Of Human Bondage (66 page)

  He wished he had thought of something more urgent
than that. It was a clumsy lie.

  "No, I'm awfully sorry, I can't – I've promised and
I mean to keep my promise."

  "But you promised me too. Surely I come first."

  "I wish you wouldn't persist," he said.

  She flared up.

  "You won't come because you don't want to. I don't
know what you've been doing the last few days, you've been quite
different."

  He looked at his watch.

  "I'm afraid I'll have to be going," he said.

  "You won't come tomorrow?"

  "No."

  "In that case you needn't trouble to come again,"
she cried, losing her temper for good.

  "That's just as you like," he answered.

  "Don't let me detain you any longer," she added
ironically.

  He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was
relieved that it had gone no worse. There had been no tears. As he
walked along he congratulated himself on getting out of the affair
so easily. He went into Victoria Street and bought a few flowers to
take in to Mildred.

  The little dinner was a great success. Philip had
sent in a small pot of caviare, which he knew she was very fond of,
and the landlady brought them up some cutlets with vegetables and a
sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy, which was her favourite wine.
With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and one of Mildred's shades
on the lamp, the room was cosy.

  "It's really just like home," smiled Philip.

  "I might be worse off, mightn't I?" she
answered.

  When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in
front of the fire, and they sat down. He smoked his pipe
comfortably. He felt happy and generous.

  "What would you like to do tomorrow?" he asked.

  "Oh, I'm going to Tulse Hill. You remember the
manageress at the shop, well, she's married now, and she's asked me
to go and spend the day with her. Of course she thinks I'm married
too."

  Philip's heart sank.

  "But I refused an invitation so that I might spend
Sunday with you."

  He thought that if she loved him she would say that
in that case she would stay with him. He knew very well that Norah
would not have hesitated.

  "Well, you were a silly to do that. I've promised to
go for three weeks and more."

  "But how can you go alone?"

  "Oh, I shall say that Emil's away on business. Her
husband's in the glove trade, and he's a very superior fellow."

  Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed
through his heart. She gave him a sidelong glance.

  "You don't grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You
see, it's the last time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don't
know how long, and I had promised."

  He took her hand and smiled.

  "No, darling, I want you to have the best time you
can. I only want you to be happy."

  There was a little book bound in blue paper lying
open, face downwards, on the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It
was a twopenny novelette, and the author was Courtenay Paget. That
was the name under which Norah wrote.

  "I do like his books," said Mildred. "I read them
all. They're so refined."

  He remembered what Norah had said of herself.

  "I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids.
They think me so genteel."

  Philip, in return for Griffiths' confidences, had
told him the details of his own complicated amours, and on Sunday
morning, after breakfast when they sat by the fire in their
dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the scene of the previous
day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got out of his
difficulties so easily.

  "It's the simplest thing in the world to have an
affair with a woman, he remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil
of a nuisance to get out of it."

  Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the
back for his skill in managing the business. At all events he was
immensely relieved. He thought of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse
Hill, and he found in himself a real satisfaction because she was
happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his part that he did not
grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own disappointment,
and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow.

  But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter
from Norah. She wrote:

  Dearest,

  I'm sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and
come to tea in the afternoon as usual. I love you. Your Norah.

  His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He
took the note to Griffiths and showed it to him.

  "You'd better leave it unanswered," said he.

  "Oh, I can't," cried Philip. "I should be miserable
if I thought of her waiting and waiting. You don't know what it is
to be sick for the postman's knock. I do, and I can't expose
anybody else to that torture."

  "My dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair
off without somebody suffering. You must just set your teeth to
that. One thing is, it doesn't last very long."

  Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he
should make her suffer; and what did Griffiths know about the
degrees of anguish she was capable of? He remembered his own pain
when Mildred had told him she was going to be married. He did not
want anyone to experience what he had experienced then.

  "If you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back
to her," said Griffiths.

  "I can't do that."

  He got up and walked up and down the room nervously.
He was angry with Norah because she had not let the matter rest.
She must have seen that he had no more love to give her. They said
women were so quick at seeing those things.

  "You might help me," he said to Griffiths.

  "My dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it.
People do get over these things, you know. She probably isn't so
wrapped up in you as you think, either. One's always rather apt to
exaggerate the passion one's inspired other people with."

  He paused and looked at Philip with amusement.

  "Look here, there's only one thing you can do. Write
to her, and tell her the thing's over. Put it so that there can be
no mistake about it. It'll hurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you
do the thing brutally than if you try half-hearted ways."

  Philip sat down and wrote the following letter:

  My dear Norah,

  I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had
better let things remain where we left them on Saturday. I don't
think there's any use in letting these things drag on when they've
ceased to be amusing. You told me to go and I went. I do not
propose to come back. Good-bye. Philip Carey.

  He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what
he thought of it. Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with
twinkling eyes. He did not say what he felt.

  "I think that'll do the trick," he said.

  Philip went out and posted it. He passed an
uncomfortable morning, for he imagined with great detail what Norah
would feel when she received his letter. He tortured himself with
the thought of her tears. But at the same time he was relieved.
Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief seen, and he was
free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart leaped at the
thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's work at
the hospital was over.

  When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy
himself, he had no sooner put the latch-key in his door than he
heard a voice behind him.

  "May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half
an hour."

  It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of
his hair. She spoke gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her
voice and nothing to indicate that there was a rupture between
them. He felt himself cornered. He was sick with fear, but he did
his best to smile.

  "Yes, do," he said.

  He opened the door, and she preceded him into his
sitting-room. He was nervous and, to give himself countenance,
offered her a cigarette and lit one for himself. She looked at him
brightly.

  "Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you
naughty boy? If I'd taken it seriously it would have made me
perfectly wretched."

  "It was meant seriously," he answered gravely.

  "Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day,
and I wrote and apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come
here to apologise again. After all, you're your own master and I
have no claims upon you. I don't want you to do anything you don't
want to."

  She got up from the chair in which she was sitting
and went towards him impulsively, with outstretched hands.

  "Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I
offended you."

  He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but
he could not look at her.

  "I'm afraid it's too late," he said.

  She let herself down on the floor by his side and
clasped his knees.

  "Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and
I can understand that I hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over
it. What's the good of making us both unhappy? It's been so jolly,
our friendship." She passed her fingers slowly over his hand. "I
love you, Philip."

  He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to
the other side of the room.

  "I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole
thing's over."

  "D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "You were just looking for an opportunity to throw
me over and you took that one?"

  He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a
time which seemed intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where
he had left her, leaning against the arm-chair. She began to cry
quite silently, without trying to hide her face, and the large
tears rolled down her cheeks one after the other. She did not sob.
It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned away.

  "I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if
I don't love you."

  She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though
she were overwhelmed, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It
would have been easier to bear if she had reproached him. He had
thought her temper would get the better of her, and he was prepared
for that. At the back of his mind was a feeling that a real
quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would in
some way be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At
last he grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his
bed-room and got a glass of water; he leaned over her.

  "Won't you drink a little? It'll relieve you."

  She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank
two or three mouthfuls. Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him
for a handkerchief. She dried her eyes.

  "Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I
loved you," she moaned.

  "I'm afraid that's always the case," he said.
"There's always one who loves and one who lets himself be
loved."

  He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed
his heart. Norah did not answer for a long time.

  "I'd been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so
hateful," she said at last.

  She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had
never heard her before complain of the life she had led with her
husband or of her poverty. He had always admired the bold front she
displayed to the world.

  "And then you came along and you were so good to me.
And I admired you because you were clever and it was so heavenly to
have someone I could put my trust in. I loved you. I never thought
it could come to an end. And without any fault of mine at all."

  Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more
mistress of herself, and she hid her face in Philip's handkerchief.
She tried hard to control herself.

  "Give me some more water," she said.

  She wiped her eyes.

  "I'm sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so
unprepared."