Chapter CIX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The autumn passed into winter. Philip had left his address with Mrs.Foster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she might communicate with him,but still went once a week to the hospital on the chance of there being aletter. One evening he saw his name on an envelope in a handwriting he hadhoped never to see again. It gave him a queer feeling. For a little whilehe could not bring himself to take it. It brought back a host of hatefulmemories. But at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open theenvelope.7 William Street,Fitzroy Square.Dear Phil,Can I see you for a minute or two as soon as possible. I am in awfultrouble and don't know what to do. It's not money.Yours truly,Mildred.He tore the letter into little bits and going out into the streetscattered them in the darkness."I'll see her damned," he muttered.A feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought of seeing her again.He did not care if she was in distress, it served her right whatever itwas, he thought of her with hatred, and the love he had had for heraroused his loathing. His recollections filled him with nausea, and as hewalked across the Thames he drew himself aside in an instinctivewithdrawal from his thought of her. He went to bed, but he could notsleep; he wondered what was the matter with her, and he could not get outof his head the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would not havewritten to him unless she were desperate. He was angry with himself forhis weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace unless he saw her.Next morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on his way to the shop.He made it as stiff as he could and said merely that he was sorry she wasin difficulties and would come to the address she had given at seveno'clock that evening.It was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid street; and when, sickat the thought of seeing her, he asked whether she was in, a wild hopeseized him that she had left. It looked the sort of place people moved inand out of frequently. He had not thought of looking at the postmark onher letter and did not know how many days it had lain in the rack. Thewoman who answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry, but silentlypreceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at the back."Mrs. Miller, a gentleman to see you," she called.The door was slightly opened, and Mildred looked out suspiciously."Oh, it's you," she said. "Come in."He walked in and she closed the door. It was a very small bed-room, untidyas was every place she lived in; there was a pair of shoes on the floor,lying apart from one another and uncleaned; a hat was on the chest ofdrawers, with false curls beside it; and there was a blouse on the table.Philip looked for somewhere to put his hat. The hooks behind the door wereladen with skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at the hem."Sit down, won't you?" she said. Then she gave a little awkward laugh. "Isuppose you were surprised to hear from me again.""You're awfully hoarse," he answered. "Have you got a sore throat?""Yes, I have had for some time."He did not say anything. He waited for her to explain why she wanted tosee him. The look of the room told him clearly enough that she had goneback to the life from which he had taken her. He wondered what hadhappened to the baby; there was a photograph of it on the chimney-piece,but no sign in the room that a child was ever there. Mildred was holdingher handkerchief. She made it into a little ball, and passed it from handto hand. He saw that she was very nervous. She was staring at the fire,and he could look at her without meeting her eyes. She was much thinnerthan when she had left him; and the skin, yellow and dryish, was drawnmore tightly over her cheekbones. She had dyed her hair and it was nowflaxen: it altered her a good deal, and made her look more vulgar."I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you," she said at last. "Ithought 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 withcoldness."I lost the little money I had in an unlucky speculation and I couldn'tafford to go on with the medical. I had to earn my living as best Icould.""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 thoughtthat she reddened. She dabbed her palms nervously with the handkerchief."You've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?" She jerked the wordsout quite oddly."Not entirely.""Because that's why I wanted to see you." Her voice sank to a hoarsewhisper. "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, andI'm afraid they'd want to keep me.""What are you complaining of?" asked Philip coldly, with the stereotypedphrase 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 hisforehead."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. Itwas 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 butwith 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 somework to do? I'm afraid I can't help you much. I only get twelve bob aweek.""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 dangerto which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. He tried toconsole her. At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which shepromised to do all he advised. He wrote a prescription, which he said hewould leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her thenecessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity. Getting up togo, 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 ofhis coat."Oh, don't leave me," she cried hoarsely. "I'm so afraid, don't leave mealone yet. Phil, please. There's no one else I can go to, you're the onlyfriend I've ever had."He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror hehad seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die. Philiplooked down. Twice that woman had come into his life and made himwretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in hisheart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received herletter, 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, whichmade 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 whenhe thought she was gone out of it for ever. She watched him with sickeninganxiety."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 whatI shall do.""All right, I don't mind," he said, "but we shall have to do it on thecheap, 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 ahat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in theTottenham Court Road. Philip had got out of the habit of eating at thosehours, and Mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow. Theyhad a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer. They sat oppositeone another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if sheremembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat insilence if Philip had not forced himself to talk. In the bright light ofthe restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in anendless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip was anxious to knowabout 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 itfunny like how you could see so much in another man's child."When they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for themedicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made hertake a dose. Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to go backto Harrington Street. He was hideously bored.Philip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had prescribedand followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent thatshe gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew bettershe 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 mylesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for yourstruly."Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She toldhim 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 doanything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of thattime he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much morecheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long storiesof the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at someeating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing definite wasfixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of thefollowing week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake totake something unsuitable."It's absurd to talk like that," he said impatiently. "You must takeanything you can get. I can't help you, and your money won't last forever.""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, andshe had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He rememberedsome of the things she had said. He put two and two together. He wonderedwhether she had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lyingto him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lastedso long."What is your rent here?""Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she'squite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay."He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It wasno use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he mustfind out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening ateight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back toHarrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square sothat he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to himthat he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of goingaway, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watchedher walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on itwhich he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, tooshowy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. He followed herslowly till she came into the Tottenham Court Road, where she slackenedher pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, andcrossed over to a music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on thearm. 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 whenshe was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so wellcame 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 everynight 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 tolive?"He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried todrag her away."For God's sake come along. Let me take you home. You don't know whatyou're doing. It's criminal.""What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven't been so good tome 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 awayand 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.