Of Human Bondage (56 page)

  "I must see her. I must see her."

  The desire was so great that he could not give the
time necessary to walk, but jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to
use one when it could possibly be avoided. He stood outside the
shop for a minute or two. The thought came to him that perhaps she
had left, and in terror he walked in quickly. He saw her at once.
He sat down and she came up to him.

  "A cup of tea and a muffin, please," he ordered.

  He could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment
that he was going to cry.

  "I almost thought you was dead," she said.

  She was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have
forgotten completely that last scene which Philip had repeated to
himself a hundred times.

  "I thought if you'd wanted to see me you'd write,"
he answered.

  "I've got too much to do to think about writing
letters."

  It seemed impossible for her to say a gracious
thing. Philip cursed the fate which chained him to such a woman.
She went away to fetch his tea.

  "Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?"
she said, when she brought it.

  "Yes."

  "Where have you been all this time?"

  "I've been in London."

  "I thought you'd gone away for the holidays. Why
haven't you been in then?"

  Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate
eyes.

  "Don't you remember that I said I'd never see you
again?"

  "What are you doing now then?"

  She seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of
his humiliation; but he knew her well enough to know that she spoke
at random; she hurt him frightfully, and never even tried to. He
did not answer.

  "It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me
like that. I always thought you was a gentleman in every sense of
the word."

  "Don't be beastly to me, Mildred. I can't bear
it."

  "You are a funny feller. I can't make you out."

  "It's very simple. I'm such a blasted fool as to
love you with all my heart and soul, and I know that you don't care
twopence for me."

  "If you had been a gentleman I think you'd have come
next day and begged my pardon."

  She had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought
how he would like to jab it with the knife he had for his muffin.
He knew enough anatomy to make pretty certain of getting the
carotid artery. And at the same time he wanted to cover her pale,
thin face with kisses.

  "If I could only make you understand how frightfully
I'm in love with you."

  "You haven't begged my pardon yet."

  He grew very white. She felt that she had done
nothing wrong on that occasion. She wanted him now to humble
himself. He was very proud. For one instant he felt inclined to
tell her to go to hell, but he dared not. His passion made him
abject. He was willing to submit to anything rather than not see
her.

  "I'm very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon."

  He had to force the words out. It was a horrible
effort.

  "Now you've said that I don't mind telling you that
I wish I had come out with you that evening. I thought Miller was a
gentleman, but I've discovered my mistake now. I soon sent him
about his business."

  Philip gave a little gasp.

  "Mildred, won't you come out with me tonight? Let's
go and dine somewhere."

  "Oh, I can't. My aunt'll be expecting me home."

  "I'll send her a wire. You can say you've been
detained in the shop; she won't know any better. Oh, do come, for
God's sake. I haven't seen you for so long, and I want to talk to
you."

  She looked down at her clothes.

  "Never mind about that. We'll go somewhere where it
doesn't matter how you're dressed. And we'll go to a music-hall
afterwards. Please say yes. It would give me so much pleasure."

  She hesitated a moment; he looked at her with
pitifully appealing eyes.

  "Well, I don't mind if I do. I haven't been out
anywhere since I don't know how long."

  It was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent
himself from seizing her hand there and then to cover it with
kisses.

  They dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy.
It was not one of the more crowded of those cheap restaurants where
the respectable and needy dine in the belief that it is bohemian
and the assurance that it is economical. It was a humble
establishment, kept by a good man from Rouen and his wife, that
Philip had discovered by accident. He had been attracted by the
Gallic look of the window, in which was generally an uncooked steak
on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw vegetables. There
was one seedy French waiter, who was attempting to learn English in
a house where he never heard anything but French; and the customers
were a few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or two, who had their
own napkins reserved for them, and a few queer men who came in for
hurried, scanty meals.

  Here Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to
themselves. Philip sent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from
the neighbouring tavern, and they had a potage aux herbes, a steak
from the window aux pommes, and an omelette au kirsch. There was
really an air of romance in the meal and in the place. Mildred, at
first a little reserved in her appreciation – "I never quite trust
these foreign places, you never know what there is in these messed
up dishes" – was insensibly moved by it.

  "I like this place, Philip," she said. "You feel you
can put your elbows on the table, don't you?"

  A tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and
a ragged thin beard. He wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake
hat. He nodded to Philip, who had met him there before.

  "He looks like an anarchist," said Mildred.

  "He is, one of the most dangerous in Europe. He's
been in every prison on the Continent and has assassinated more
persons than any gentleman unhung. He always goes about with a bomb
in his pocket, and of course it makes conversation a little
difficult because if you don't agree with him he lays it on the
table in a marked manner."

  She looked at the man with horror and surprise, and
then glanced suspiciously at Philip. She saw that his eyes were
laughing. She frowned a little.

  "You're getting at me."

  He gave a little shout of joy. He was so happy. But
Mildred didn't like being laughed at.

  "I don't see anything funny in telling lies."

  "Don't be cross."

  He took her hand, which was lying on the table, and
pressed it gently.

  "You are lovely, and I could kiss the ground you
walk on," he said.

  The greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and
her thin white lips had an extraordinary fascination. Her anaemia
made her rather short of breath, and she held her mouth slightly
open. it seemed to add somehow to the attractiveness of her
face.

  "You do like me a bit, don't you?" he asked.

  "Well, if I didn't I suppose I shouldn't be here,
should I? You're a gentleman in every sense of the word, I will say
that for you."

  They had finished their dinner and were drinking
coffee. Philip, throwing economy to the winds, smoked a three-penny
cigar.

  "You can't imagine what a pleasure it is to me just
to sit opposite and look at you. I've yearned for you. I was sick
for a sight of you."

  Mildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. She was
not then suffering from the dyspepsia which generally attacked her
immediately after a meal. She felt more kindly disposed to Philip
than ever before, and the unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes
filled him with joy. He knew instinctively that it was madness to
give himself into her hands; his only chance was to treat her
casually and never allow her to see the untamed passions that
seethed in his breast; she would only take advantage of his
weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her all the
agony he had endured during the separation from her; he told her of
his struggles with himself, how he had tried to get over his
passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he found out that it was
as strong as ever. He knew that he had never really wanted to get
over it. He loved her so much that he did not mind suffering. He
bared his heart to her. He showed her proudly all his weakness.

  Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on
in the cosy, shabby restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted
entertainment. She was restless and, wherever she was, wanted after
a while to go somewhere else. He dared not bore her.

  "I say, how about going to a music-hall?" he
said.

  He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all
she would say she preferred to stay there.

  "I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are
going," she answered.

  "Come on then."

  Philip waited impatiently for the end of the
performance. He had made up his mind exactly what to do, and when
they got into the cab he passed his arm, as though almost by
accident, round her waist. But he drew it back quickly with a
little cry. He had pricked himself. She laughed.

  "There, that comes of putting your arm where it's
got no business to be," she said. "I always know when men try and
put their arm round my waist. That pin always catches them."

  "I'll be more careful."

  He put his arm round again. She made no
objection.

  "I'm so comfortable," he sighed blissfully.

  "So long as you're happy," she retorted.

  They drove down St. James' Street into the Park, and
Philip quickly kissed her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it
required all his courage. She turned her lips to him without
speaking. She neither seemed to mind nor to like it.

  "If you only knew how long I've wanted to do that,"
he murmured.

  He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head
away.

  "Once is enough," she said.

  On the chance of kissing her a second time he
travelled down to Herne Hill with her, and at the end of the road
in which she lived he asked her:

  "Won't you give me another kiss?"

  She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up
the road to see that no one was in sight.

  "I don't mind."

  He seized her in his arms and kissed her
passionately, but she pushed him away.

  "Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy," she said.