But Philip's unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out argument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with logic and battered him with authorities.
At last Philip said:
‘Well, I can't say anything about other people. I can only speak for myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can't get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all eternity.'
‘What do you deduce from that?' asked Hayward.
‘Why, merely the futility of regret. It's no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.'
LXVIII
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 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 bedside 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 of 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 say.
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 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; and he changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow, and arranged the bedclothes.
‘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 recognized 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.
LXIX
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.
‘You'd better sit down. Let me give you a drink.'
He drew the chair near the fire and she sat in it. He mixed her whisky and soda, and, sobbing still, she drank it. She looked at him with great, mournful eyes. There were large black lines under them. She was thinner and whiter than when last he had seen her.
‘I wish I'd married you when you asked me,' she said.
Philip did not know why the remark seemed to swell his heart. He could not keep the distance from her which he had forced upon himself. He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘I'm awfully sorry you're in trouble.'
She leaned her head against his bosom and burst into hysterical crying. Her hat was in the way and she took it off. He had never dreamt that she was capable of crying like that. He kissed her again and again. It seemed to ease her a little.
‘You were always good to me, Philip,' she said. ‘That's why I knew I could come to you.'
‘Tell me what's happened.'
‘Oh, I can't, I can't,' she cried out, breaking away from him.
He sank down on his knees beside her and put his cheek against hers.
‘Don't you know that there's nothing you can't tell me. I can never blame you for anything.'
She told him the story little by little, and sometimes she sobbed so much that he could hardly understand.
‘Last Monday week he went up to Birmingham, and he promised to be back on Thursday, and he never came, and he didn't come on the Friday, so I wrote to ask what was the matter, and he never answered the letter. And I wrote and said that if I didn't hear from him by return I'd go up to Birmingham, and this morning I got a solicitor's letter to say I had no claim on him, and if I molested him he'd seek the protection of the law.'
‘But it's absurd,' cried Philip. ‘A man can't treat his wife like that. Had you had a row?'
‘Oh, yes, we'd had a quarrel on the Sunday, and he said he was sick of me, but he'd said it before, and he'd come back all right. I didn't think he meant it. He was frightened because I told him a baby was coming. I kept it from him as long as I could. Then I had to tell him. He said it was my fault, and I ought to have known better. If you'd only heard the things he said to me! But I found out precious quick that he wasn't a gentleman. He left me without a penny. He hadn't paid the rent, and I hadn't got the money to pay it, and the woman who kept the house said such things to me—well, I might have been a thief the way she talked.'
‘I thought you were going to take a flat.'
‘That's what he said, but we just took furnished apartments in Highbury. He was that mean. He said I was extravagant; he didn't give me anything to be extravagant with.'
She had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial with the important. Philip was puzzled. The whole thing was incomprehensible.
‘No man could be such a blackguard.'
‘You don't know him. I wouldn't go back to him now not if he was to come and ask me on his bended knees. I was a fool ever to think of him. And he wasn't earning the money he said he was. The lies he told me!'
Philip thought for a minute or two. He was so deeply moved by her distress that he could not think of himself.
‘Would you like me to go to Birmingham? I could see him and try to make things up.'
‘
Oh, there's no chance of that. He'll never come back now, I know him.'
‘But he must provide for you. He can't get out of that. I don't know anything about these things, you'd better go and see a solicitor.'
‘How can I? I haven't got the money.'
‘I'll pay all that. I'll write a note to my own solicitor, the sportsman who was my father's executor. Would you like me to come with you now? I expect he'll still be at his office.'
‘No, give me a letter to him. I'll go alone.'
She was a little calmer now. He sat down and wrote a note. Then he remembered that she had no money. He had fortunately changed a cheque the day before and was able to give her five pounds.
‘You are good to me, Philip,' she said.
‘I'm so happy to be able to do something for you.'
‘Are you fond of me still?'
‘Just as fond as ever.'
She put up her lips and he kissed her. There was a surrender in the action which he had never seen in her before. It was worth all the agony he had suffered.
She went away and he found that she had been there for two hours. He was extraordinarily happy.
‘Poor thing, poor thing,' he murmured to himself, his heart glowing with a greater love than he had ever felt before.
He never thought of Norah at all till about eight o'clock a telegram came. He knew before opening it that it was from her.
Is anything the matter? Norah.
He did not know what to do nor what to answer. He could fetch her after the play, in which she was walking on, was over and stroll home with her as he sometimes did; but his whole soul revolted against the idea of seeing her that evening. He thought of writing to her, but he could not bring himself to address her as usual, dearest Norah. He made up his mind to telegraph.
Sorry. Could not get away. Philip.
He visualized her. He was slightly repelled by the ugly little face, with its high cheek-bones and the crude colour. There was a coarseness in her skin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew that his telegram must be followed by some action on his part, but at all events it postponed it.