Of Human Bondage (61 page)

  Philip worked well and easily; he had a good deal to
do, since he was taking in July the three parts of the First
Conjoint examination, two of which he had failed in before; but he
found life pleasant. He made a new friend. Lawson, on the lookout
for models, had discovered a girl who was understudying at one of
the theatres, and in order to induce her to sit to him arranged a
little luncheon-party one Sunday. She brought a chaperon with her;
and to her Philip, asked to make a fourth, was instructed to
confine his attentions. He found this easy, since she turned out to
be an agreeable chatterbox with an amusing tongue. She asked Philip
to go and see her; she had rooms in Vincent Square, and was always
in to tea at five o'clock; he went, was delighted with his welcome,
and went again. Mrs. Nesbit was not more than twenty-five, very
small, with a pleasant, ugly face; she had very bright eyes, high
cheekbones, and a large mouth: the excessive contrasts of her
colouring reminded one of a portrait by one of the modern French
painters; her skin was very white, her cheeks were very red, her
thick eyebrows, her hair, were very black. The effect was odd, a
little unnatural, but far from unpleasing. She was separated from
her husband and earned her living and her child's by writing penny
novelettes. There were one or two publishers who made a specialty
of that sort of thing, and she had as much work as she could do. It
was ill-paid, she received fifteen pounds for a story of thirty
thousand words; but she was satisfied.

  "After all, it only costs the reader twopence," she
said, "and they like the same thing over and over again. I just
change the names and that's all. When I'm bored I think of the
washing and the rent and clothes for baby, and I go on again."

  Besides, she walked on at various theatres where
they wanted supers and earned by this when in work from sixteen
shillings to a guinea a week. At the end of her day she was so
tired that she slept like a top. She made the best of her difficult
lot. Her keen sense of humour enabled her to get amusement out of
every vexatious circumstance. Sometimes things went wrong, and she
found herself with no money at all; then her trifling possessions
found their way to a pawnshop in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and she
ate bread and butter till things grew brighter. She never lost her
cheerfulness.

  Philip was interested in her shiftless life, and she
made him laugh with the fantastic narration of her struggles. He
asked her why she did not try her hand at literary work of a better
sort, but she knew that she had no talent, and the abominable stuff
she turned out by the thousand words was not only tolerably paid,
but was the best she could do. She had nothing to look forward to
but a continuation of the life she led. She seemed to have no
relations, and her friends were as poor as herself.

  "I don't think of the future," she said. "As long as
I have enough money for three weeks' rent and a pound or two over
for food I never bother. Life wouldn't be worth living if I worried
over the future as well as the present. When things are at their
worst I find something always happens."

  Soon Philip grew in the habit of going in to tea
with her every day, and so that his visits might not embarrass her
he took in a cake or a pound of butter or some tea. They started to
call one another by their Christian names. Feminine sympathy was
new to him, and he delighted in someone who gave a willing ear to
all his troubles. The hours went quickly. He did not hide his
admiration for her. She was a delightful companion. He could not
help comparing her with Mildred; and he contrasted with the one's
obstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything she did
not know, the other's quick appreciation and ready intelligence.
His heart sank when he thought that he might have been tied for
life to such a woman as Mildred. One evening he told Norah the
whole story of his love. It was not one to give him much reason for
self-esteem, and it was very pleasant to receive such charming
sympathy.

  "I think you're well out of it," she said, when he
had finished.

  She had a funny way at times of holding her head on
one side like an Aberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright
chair, sewing, for she had no time to do nothing, and Philip had
made himself comfortable at her feet.

  "I can't tell you how heartily thankful I am it's
all over," he sighed.

  "Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time," she
murmured, and by way of showing her sympathy put her hand on his
shoulder.

  He took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it
quickly.

  "Why did you do that?" she asked, with a blush.

  "Have you any objection?"

  She looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes,
and she smiled.

  "No," she said.

  He got up on his knees and faced her. She looked
into his eyes steadily, and her large mouth trembled with a
smile.

  "Well?" she said.

  "You know, you are a ripper. I'm so grateful to you
for being nice to me. I like you so much."

  "Don't be idiotic," she said.

  Philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards
him. She made no resistance, but bent forward a little, and he
kissed her red lips.

  "Why did you do that?" she asked again.

  "Because it's comfortable."

  She did not answer, but a tender look came into her
eyes, and she passed her hand softly over his hair.

  "You know, it's awfully silly of you to behave like
this. We were such good friends. It would be so jolly to leave it
at that."

  "If you really want to appeal to my better nature,"
replied Philip, "you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're
doing it."

  She gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop.

  "It's very wrong of me, isn't it?" she said.

  Philip, surprised and a little amused, looked into
her eyes, and as he looked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and
there was an expression in them that enchanted him. His heart was
suddenly stirred, and tears came to his eyes.

  "Norah, you're not fond of me, are you?" he asked,
incredulously.

  "You clever boy, you ask such stupid questions."

  "Oh, my dear, it never struck me that you could
be."

  He flung his arms round her and kissed her, while
she, laughing, blushing, and crying, surrendered herself willingly
to his embrace.

  Presently he released her and sitting back on his
heels looked at her curiously.

  "Well, I'm blowed!" he said.

  "Why?"

  "I'm so surprised."

  "And pleased?"

  "Delighted," he cried with all his heart, "and so
proud and so happy and so grateful."

  He took her hands and covered them with kisses. This
was the beginning for Philip of a happiness which seemed both solid
and durable. They became lovers but remained friends. There was in
Norah a maternal instinct which received satisfaction in her love
for Philip; she wanted someone to pet, and scold, and make a fuss
of; she had a domestic temperament and found pleasure in looking
after his health and his linen. She pitied his deformity, over
which he was so sensitive, and her pity expressed itself
instinctively in tenderness. She was young, strong, and healthy,
and it seemed quite natural to her to give her love. She had high
spirits and a merry soul. She liked Philip because he laughed with
her at all the amusing things in life that caught her fancy, and
above all she liked him because he was he.

  When she told him this he answered gaily:

  "Nonsense. You like me because I'm a silent person
and never want to get a word in."

  Philip did not love her at all. He was extremely
fond of her, glad to be with her, amused and interested by her
conversation. She restored his belief in himself and put healing
ointments, as it were, on all the bruises of his soul. He was
immensely flattered that she cared for him. He admired her courage,
her optimism, her impudent defiance of fate; she had a little
philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical.

  "You know, I don't believe in churches and parsons
and all that," she said, "but I believe in God, and I don't believe
He minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and
help a lame dog over a stile when you can. And I think people on
the whole are very nice, and I'm sorry for those who aren't."

  "And what about afterwards?" asked Philip.

  "Oh, well, I don't know for certain, you know," she
smiled, "but I hope for the best. And anyhow there'll be no rent to
pay and no novelettes to write."

  She had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. She
thought that Philip did a brave thing when he left Paris because he
was conscious he could not be a great artist; and he was enchanted
when she expressed enthusiastic admiration for him. He had never
been quite certain whether this action indicated courage or
infirmity of purpose. It was delightful to realise that she
considered it heroic. She ventured to tackle him on a subject which
his friends instinctively avoided.

  "It's very silly of you to be so sensitive about
your club-foot," she said. She saw him bush darkly, but went on.
"You know, people don't think about it nearly as much as you do.
They notice it the first time they see you, and then they forget
about it."

  He would not answer.

  "You're not angry with me, are you?"

  "No."

  She put her arm round his neck.

  "You know, I only speak about it because I love you.
I don't want it to make you unhappy."

  "I think you can say anything you choose to me," he
answered, smiling. "I wish I could do something to show you how
grateful I am to you."

  She took him in hand in other ways. She would not
let him be bearish and laughed at him when he was out of temper.
She made him more urbane.

  "You can make me do anything you like," he said to
her once.

  "D'you mind?"

  "No, I want to do what you like."

  He had the sense to realise his happiness. It seemed
to him that she gave him all that a wife could, and he preserved
his freedom; she was the most charming friend he had ever had, with
a sympathy that he had never found in a man. The sexual
relationship was no more than the strongest link in their
friendship. It completed it, but was not essential. And because
Philip's appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and
easier to live with. He felt in complete possession of himself. He
thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been obsessed
by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing for Mildred
and with horror of himself.

  His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as
interested in them as he. He was flattered and touched by her
eagerness. She made him promise to come at once and tell her the
results. He passed the three parts this time without mishap, and
when he went to tell her she burst into tears.

  "Oh, I'm so glad, I was so anxious."

  "You silly little thing," he laughed, but he was
choking.

  No one could help being pleased with the way she
took it.

  "And what are you going to do now?" she asked.

  "I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I
have no work to do till the winter session begins in October."

  "I suppose you'll go down to your uncle's at
Blackstable?"

  "You suppose quite wrong. I'm going to stay in
London and play with you."

  "I'd rather you went away."

  "Why? Are you tired of me?"

  She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders.

  "Because you've been working hard, and you look
utterly washed out. You want some fresh air and a rest. Please
go."

  He did not answer for a moment. He looked at her
with loving eyes.

  "You know, I'd never believe it of anyone but you.
You're only thinking of my good. I wonder what you see in me."

  "Will you give me a good character with my month's
notice?" she laughed gaily.

  "I'll say that you're thoughtful and kind, and
you're not exacting; you never worry, you're not troublesome, and
you're easy to please."

  "All that's nonsense," she said, "but I'll tell you
one thing: I'm one of the few persons I ever met who are able to
learn from experience."