One morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going back to bed
suddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs ached and he shivered with
cold. When the landlady brought in his breakfast he called to her through
the open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of tea and a piece
of toast. A few minutes later there was a knock at his door, and Griffiths
came in. They had lived in the same house for over a year, but had never
done more than nod to one another in the passage.
"I say, I hear you're seedy," said Griffiths. "I thought I'd come in and
see what was the matter with you."
Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. He would
be all right in an hour or two.
"Well, you'd better let me take your temperature," said Griffiths.
"It's quite unnecessary," answered Philip irritably.
"Come on."
Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the side of the
bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and looked at
it.
"Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I'll bring old Deacon
in to have a look at you."
"Nonsense," said Philip. "There's nothing the matter. I wish you wouldn't
bother about me."
"But it isn't any bother. You've got a temperature and you must stay in
bed. You will, won't you?"
There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and
kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.
"You've got a wonderful bed-side manner," Philip murmured, closing his
eyes with a smile.
Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the
bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip's sitting-room to look
for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He
drew down the blind.
"Now, go to sleep and I'll bring the old man round as soon as he's done
the wards."
It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would
split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then
there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and
cheerful, came in.
"Here's Doctor Deacon," he said.
The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom
Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the
diagnosis.
"What d'you make it?" he asked Griffiths, smiling.
"Influenza."
"Quite right."
Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.
"Wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? They'll put you in a private
ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here."
"I'd rather stay where I am," said Philip.
He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new
surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary
cleanliness of the hospital.
"I can look after him, sir," said Griffiths at once.
"Oh, very well."
He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.
"Now you've got to do exactly as I tell you," said Griffiths. "I'm
day-nurse and night-nurse all in one."
"It's very kind of you, but I shan't want anything," said Philip.
Griffiths put his hand on Philip's forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and
the touch seemed to him good.
"I'm just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up,
and then I'll come back."
In a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a dose. Then he
went upstairs to fetch his books.
"You won't mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?" he
said, when he came down. "I'll leave the door open so that you can give me
a shout if you want anything."
Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in his
sitting-room. A friend had come in to see Griffiths.
"I say, you'd better not come in tonight," he heard Griffiths saying.
And then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and
expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there. Philip heard him
explain.
"I'm looking after a second year's man who's got these rooms. The wretched
blighter's down with influenza. No whist tonight, old man."
Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.
"I say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are you?" he asked.
"Not on your account. I must work at my surgery."
"Don't put it off. I shall be all right. You needn't bother about me."
"That's all right."
Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but
towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths get out
of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece
after piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row."
"Why aren't you in bed? What's the time?"
"About five. I thought I'd better sit up with you tonight. I brought an
arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so
soundly that I shouldn't hear you if you wanted anything."
"I wish you wouldn't be so good to me," groaned Philip. "Suppose you catch
it?"
"Then you shall nurse me, old man," said Griffiths, with a laugh.
In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired after
his night's watch, but was full of spirits.
"Now, I'm going to wash you," he said to Philip cheerfully.
"I can wash myself," said Philip, ashamed.
"Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I can
do it just as well as a nurse."
Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his
hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming
tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he
changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow,
and arranged the bed-clothes.
"I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up. Deacon's
coming in to see you early."
"I can't imagine why you should be so good to me," said Philip.
"It's good practice for me. It's rather a lark having a patient."
Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have
something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of
grapes and a few flowers.
"You are awfully kind," said Philip.
He was in bed for five days.
Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths was the same
age as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. He was
a thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his greatest quality was
a vitality which seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in
contact. Philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from
mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of
this strong young man. Philip grew better. Then Griffiths, sitting idly in
Philip's room, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. He was a
flirtatious creature, capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a
time; and his account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out
of difficulties made excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing a
romantic glamour over everything that happened to him. He was crippled
with debts, everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed
always to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by
nature. He loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and
his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was
enormous. Loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles,
difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting
his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound notes. He was
ploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully,
and submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations
that his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart to be
seriously angry with him.
"I'm an awful fool at books," he said cheerfully, "but I CAN'T work."
Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got through the
exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a
tremendous success in practice. He would cure people by the sheer charm of
his manner.
Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who were tall
and straight and high of spirits. By the time he was well they were fast
friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to Philip that Griffiths
seemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting Philip's time with
his amusing chatter and smoking innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him
sometimes to the tavern off Regent Street. Hayward found him stupid, but
Lawson recognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a
picturesque figure with his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. Often
they discussed things he knew nothing about, and then he sat quietly, with
a good-natured smile on his handsome face, feeling quite rightly that his
presence was sufficient contribution to the entertainment of the company.
When he discovered that Macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for
tips; and Macalister, with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he
could have made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. It made
Philip's mouth water, for in one way and another he was spending more than
he had expected, and it would have suited him very well to make a little
money by the easy method Macalister suggested.
"Next time I hear of a really good thing I'll let you know," said the
stockbroker. "They do come along sometimes. It's only a matter of biding
one's time."
Philip could not help thinking how delightful it would be to make fifty
pounds, so that he could give Norah the furs she so badly needed for the
winter. He looked at the shops in Regent Street and picked out the
articles he could buy for the money. She deserved everything. She made his
life very happy
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