‘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 connexion 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 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 knicker-bockers, an 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 grey 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.
LXXIV
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 d
etermined 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 back.
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 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:
‘It's about time we went out to dinner, Mildred.'
There was a moment's pause, and Griffiths seemed to be considering.
‘Well, I'll be getting along,' he said at last. ‘I didn't know it was so late.'
‘Are you doing anything tonight?' asked Mildred.
‘No.'
There was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated.
‘I'll just go and have a wash,' he said, and to Mildred he added: ‘Would you like to wash your hands?'
She did not answer him.
‘Why don't you come and dine with us?' she said to Griffiths.
He looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely.
‘I dined with you last night,' he laughed. ‘I should be in the way.'
‘Oh, that doesn't matter,' insisted Mildred. ‘Make him come, Philip. He won't be in the way, will he?'
‘Let him come by all means if he'd like to.'
‘All right then,' said Griffiths promptly. ‘I'll just go upstairs and tidy myself.'
The moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily.
‘Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?'
‘I couldn't help myself. It would have looked so funny to say nothing when he said he wasn't doing anything.'
‘Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing anything?'
Mildred's pale lips tightened a little.
‘I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being alone with you.'
They heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip went into his bedroom to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood in an Italian restaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he quickly realized that he was showing to disadvantage in comparison with Griffiths, and he forced himself to hide his annoyance. He drank a good deal of wine to destroy the pain that was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. Mildred, as though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to make herself pleasant to him. She was kindly and affectionate. Presently Philip began to think he had been a fool to surrender to a feeling of jealousy. After dinner when they got into a hansom to drive to a music-hall, Mildred, sitting between the two men, of her own accord gave him her hand. His anger vanished. Suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that Griffiths was holding her other hand. The pain seized him again violently, it was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken, what he might have asked himself before, whether Mildred and Griffiths were in love with one another. He could not see anything of the performance on account of the mist of suspicion, anger, dismay, and wretchedness which seemed to be before his eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact that anything was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a strange desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he wanted to go and drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had never been alone together for a moment. He wanted to leave them by themselves.
‘I'll come too,' said Griffiths. ‘I've got rather a thirst on.'
‘Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred.'
Philip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them together now to make the pain he suffered more intolerable. He did not go to the bar, but up into the balcony, from where he could watch them and not be seen. They had ceased to look at the stage and were smiling into one another's eyes. Griffiths was talking with his usual happy fluency and Mildred seemed to hang on his lips. Philip's head began to ache frightfully. He stood there motionless. He knew he would be in the way if he went back. They were enjoying themselves without him, and he was suffering, suffering. Time passed, and now he had an extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. He knew they had not thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he had paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. What a fool they were making of him! He was hot with shame. He could see how happy they were without him. His instinct was to leave them to themselves and go home, but he had not his hat and coat, and it would necessitate endless explanations. He went back. He felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred's eyes when she saw him, and his heart sank.
‘You've been a devil of a time,' said Griffiths, with a smile of welcome.
‘I met some men I knew. I've been talking to them, and I couldn't get away. I thought you'd be all right together.'
‘I've been enjoying myself thoroughly,' said Griffiths. ‘I don't know about Mildred.'
She gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar sound in the ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that they should go.
&
nbsp; ‘Come on,' said Griffiths, ‘we'll both drive you home.'
Philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that she might not be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take her hand nor did she offer it, and he knew all the time that she was holding Griffiths's. His chief thought was that it was all so horribly vulgar. As they drove along he asked himself what plans they had made to meet without his knowledge, he cursed himself for having left them alone, he had actually gone out of his way to enable them to arrange things.
‘Let's keep the cab,' said Philip, when they reached the house in which Mildred was lodging. ‘I'm too tired to walk home.'
On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the fact that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he must notice that something was the matter. Philip's silence at last grew too significant to struggle against, and Griffiths, suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip wanted to say something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself to, and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost. It was best to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to speak.
‘Are you in love with Mildred?' he asked suddenly.
‘I?' Griffiths laughed. ‘Is that what you've been so funny about this evening? Of course not. My dear old man.'
He tried to slip his hand through Philip's arm, but Philip drew himself away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring himself to force Griffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl's hand. He suddenly felt very weak and broken.
‘It doesn't matter to you, Harry,' he said. ‘You've got so many women—don't take her away from me. It means my whole life. I've been so awfully wretched.'
His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from him. He was horribly ashamed of himself.
‘My dear old boy, you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I'm far too fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool. If I'd known you were going to take it like that I'd have been more careful.'
‘Is that true?' asked Philip.