Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham [ebook reader that looks like a book .txt] 📗

had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lying to him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lasted so long.

“What is your rent here?”

“Oh, the landlady’s very nice, different from what some of them are; she’s quite willing to wait till it’s convenient for me to pay.”

He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It was no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must find out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so that he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7 opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watched her walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too showy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. He followed her slowly till she came into the Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened her pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and crossed over to a music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the arm. He saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips.

“Where are you going, Mildred?”

She started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse. But she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue.

“Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me the hump sitting every night by myself.”

He did not pretend to believe her.

“You mustn’t. Good heavens, I’ve told you fifty times how dangerous it is. You must stop this sort of thing at once.”

“Oh, hold your jaw,” she cried roughly. “How d’you suppose I’m going to live?”

He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to drag her away.

“For God’s sake come along. Let me take you home. You don’t know what you’re doing. It’s criminal.”

“What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven’t been so good to me that I need bother my head about them.”

She pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money. Philip had threepence in his pocket. He could not follow. He turned away and walked slowly down Oxford Street.

“I can’t do anything more,” he said to himself.

That was the end. He did not see her again.

CX

Christmas that year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for four days: Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for him to spend the holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs. Foster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, but wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said:

“You’ll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you’ll pretend you don’t notice anything, won’t you, sir? He’s that nervous about himself.”

Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room.

“Here’s Mr. Philip, sir.”

The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when you looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in the armchair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty.

“He can’t last long now,” thought Philip, as he looked at him.

“How d’you think I’m looking?” asked the Vicar. “D’you think I’ve changed since you were here last?”

“I think you look stronger than you did last summer.”

“It was the heat. That always upsets me.”

Mr. Carey’s history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bedroom and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room.

“On the seventh of November, sir.”

Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information.

“But I eat well still, don’t I, Mrs. Foster?”

“Yes, sir, you’ve got a wonderful appetite.”

“I don’t seem to put on flesh though.”

Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia.

“It’s terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor’s bills.” He tinkled his bell again. “Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist’s bill.”

Patiently she took it off the chimneypiece and handed it to Philip.

“That’s only one month. I was wondering if as you’re doctoring yourself you couldn’t get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from the stores, but then there’s the postage.”

Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble to inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked how long he could stay, and when Philip told him he must leave on Tuesday morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told him minutely all