Of Human Bondage (54 page)

  Philip woke early next morning, and his first
thought was of Mildred. It struck him that he might meet her at
Victoria Station and walk with her to the shop. He shaved quickly,
scrambled into his clothes, and took a bus to the station. He was
there by twenty to eight and watched the incoming trains. Crowds
poured out of them, clerks and shop-people at that early hour, and
thronged up the platform: they hurried along, sometimes in pairs,
here and there a group of girls, but more often alone. They were
white, most of them, ugly in the early morning, and they had an
abstracted look; the younger ones walked lightly, as though the
cement of the platform were pleasant to tread, but the others went
as though impelled by a machine: their faces were set in an anxious
frown.

  At last Philip saw Mildred, and he went up to her
eagerly.

  "Good-morning," he said. "I thought I'd come and see
how you were after last night."

  She wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. It
was very clear that she was not pleased to see him.

  "Oh, I'm all right. I haven't got much time to
waste."

  "D'you mind if I walk down Victoria Street with
you?"

  "I'm none too early. I shall have to walk fast," she
answered, looking down at Philip's club-foot.

  He turned scarlet.

  "I beg your pardon. I won't detain you."

  "You can please yourself."

  She went on, and he with a sinking heart made his
way home to breakfast. He hated her. He knew he was a fool to
bother about her; she was not the sort of woman who would ever care
two straws for him, and she must look upon his deformity with
distaste. He made up his mind that he would not go in to tea that
afternoon, but, hating himself, he went. She nodded to him as he
came in and smiled.

  "I expect I was rather short with you this morning,"
she said. "You see, I didn't expect you, and it came like a
surprise."

  "Oh, it doesn't matter at all."

  He felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted
from him. He was infinitely grateful for one word of kindness.

  "Why don't you sit down?" he asked. "Nobody's
wanting you just now."

  "I don't mind if I do."

  He looked at her, but could think of nothing to say;
he racked his brains anxiously, seeking for a remark which should
keep her by him; he wanted to tell her how much she meant to him;
but he did not know how to make love now that he loved in
earnest.

  "Where's your friend with the fair moustache? I
haven't seen him lately"

  "Oh, he's gone back to Birmingham. He's in business
there. He only comes up to London every now and again."

  "Is he in love with you?"

  "You'd better ask him," she said, with a laugh. "I
don't know what it's got to do with you if he is."

  A bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was
learning self-restraint.

  "I wonder why you say things like that," was all he
permitted himself to say.

  She looked at him with those indifferent eyes of
hers.

  "It looks as if you didn't set much store on me," he
added.

  "Why should I?"

  "No reason at all."

  He reached over for his paper.

  "You are quick-tempered," she said, when she saw the
gesture. "You do take offence easily."

  He smiled and looked at her appealingly.

  "Will you do something for me?" he asked.

  "That depends what it is."

  "Let me walk back to the station with you
tonight."

  "I don't mind."

  He went out after tea and went back to his rooms,
but at eight o'clock, when the shop closed, he was waiting
outside.

  "You are a caution," she said, when she came out. "I
don't understand you."

  "I shouldn't have thought it was very difficult," he
answered bitterly.

  "Did any of the girls see you waiting for me?"

  "I don't know and I don't care."

  "They all laugh at you, you know. They say you're
spoony on me."

  "Much you care," he muttered.

  "Now then, quarrelsome."

  At the station he took a ticket and said he was
going to accompany her home.

  "You don't seem to have much to do with your time,"
she said.

  "I suppose I can waste it in my own way."

  They seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel.
The fact was that he hated himself for loving her. She seemed to be
constantly humiliating him, and for each snub that he endured he
owed her a grudge. But she was in a friendly mood that evening, and
talkative: she told him that her parents were dead; she gave him to
understand that she did not have to earn her living, but worked for
amusement.

  "My aunt doesn't like my going to business. I can
have the best of everything at home. I don't want you to think I
work because I need to." Philip knew that she was not speaking the
truth. The gentility of her class made her use this pretence to
avoid the stigma attached to earning her living.

  "My family's very well-connected," she said.

  Philip smiled faintly, and she noticed it.

  "What are you laughing at?" she said quickly. "Don't
you believe I'm telling you the truth?"

  "Of course I do," he answered.

  She looked at him suspiciously, but in a moment
could not resist the temptation to impress him with the splendour
of her early days.

  "My father always kept a dog-cart, and we had three
servants. We had a cook and a housemaid and an odd man. We used to
grow beautiful roses. People used to stop at the gate and ask who
the house belonged to, the roses were so beautiful. Of course it
isn't very nice for me having to mix with them girls in the shop,
it's not the class of person I've been used to, and sometimes I
really think I'll give up business on that account. It's not the
work I mind, don't think that; but it's the class of people I have
to mix with."

  They were sitting opposite one another in the train,
and Philip, listening sympathetically to what she said, was quite
happy. He was amused at her naivete and slightly touched. There was
a very faint colour in her cheeks. He was thinking that it would be
delightful to kiss the tip of her chin.

  "The moment you come into the shop I saw you was a
gentleman in every sense of the word. Was your father a
professional man?"

  "He was a doctor."

  "You can always tell a professional man. There's
something about them, I don't know what it is, but I know at
once."

  They walked along from the station together.

  "I say, I want you to come and see another play with
me," he said.

  "I don't mind," she said.

  "You might go so far as to say you'd like to."

  "Why?"

  "It doesn't matter. Let's fix a day. Would Saturday
night suit you?"

  "Yes, that'll do."

  They made further arrangements, and then found
themselves at the corner of the road in which she lived. She gave
him her hand, and he held it.

  "I say, I do so awfully want to call you
Mildred."

  "You may if you like, I don't care."

  "And you'll call me Philip, won't you?"

  "I will if I can think of it. It seems more natural
to call you Mr. Carey."

  He drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned
back.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Won't you kiss me good-night?" he whispered.

  "Impudence!" she said.

  She snatched away her hand and hurried towards her
house.

  Philip bought tickets for Saturday night. It was not
one of the days on which she got off early and therefore she would
have no time to go home and change; but she meant to bring a frock
up with her in the morning and hurry into her clothes at the shop.
If the manageress was in a good temper she would let her go at
seven. Philip had agreed to wait outside from a quarter past seven
onwards. He looked forward to the occasion with painful eagerness,
for in the cab on the way from the theatre to the station he
thought she would let him kiss her. The vehicle gave every facility
for a man to put his arm round a girl's waist (an advantage which
the hansom had over the taxi of the present day), and the delight
of that was worth the cost of the evening's entertainment.

  But on Saturday afternoon when he went in to have
tea, in order to confirm the arrangements, he met the man with the
fair moustache coming out of the shop. He knew by now that he was
called Miller. He was a naturalized German, who had anglicised his
name, and he had lived many years in England. Philip had heard him
speak, and, though his English was fluent and natural, it had not
quite the intonation of the native. Philip knew that he was
flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; but he
took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwise
distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked
upon his rival as no better off than himself. But his heart sank
now, for his first thought was that Miller's sudden appearance
might interfere with the jaunt which he had so looked forward to.
He entered, sick with apprehension. The waitress came up to him,
took his order for tea, and presently brought it.

  "I'm awfully, sorry" she said, with an expression on
her face of real distress. "I shan't be able to come tonight after
all."

  "Why?" said Philip.

  "Don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "It's
not my fault. My aunt was taken ill last night, and it's the girl's
night out so I must go and sit with her. She can't be left alone,
can she?"

  "It doesn't matter. I'll see you home instead."

  "But you've got the tickets. It would be a pity to
waste them."

  He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore
them up.

  "What are you doing that for?"

  "You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten
musical comedy by myself, do you? I only took seats there for your
sake."

  "You can't see me home if that's what you mean?"

  "You've made other arrangements."

  "I don't know what you mean by that. You're just as
selfish as all the rest of them. You only think of yourself. It's
not my fault if my aunt's queer."

  She quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip
knew very little about women, or he would have been aware that one
should accept their most transparent lies. He made up his mind that
he would watch the shop and see for certain whether Mildred went
out with the German. He had an unhappy passion for certainty. At
seven he stationed himself on the opposite pavement. He looked
about for Miller, but did not see him. In ten minutes she came out,
she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he took her
to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that she was not going
home. She saw him before he had time to move away, started a
little, and then came straight up to him.

  "What are you doing here?" she said.

  "Taking the air," he answered.

  "You're spying on me, you dirty little cad. I
thought you was a gentleman."

  "Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take
any interest in you?" he murmured.

  There was a devil within him which forced him to
make matters worse. He wanted to hurt her as much as she was
hurting him.

  "I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I'm not
obliged to come out with you. I tell you I'm going home, and I
won't be followed or spied upon."

  "Have you seen Miller today?"

  "That's no business of yours. In point of fact I
haven't, so you're wrong again."

  "I saw him this afternoon. He'd just come out of the
shop when I went in."

  "Well, what if he did? I can go out with him if I
want to, can't I? I don't know what you've got to say to it."

  "He's keeping you waiting, isn't he?"

  "Well, I'd rather wait for him than have you wait
for me. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. And now p'raps you'll
go off home and mind your own business in future."