Philip passed the evening wretchedly. He had told his landlady that he
would not be in, so there was nothing for him to eat, and he had to go to
Gatti's for dinner. Afterwards he went back to his rooms, but Griffiths on
the floor above him was having a party, and the noisy merriment made his
own misery more hard to bear. He went to a music-hall, but it was Saturday
night and there was standing-room only: after half an hour of boredom his
legs grew tired and he went home. He tried to read, but he could not fix
his attention; and yet it was necessary that he should work hard. His
examination in biology was in little more than a fortnight, and, though it
was easy, he had neglected his lectures of late and was conscious that he
knew nothing. It was only a viva, however, and he felt sure that in a
fortnight he could find out enough about the subject to scrape through. He
had confidence in his intelligence. He threw aside his book and gave
himself up to thinking deliberately of the matter which was in his mind
all the time.
He reproached himself bitterly for his behaviour that evening. Why had he
given her the alternative that she must dine with him or else never see
him again? Of course she refused. He should have allowed for her pride. He
had burnt his ships behind him. It would not be so hard to bear if he
thought that she was suffering now, but he knew her too well: she was
perfectly indifferent to him. If he hadn't been a fool he would have
pretended to believe her story; he ought to have had the strength to
conceal his disappointment and the self-control to master his temper. He
could not tell why he loved her. He had read of the idealisation that
takes place in love, but he saw her exactly as she was. She was not
amusing or clever, her mind was common; she had a vulgar shrewdness which
revolted him, she had no gentleness nor softness. As she would have put it
herself, she was on the make. What aroused her admiration was a clever
trick played on an unsuspecting person; to `do' somebody always gave her
satisfaction. Philip laughed savagely as he thought of her gentility and
the refinement with which she ate her food; she could not bear a coarse
word, so far as her limited vocabulary reached she had a passion for
euphemisms, and she scented indecency everywhere; she never spoke of
trousers but referred to them as nether garments; she thought it slightly
indelicate to blow her nose and did it in a deprecating way. She was
dreadfully anaemic and suffered from the dyspepsia which accompanies that
ailing. Philip was repelled by her flat breast and narrow hips, and he
hated the vulgar way in which she did her hair. He loathed and despised
himself for loving her.
The fact remained that he was helpless. He felt just as he had felt
sometimes in the hands of a bigger boy at school. He had struggled against
the superior strength till his own strength was gone, and he was rendered
quite powerless--he remembered the peculiar languor he had felt in his
limbs, almost as though he were paralysed--so that he could not help
himself at all. He might have been dead. He felt just that same weakness
now. He loved the woman so that he knew he had never loved before. He did
not mind her faults of person or of character, he thought he loved them
too: at all events they meant nothing to him. It did not seem himself that
was concerned; he felt that he had been seized by some strange force that
moved him against his will, contrary to his interests; and because he had
a passion for freedom he hated the chains which bound him. He laughed at
himself when he thought how often he had longed to experience the
overwhelming passion. He cursed himself because he had given way to it. He
thought of the beginnings; nothing of all this would have happened if he
had not gone into the shop with Dunsford. The whole thing was his own
fault. Except for his ridiculous vanity he would never have troubled
himself with the ill-mannered slut.
At all events the occurrences of that evening had finished the whole
affair. Unless he was lost to all sense of shame he could not go back. He
wanted passionately to get rid of the love that obsessed him; it was
degrading and hateful. He must prevent himself from thinking of her. In a
little while the anguish he suffered must grow less. His mind went back to
the past. He wondered whether Emily Wilkinson and Fanny Price had endured
on his account anything like the torment that he suffered now. He felt a
pang of remorse.
"I didn't know then what it was like," he said to himself.
He slept very badly. The next day was Sunday, and he worked at his
biology. He sat with the book in front of him, forming the words with his
lips in order to fix his attention, but he could remember nothing. He
found his thoughts going back to Mildred every minute, and he repeated to
himself the exact words of the quarrel they had had. He had to force
himself back to his book. He went out for a walk. The streets on the South
side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy,
a coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on Sundays,
with no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and depressed, they
were indescribably dreary. Philip thought that day would never end. But he
was so tired that he slept heavily, and when Monday came he entered upon
life with determination. Christmas was approaching, and a good many of the
students had gone into the country for the short holiday between the two
parts of the winter session; but Philip had refused his uncle's invitation
to go down to Blackstable. He had given the approaching examination as his
excuse, but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave London and
Mildred. He had neglected his work so much that now he had only a
fortnight to learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to
work seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred. He
congratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he suffered was
no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be expected
to feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no bones were
broken, were bruised all over and shaken. Philip found that he was able to
observe with curiosity the condition he had been in during the last few
weeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He was a little amused at
himself. One thing that struck him was how little under those
circumstances it mattered what one thought; the system of personal
philosophy, which had given him great satisfaction to devise, had not
served him. He was puzzled by this.
But sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like Mildred
that his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he could not help himself, he
hurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find that it was a
total stranger. Men came back from the country, and he went with Dunsford
to have tea at an A. B. C. shop. The well-known uniform made him so
miserable that he could not speak. The thought came to him that perhaps
she had been transferred to another establishment of the firm for which
she worked, and he might suddenly find himself face to face with her. The
idea filled him with panic, so that he feared Dunsford would see that
something was the matter with him: he could not think of anything to say;
he pretended to listen to what Dunsford was talking about; the
conversation maddened him; and it was all he could do to prevent himself
from crying out to Dunsford for Heaven's sake to hold his tongue.
Then came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn arrived, went
forward to the examiner's table with the utmost confidence. He answered
three or four questions. Then they showed him various specimens; he had
been to very few lectures and, as soon as he was asked about things which
he could not learn from books, he was floored. He did what he could to
hide his ignorance, the examiner did not insist, and soon his ten minutes
were over. He felt certain he had passed; but next day, when he went up to
the examination buildings to see the result posted on the door, he was
astounded not to find his number among those who had satisfied the
examiners. In amazement he read the list three times. Dunsford was with
him.
"I say, I'm awfully sorry you're ploughed," he said.
He had just inquired Philip's number. Philip turned and saw by his radiant
face that Dunsford had passed.
"Oh, it doesn't matter a bit," said Philip. "I'm jolly glad you're all
right. I shall go up again in July."
He was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back
along The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things. Dunsford
good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of Philip's failure, but
Philip was obstinately casual. He was horribly mortified; and the fact
that Dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but quite stupid
fellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear. He had always been
proud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself desperately whether he
was not mistaken in the opinion he held of himself. In the three months of
the winter session the students who had joined in October had already
shaken down into groups, and it was clear which were brilliant, which were
clever or industrious, and which were `rotters.' Philip was conscious that
his failure was a surprise to no one but himself. It was tea-time, and he
knew that a lot of men would be having tea in the basement of the Medical
School: those who had passed the examination would be exultant, those who
disliked him would look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who
had failed would sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. His
instinct was not to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would
be no more thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he
went: he wanted to inflict suffering upon himself. He forgot for the
moment his maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for
the policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it,
there must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made him
take a grim pleasure in self-torture.
But later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced himself,
going out into the night after the noisy conversation in the smoking-room,
he was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness. He seemed to himself
absurd and futile. He had an urgent need of consolation, and the
temptation to see Mildred was irresistible. He thought bitterly that there
was small chance of consolation from her; but he wanted to see her even if
he did not speak to her; after all, she was a waitress and would be
obliged to serve him. She was the only person in the world he cared for.
There was no use in hiding that fact from himself. Of course it would be
humiliating to go back to the shop as though nothing had happened, but he
had not much self-respect left. Though he would not confess it to himself,
he had hoped each day that she would write to him; she knew that a letter
addressed to the hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was
evident that she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. And he kept on
repeating to himself:
"I must see her. I must see her."
The desire was so great that he could not give the time necessary to walk,
but jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to use one when it could possibly
be avoided. He stood outside the shop for a minute or two. The thought
came to him that perhaps she had left, and in terror he walked in quickly.
He saw her at once. He sat down and she came up to him.
"A cup of tea and a muffin, please," he ordered.
He could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment that he was going to
cry.
"I almost thought you was dead," she said.
She was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have forgotten completely that
last scene which Philip had repeated to himself a hundred times.
"I thought if you'd wanted to see me you'd write," he answered.
"I've got too much to do to think about writing letters."
It seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. Philip cursed the
fate which chained him to such a woman. She went away to fetch his tea.
"Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?" she said, when she
brought it.
"Yes."
"Where have you been all this time?"
"I've been in London."
"I thought you'd gone away for the holidays. Why haven't you been in
then?"
Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes.
"Don't you remember that I said I'd never see you again?"
"What are you doing now then?"
She seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his humiliation; but he
knew her well enough to know that she spoke at random; she hurt him
frightfully, and never even tried to. He did not answer.
"It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that. I always
thought you was a gentleman in every sense of the word."
"Don't be beastly to me, Mildred. I can't bear it."
"You are a funny feller. I can't make you out."
"It's very simple. I'm such a blasted fool as to love you with all my
heart and soul, and I know that you don't care twopence for me."
"If you had been a gentleman I think you'd have come next day and begged
my pardon."
She had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought how he would like to
jab it with the knife he had for his muffin. He knew enough anatomy to
make pretty certain of getting the carotid artery. And at the same time he
wanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses.
"If I could only make you understand how frightfully I'm in love with
you."
"You haven't begged my pardon yet."
He grew very white. She felt that she had done nothing wrong on that
occasion. She wanted him now to humble himself. He was very proud. For one
instant he felt inclined to tell her to go to hell, but he dared not. His
passion made him abject. He was willing to submit to anything rather than
not see her.
"I'm very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon."
He had to force the words out. It was a horrible effort.
"Now you've said that I don't mind telling you that I wish I had come out
with you that evening. I thought Miller was a gentleman, but I've
discovered my mistake now. I soon sent him about his business."
Philip gave a little gasp.
"Mildred, won't you come out with me tonight? Let's go and dine
somewhere."
"Oh, I can't. My aunt'll be expecting me home."
"I'll send her a wire. You can say you've been detained in the shop; she
won't know any better. Oh, do come, for God's sake. I haven't seen you for
so long, and I want to talk to you."
She looked down at her clothes.
"Never mind about that. We'll go somewhere where it doesn't matter how
you're dressed. And we'll go to a music-hall afterwards. Please say yes.
It would give me so much pleasure."
She hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully appealing eyes.
"Well, I don't mind if I do. I haven't been out anywhere since I don't
know how long."
It was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself from seizing
her hand there and then to cover it with kisses.
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