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 side of
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 bed-side 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 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 saying.
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’s 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; then he
changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the
pillow, and arranged the bed-clothes.
“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 recognised 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.