Chapter LVII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before the timewhich Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-classwaiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He began to grow anxious,and walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; thehour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her.Philip was impatient. He went into the other waiting-rooms and looked atthe people sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud."There you are. I thought you were never coming.""I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half a mind togo back home again.""But you said you'd come to the second-class waiting-room.""I didn't say any such thing. It isn't exactly likely I'd sit in thesecond-class room when I could sit in the first is it?"Though Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, andthey got into a cab."Where are we dining?" she asked."I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?""I don't mind where we dine."She spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting and answeredPhilip's attempt at conversation with monosyllables. She wore a long cloakof some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her head. Theyreached the restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked round withsatisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables, the gold of thedecorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a sumptuous air."I've never been here before."She gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw that shewore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was moreelaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered champagne and when it cameher eyes sparkled."You are going it," she said."Because I've ordered fiz?" he asked carelessly, as though he never drankanything else."I was surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you."Conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much tosay; and Philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her. Shelistened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners, andmade no pretence that she was interested in him. He made one or two littlejokes, but she took them quite seriously. The only sign of vivacity he gotwas when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear themanageress and told him all her misdeeds at length."I can't stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself.Sometimes I've got more than half a mind to tell her something she doesn'tthink I know anything about.""What is that?" asked Philip."Well, I happen to know that she's not above going to Eastbourne with aman for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has a married sisterwho goes there with her husband, and she's seen her. She was staying atthe same boarding-house, and she 'ad a wedding-ring on, and I know for oneshe's not married."Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her moreaffable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. Henoticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and whenshe drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics ofconversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered withirritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughingwith the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was avery cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. Hethought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him thatthey did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herselfthoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now andthen when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and sheapplauded rapturously."This is the seventh time I've been," she said, after the first act, "andI don't mind if I come seven times more."She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls.She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore falsehair."It is horrible, these West-end people," she said. "I don't know how theycan do it." She put her hand to her hair. "Mine's all my own, every bit ofit."She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to saysomething disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next dayshe would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that hehad bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, hewanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:"I hope you've enjoyed yourself?""Rather.""Will you come out with me again one evening?""I don't mind."He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifferencemaddened him."That sounds as if you didn't much care if you came or not.""Oh, if you don't take me out some other fellow will. I need never wantfor men who'll take me to the theatre."Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to thebooking-office."I've got my season," she said. "I thought I'd take you home as it's rather late, if you don't mind.""Oh, I don't mind if it gives you any pleasure."He took a single first for her and a return for himself."Well, you're not mean, I will say that for you," she said, when he openedthe carriage-door.Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other peopleentered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and heaccompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived."I'll say good-night to you here," she said, holding out her hand. "You'dbetter not come up to the door. I know what people are, and I don't wantto have anybody talking."She said good-night and walked quickly away. He could see the white shawlin the darkness. He thought she might turn round, but she did not. Philipsaw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked along to look atit. It was a trim, common little house of yellow brick, exactly like allthe other little houses in the street. He stood outside for a few minutes,and presently the window on the top floor was darkened. Philip strolledslowly back to the station. The evening had been unsatisfactory. He feltirritated, restless, and miserable.When he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of therailway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. He did notknow how he was to get through the hours that must pass before his eyesrested on her again. He thought drowsily of her thin face, with itsdelicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was not happywith her, but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit by her sideand look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted... the thought came tohim and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide awake... he wanted tokiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. The truth came to him atlast. He was in love with her. It was incredible.He had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which hehad pictured to himself over and over again. He saw himself coming into aball-room; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women talking; andone of the women turned round. Her eyes fell upon him, and he knew thatthe gasp in his throat was in her throat too. He stood quite still. Shewas tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressedin white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at oneanother, forgetting that people surrounded them. He went straight up toher, and she moved a little towards him. Both felt that the formality ofintroduction was out of place. He spoke to her."I've been looking for you all my life," he said."You've come at last," she murmured."Will you dance with me?"She surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced. (Philipalways pretended that he was not lame.) She danced divinely."I've never danced with anyone who danced like you," she said.She tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening."I'm so thankful that I waited for you," he said to her. "I knew that inthe end I must meet you."People in the ball-room stared. They did not care. They did not wish tohide their passion. At last they went into the garden. He flung a lightcloak over her shoulders and put her in a waiting cab. They caught themidnight train to Paris; and they sped through the silent, star-lit nightinto the unknown.He thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible that heshould be in love with Mildred Rogers. Her name was grotesque. He did notthink her pretty; he hated the thinness of her, only that evening he hadnoticed how the bones of her chest stood out in evening-dress; he wentover her features one by one; he did not like her mouth, and theunhealthiness of her colour vaguely repelled him. She was common. Herphrases, so bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness of hermind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the musicalcomedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully extended when sheheld her glass to her mouth; her manners like her conversation, wereodiously genteel. He remembered her insolence; sometimes he had feltinclined to box her ears; and suddenly, he knew not why, perhaps it wasthe thought of hitting her or the recollection of her tiny, beautifulears, he was seized by an uprush of emotion. He yearned for her. Hethought of taking her in his arms, the thin, fragile body, and kissing herpale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers down the slightly greenishcheeks. He wanted her.He had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all the worldseemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an ecstatic happiness; butthis was not happiness; it was a hunger of the soul, it was a painfulyearning, it was a bitter anguish, he had never known before. He tried tothink when it had first come to him. He did not know. He only rememberedthat each time he had gone into the shop, after the first two or threetimes, it had been with a little feeling in the heart that was pain; andhe remembered that when she spoke to him he felt curiously breathless.When she left him it was wretchedness, and when she came to him again itwas despair.He stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. He wonderedhow he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his soul.