For the next three months Philip worked on subjects which were new to
him. The unwieldy crowd which had entered the Medical School nearly two
years before had thinned out: some had left the hospital, finding the
examinations more difficult to pass than they expected, some had been
taken away by parents who had not foreseen the expense of life in
London, and some had drifted away to other callings. One youth whom
Philip knew had devised an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought
things at sales and pawned them, but presently found it more profitable
to pawn goods bought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement
at the hospital when someone pointed out his name in police-court
proceedings. There had been a remand, then assurances on the part of a
harassed father, and the young man had gone out to bear the White Man’s
Burden overseas. The imagination of another, a lad who had never before
been in a town at all, fell to the glamour of music-halls and bar
parlours; he spent his time among racing-men, tipsters, and trainers,
and now was become a book-maker’s clerk. Philip had seen him once in a
bar near Piccadilly Circus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat with
a broad, flat brim. A third, with a gift for singing and mimicry, who
had achieved success at the smoking concerts of the Medical School by
his imitation of notorious comedians, had abandoned the hospital for
the chorus of a musical comedy. Still another, and he interested Philip
because his uncouth manner and interjectional speech did not suggest
that he was capable of any deep emotion, had felt himself stifle among
the houses of London. He grew haggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul
he knew not he possessed struggled like a sparrow held in the hand,
with little frightened gasps and a quick palpitation of the heart: he
yearned for the broad skies and the open, desolate places among which
his childhood had been spent; and he walked off one day, without a word
to anybody, between one lecture and another; and the next thing his
friends heard was that he had thrown up medicine and was working on a
farm.
Philip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery. On certain
mornings in the week he practised bandaging on out-patients glad to
earn a little money, and he was taught auscultation and how to use the
stethoscope. He learned dispensing. He was taking the examination in
Materia Medica in July, and it amused him to play with various drugs,
concocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments. He seized
avidly upon anything from which he could extract a suggestion of human
interest.
He saw Griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain of
cutting him dead, avoided him. Philip had felt a certain
self-consciousness with Griffiths’ friends, some of whom were now
friends of his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel with
Griffiths and surmised they were aware of the reason. One of them, a
very tall fellow, with a small head and a languid air, a youth called
Ramsden, who was one of Griffiths’ most faithful admirers, copied his
ties, his boots, his manner of talking and his gestures, told Philip
that Griffiths was very much hurt because Philip had not answered his
letter. He wanted to be reconciled with him.
“Has he asked you to give me the message?” asked Philip.
“Oh, no. I’m saying this entirely on my own,” said Ramsden. “He’s
awfully sorry for what he did, and he says you always behaved like a
perfect brick to him. I know he’d be glad to make it up. He doesn’t
come to the hospital because he’s afraid of meeting you, and he thinks
you’d cut him.”
“I should.”
“It makes him feel rather wretched, you know.”
“I can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good deal
of fortitude,” said Philip.
“He’ll do anything he can to make it up.”
“How childish and hysterical! Why should he care? I’m a very
insignificant person, and he can do very well without my company. I’m
not interested in him any more.”
Ramsden thought Philip hard and cold. He paused for a moment or two,
looking about him in a perplexed way.
“Harry wishes to God he’d never had anything to do with the woman.”
“Does he?” asked Philip.
He spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with. No one could
have guessed how violently his heart was beating. He waited impatiently
for Ramsden to go on.
“I suppose you’ve quite got over it now, haven’t you?”
“I?” said Philip. “Quite.”
Little by little he discovered the history of Mildred’s relations with
Griffiths. He listened with a smile on his lips, feigning an equanimity
which quite deceived the dull-witted boy who talked to him. The
week-end she spent with Griffiths at Oxford inflamed rather than
extinguished her sudden passion; and when Griffiths went home, with a
feeling that was unexpected in her she determined to stay in Oxford by
herself for a couple of days, because she had been so happy in it. She
felt that nothing could induce her to go back to Philip. He revolted
her. Griffiths was taken aback at the fire he had aroused, for he had
found his two days with her in the country somewhat tedious; and he had
no desire to turn an amusing episode into a tiresome affair. She made
him promise to write to her, and, being an honest, decent fellow, with
natural politeness and a desire to make himself pleasant to everybody,
when he got home he wrote her a long and charming letter. She answered
it with reams of passion, clumsy, for she had no gift of expression,
ill-written, and vulgar; the letter bored him, and when it was followed
next day by another, and the day after by a third, he began to think
her love no longer flattering but alarming. He did not answer; and she
bombarded him with telegrams, asking him if he were ill and had
received her letters; she said his silence made her dreadfully anxious.
He was forced to write, but he sought to make his reply as casual as
was possible without being offensive: he begged her not to wire, since
it was difficult to explain telegrams to his mother, an old-fashioned
person for whom a telegram was still an event to excite tremor. She
answered by return of post that she must see him and announced her
intention to pawn things (she had the dressing-case which Philip had
given her as a wedding-present and could raise eight pounds on that) in
order to come up and stay at the market town four miles from which was
the village in which his father practised. This frightened Griffiths;
and he, this time, made use of the telegraph wires to tell her that she
must do nothing of the kind. He promised to let her know the moment he
came up to London, and, when he did, found that she had already been
asking for him at the hospital at which he had an appointment. He did
not like this, and, on seeing her, told Mildred that she was not to
come there on any pretext; and now, after an absence of three weeks, he
found that she bored him quite decidedly; he wondered why he had ever
troubled about her, and made up his mind to break with her as soon as
he could. He was a person who dreaded quarrels, nor did he want to give
pain; but at the same time he had other things to do, and he was quite
determined not to let Mildred bother him. When he met her he was
pleasant, cheerful, amusing, affectionate; he invented convincing
excuses for the interval since last he had seen her; but he did
everything he could to avoid her. When she forced him to make
appointments he sent telegrams to her at the last moment to put himself
off; and his landlady (the first three months of his appointment he was
spending in rooms) had orders to say he was out when Mildred called.
She would waylay him in the street and, knowing she had been waiting
about for him to come out of the hospital for a couple of hours, he
would give her a few charming, friendly words and bolt off with the
excuse that he had a business engagement. He grew very skilful in
slipping out of the hospital unseen. Once, when he went back to his
lodgings at midnight, he saw a woman standing at the area railings and
suspecting who it was went to beg a shake-down in Ramsden’s rooms; next
day the landlady told him that Mildred had sat crying on the doorsteps
for hours, and she had been obliged to tell her at last that if she did
not go away she would send for a policeman.
“I tell you, my boy,” said Ramsden, “you’re jolly well out of it. Harry
says that if he’d suspected for half a second she was going to make
such a blooming nuisance of herself he’d have seen himself damned
before he had anything to do with her.”
Philip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through the long hours
of the night. He saw her face as she looked up dully at the landlady
who sent her away.
“I wonder what she’s doing now.”
“Oh, she’s got a job somewhere, thank God. That keeps her busy all
day.”
The last thing he heard, just before the end of the summer session, was
that Griffiths, urbanity had given way at length under the exasperation
of the constant persecution. He had told Mildred that he was sick of
being pestered, and she had better take herself off and not bother him
again.
“It was the only thing he could do,” said Ramsden. “It was getting a
bit too thick.”
“Is it all over then?” asked Philip.
“Oh, he hasn’t seen her for ten days. You know, Harry’s wonderful at
dropping people. This is about the toughest nut he’s ever had to crack,
but he’s cracked it all right.”
Then Philip heard nothing more of her at all. She vanished into the
vast anonymous mass of the population of London.