Of Human Bondage (63 page)

  One morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim,
and going back to bed suddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs
ached and he shivered with cold. When the landlady brought in his
breakfast he called to her through the open door that he was not
well, and asked for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. A few
minutes later there was a knock at his door, and Griffiths came in.
They had lived in the same house for over a year, but had never
done more than nod to one another in the passage.

  "I say, I hear you're seedy," said Griffiths. "I
thought I'd come in and see what was the matter with you."

  Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the
whole thing. He would be all right in an hour or two.

  "Well, you'd better let me take your temperature,"
said Griffiths.

  "It's quite unnecessary," answered Philip
irritably.

  "Come on."

  Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths
sat on the side of the bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then
he took it out and looked at it.

  "Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and
I'll bring old Deacon in to have a look at you."

  "Nonsense," said Philip. "There's nothing the
matter. I wish you wouldn't bother about me."

  "But it isn't any bother. You've got a temperature
and you must stay in bed. You will, won't you?"

  There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling
of gravity and kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.

  "You've got a wonderful bed-side manner," Philip
murmured, closing his eyes with a smile.

  Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly
smoothed down the bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into
Philip's sitting-room to look for a siphon, could not find one, and
fetched it from his own room. He drew down the blind.

  "Now, go to sleep and I'll bring the old man round
as soon as he's done the wards."

  It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His
head felt as if it would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was
afraid he was going to cry. Then there was a knock at the door and
Griffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in.

  "Here's Doctor Deacon," he said.

  The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a
bland manner, whom Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a
brief examination, and the diagnosis.

  "What d'you make it?" he asked Griffiths,
smiling.

  "Influenza."

  "Quite right."

  Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house
room.

  "Wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? They'll
put you in a private ward, and you can be better looked after than
you can here."

  "I'd rather stay where I am," said Philip.

  He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always
shy of new surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him,
and the dreary cleanliness of the hospital.

  "I can look after him, sir," said Griffiths at
once.

  "Oh, very well."

  He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and
left.

  "Now you've got to do exactly as I tell you," said
Griffiths. "I'm day-nurse and night-nurse all in one."

  "It's very kind of you, but I shan't want anything,"
said Philip.

  Griffiths put his hand on Philip's forehead, a large
cool, dry hand, and the touch seemed to him good.

  "I'm just going to take this round to the dispensary
to have it made up, and then I'll come back."

  In a little while he brought the medicine and gave
Philip a dose. Then he went upstairs to fetch his books.

  "You won't mind my working in your room this
afternoon, will you?" he said, when he came down. "I'll leave the
door open so that you can give me a shout if you want
anything."

  Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy
doze, heard voices in his sitting-room. A friend had come in to see
Griffiths.

  "I say, you'd better not come in tonight," he heard
Griffiths saying.

  And then a minute or two afterwards someone else
entered the room and expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths
there. Philip heard him explain.

  "I'm looking after a second year's man who's got
these rooms. The wretched blighter's down with influenza. No whist
tonight, old man."

  Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called
him.

  "I say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are
you?" he asked.

  "Not on your account. I must work at my
surgery."

  "Don't put it off. I shall be all right. You needn't
bother about me."

  "That's all right."

  Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became
slightly delirious, but towards morning he awoke from a restless
sleep. He saw Griffiths get out of an arm-chair, go down on his
knees, and with his fingers put piece after piece of coal on the
fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  "Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire
without making a row."

  "Why aren't you in bed? What's the time?"

  "About five. I thought I'd better sit up with you
tonight. I brought an arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress
down I should sleep so soundly that I shouldn't hear you if you
wanted anything."

  "I wish you wouldn't be so good to me," groaned
Philip. "Suppose you catch it?"

  "Then you shall nurse me, old man," said Griffiths,
with a laugh.

  In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He
looked pale and tired after his night's watch, but was full of
spirits.

  "Now, I'm going to wash you," he said to Philip
cheerfully.

  "I can wash myself," said Philip, ashamed.

  "Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse
would wash you, and I can do it just as well as a nurse."

  Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed
Griffiths to wash his hands and face, his feet, his chest and back.
He did it with charming tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream
of friendly chatter; then he changed the sheet just as they did at
the hospital, shook out the pillow, and arranged the
bed-clothes.

  "I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would
make her sit up. Deacon's coming in to see you early."

  "I can't imagine why you should be so good to me,"
said Philip.

  "It's good practice for me. It's rather a lark
having a patient."

  Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get
dressed and have something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came
back with a bunch of grapes and a few flowers.

  "You are awfully kind," said Philip.

  He was in bed for five days.

  Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though
Griffiths was the same age as Philip he adopted towards him a
humorous, motherly attitude. He was a thoughtful fellow, gentle and
encouraging; but his greatest quality was a vitality which seemed
to give health to everyone with whom he came in contact. Philip was
unused to the petting which most people enjoy from mothers or
sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of
this strong young man. Philip grew better. Then Griffiths, sitting
idly in Philip's room, amused him with gay stories of amorous
adventure. He was a flirtatious creature, capable of carrying on
three or four affairs at a time; and his account of the devices he
was forced to in order to keep out of difficulties made excellent
hearing. He had a gift for throwing a romantic glamour over
everything that happened to him. He was crippled with debts,
everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed always to
be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by
nature. He loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty
purposes; and his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents
the bars of London was enormous. Loose women, treating him as a
friend, told him the troubles, difficulties, and successes of their
lives; and card-sharpers, respecting his impecuniosity, stood him
dinners and lent him five-pound notes. He was ploughed in his
examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully, and
submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations
that his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart
to be seriously angry with him.

  "I'm an awful fool at books," he said cheerfully,
"but I CAN'T work."

  Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when
he had got through the exuberance of his youth, and was at last
qualified, he would be a tremendous success in practice. He would
cure people by the sheer charm of his manner.

  Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped
boys who were tall and straight and high of spirits. By the time he
was well they were fast friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction
to Philip that Griffiths seemed to enjoy sitting in his little
parlour, wasting Philip's time with his amusing chatter and smoking
innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him sometimes to the tavern off
Regent Street. Hayward found him stupid, but Lawson recognised his
charm and was eager to paint him; he was a picturesque figure with
his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. Often they discussed
things he knew nothing about, and then he sat quietly, with a
good-natured smile on his handsome face, feeling quite rightly that
his presence was sufficient contribution to the entertainment of
the company. When he discovered that Macalister was a stockbroker
he was eager for tips; and Macalister, with his grave smile, told
him what fortunes he could have made if he had bought certain stock
at certain times. It made Philip's mouth water, for in one way and
another he was spending more than he had expected, and it would
have suited him very well to make a little money by the easy method
Macalister suggested.

  "Next time I hear of a really good thing I'll let
you know," said the stockbroker. "They do come along sometimes.
It's only a matter of biding one's time."

  Philip could not help thinking how delightful it
would be to make fifty pounds, so that he could give Norah the furs
she so badly needed for the winter. He looked at the shops in
Regent Street and picked out the articles he could buy for the
money. She deserved everything. She made his life very happy

  One afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from
the hospital to wash and tidy himself before going to tea as usual
with Norah, as he let himself in with his latch-key, his landlady
opened the door for him.

  "There's a lady waiting to see you," she said.

  "Me?" exclaimed Philip.

  He was surprised. It would only be Norah, and he had
no idea what had brought her.

  "I shouldn't 'ave let her in, only she's been three
times, and she seemed that upset at not finding you, so I told her
she could wait."

  He pushed past the explaining landlady and burst
into the room. His heart turned sick. It was Mildred. She was
sitting down, but got up hurriedly as he came in. She did not move
towards him nor speak. He was so surprised that he did not know
what he was saying.

  "What the hell d'you want?" he asked.

  She did not answer, but began to cry. She did not
put her hands to her eyes, but kept them hanging by the side of her
body. She looked like a housemaid applying for a situation. There
was a dreadful humility in her bearing. Philip did not know what
feelings came over him. He had a sudden impulse to turn round and
escape from the room.

  "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he said at
last.

  "I wish I was dead," she moaned.

  Philip left her standing where she was. He could
only think at the moment of steadying himself. His knees were
shaking. He looked at her, and he groaned in despair.

  "What's the matter?" he said.

  "He's left me – Emil."

  Philip's heart bounded. He knew then that he loved
her as passionately as ever. He had never ceased to love her. She
was standing before him humble and unresisting. He wished to take
her in his arms and cover her tear-stained face with kisses. Oh,
how long the separation had been! He did not know how he could have
endured it.