Dear Phil,
Can I see you for a minute or two as soon as possible. I am in awful
trouble and don’t know what to do. It’s not money.
Yours truly,
Mildred.
He tore the letter into little bits and going out into the street
scattered them in the darkness.
“I’ll see her damned,” he muttered.
A feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought of seeing her
again. He did not care if she was in distress, it served her right
whatever it was, he thought of her with hatred, and the love he had had
for her aroused his loathing. His recollections filled him with nausea,
and as he walked across the Thames he drew himself aside in an
instinctive withdrawal from his thought of her. He went to bed, but he
could not sleep; he wondered what was the matter with her, and he could
not get out of his head the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would
not have written to him unless she were desperate. He was angry with
himself for his weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace
unless he saw her. Next morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on
his way to the shop. He made it as stiff as he could and said merely
that he was sorry she was in difficulties and would come to the address
she had given at seven o’clock that evening.
It was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid street; and when,
sick at the thought of seeing her, he asked whether she was in, a wild
hope seized him that she had left. It looked the sort of place people
moved in and out of frequently. He had not thought of looking at the
postmark on her letter and did not know how many days it had lain in
the rack. The woman who answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry,
but silently preceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at
the back.
“Mrs. Miller, a gentleman to see you,” she called.
The door was slightly opened, and Mildred looked out suspiciously.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Come in.”
He walked in and she closed the door. It was a very small bed-room,
untidy as was every place she lived in; there was a pair of shoes on
the floor, lying apart from one another and uncleaned; a hat was on the
chest of drawers, with false curls beside it; and there was a blouse on
the table. Philip looked for somewhere to put his hat. The hooks behind
the door were laden with skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at
the hem.
“Sit down, won’t you?” she said. Then she gave a little awkward laugh.
“I suppose you were surprised to hear from me again.”
“You’re awfully hoarse,” he answered. “Have you got a sore throat?”
“Yes, I have had for some time.”
He did not say anything. He waited for her to explain why she wanted to
see him. The look of the room told him clearly enough that she had gone
back to the life from which he had taken her. He wondered what had
happened to the baby; there was a photograph of it on the
chimney-piece, but no sign in the room that a child was ever there.
Mildred was holding her handkerchief. She made it into a little ball,
and passed it from hand to hand. He saw that she was very nervous. She
was staring at the fire, and he could look at her without meeting her
eyes. She was much thinner than when she had left him; and the skin,
yellow and dryish, was drawn more tightly over her cheekbones. She had
dyed her hair and it was now flaxen: it altered her a good deal, and
made her look more vulgar.
“I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you,” she said at last.
“I thought p’raps you weren’t at the ’ospital any more.”
Philip did not speak.
“I suppose you’re qualified by now, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m no longer at the hospital. I had to give it up eighteen months
ago.”
“You are changeable. You don’t seem as if you could stick to anything.”
Philip was silent for another moment, and when he went on it was with
coldness.
“I lost the little money I had in an unlucky speculation and I couldn’t
afford to go on with the medical. I had to earn my living as best I
could.”
“What are you doing then?”
“I’m in a shop.”
“Oh!”
She gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away at once. He
thought that she reddened. She dabbed her palms nervously with the
handkerchief.
“You’ve not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?” She jerked the
words out quite oddly.
“Not entirely.”
“Because that’s why I wanted to see you.” Her voice sank to a hoarse
whisper. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
“Why don’t you go to a hospital?”
“I don’t like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and
I’m afraid they’d want to keep me.”
“What are you complaining of?” asked Philip coldly, with the
stereotyped phrase used in the out-patients’ room.
“Well, I’ve come out in a rash, and I can’t get rid of it.”
Philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat broke out on his
forehead.
“Let me look at your throat?”
He took her over to the window and made such examination as he could.
Suddenly he caught sight of her eyes. There was deadly fear in them. It
was horrible to see. She was terrified. She wanted him to reassure her;
she looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort
but with all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer
her.
“I’m afraid you’re very ill indeed,” he said.
“What d’you think it is?”
When he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips even turned,
yellow. she began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first and then with
choking sobs.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he said at last. “But I had to tell you.”
“I may just as well kill myself and have done with it.”
He took no notice of the threat.
“Have you got any money?” he asked.
“Six or seven pounds.”
“You must give up this life, you know. Don’t you think you could find
some work to do? I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I only get twelve
bob a week.”
“What is there I can do now?” she cried impatiently.
“Damn it all, you MUST try to get something.”
He spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the
danger to which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. He tried
to console her. At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which
she promised to do all he advised. He wrote a prescription, which he
said he would leave at the nearest chemist’s, and he impressed upon her
the necessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity.
Getting up to go, he held out his hand.
“Don’t be downhearted, you’ll soon get over your throat.”
But as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold
of his coat.
“Oh, don’t leave me,” she cried hoarsely. “I’m so afraid, don’t leave
me alone yet. Phil, please. There’s no one else I can go to, you’re the
only friend I’ve ever had.”
He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror
he had seen in his uncle’s eyes when he feared that he might die.
Philip looked down. Twice that woman had come into his life and made
him wretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep
in his heart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received
her letter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons.
“I suppose I shall never really quite get over it,” he said to himself.
What perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which
made it uncomfortable for him to be near her.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Let’s go out and dine together. I’ll pay.”
He hesitated. He felt that she was creeping back again into his life
when he thought she was gone out of it for ever. She watched him with
sickening anxiety.
“Oh, I know I’ve treated you shocking, but don’t leave me alone now.
You’ve had your revenge. If you leave me by myself now I don’t know
what I shall do.”
“All right, I don’t mind,” he said, “but we shall have to do it on the
cheap, I haven’t got money to throw away these days.”
She sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a
hat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the
Tottenham Court Road. Philip had got out of the habit of eating at
those hours, and Mildred’s throat was so sore that she could not
swallow. They had a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer.
They sat opposite one another, as they had so often sat before; he
wondered if she remembered; they had nothing to say to one another and
would have sat in silence if Philip had not forced himself to talk. In
the bright light of the restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses
that reflected in an endless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip
was anxious to know about the child, but he had not the courage to ask.
At last she said:
“You know baby died last summer.”
“Oh!” he said.
“You might say you’re sorry.”
“I’m not,” he answered, “I’m very glad.”