Chapter LXXIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Three weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to Brighton. She hadmade a quick recovery and looked better than he had ever seen her. She wasgoing to a boarding-house where she had spent a couple of weekends withEmil Miller, and had written to say that her husband was obliged to go toGermany on business and she was coming down with her baby. She gotpleasure out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certainfertility of invention in the working out of the details. Mildred proposedto find in Brighton some woman who would be willing to take charge of thebaby. Philip was startled at the callousness with which she insisted ongetting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense that the poorchild had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. Philiphad expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she had hadthe baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to help him persuadeher to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred. Mildred was not unkindto her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, andshe talked about it a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it.She could not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied it resembledits father already. She was continually wondering how she would managewhen it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such afool as to have it at all."If I'd only known then all I do now," she said.She laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare."You couldn't make more fuss if you was the father," she said. "I'd liketo see Emil getting into such a stew about it."Philip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of baby-farming and theghouls who ill-treat the wretched children that selfish, cruel parentshave put in their charge."Don't be so silly," said Mildred. "That's when you give a woman a sumdown to look after a baby. But when you're going to pay so much a weekit's to their interest to look after it well."Philip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people who had nochildren of their own and would promise to take no other."Don't haggle about the price," he said. "I'd rather pay half a guinea aweek than run any risk of the kid being starved or beaten.""You're a funny old thing, Philip," she laughed.To him there was something very touching in the child's helplessness. Itwas small, ugly, and querulous. Its birth had been looked forward to withshame and anguish. Nobody wanted it. It was dependent on him, a stranger,for food, shelter, and clothes to cover its nakedness.As the train started he kissed Mildred. He would have kissed the baby too,but he was afraid she would laugh at him."You will write to me, darling, won't you? And I shall look forward toyour coming back with oh! such impatience.""Mind you get through your exam."He had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten daysbefore him he made a final effort. He was very anxious to pass, first tosave himself time and expense, for money had been slipping through hisfingers during the last four months with incredible speed; and thenbecause this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that thestudent had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest ofwhich was more vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he hadbeen hitherto concerned. Philip looked forward with interest to the restof the curriculum. Nor did he want to have to confess to Mildred that hehad failed: though the examination was difficult and the majority ofcandidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she wouldthink less well of him if he did not succeed; she had a peculiarlyhumiliating way of showing what she thought.Mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he snatchedhalf an hour every day to write a long letter to her. He had always acertain shyness in expressing himself by word of mouth, but he found hecould tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of things which it would have madehim feel ridiculous to say. Profiting by the discovery he poured out toher his whole heart. He had never been able to tell her before how hisadoration filled every part of him so that all his actions, all histhoughts, were touched with it. He wrote to her of the future, thehappiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her. Heasked himself (he had often asked himself before but had never put it intowords) what it was in her that filled him with such extravagant delight;he did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, andwhen she was away from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; heknew only that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in hisbody so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against hislungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her presence was almostpain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely weak as though, not havingeaten, he were tremulous from want of food. He looked forward eagerly toher answers. He did not expect her to write often, for he knew thatletter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quite content with theclumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his. She spoke of theboarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather and the baby,told him she had been for a walk on the front with a lady-friend whom shehad met in the boarding-house and who had taken such a fancy to baby, shewas going to the theatre on Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up.It touched Philip because it was so matter-of-fact. The crabbed style, theformality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to take herin his arms and kiss her.He went into the examination with happy confidence. There was nothing ineither of the papers that gave him trouble. He knew that he had done well,and though the second part of the examination was viva voce and he wasmore nervous, he managed to answer the questions adequately. He sent atriumphant telegram to Mildred when the result was announced.When he got back to his rooms Philip found a letter from her, saying thatshe thought it would be better for her to stay another week in Brighton.She had found a woman who would be glad to take the baby for sevenshillings a week, but she wanted to make inquiries about her, and she washerself benefiting so much by the sea-air that she was sure a few daysmore would do her no end of good. She hated asking Philip for money, butwould he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat, shecouldn't go about with her lady-friend always in the same hat, and herlady-friend was so dressy. Philip had a moment of bitter disappointment.It took away all his pleasure at getting through his examination."If she loved me one quarter as much as I love her she couldn't bear tostay away a day longer than necessary."He put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure selfishness; ofcourse her health was more important than anything else. But he hadnothing to do now; he might spend the week with her in Brighton, and theycould be together all day. His heart leaped at the thought. It would beamusing to appear before Mildred suddenly with the information that he hadtaken a room in the boarding-house. He looked out trains. But he paused.He was not certain that she would be pleased to see him; she had madefriends in Brighton; he was quiet, and she liked boisterous joviality; herealised that she amused herself more with other people than with him. Itwould torture him if he felt for an instant that he was in the way. He wasafraid to risk it. He dared not even write and suggest that, with nothingto keep him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could seeher every day. She knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him to comeshe would have asked him to. He dared not risk the anguish he would sufferif he proposed to come and she made excuses to prevent him.He wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the end ofhis letter said that if she were very nice and cared to see him for theweek-end he would be glad to run down; but she was by no means to alterany plans she had made. He awaited her answer with impatience. In it shesaid that if she had only known before she could have arranged it, but shehad promised to go to a music-hall on the Saturday night; besides, itwould make the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. Whydid he not come on Sunday morning and spend the day? They could lunch atthe Metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see the very superiorlady-like person who was going to take the baby.Sunday. He blessed the day because it was fine. As the train approachedBrighton the sun poured through the carriage window. Mildred was waitingfor him on the platform."How jolly of you to come and meet me!" he cried, as he seized her hands."You expected me, didn't you?""I hoped you would. I say, how well you're looking.""It's done me a rare lot of good, but I think I'm wise to stay here aslong as I can. And there are a very nice class of people at theboarding-house. I wanted cheering up after seeing nobody all these months.It was dull sometimes."She looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with a greatmany inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck floated a long boa ofimitation swansdown. She was still very thin, and she stooped a littlewhen she walked (she had always done that,) but her eyes did not seem solarge; and though she never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthylook it had. They walked down to the sea. Philip, remembering he had notwalked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp and walkedstiffly in the attempt to conceal it."Are you glad to see me?" he asked, love dancing madly in his heart."Of course I am. You needn't ask that.""By the way, Griffiths sends you his love.""What cheek!"He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her howflirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of someadventure which Griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him.Mildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, butgenerally with curiosity; and Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon hisfriend's good looks and charm."I'm sure you'll like him just as much as I do. He's so jolly and amusing,and he's such an awfully good sort."Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths hadnursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths'self-sacrifice lost nothing."You can't help liking him," said Philip."I don't like good-looking men," said Mildred. "They're too conceited forme.""He wants to know you. I've talked to him about you an awful lot.""What have you said?" asked Mildred.Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for Mildred, andlittle by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her.He described her to him fifty times. He dwelt amorously on every detail ofher appearance, and Griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shapedand how white her face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of thecharm of her pale, thin lips."By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as that," he said. "Lifewouldn't be worth living."Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly inlove that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whateverelse was essential to existence. Griffiths knew that Philip had lookedafter the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away withher."Well, I must say you've deserved to get something," he remarked. "It musthave cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you can afford it.""I can't," said Philip. "But what do I care!"Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one of theshelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass.There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swingingtheir canes, and there were the Brighton shop-girls who tripped along ingiggling bunches. They could tell the people who had come down from Londonfor the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There weremany Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, littlecorpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were middle-agedgentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefullydressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfastto give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: theyexchanged the time of day with friends and talked of Dr. Brighton orLondon-by-the-Sea. Here and there a well-known actor passed, elaboratelyunconscious of the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leatherboots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbedstick; and sometimes, looking as though he had come from a day's shooting,he strolled in knickerbockers, and ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed haton the back of his head. The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue seawas trim and neat.After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to take chargeof the baby. She lived in a small house in a back street, but it was cleanand tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding. She was an elderly, stout person,with gray hair and a red, fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, andPhilip thought she seemed kind."Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?" he asked her.She explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older thanherself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since vicars wantedyoung men to assist them; he earned a little now and then by doing locumswhen someone took a holiday or fell ill, and a charitable institution gavethem a small pension; but her life was lonely, it would be something to doto look after a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would helpher to keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed."Quite the lady, isn't she?" said Mildred, when they went away.They went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred liked the crowd andthe band. Philip was tired of talking, and he watched her face as shelooked with keen eyes at the dresses of the women who came in. She had apeculiar sharpness for reckoning up what things cost, and now and then sheleaned over to him and whispered the result of her meditations."D'you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit of seven guineas."Or: "Look at that ermine, Philip. That's rabbit, that is--that's notermine." She laughed triumphantly. "I'd know it a mile off."Philip smiled happily. He was glad to see her pleasure, and theingenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. The band playedsentimental music.After dinner they walked down to the station, and Philip took her arm. Hetold her what arrangements he had made for their journey to France. Shewas to come up to London at the end of the week, but she told him that shecould not go away till the Saturday of the week after that. He had alreadyengaged a room in a hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly totaking the tickets."You won't mind going second-class, will you? We mustn't be extravagant,and it'll be all the better if we can do ourselves pretty well when we getthere."He had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter. They would wanderthrough its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly in the charminggardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather was fine perhaps, when they hadhad enough of Paris, they might go to Fontainebleau. The trees would bejust bursting into leaf. The green of the forest in spring was morebeautiful than anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like thehappy pain of love. Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and triedto look deep into her eyes."You do want to come, don't you?" he said."Of course I do," she smiled."You don't know how I'm looking forward to it. I don't know how I shallget through the next days. I'm so afraid something will happen to preventit. It maddens me sometimes that I can't tell you how much I love you. Andat last, at last..."He broke off. They reached the station, but they had dawdled on the way,and Philip had barely time to say good-night. He kissed her quickly andran towards the wicket as fast as he could. She stood where he left her.He was strangely grotesque when he ran.