After lunching in the basement of the Medical School Philip went back
to his rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning
the stairs.
“Is Mr. Griffiths in?” he asked.
“No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you went out.”
“Isn’t he coming back?”
“I don’t think so, sir. He’s taken his luggage.”
Philip wondered what this could mean. He took a book and began to read.
It was Burton’s Journey to Meccah, which he had just got out of the
Westminster Public Library; and he read the first page, but could make
no sense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the
time for a ring at the bell. He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone
away already, without Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would
be coming presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he
tried desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched
themselves in his brain by the force of his effort, but they were
distorted by the agony he was enduring. He wished with all his heart
that he had not made the horrible proposition to give them money; but
now that he had made it he lacked the strength to go back on it, not on
Mildred’s account, but on his own. There was a morbid obstinacy in him
which forced him to do the thing he had determined. He discovered that
the three pages he had read had made no impression on him at all; and
he went back and started from the beginning: he found himself reading
one sentence over and over again; and now it weaved itself in with his
thoughts, horribly, like some formula in a nightmare. One thing he
could do was to go out and keep away till midnight; they could not go
then; and he saw them calling at the house every hour to ask if he was
in. He enjoyed the thought of their disappointment. He repeated that
sentence to himself mechanically. But he could not do that. Let them
come and take the money, and he would know then to what depths of
infamy it was possible for men to descend. He could not read any more
now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned back in his chair,
closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred.
The landlady came in.
“Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?”
“Show her in.”
Philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what
he was feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and
seize her hands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of
moving her; she would tell Griffiths what he had said and how he acted.
He was ashamed.
“Well, how about the little jaunt?” he said gaily.
“We’re going. Harry’s outside. I told him you didn’t want to see him,
so he’s kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he can come in
just for a minute to say good-bye to you.”
“No, I won’t see him,” said Philip.
He could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now that she
was there he wanted her to go quickly.
“Look here, here’s the fiver. I’d like you to go now.”
She took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room.
“When are you coming back?” he asked.
“Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then.”
He knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken
down with jealousy and desire.
“Then I shall see you, shan’t I?”
He could not help the note of appeal in his voice.
“Of course. I’ll let you know the moment I’m back.”
He shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her jump into
a four-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away. Then he threw
himself on his bed and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming
to his eyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and
screwed up his body to prevent them; but he could not; and great
painful sobs were forced from him.
He got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. He mixed
himself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a little better.
Then he caught sight of the tickets to Paris, which were on the
chimney-piece, and, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them
in the fire. He knew he could have got the money back on them, but it
relieved him to destroy them. Then he went out in search of someone to
be with. The club was empty. He felt he would go mad unless he found
someone to talk to; but Lawson was abroad; he went on to Hayward’s
rooms: the maid who opened the door told him that he had gone down to
Brighton for the week-end. Then Philip went to a gallery and found it
was just closing. He did not know what to do. He was distracted. And he
thought of Griffiths and Mildred going to Oxford, sitting opposite one
another in the train, happy. He went back to his rooms, but they filled
him with horror, he had been so wretched in them; he tried once more to
read Burton’s book, but, as he read, he told himself again and again
what a fool he had been; it was he who had made the suggestion that
they should go away, he had offered the money, he had forced it upon
them; he might have known what would happen when he introduced
Griffiths to Mildred; his own vehement passion was enough to arouse the
other’s desire. By this time they had reached Oxford. They would put up
in one of the lodging-houses in John Street; Philip had never been to
Oxford, but Griffiths had talked to him about it so much that he knew
exactly where they would go; and they would dine at the Clarendon:
Griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went on the
spree. Philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near Charing
Cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards he
fought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of Oscar Wilde’s
pieces was being performed. He wondered if Mildred and Griffiths would
go to a play that evening: they must kill the evening somehow; they
were too stupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation:
he got a fierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their
minds which suited them so exactly to one another. He watched the play
with an abstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking
whiskey in each interval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him
quickly, but his drunkenness was savage and morose. When the play was
over he had another drink. He could not go to bed, he knew he would not
sleep, and he dreaded the pictures which his vivid imagination would
place before him. He tried not to think of them. He knew he had drunk
too much. Now he was seized with a desire to do horrible, sordid
things; he wanted to roll himself in gutters; his whole being yearned
for beastliness; he wanted to grovel.
He walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with
rage and misery clawing at his heart. He was stopped by a painted
harlot, who put her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with
brutal words. He walked on a few steps and then stopped. She would do
as well as another. He was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. He
went up to her.
“I say,” he began.
“Go to hell,” she said.
Philip laughed.
“I merely wanted to ask if you’d do me the honour of supping with me
tonight.”
She looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. She saw he
was drunk.
“I don’t mind.”
He was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often on
Mildred’s lips. He took her to one of the restaurants he had been in
the habit of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they walked along
that she looked down at his limb.
“I’ve got a club-foot,” he said. “Have you any objection?”
“You are a cure,” she laughed.
When he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was a
hammering that made him nearly scream. He took another whiskey and soda
to steady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till
mid-day.