The climax came two or three weeks later. Mildred was driven by
Philip’s behaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. There were many
different emotions in her soul, and she passed from mood to mood with
facility. She spent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her
position. She did not put all her feelings into words, she did not even
know what they were, but certain things stood out in her mind, and she
thought of them over and over again. She had never understood Philip,
nor had very much liked him; but she was pleased to have him about her
because she thought he was a gentleman. She was impressed because his
father had been a doctor and his uncle was a clergyman. She despised
him a little because she had made such a fool of him, and at the same
time was never quite comfortable in his presence; she could not let
herself go, and she felt that he was criticising her manners.
When she first came to live in the little rooms in Kennington she was
tired out and ashamed. She was glad to be left alone. It was a comfort
to think that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in all
weathers, and she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well.
She had hated the life she led. It was horrible to have to be affable
and subservient; and even now when it crossed her mind she cried with
pity for herself as she thought of the roughness of men and their
brutal language. But it crossed her mind very seldom. She was grateful
to Philip for coming to her rescue, and when she remembered how
honestly he had loved her and how badly she had treated him, she felt a
pang of remorse. It was easy to make it up to him. It meant very little
to her. She was surprised when he refused her suggestion, but she
shrugged her shoulders: let him put on airs if he liked, she did not
care, he would be anxious enough in a little while, and then it would
be her turn to refuse; if he thought it was any deprivation to her he
was very much mistaken. She had no doubt of her power over him. He was
peculiar, but she knew him through and through. He had so often
quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again, and then in
a little while he had come on his knees begging to be forgiven. It gave
her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. He would have been
glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. She had seen him
cry. She knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention to him, just
pretend you didn’t notice his tempers, leave him severely alone, and in
a little while he was sure to grovel. She laughed a little to herself,
good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt before
her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did not want
to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settle
down with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense
of the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn’t it?
Anyhow she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first
step. She was glad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though
it tickled her a good deal; it was comic that he should set so much
store on another man’s child. He was peculiar and no mistake.
But one or two things surprised her. She had been used to his
subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old
days, she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in
ecstasy at a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself
that he had not improved in the last year. It never struck her for a
moment that there could be any change in his feelings, and she thought
it was only acting when he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to
read sometimes and told her to stop talking: she did not know whether
to flare up or to sulk, and was so puzzled that she did neither. Then
came the conversation in which he told her that he intended their
relations to be platonic, and, remembering an incident of their common
past, it occurred to her that he dreaded the possibility of her being
pregnant. She took pains to reassure him. It made no difference. She
was the sort of woman who was unable to realise that a man might not
have her own obsession with sex; her relations with men had been purely
on those lines; and she could not understand that they ever had other
interests. The thought struck her that Philip was in love with somebody
else, and she watched him, suspecting nurses at the hospital or people
he met out; but artful questions led her to the conclusion that there
was no one dangerous in the Athelny household; and it forced itself
upon her also that Philip, like most medical students, was unconscious
of the sex of the nurses with whom his work threw him in contact. They
were associated in his mind with a faint odour of iodoform. Philip
received no letters, and there was no girl’s photograph among his
belongings. If he was in love with someone, he was very clever at
hiding it; and he answered all Mildred’s questions with frankness and
apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in them.
“I don’t believe he’s in love with anybody else,” she said to herself
at last.
It was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with
her; but it made his behaviour very puzzling. If he was going to treat
her like that why did he ask her to come and live at the flat? It was
unnatural. Mildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of
compassion, generosity, or kindness. Her only conclusion was that
Philip was queer. She took it into her head that the reasons for his
conduct were chivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the
extravagances of cheap fiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of
romantic explanations for his delicacy. Her fancy ran riot with bitter
misunderstandings, purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death
in the cruel cold of a Christmas night. She made up her mind that when
they went to Brighton she would put an end to all his nonsense; they
would be alone there, everyone would think them husband and wife, and
there would be the pier and the band. When she found that nothing would
induce Philip to share the same room with her, when he spoke to her
about it with a tone in his voice she had never heard before, she
suddenly realised that he did not want her. She was astounded. She
remembered all he had said in the past and how desperately he had loved
her. She felt humiliated and angry, but she had a sort of native
insolence which carried her through. He needn’t think she was in love
with him, because she wasn’t. She hated him sometimes, and she longed
to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did not
know which way to handle him. She began to be a little nervous with
him. Once or twice she cried. Once or twice she set herself to be
particularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked
along the front at night he made some excuse in a while to release
himself, as though it were unpleasant for him to be touched by her. She
could not make it out. The only hold she had over him was through the
baby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder and fonder: she could make him
white with anger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only
time the old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stood
with the baby in her arms. She noticed it when she was being
photographed like that by a man on the beach, and afterwards she often
stood in the same way for Philip to look at her.
When they got back to London Mildred began looking for the work she had
asserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to be independent of
Philip; and she thought of the satisfaction with which she would
announce to him that she was going into rooms and would take the child
with her. But her heart failed her when she came into closer contact
with the possibility. She had grown unused to the long hours, she did
not want to be at the beck and call of a manageress, and her dignity
revolted at the thought of wearing once more a uniform. She had made
out to such of the neighbours as she knew that they were comfortably
off: it would be a come-down if they heard that she had to go out and
work. Her natural indolence asserted itself. She did not want to leave
Philip, and so long as he was willing to provide for her, she did not
see why she should. There was no money to throw away, but she got her
board and lodging, and he might get better off. His uncle was an old
man and might die any day, he would come into a little then, and even
as things were, it was better than slaving from morning till night for
a few shillings a week. Her efforts relaxed; she kept on reading the
advertisement columns of the daily paper merely to show that she wanted
to do something if anything that was worth her while presented itself.
But panic seized her, and she was afraid that Philip would grow tired
of supporting her. She had no hold over him at all now, and she fancied
that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fond of the baby.
She brooded over it all, and she thought to herself angrily that she
would make him pay for all this some day. She could not reconcile
herself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. She would make
him. She suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she
desired Philip. He was so cold now that it exasperated her. She thought
of him in that way incessantly. She thought that he was treating her
very badly, and she did not know what she had done to deserve it. She
kept on saying to herself that it was unnatural they should live like
that. Then she thought that if things were different and she were going
to have a baby, he would be sure to marry her. He was funny, but he was
a gentleman in every sense of the word, no one could deny that. At last
it became an obsession with her, and she made up her mind to force a
change in their relations. He never even kissed her now, and she wanted
him to: she remembered how ardently he had been used to press her lips.
It gave her a curious feeling to think of it. She often looked at his
mouth.
One evening, at the beginning of February, Philip told her that he was
dining with Lawson, who was giving a party in his studio to celebrate
his birthday; and he would not be in till late; Lawson had bought a
couple of bottles of the punch they favoured from the tavern in Beak
Street, and they proposed to have a merry evening. Mildred asked if
there were going to be women there, but Philip told her there were not;
only men had been invited; and they were just going to sit and talk and
smoke: Mildred did not think it sounded very amusing; if she were a
painter she would have half a dozen models about. She went to bed, but
could not sleep, and presently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed
the catch on the wicket at the landing, so that Philip could not get
in. He came back about one, and she heard him curse when he found that
the wicket was closed. She got out of bed and opened.
“Why on earth did you shut yourself in? I’m sorry I’ve dragged you out
of bed.”
“I left it open on purpose, I can’t think how it came to be shut.”
“Hurry up and get back to bed, or you’ll catch cold.”
He walked into the sitting-room and turned up the gas. She followed him
in. She went up to the fire.
“I want to warm my feet a bit. They’re like ice.”
He sat down and began to take off his boots. His eyes were shining and
his cheeks were flushed. She thought he had been drinking.
“Have you been enjoying yourself?” she asked, with a smile.
“Yes, I’ve had a ripping time.”
Philip was quite sober, but he had been talking and laughing, and he
was excited still. An evening of that sort reminded him of the old days
in Paris. He was in high spirits. He took his pipe out of his pocket
and filled it.
“Aren’t you going to bed?” she asked.
“Not yet, I’m not a bit sleepy. Lawson was in great form. He talked
sixteen to the dozen from the moment I got there till the moment I
left.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Heaven knows! Of every subject under the sun. You should have seen us
all shouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening.”
Philip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and Mildred laughed
too. She was pretty sure he had drunk more than was good for him. That
was exactly what she had expected. She knew men.
“Can I sit down?” she said.
Before he could answer she settled herself on his knees.
“If you’re not going to bed you’d better go and put on a
dressing-gown.”
“Oh, I’m all right as I am.” Then putting her arms round his neck, she
placed her face against his and said: “Why are you so horrid to me,
Phil?”
He tried to get up, but she would not let him.
“I do love you, Philip,” she said.
“Don’t talk damned rot.”
“It isn’t, it’s true. I can’t live without you. I want you.”
He released himself from her arms.
“Please get up. You’re making a fool of yourself and you’re making me
feel a perfect idiot.”
“I love you, Philip. I want to make up for all the harm I did you. I
can’t go on like this, it’s not in human nature.”
He slipped out of the chair and left her in it.
“I’m very sorry, but it’s too late.”
She gave a heart-rending sob.
“But why? How can you be so cruel?”
“I suppose it’s because I loved you too much. I wore the passion out.
The thought of anything of that sort horrifies me. I can’t look at you
now without thinking of Emil and Griffiths. One can’t help those
things, I suppose it’s just nerves.”
She seized his hand and covered it with kisses.
“Don’t,” he cried.
She sank back into the chair.
“I can’t go on like this. If you won’t love me, I’d rather go away.”
“Don’t be foolish, you haven’t anywhere to go. You can stay here as
long as you like, but it must be on the definite understanding that
we’re friends and nothing more.”
Then she dropped suddenly the vehemence of passion and gave a soft,
insinuating laugh. She sidled up to Philip and put her arms round him.
She made her voice low and wheedling.
“Don’t be such an old silly. I believe you’re nervous. You don’t know
how nice I can be.”
She put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. To Philip
her smile was an abominable leer, and the suggestive glitter of her
eyes filled him with horror. He drew back instinctively.
“I won’t,” he said.
But she would not let him go. She sought his mouth with her lips. He
took her hands and tore them roughly apart and pushed her away.
“You disgust me,” he said.
“Me?”
She steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece. She looked at
him for an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks.
She gave a shrill, angry laugh.
“I disgust YOU.”
She paused and drew in her breath sharply. Then she burst into a
furious torrent of abuse. She shouted at the top of her voice. She
called him every foul name she could think of. She used language so
obscene that Philip was astounded; she was always so anxious to be
refined, so shocked by coarseness, that it had never occurred to him
that she knew the words she used now. She came up to him and thrust her
face in his. It was distorted with passion, and in her tumultuous
speech the spittle dribbled over her lips.
“I never cared for you, not once, I was making a fool of you always,
you bored me, you bored me stiff, and I hated you, I would never have
let you touch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick when I
had to let you kiss me. We laughed at you, Griffiths and me, we laughed
because you was such a mug. A mug! A mug!”
Then she burst again into abominable invective. She accused him of
every mean fault; she said he was stingy, she said he was dull, she
said he was vain, selfish; she cast virulent ridicule on everything
upon which he was most sensitive. And at last she turned to go. She
kept on, with hysterical violence, shouting at him an opprobrious,
filthy epithet. She seized the handle of the door and flung it open.
Then she turned round and hurled at him the injury which she knew was
the only one that really touched him. She threw into the word all the
malice and all the venom of which she was capable. She flung it at him
as though it were a blow.
“Cripple!”