall go up again in July.”

He was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back along The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things. Dunsford good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of Philip’s failure, but Philip was obstinately casual. He was horribly mortified; and the fact that Dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but quite stupid fellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear. He had always been proud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself desperately whether he was not mistaken in the opinion he held of himself. In the three months of the winter session the students who had joined in October had already shaken down into groups, and it was clear which were brilliant, which were clever or industrious, and which were ‘rotters.’ Philip was conscious that his failure was a surprise to no one but himself. It was tea-time, and he knew that a lot of men would be having tea in the basement of the Medical School: those who had passed the examination would be exultant, those who disliked him would look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who had failed would sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. His instinct was not to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would be no more thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he went: he wanted to inflict suffering upon himself. He forgot for the moment his maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for the policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it, there must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made him take a grim pleasure in self-torture.

But later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced himself, going out into the night after the noisy conversation in the smoking-room, he was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness. He seemed to himself absurd and futile. He had an urgent need of consolation, and the temptation to see Mildred was irresistible. He thought bitterly that there was small chance of consolation from her; but he wanted to see her even if he did not speak to her; after all, she was a waitress and would be obliged to serve him. She was the only person in the world he cared for. There was no use in hiding that fact from himself. Of course it would be humiliating to go back to the shop as though nothing had happened, but he had not much self-respect left. Though he would not confess it to himself, he had hoped each day that she would write to him; she knew that a letter addressed to the hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was evident that she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. And he kept on repeating to himself:

“I must see her. I must see her.”

The desire was so great that he could not give the time necessary to walk, but jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to use one when it could possibly be avoided. He stood outside the shop for a minute or two. The thought came to him that perhaps she had left, and in terror he walked in quickly. He saw her at once. He sat down and she came up to him.

“A cup of tea and a muffin, please,” he ordered.

He could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment that he was going to cry.

“I almost thought you was dead,” she said.

She was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have forgotten completely that last scene which Philip had repeated to himself a hundred times.

“I thought if you’d wanted to see me you’d write,” he answered.

“I’ve got too much to do to think about writing letters.”

It seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. Philip cursed the fate which chained him to such a woman. She went away to fetch his tea.

“Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?” she said, when she brought it.

“Yes.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“I’ve been in London.”

“I thought you’d gone away for the holidays. Why haven’t you been in then?”

Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes.

“Don’t you remember that I said I’d never see you again?”

“What are you doing now then?”

She seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his humiliation; but he knew her well enough to know that she spoke at random; she hurt him frightfully, and never even tried to. He did not answer.

“It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that. I always thought you was a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

“Don’t be beastly to me, Mildred. I can’t bear it.”

“You are a funny feller. I can’t make you out.”

“It’s very simple. I’m such a blasted fool as to love you with all my heart and soul, and I know that you don’t care twopence for me.”

“If you had been a gentleman I think you’d have come next day and begged my pardon.”

She had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought how he would like to jab it with the knife he had for his muffin. He knew enough anatomy to make pretty certain of getting the carotid artery. And at the same time he wanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses.

“If I could only make you understand how frightfully I’m in love with you.”

“You haven’t begged my pardon yet.”

He grew very white. She felt that she had done nothing wrong on that occasion. She wanted him now to humble himself. He was very proud. For one instant he felt inclined to tell her to go to hell, but he dared not. His passion made him abject. He was willing to submit to anything rather than not see her.

“I’m very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon.”

He had to force the words out. It was a horrible effort.

“Now you’ve said that I don’t mind telling you that I wish I had come out with you that evening. I thought Miller was a gentleman, but I’ve discovered my mistake now. I soon sent him about his business.”

Philip gave a little gasp.

“Mildred, won’t you come out with me tonight? Let’s go and dine somewhere.”

“Oh, I can’t. My aunt’ll be expecting me home.”

“I’ll send her a wire. You can say you’ve been detained in the shop; she won’t know any better. Oh, do come, for God’s sake. I haven’t seen you for so long, and I want to talk to you.”

She looked down at her clothes.

“Never mind about that. We’ll go somewhere where it doesn’t matter how you’re dressed. And we’ll go to a music-hall afterwards. Please say yes. It would give me so much pleasure.”

She hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully appealing eyes.

“Well, I don’t mind if I do. I haven’t been out anywhere since I don’t know how long.”

It was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself from seizing her hand there and then to cover it with kisses.

LX

They dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy. It was not one of the more crowded of those cheap restaurants where the respectable and needy dine in the belief that it is bohemian and the assurance that it is economical. It was a humble establishment, kept by a good man from Rouen and his wife, that Philip had discovered by accident. He had been attracted by the Gallic look of the window, in which was generally an uncooked steak on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw vegetables. There was one seedy French waiter, who was attempting to learn English in a house where he never heard anything but French; and the customers were a few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or two, who had their own napkins reserved for them, and a few queer men who came in for hurried, scanty meals.

Here Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to themselves. Philip sent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from the neighbouring tavern, and they had a potage aux herbes, a steak from the window aux pommes, and an omelette au kirsch. There was really an air of romance in the meal and in the place. Mildred, at first a little reserved in her appreciation—“I never quite trust these foreign places, you never know what there is in these messed up dishes”—was insensibly moved by it.

“I like this place, Philip,” she said. “You feel you can put your elbows on the table, don’t you?”

A tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and a ragged thin beard. He wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake hat. He nodded to Philip, who had met him there before.

“He looks like an anarchist,” said Mildred.

“He is, one of the most dangerous in Europe. He’s been in every prison on the Continent and has assassinated more persons than any gentleman unhung. He always goes about with a bomb in his pocket, and of course it makes conversation a little difficult because if you don’t agree with him he lays it on the table in a marked manner.”

She looked at the man with horror and surprise, and then glanced suspiciously at Philip. She saw that his eyes were laughing. She frowned a little.

“You’re getting at me.”

He gave a little shout of joy. He was so happy. But Mildred didn’t like being laughed at.

“I don’t see anything funny in telling lies.”

“Don’t be cross.”

He took her hand, which was lying on the table, and pressed it gently.

“You are lovely, and I could kiss the ground you walk on,” he said.

The greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and her thin white lips had an extraordinary fascination. Her anaemia made her rather short of breath, and she held her mouth slightly open. It seemed to add somehow to the attractiveness of her face.

“You do like me a bit, don’t you?” he asked.

“Well, if I didn’t I suppose I shouldn’t be here, should I? You’re a gentleman in every sense of the word, I will say that for you.”

They had finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. Philip, throwing economy to the winds, smoked a three-penny cigar.

“You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to me just to sit opposite and look at you. I’ve yearned for you. I was sick for a sight of you.”

Mildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. She was not then suffering from the dyspepsia which generally attacked her immediately after a meal. She felt more kindly disposed to Philip than ever before, and the unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. He knew instinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his only chance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the untamed passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take advantage of his weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her all the agony he had endured during the separation from her; he told her of his struggles with himself, how he had tried to get over his passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he found out that it was as strong as ever. He knew that he had never really wanted to get over it. He loved her so much that he did not mind suffering. He bared his heart to her. He showed her proudly all his weakness.

Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted entertainment. She was restless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere else. He dared not bore her.

“I say, how about going to a music-hall?” he said.

He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she preferred to stay there.

“I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going,” she answered.

“Come on then.”

Philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had made up his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he passed his arm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. But he drew it back quickly with a little cry. He had pricked himself. She laughed.

“There, that comes of putting your arm where it’s got no business to be,” she said. “I always know when men try and put their arm round my waist. That pin always catches them.”

“I’ll be more careful.”

He put his arm round again. She made no objection.

“I’m so comfortable,” he sighed blissfully.

“So long as you’re happy,” she retorted.

They drove down St. James’ Street into the Park, and Philip quickly kissed her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his courage. She turned her lips to him without speaking. She neither seemed to mind nor to like it.

“If you only knew how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.

He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.

“Once is enough,” she said.

On the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to Herne Hill with her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked her:

“Won’t you give me another kiss?”

She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see that no one was in sight.

“I don’t mind.”

He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed him away.

“Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy,” she said.

LXI

He saw her then every day. He began going to lunch at the shop, but Mildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he had to content himself with tea; but he always waited about to walk with her to the station; and once or twice a week they dined together. He gave her little presents, a gold bangle, gloves, handkerchiefs, and the like. He was spending more than he could afford, but he could not help it: it was only when he gave her anything that she showed any affection. She knew the price of everything, and her gratitude was in exact proportion with the value of his gift. He did not care. He was too happy when she volunteered to kiss him to mind by what means he got her demonstrativeness. He discovered that she found Sundays at home tedious, so he went down to Herne Hill in the morning, met her at the end of the road, and went to church with her.

“I always like to go to church once,” she said. “It looks well, doesn’t it?”

Then she went back to dinner, he got a scrappy meal at a hotel, and in the afternoon they took a walk in Brockwell Park. They had nothing much to say to one another, and Philip, desperately afraid she was bored (she was very easily bored), racked his brain for topics of conversation. He realised that these walks amused neither of them, but he could not bear to leave her, and did all he could to lengthen them till she became tired and out of temper. He knew that she did not care for him, and he tried to force a love which his reason told him was not in her nature: she was cold. He had no claim on her, but he could not help being exacting. Now that they were more intimate he found it less easy to control his temper; he was often irritable and could not help saying bitter things. Often they quarrelled, and she would not speak to him for a while; but this always reduced him to subjection, and he crawled before her. He was angry with himself for showing so little dignity. He grew furiously jealous if he saw her speaking to any other man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed to be beside himself. He would deliberately insult her, leave the shop and spend afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and remorseful. Next day he would go to the shop and appeal for forgiveness.

“Don’t be angry with me,” he said. “I’m so awfully fond of you that I can’t help myself.”

“One of these days you’ll go too far,” she answered.

He was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater intimacy should give him an advantage over the stray acquaintances she made during her working-hours; but she would not let him.

“My aunt would think it so funny,” she said.

He suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let him see her aunt. Mildred had represented her as the widow of a professional man (that was her formula of distinction), and was uneasily conscious that the good woman could hardly be called distinguished. Philip imagined that she was in point of fact the widow of a small tradesman. He knew that Mildred was a snob. But he found no means by which he could indicate to her that he did not mind how common the aunt was.

Their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him that a man had asked her to go to a play with him. Philip turned pale, and his face grew hard and stern.

“You’re not going?” he said.

“Why shouldn’t I? He’s a very nice gentlemanly fellow.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you like.”

“But that isn’t the same thing. I can’t always go about with you. Besides he’s asked me to fix my own day, and I’ll just go one evening when I’m not going out with you. It won’t make any difference to you.”

“If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you wouldn’t dream of going.”

“I don’t know what you mean by gratitude. If you’re referring to the things you’ve given me you can have them back. I don’t want them.”

Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got.

“It’s not very lively, always going about with you. It’s always do you love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it.”

He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help himself.

“Oh, I like you all right,” she would answer.

“Is that all? I love you with all my heart.”

“I’m not that sort, I’m not one to say much.”

“If you knew how happy just one word would make me!”

“Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and if they don’t like it they can lump it.”

But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he asked the question, answered:

“Oh, don’t go on at that again.”

Then he became sulky and silent. He hated her.

And now he said:

“Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you condescend to come out with me at all.”

“It’s not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me to.”

His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly.

“You think I’m just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when there’s no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up I can go to hell. Thank you, I’m about sick of being made a convenience.”

“I’m not going to be talked to like that by anyone. I’ll just show you how much I want your dirty dinner.”

She got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the restaurant. Philip sat on. He determined he would not move, but ten minutes afterwards he jumped in a cab and followed her. He guessed that she would take a ’bus to Victoria, so that they would arrive about the same time. He saw her on the platform, escaped her notice, and went down to Herne Hill in the same train. He did not want to speak to her till she was on the way home and could not escape him.

As soon as she had turned out of the main street, brightly lit and noisy with traffic, he caught her up.

“Mildred,” he called.

She walked on and would neither look at him nor answer. He repeated her name. Then she stopped and faced him.

“What d’you want? I saw you hanging about Victoria. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

“I’m awfully sorry. Won’t you make it up?”

“No, I’m sick of your temper and your jealousy. I don’t care for you, I never have cared for you, and I never shall care for you. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you.”

She walked on quickly, and he had to hurry to keep up with her.

“You never make allowances for me,” he said. “It’s all very well to be jolly and amiable when you’re indifferent to anyone. It’s very hard when you’re as much in love as I am. Have mercy on me. I don’t mind that you don’t care for me. After all you can’t help it. I only want you to let me love you.”

She walked on, refusing to speak, and Philip saw with agony that they had only a few hundred yards to go before they reached her house. He abased himself. He poured out an incoherent story of love and penitence.

“If you’ll only forgive me this time I promise you you’ll never have to complain of me in future. You can go out with whoever you choose. I’ll be only too glad if you’ll come with me when you’ve got nothing better to do.”

She stopped again, for they had reached the corner at which he always left her.

“Now you can take yourself off. I won’t have you coming up to the door.”

“I won’t go till you say you’ll forgive me.”

“I’m sick and tired of the whole thing.”

He hesitated a moment, for he had an instinct that he could say something that would move her. It made him feel almost sick to utter the words.