‘I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you,' she said at last. ‘I thought p'raps you weren't at the 'ospital any more.'
Philip did not speak.
‘I suppose you're qualified by now, aren't you?'
‘No.'
‘How's that?'
‘I'm no longer at the hospital. I had to give it up eighteen months ago.'
‘You are changeable. You don't seem as if you could stick to anything.'
Philip was silent for another moment, and when he went on it was with coldness.
‘I lost the little money I had in an unlucky speculation and I couldn't afford to go on with the Medical. I had to earn my living as best I could.'
‘What are you doing then?'
‘I'm in a shop.'
‘Oh!'
She gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away at once. He thought that she reddened. She dabbed her palms nervously with the handkerchief.
‘You've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?' She jerked the words out quite oddly.
‘Not entirely.'
‘Because that's why I wanted to see you.' Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. ‘I don't know what's the matter with me.'
‘Why don't you go to a hospital?'
‘I don't like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and I'm afraid they'd want to keep me.'
‘What are you complaining of?' asked Philip coldly, with the stereotyped phrase used in the out-patients' room.
‘Well, I've come out in a rash, and I can't get rid of it.'
Philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
‘Let me look at your throat.'
He took her over to the window and made such examination as he could. Suddenly he caught sight of her eyes. There was deadly fear in them. It was horrible to see. She was terrified. She wanted him to reassure her; she looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but with all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her.
‘I'm afraid you're very ill indeed,' he said.
‘What d'you think it is?'
When he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips even turned yellow: she began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first and then with choking sobs.
‘I'm awfully sorry,' he said at last. ‘But I had to tell you.'
‘I may just as well kill myself and have done with it.'
He took no notice of the threat.
‘Have you got any money?' he asked.
‘Six or seven pounds.'
‘You must give up this life, you know. Don't you think you could find some work to do? I'm afraid I can't help you much, I only get twelve bob a week.'
‘What is there I can do now?' she cried impatiently.
‘Damn it all, you must try to get something.'
He spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the danger to which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. He tried to console her. At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which she promised to do all he advised. He wrote a prescription, which he said he would leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her the necessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity. Getting up to go, he held out his hand.
‘Don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your throat.'
But as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold of his coat.
‘Oh, don't leave me,' she cried hoarsely. ‘I'm so afraid, don't leave me alone yet. Phil, please. There's no one else I can go to, you're the only friend I've ever had.'
He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror he had seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die. Philip looked down. Twice that woman had come into his life and made him wretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in his heart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received her letter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons.
‘I suppose I shall never really quite get over it,' he said to himself.
What perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which made it uncomfortable for him to be near her.
‘What do you want me to do?' he asked.
‘Let's go out and dine together. I'll pay.'
He hesitated. He felt that she was creeping back again into his life when he thought she was gone out of it for ever. She watched him with sickening anxiety.
‘Oh, I know I've treated you shocking, but don't leave me alone now. You've had your revenge. If you leave me by myself now I don't know what I shall do.'
‘All right, I don't mind,' he said, ‘but we shall have to do it on the cheap, I haven't got money to throw away these days.'
She sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a hat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road. Philip had got out of the habit of eating at those hours, and Mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow. They had a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer. They sat opposite one another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if she remembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in silence if Philip had not forced himself to talk. In the bright light of the restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an endless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip was anxious to know about the child, but he had not the courage to ask. At last she said:
‘You know baby died last summer.'
‘Oh!' he said.
‘You might say you're sorry.'
‘I'm not,' he answered; ‘I'm very glad.'
She glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked away.
‘You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you? I always thought it funny like how you could see so much in another man's child.'
When they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for the medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made her take a dose. Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to go back to Harrington Street. He was hideously bored.
Philip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had prescribed and followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that she gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew better she grew less despondent. She talked more freely.
‘As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right,' she said. ‘I've had my lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for yours truly.'
Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She told him not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted it; she had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do anything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of that time he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more cheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories of the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some eating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing definite was fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of the following week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake to take something unsuitable.
‘It's absurd to talk like that,' he said impatiently. ‘You must take anything you can get. I can't help you, and your money won't last for ever.'
‘Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and chance it.'
He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first visit, and she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He remembered some of the things she had said. He put two and two together. He wondered whether she had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lying to him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lasted so long.
‘What is your rent here?'
‘Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she's quite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay.'
He was silent. What he suspected was so horribl
e that he hesitated. It was no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must find out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so that he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7 opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watched her walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too showy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. He followed her slowly till she came into Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened her pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and crossed over to a music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the arm. He saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips.
‘Where are you going, Mildred?'
She started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse. But she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue.
‘Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me the hump sitting every night by myself.'
He did not pretend to believe her.
‘You mustn't. Good heavens, I've told you fifty times how dangerous it is. You must stop this sort of thing at once.'
‘Oh, hold your jaw,' she cried roughly. ‘How d'you suppose I'm going to live?'
He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to drag her away.
‘For God's sake come along. Let me take you home. You don't know what you're doing. It's criminal.'
‘What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven't been so good to me that I need bother my head about them.'
She pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money. Philip had threepence in his pocket. He could not follow. He turned away and walked slowly down Oxford Street.
‘I can't do anything more,' he said to himself.
That was the end. He did not see her again.
CX
CHRISTMAS THAT year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for four days: Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for him to spend the holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs Foster, saying that Mr Carey was not well enough to write himself, but wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said:
‘You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about himself.'
Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room.
‘Here's Mr Philip, sir.'
The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when you looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty.
‘He can't last long now,' thought Philip, as he looked at him.
‘How d'you think I'm looking?' asked the Vicar. ‘D'you think I've changed since you were here last?'
‘I think you look stronger than you did last summer.'
‘It was the heat. That always upsets me.'
Mr Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bedroom and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for Mrs Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room.
‘On the seventh of November, sir.'
Mr Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information.
‘But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs Foster?'
‘Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite.'
‘I don't seem to put on flesh though.'
Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia.
‘It's terrible the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills.' He tinkled his bell again. ‘Mrs Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's bill.'
Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip.
‘That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from the stores, but then there's the postage.'
Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble to inquire what Philip was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked how long he could stay, and when Philip told him he must leave on Tuesday morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of him. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs Foster came in, said:
‘Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were.'
When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if he was not certain that Mrs Foster was within earshot; she knew exactly what to do with him if anything happened. Philip, seeing that she was tired and that her eyes were heavy from want of sleep, suggested that he was working her too hard.
‘Oh, nonsense,' said the Vicar, ‘she's as strong as a horse.' And when next she came in to give him his medicine he said to her:
‘Master Philip says you've got too much to do, Mrs Foster. You like looking after me, don't you?'
‘Oh, I don't mind, sir. I want to do everything I can.'
Presently the medicine took effect and Mr Carey fell asleep. Philip went into the kitchen and asked Mrs Foster whether she could stand the work. He saw that for some months she had had little peace.
‘Well, sir, what can I do?' she answered. ‘The poor old gentleman's so dependent on me, and, although he is troublesome sometimes, you can't help liking him, can you? I've been here so many years now, I don't know what I shall do when he comes to go.'
Philip saw that she was really fond of the old man. She washed and dressed him, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen times in the night; for she slept in the next room to his and whenever he awoke he tinkled his little bell till she came in. He might die at any moment, but he might live for months. It was wonderful that she should look after a stranger with such patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that she should be alone in the world to care for him.
It seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all his life was now of no more than formal importance to him: every Sunday the curate came and administered to him Holy Communion, and he often read his Bible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. He believed that it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter upon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair, and having given up the hope of ever getting out into the open again, like a child in the hands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew.
In Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was aware that his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wondered whether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itself out, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of his soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent, was the conviction that there was no God and after this life nothing.
On the evening of Boxing Day Philip sat in the dining-room with his uncle. He had to start very early next morning in order to get to the shop by nine, and he was to say good-night to Mr Carey then. The Vicar of Blacks
table was dozing and Philip, lying on the sofa by the window, let his book fall on his knees and looked idly round the room. He asked himself how much the furniture would fetch. He had walked round the house and looked at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a few pieces of china which might go for a decent price and Philip wondered if it would be worth while to take them up to London; but the furniture was of the Victorian order, of mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go for nothing at an auction. There were three or four thousand books, but everyone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they would fetch more than a hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his uncle would leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the least sum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take his degree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospital appointments. He looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was no humanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer animal. Philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life. He had thought it each evening when Mrs Foster prepared for his uncle the medicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two bottles: one contained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if the pain grew unendurable. This was poured out for him and left by his bedside. He generally took it at three or four in the morning. It would be a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and no one would suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him to die. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he thought of the money he wanted so badly. A few more months of that wretched life could matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meant everything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when he thought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. His heart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made an effort to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so desperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never liked him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him, indifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruel man, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be easy, desperately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it would be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he had done. Though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, there were certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. He wished they were not on his conscience.