‘I couldn't get any work to do anywhere. I walked my legs off looking for work. I did get a job once, but I was off for a week because I was queer, and when I went back they said they didn't want me any more. You can't blame them either, can you? Them places, they can't afford to have girls that aren't strong.'
‘You don't look very well now,' said Philip.
‘I wasn't fit to come out tonight, but I couldn't help myself, I wanted the money. I wrote to Emil and told him I was broke, but he never even answered the letter.'
‘You might have written to me.'
‘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 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 recognize 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 recognized 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, a
nd 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 half a bottle of whisky, 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 absolutely 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 textbook 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 bedroom, 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.
‘I'm sure Lawson would love that green skin of yours,' said Philip. ‘He'd say it was so paintable, but I'm terribly matter-of-fact nowadays, and I shan't be happy till you're as pink and white as a milkmaid.'
‘I feel better already.'
After a frugal supper Philip filled his pouch with tobacco and put on his hat. It was on Tuesdays that he generally went to the tavern in Beak Street, and he was glad that this day came so soon after Mildred's arrival, for he wanted to make his relations with her perfectly clear.
‘Are you going out?' she said.
‘Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off. I shall see you tomorrow. Good-night.'
Philip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure. Macalister, the philosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any subject under the sun; Hayward came regularly when he was in London; and though he and Macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit to meet on that one evening in the week. Macalister thought Hayward a poor creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked satirically about Hayward's literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague suggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but the punch was good, and they were both fond of it; towards the end of the evening they generally composed their differences and thought each other capital fellows. This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson also; Lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in London and went out to dinner a good deal. They were all on excellent terms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing on the Stock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds apiece. It was a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money: he had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter's career when he was noticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic ladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it advertised t
hem both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of patronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid philistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife. Lawson was brimming over with satisfaction.
‘It's the most ripping way of making money that I've ever struck,' he cried. ‘I didn't have to put my hand in my pocket for sixpence.'
‘You lost something by not being here last Tuesday, young man,' said Macalister to Philip.
‘My God, why didn't you write to me?' said Philip. ‘If you only knew how useful a hundred pounds would be to me.'
‘Oh, there wasn't time for that. One has to be on the spot. I heard of a good thing last Tuesday, and I asked these fellows if they'd like to have a flutter. I bought them a thousand shares on Wednesday morning, and there was a rise in the afternoon, so I sold them at once. I made fifty pounds for each of them and a couple of hundred for myself.'
Philip was sick with envy. He had recently sold the last mortgage in which his small fortune had been invested and now had only six hundred pounds left. He was panic-stricken sometimes when he thought of the future. He had still to keep himself for two years before he could be qualified, and then he meant to try for hospital appointments, so that he could not expect to earn anything for three years at least. With the most rigid economy he would not have more than a hundred pounds left then. It was very little to have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn money or found himself at any time without work. A lucky gamble would make all the difference to him.
‘Oh, well, it doesn't matter,' said Macalister. ‘Something is sure to turn up soon. There'll be a boom in South Africans again one of these days, and then I'll see what I can do for you.'
Macalister was in the Kaffir market and often told them stories of the sudden fortunes that had been made in the great boom of a year or two back.
‘Well, don't forget next time.'
They sat on talking till nearly midnight, and Philip, who lived furthest off, was the first to go. If he did not catch the last tram he had to walk, and that made him very late. As it was he did not reach home till nearly half past twelve. When he got upstairs he was surprised to find Mildred still sitting in his arm-chair.