Of Human Bondage (95 page)

  But when he put his hand in his pocket he found that
he had only eight shillings. Philip's heart sank.

  "Oh well, lend me five bob, will you?" he said
lightly.

  "Here you are."

  Philip went to the public baths in Westminster and
spent sixpence on a bath. Then he got himself something to eat. He
did not know what to do with himself in the afternoon. He would not
go back to the hospital in case anyone should ask him questions,
and besides, he had nothing to do there now; they would wonder in
the two or three departments he had worked in why he did not come,
but they must think what they chose, it did not matter: he would
not be the first student who had dropped out without warning. He
went to the free library, and looked at the papers till they
wearied him, then he took out Stevenson's New Arabian Nights; but
he found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he
continued to brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the
same things all the time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his
head ache. At last, craving for fresh air, he went into the Green
Park and lay down on the grass. He thought miserably of his
deformity, which made it impossible for him to go to the war. He
went to sleep and dreamt that he was suddenly sound of foot and out
at the Cape in a regiment of Yeomanry; the pictures he had looked
at in the illustrated papers gave materials for his fancy; and he
saw himself on the Veldt, in khaki, sitting with other men round a
fire at night. When he awoke he found that it was still quite
light, and presently he heard Big Ben strike seven. He had twelve
hours to get through with nothing to do. He dreaded the
interminable night. The sky was overcast and he feared it would
rain; he would have to go to a lodging-house where he could get a
bed; he had seen them advertised on lamps outside houses in
Lambeth: Good Beds sixpence; he had never been inside one, and
dreaded the foul smell and the vermin. He made up his mind to stay
in the open air if he possibly could. He remained in the park till
it was closed and then began to walk about. He was very tired. The
thought came to him that an accident would be a piece of luck, so
that he could be taken to a hospital and lie there, in a clean bed,
for weeks. At midnight he was so hungry that he could not go
without food any more, so he went to a coffee stall at Hyde Park
Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a cup of coffee. Then
he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and he had a
horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that he
was beginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle.
This was the third night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on
the benches in Piccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to
The Embankment. He listened to the striking of Big Ben, marking
every quarter of an hour, and reckoned out how long it left till
the city woke again. In the morning he spent a few coppers on
making himself neat and clean, bought a paper to read the
advertisements, and set out once more on the search for work.

  He went on in this way for several days. He had very
little food and began to feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly
enough energy to go on looking for the work which seemed so
desperately hard to find. He was growing used now to the long
waiting at the back of a shop on the chance that he would be taken
on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to all parts of London in
answer to the advertisements, and he came to know by sight men who
applied as fruitlessly as himself. One or two tried to make friends
with him, but he was too tired and too wretched to accept their
advances. He did not go any more to Lawson, because he owed him
five shillings. He began to be too dazed to think clearly and
ceased very much to care what would happen to him. He cried a good
deal. At first he was very angry with himself for this and ashamed,
but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel less
hungry. In the very early morning he suffered a good deal from
cold. One night he went into his room to change his linen; he
slipped in about three, when he was quite sure everyone would be
asleep, and out again at five; he lay on the bed and its softness
was enchanting; all his bones ached, and as he lay he revelled in
the pleasure of it; it was so delicious that he did not want to go
to sleep. He was growing used to want of food and did not feel very
hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at the back of his mind was
the thought of doing away with himself, but he used all the
strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the
temptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to
help himself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd
to commit suicide, since something must happen soon; he could not
get over the impression that his situation was too preposterous to
be taken quite seriously; it was like an illness which must be
endured but from which he was bound to recover. Every night he
swore that nothing would induce him to put up with such another and
determined next morning to write to his uncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the
solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the time came he could not bring
himself to make the humiliating confession of his utter failure. He
did not know how Lawson would take it. In their friendship Lawson
had been scatter-brained and he had prided himself on his common
sense. He would have to tell the whole history of his folly. He had
an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him, would turn the
cold shoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would of course
do something for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did not
want anyone to reproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated
that what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened.
Regret was absurd.

  The days were unending, and the five shillings
Lawson had lent him would not last much longer. Philip longed for
Sunday to come so that he could go to Athelny's. He did not know
what prevented him from going there sooner, except perhaps that he
wanted so badly to get through on his own; for Athelny, who had
been in straits as desperate, was the only person who could do
anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he could bring himself to
tell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip repeated to
himself over and over again what he should say to him. He was
dreadfully afraid that Athelny would put him off with airy phrases:
that would be so horrible that he wanted to delay as long as
possible the putting of him to the test. Philip had lost all
confidence in his fellows.

  Saturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered
horribly. From midday on Saturday till he dragged himself wearily
to Athelny's house he ate nothing. He spent his last twopence on
Sunday morning on a wash and a brush up in the lavatory at Charing
Cross.

  When Philip rang a head was put out of the window,
and in a minute he heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the
children ran down to let him in. It was a pale, anxious, thin face
that he bent down for them to kiss. He was so moved by their
exuberant affection that, to give himself time to recover, he made
excuses to linger on the stairs. He was in a hysterical state and
almost anything was enough to make him cry. They asked him why he
had not come on the previous Sunday, and he told them he had been
ill; they wanted to know what was the matter with him; and Philip,
to amuse them, suggested a mysterious ailment, the name of which,
double-barrelled and barbarous with its mixture of Greek and Latin
(medical nomenclature bristled with such), made them shriek with
delight. They dragged Philip into the parlour and made him repeat
it for their father's edification. Athelny got up and shook hands
with him. He stared at Philip, but with his round, bulging eyes he
always seemed to stare, Philip did not know why on this occasion it
made him self-conscious.

  "We missed you last Sunday," he said.

  Philip could never tell lies without embarrassment,
and he was scarlet when he finished his explanation for not coming.
Then Mrs. Athelny entered and shook hands with him.

  "I hope you're better, Mr. Carey," she said.

  He did not know why she imagined that anything had
been the matter with him, for the kitchen door was closed when he
came up with the children, and they had not left him.

  "Dinner won't be ready for another ten minutes," she
said, in her slow drawl. "Won't you have an egg beaten up in a
glass of milk while you're waiting?"

  There was a look of concern on her face which made
Philip uncomfortable. He forced a laugh and answered that he was
not at all hungry. Sally came in to lay the table, and Philip began
to chaff her. It was the family joke that she would be as fat as an
aunt of Mrs. Athelny, called Aunt Elizabeth, whom the children had
never seen but regarded as the type of obscene corpulence.

  "I say, what HAS happened since I saw you last,
Sally?" Philip began.

  "Nothing that I know of."

  "I believe you've been putting on weight."

  "I'm sure you haven't," she retorted. "You're a
perfect skeleton."

  Philip reddened.

  "That's a tu quoque, Sally," cried her father. "You
will be fined one golden hair of your head. Jane, fetch the
shears."

  "Well, he is thin, father," remonstrated Sally.
"He's just skin and bone."

  "That's not the question, child. He is at perfect
liberty to be thin, but your obesity is contrary to decorum."

  As he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist
and looked at her with admiring eyes.

  "Let me get on with the table, father. If I am
comfortable there are some who don't seem to mind it."

  "The hussy!" cried Athelny, with a dramatic wave of
the hand. "She taunts me with the notorious fact that Joseph, a son
of Levi who sells jewels in Holborn, has made her an offer of
marriage."

  "Have you accepted him, Sally?" asked Philip.

  "Don't you know father better than that by this
time? There's not a word of truth in it."

  "Well, if he hasn't made you an offer of marriage,"
cried Athelny, "by Saint George and Merry England, I will seize him
by the nose and demand of him immediately what are his
intentions."

  "Sit down, father, dinner's ready. Now then, you
children, get along with you and wash your hands all of you, and
don't shirk it, because I mean to look at them before you have a
scrap of dinner, so there."

  Philip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat,
but then discovered that his stomach turned against food, and he
could eat hardly at all. His brain was weary; and he did not notice
that Athelny, contrary to his habit, spoke very little. Philip was
relieved to be sitting in a comfortable house, but every now and
then he could not prevent himself from glancing out of the window.
The day was tempestuous. The fine weather had broken; and it was
cold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again gusts of rain
drove against the window. Philip wondered what he should do that
night. The Athelnys went to bed early, and he could not stay where
he was after ten o'clock. His heart sank at the thought of going
out into the bleak darkness. It seemed more terrible now that he
was with his friends than when he was outside and alone. He kept on
saying to himself that there were plenty more who would be spending
the night out of doors. He strove to distract his mind by talking,
but in the middle of his words a spatter of rain against the window
would make him start.

  "It's like March weather," said Athelny. "Not the
sort of day one would like to be crossing the Channel."

  Presently they finished, and Sally came in and
cleared away.

  "Would you like a twopenny stinker?" said Athelny,
handing him a cigar.

  Philip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight.
It soothed him extraordinarily. When Sally had finished Athelny
told her to shut the door after her.

  "Now we shan't be disturbed," he said, turning to
Philip. "I've arranged with Betty not to let the children come in
till I call them."