Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  He was overwhelmed with horror. For a moment he felt such a weakness in his legs that he could hardly stand; then he walked after her quickly; he touched her on the arm.

  “Mildred.”

  She turned round with a violent start. He thought that she reddened, but in the obscurity he could not see very well. For a while they stood and looked at one another without speaking. At last she said:

  “Fancy seeing you!”

  He did not know what to answer; he was horribly shaken; and the phrases that chased one another through his brain seemed incredibly melodramatic.

  “It’s awful,” he gasped, almost to himself.

  She did not say anything more, she turned away from him, and looked down at the pavement. He felt that his face was distorted with misery.

  “Isn’t there anywhere we can go and talk?”

  “I don’t want to talk,” she said sullenly. “Leave me alone, can’t you?”

  The thought struck him that perhaps she was in urgent need of money and could not afford to go away at that hour.

  “I’ve got a couple of sovereigns on me if you’re hard up,” he blurted out.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I was just walking along here on my way back to my lodgings. I expected to meet one of the girls from where I work.”

  “For God’s sake don’t lie now,” he said.

  Then he saw that she was crying, and he repeated his question.

  “Can’t we go and talk somewhere? Can’t I come back to your rooms?”

  “No, you can’t do that,” she sobbed. “I’m not allowed to take gentlemen in there. If you like I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

  He felt certain that she would not keep an appointment. He was not going to let her go.

  “No. You must take me somewhere now.”

  “Well, there is a room I know, but they’ll charge six shillings for it.”

  “I don’t mind that. Where is it?”

  She gave him the address, and he called a cab. They drove to a shabby street beyond the British Museum in the neighbourhood of the Gray’s Inn Road, and she stopped the cab at the corner.

  “They don’t like you to drive up to the door,” she said.

  They were the first words either of them had spoken since getting into the cab. They walked a few yards and Mildred knocked three times, sharply, at a door. Philip noticed in the fanlight a cardboard on which was an announcement that apartments were to let. The door was opened quietly, and an elderly, tall woman let them in. She gave Philip a stare and then spoke to Mildred in an undertone. Mildred led Philip along a passage to a room at the back. It was quite dark; she asked him for a match, and lit the gas; there was no globe, and the gas flared shrilly. Philip saw that he was in a dingy little bed-room with a suite of furniture, painted to look like pine much too large for it; the lace curtains were very dirty; the grate was hidden by a large paper fan. Mildred sank on the chair which stood by the side of the chimney-piece. Philip sat on the edge of the bed. He felt ashamed. He saw now that Mildred’s cheeks were thick with rouge, her eyebrows were blackened; but she looked thin and ill, and the red on her cheeks exaggerated the greenish pallor of her skin. She stared at the paper fan in a listless fashion. Philip could not think what to say, and he had a choking in his throat as if he were going to cry. He covered his eyes with his hands.

  “My God, it is awful,” he groaned.

  “I don’t know what you’ve got to fuss about. I should have thought you’d have been rather pleased.”

  Philip did not answer, and in a moment she broke into a sob.

  “You don’t think I do it because I like it, do you?”

  “Oh, my dear,” he cried. “I’m so sorry, I’m so awfully sorry.”

  “That’ll do me a fat lot of good.”

  Again Philip found nothing to say. He was desperately afraid of saying anything which she might take for a reproach or a sneer.

  “Where’s the baby?” he asked at last.

  “I’ve got her with me in London. I hadn’t got the money to keep her on at Brighton, so I had to take her. I’ve got a room up Highbury way. I told them I was on the stage. It’s a long way to have to come down to the West End every day, but it’s a rare job to find anyone who’ll let to ladies at all.”

  “Wouldn’t they take you back at the shop?”

  “I couldn’t get any work to do anywhere. I walked my legs off looking for work. I did get a job once, but I was off for a week because I was queer, and when I went back they said they didn’t want me any more. You can’t blame them either, can you? Them places, they can’t afford to have girls that aren’t strong.”

  “You don’t look very well now,” said Philip.

  “I wasn’t fit to come out tonight, but I couldn’t help myself, I wanted the money. I wrote to Emil and told him I was broke, but he never even answered the letter.”

  “You might have written to me.”

  “I didn’t like to, not after what happened, and I didn’t want you to know I was in difficulties. I shouldn’t have been surprised if you’d just told me I’d only got what I deserved.”

  “You don’t know me very well, do you, even now?”

  For a moment he remembered all the anguish he had suffered on her account, and he was sick with the recollection of his pain. But it was no more than recollection. When he looked at her he knew that he no longer loved her. He was very sorry for her, but he was glad to be free. Watching her gravely, he asked himself why he had been so besotted with passion for her.

  “You’re a gentleman in every sense of the word,” she said. “You’re the only one I’ve ever met.” She paused for a minute and then flushed. “I hate asking you, Philip, but can you spare me anything?”

  “It’s lucky I’ve got some money on me. I’m afraid I’ve only got two pounds.”

  He gave her the sovereigns.

  “I’ll pay you back, Philip.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” he smiled. “You needn’t worry.”

  He had said nothing that he wanted to say. They had talked as if the whole thing were natural; and it looked as though she would go now, back to the horror of her life, and he would be able to do nothing to prevent it. She had got up to take the money, and they were both standing.

  “Am I keeping you?” she asked. “I suppose you want to be getting home.”

  “No, I’m in no hurry,” he answered.

  “I’m glad to have a chance of sitting down.”

  Those words, with all they implied, tore his heart, and it was dreadfully painful to see the weary way in which she sank back into the chair. The silence lasted so long that Philip in his embarrassment lit a cigarette.

  “It’s very good of you not to have said anything disagreeable to me,

  Philip. I thought you might say I didn’t know what all.”

  He saw that she was crying again. He remembered how she had come to him when Emil Miller had deserted her and how she had wept. The recollection of her suffering and of his own humiliation seemed to render more overwhelming the compassion he felt now.

  “If I could only get out of it!” she moaned. “I hate it so. I’m unfit for the life, I’m not the sort of girl for that. I’d do anything to get away from it, I’d be a servant if I could. Oh, I wish I was dead.”

  And in pity for herself she broke down now completely. She sobbed hysterically, and her thin body was shaken.

  “Oh, you don’t know what it is. Nobody knows till they’ve done it.”

  Philip could not bear to see her cry. He was tortured by the horror of her position.

  “Poor child,” he whispered. “Poor child.”

  He was deeply moved. Suddenly he had an inspiration. It filled him with a perfect ecstasy of happiness.

  “Look here, if you want to get away from it, I’ve got an idea. I’m frightfully hard up just now, I’ve got to be as economical as I can; but I’ve got a sort of little flat now in Kennington and I’ve got a spare room. If you like you and the baby can come and li
ve there. I pay a woman three and sixpence a week to keep the place clean and to do a little cooking for me. You could do that and your food wouldn’t come to much more than the money I should save on her. It doesn’t cost any more to feed two than one, and I don’t suppose the baby eats much.”

  She stopped crying and looked at him.

  “D’you mean to say that you could take me back after all that’s happened?”

  Philip flushed a little in embarrassment at what he had to say.

  “I don’t want you to mistake me. I’m just giving you a room which doesn’t cost me anything and your food. I don’t expect anything more from you than that you should do exactly the same as the woman I have in does. Except for that I don’t want anything from you at all. I daresay you can cook well enough for that.”

  She sprang to her feet and was about to come towards him.

  “You are good to me, Philip.”

  “No, please stop where you are,” he said hurriedly, putting out his hand as though to push her away.

  He did not know why it was, but he could not bear the thought that she should touch him.

  “I don’t want to be anything more than a friend to you.”

  “You are good to me,” she repeated. “You are good to me.”

  “Does that mean you’ll come?”

  “Oh, yes, I’d do anything to get away from this. You’ll never regret what you’ve done, Philip, never. When can I come, Philip?”

  “You’d better come tomorrow.”

  Suddenly she burst into tears again.

  “What on earth are you crying for now?” he smiled.

  “I’m so grateful to you. I don’t know how I can ever make it up to you?”

  “Oh, that’s all right. You’d better go home now.”

  He wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five he would be ready for her. It was so late that he had to walk home, but it did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to walk on air.

  XCI

  Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told the woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more. Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window, went down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it consisted now of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had been obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful. She wore the same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black which remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning: it made her look very ill. She was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the baby in her arms. She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but commonplace things to say to one another.

  “So you’ve got here all right.”

  “I’ve never lived in this part of London before.”

  Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died. Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going back to it; and since Cronshaw’s death he had remained in the little room, sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make his friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly.

  “You don’t recognise her, I expect,” said Mildred.

  “I’ve not seen her since we took her down to Brighton.”

  “Where shall I put her? She’s so heavy I can’t carry her very long.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t got a cradle,” said Philip, with a nervous laugh.

  “Oh, she’ll sleep with me. She always does.”

  Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings. Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically.

  “In some ways I like it and in some ways I don’t. I think you’re better looking than that.”

  “Things are looking up,” laughed Philip. “You’ve never told me I was good-looking before.”

  “I’m not one to worry myself about a man’s looks. I don’t like good-looking men. They’re too conceited for me.”

  Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her large fringe.

  “What’ll the other people in the house say to my being here?” she asked suddenly.

  “Oh, there’s only a man and his wife living here. He’s out all day, and I never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely to themselves. I’ve not spoken two words to either of them since I came.”

  Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. Philip tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child. He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not at all in love with Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely; he discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he thought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. He could not understand himself. Presently, knocking at the door, she came in again.

  “I say, you needn’t knock,” he said. “Have you made the tour of the mansion?”

  “It’s the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen.”

  “You’ll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts,” he retorted lightly.

  “I see there’s nothing in. I’d better go out and get something.”

  “Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical.”

  “What shall I get for supper?”

  “You’d better get what you think you can cook,” laughed Philip.

  He gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later and put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing the stairs.

  “I say, you are anaemic,” said Philip. “I’ll have to dose you with Blaud’s

  Pills.”

  “It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That’s tasty, isn’t it? And you can’t eat much of it, so it’s more economical than butcher’s meat.”

  There was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver on,

  Mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth.

  “Why are you only laying one place?” asked Philip. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

  Mildred flushed.

  “I thought you mightn’t like me to have my meals with you.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Well, I’m only a servant, aren’t I?”

  “Don’t be an ass. How can you be so silly?”

  He smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor thing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He hesitated for an instant.

  “Don’t think I’m conferring any benefit on you,” he said. “It’s simply a business arrangement, I’m giving you board and lodging in return for your work. You don’t owe me anything. And there’s nothing humiliating to you in it.”

  She did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip knew from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked upon service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient with her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired and ill. He got up and helped her to lay another place at the table. The baby was awake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin’s Food for it. The liver and bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy’s sake Philip had given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the house a half a bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do Mildred good. He did his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but Mildred was subdued and exhausted. When they had finished she got up to put the baby to bed.

  “I think you’ll do well to turn in early yourself,” said Philip. “You look absolute done up.”

 
; “I think I will after I’ve washed up.”

  Philip lit his pipe and began to read. It was pleasant to hear somebody moving about in the next room. Sometimes his loneliness had oppressed him. Mildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of plates as she washed up. Philip smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of her that she should do all that in a black silk dress. But he had work to do, and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading Osler’s Medicine, which had recently taken the place in the students’ favour of Taylor’s work, for many years the text-book most in use. Presently Mildred came in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave her a casual glance, but did not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt a little nervous. He feared that Mildred might imagine he was going to make a nuisance of himself, and he did not quite know how without brutality to reassure her.

  “By the way, I’ve got a lecture at nine, so I should want breakfast at a quarter past eight. Can you manage that?”

  “Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I used to catch the eight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning.”

  “I hope you’ll find your room comfortable. You’ll be a different woman tomorrow after a long night in bed.”

  “I suppose you work till late?”

  “I generally work till about eleven or half-past.”

  “I’ll say good-night then.”

  “Good-night.”

  The table was between them. He did not offer to shake hands with her. She shut the door quietly. He heard her moving about in the bed-room, and in a little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in.

  XCII

  The following day was Tuesday. Philip as usual hurried through his breakfast and dashed off to get to his lecture at nine. He had only time to exchange a few words with Mildred. When he came back in the evening he found her seated at the window, darning his socks.

  “I say, you are industrious,” he smiled. “What have you been doing with yourself all day?”

  “Oh, I gave the place a good cleaning and then I took baby out for a little.”

  She was wearing an old black dress, the same as she had worn as uniform when she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby, but she looked better in it than in the silk of the day before. The baby was sitting on the floor. She looked up at Philip with large, mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh when he sat down beside her and began playing with her bare toes. The afternoon sun came into the room and shed a mellow light.