APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/books/human_bond/CHAP101_22

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CHAPTER CI

WHEN Philip rang a head was put out of the window, and in a
minute he heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children
ran down to let him in. It was a pale, anxious, thin face that
he bent down for them to kiss. He was so moved by their
exuberant affection that, to give himself time to recover, he
made excuses to linger on the stairs. He was in a hysterical
state and almost anything was enough to make him cry. They asked
him why he had not come on the previous Sunday, and he told them
he had been ill; they wanted to know what was the matter with
him; and Philip, to amuse them, suggested a mysterious ailment,
the name of which, double-barrelled and barbarous with its
mixture of Greek and Latin (medical nomenclature bristled with
such), made them shriek with delight. They dragged Philip into
the parlour and made him repeat it for their father's
edification. Athelny got up and shook hands with him. He stared
at Philip, but with his round, bulging eyes he always seemed to
stare, Philip did not know why on this occasion it made him
self-conscious.

"We missed you last Sunday," he said.

Philip could never tell lies without embarrassment, and he was
scarlet when he finished his explanation for not coming. Then
Mrs. Athelny entered and shook hands with him.

"I hope you're better, Mr. Carey," she said.

He did not know why she imagined that anything had been the
matter with him, for the kitchen door was closed when he came up
with the children, and they had not left him.

"Dinner won't be ready for another ten minutes," she said, in
her slow drawl. "Won't you have an egg beaten up in a glass of
milk while you're waiting?"

There was a look of concern on her face which made Philip
uncomfortable. He forced a laugh and answered that he was not at
all hungry. Sally came in to lay the table, and Philip began to
chaff her. It was the family joke that she would be as fat as an
aunt of Mrs. Athelny, called Aunt Elizabeth, whom the children
had never seen but regarded as the type of obscene corpulence.

"I say, what _has_ happened since I saw you last, Sally?"
Philip began.

"Nothing that I know of."

"I believe you've been putting on weight."

"I'm sure you haven't," she retorted. "You're a perfect
skeleton."

Philip reddened.

"That's a _tu quoque_, Sally," cried her father. "You will be
fined one golden hair of your head. Jane, fetch the shears."

"Well, he is thin, father," remonstrated Sally. "He's just skin
and bone."

"That's not the question, child. He is at perfect liberty to be
thin, but your obesity is contrary to decorum."

As he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist and looked at
her with admiring eyes.

"Let me get on with the table, father. If I am comfortable there
are some who don't seem to mind it."

"The hussy!" cried Athelny, with a dramatic wave of the hand.
"She taunts me with the notorious fact that Joseph, a son of
Levi who sells jewels in Holbom, has made her an offer of
marriage."

"Have you accepted him, Sally?" asked Philip.

"Don't you know father better than that by this time? There's
not a word of truth in it."

"Well, if he hasn't made you an offer of marriage," cried
Athelny, "by Saint George and Merry England, I will seize him by
the nose and demand of him immediately what are his intentions."

"Sit down, father, dinner's ready. Now then, you children, get
along with you and wash your hands all of you, and don't shirk
it, because I mean to look at them before you have a scrap of
dinner, so there."

Philip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat, but then
discovered that his stomach turned against food, and he could
eat hardly at all. His brain was weary; and he did not notice
that Athelny, contrary to his habit, spoke very little. Philip
was relieved to be sitting in a comfortable house, but every now
and then he could not prevent himself from glancing out of the
window. The day was tempestuous. The fine weather had broken;
and it was cold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again
gusts of rain drove against the window. Philip wondered what he
should do that night. The Athelnys went to bed early, and he
could not stay where he was after ten o'clock. His heart sank at
the thought of going out into the bleak darkness. It seemed more
terrible now that he was with his friends than when he was
outside and alone. He kept on saying to himself that there were
plenty more who would be spending the night out of doors. He
strove to distract his mind by talking, but in the middle of his
words a spatter of rain against the window would make him start.

"It's like March weather," said Athelny. "Not the sort of day
one would like to be crossing the Channel."

Presently they finished, and Sally came in and cleared away.

"Would you like a twopenny stinker?" said Athelny, handing him
a cigar.

Philip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight. It soothed
him extraordinarily. When Sally had finished Athelny told her to
shut the door after her.

"Now we shan't be disturbed," he said, turning to Philip. "I've
arranged with Betty not to let the children come in till I call
them."

Philip gave him a startled look, but before he could take in the
meaning of his words, Athelny, fixing his glasses on his nose
with the gesture habitual to him, went on.

"I wrote to you last Sunday to ask if anything was the matter
with you, and as you didn't answer I went to your rooms on
Wednesday."

Philip turned his head away and did not answer. His heart began
to beat violently. Athelny did not speak, and presently the
silence seemed intolerable to Philip. He could not think of a
single word to say.

"Your landlady told me you hadn't been in since Saturday night,
and she said you owed her for the last month. Where have you
been sleeping all this week?"

It made Philip sick to answer. He stared out of the window.

"Nowhere."

"I tried to find you."

"Why?" asked Philip.

"Betty and I have been just as broke in our day, only we had
babies to look after. Why didn't you come here?"

"I couldn't."

Philip was afraid he was going to cry. He felt very weak. He
shut his eyes and frowned, trying to control himself. He felt a
sudden flash of anger with Athelny because he would not leave
him alone; but he was broken; and presently, his eyes still
closed, slowly in order to keep his voice steady, he told him
the story of his adventures during the last few weeks. As he
spoke it seemed to him that he had behaved inanely, and it made
it still harder to tell. He felt that Athelny would think him an
utter fool.

"Now you're coming to live with us till you find something to
do," said Athelny, when he had finished.

Philip flushed, he knew not why.

"Oh, it's awfully kind of you, but I don't think I'll do that."

"Why not?"

Philip did not answer. He had refused instinctively from fear
that he would be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of
accepting favours. He knew besides that the Athelnys lived from
hand to mouth, and with their large family had neither space nor
money to entertain a stranger.

"Of course you must come here," said Athelny. "Thorpe will tuck
in with one of his brothers and you can sleep in his bed. You
don't suppose your food's going to make any difference to us."

Philip was afraid to speak, and Athelny, going to the door,
called his wife.

"Betty," he said, when she came in, "Mr. Carey's coming to live
with us."

"Oh, that is nice," she said. "I'll go and get the bed ready."

She spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone, taking everything for
granted, that Philip was deeply touched. He never expected
people to be kind to him, and when they were it surprised and
moved him. Now he could not prevent two large tears from rolling
down his cheeks. The Athelnys discussed the arrangements and
pretended not to notice to what a state his weakness had brought
him. When Mrs. Athelny left them Philip leaned back in his
chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little.

"It's not a very nice night to be out, is it?"


CHAPTER CII

ATHELNY told Philip that he could easily get him something to do
in the large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked.
Several of the assistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and
Sedley with patriotic zeal had promised to keep their places
open for them. They put the work of the heroes on those who
remained, and since they did not increase the wages of these
were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an
economy; but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the
holidays were coming, when numbers of the staff went away for a
fortnight at a time: they were bound to engage more assistants.
Philip's experience had made him doubtful whether even then they
would engage him; but Athelny, representing himself as a person
of consequence in the firm, insisted that the manager could
refuse him nothing. Philip, with his training in Paris, would be
very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was
bound to get a well-paid job to design costumes and draw
posters. Philip made a poster for the summer sale and Athelny
took it away. Two days later he brought it back, saying that the
manager admired it very much and regretted with all his heart
that there was no vacancy just then in that department. Philip
asked whether there was nothing else he could do.

"I'm afraid not."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Well, the fact is they're advertising for a shop-walker
tomorrow," said Athelny, looking at him doubtfully through his
glasses.

"D'you think I stand any chance of getting it?"

Athelny was a little confused; he had led Philip to expect
something much more splendid; on the other hand he was too poor
to go on providing him indefinitely with board and lodging.

"You might take it while you wait for something better. You
always stand a better chance if you're engaged by the firm
already."

"I'm not proud, you, know" smiled Philip.

"If you decide on that you must be there at a quarter to nine
tomorrow morning."

Notwithstanding the war there was evidently much difficulty in
finding work, for when Philip went to the shop many men were
waiting already. He recognised some whom he had seen in his own
searching, and there was one whom he had noticed lying about the
park in the afternoon. To Philip now that suggested that he was
as homeless as himself and passed the night out of doors. The
men were of all sorts, old and young, tall and short; but every
one had tried to make himself smart for the interview with the
manager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean
hands. They waited in a passage which Philip learnt afterwards
led up to the dining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken
every few yards by five or six steps. Though there was electric
light in the shop here was only gas, with wire cages over it for
protection, and it flared noisily. Philip arrived punctually,
but it was nearly ten o'clock when he was admitted into the
office. It was three-cornered, like a cut of cheese lying on its
side: on the walls were pictures of women in corsets, and two
poster-proofs, one of a man in pyjamas, green and white in large
stripes, and the other of a ship in full sail ploughing an azure
sea: on the sail was printed in large letters `great white
sale.' The widest side of the office was the back of one of the
shop-windows, which was being dressed at the time, and an
assistant went to and fro during the interview. The manager was
reading a letter. He was a florid man, with sandy hair and a
large sandy moustache; from the middle of his watch-chain hung
a bunch of football medals. He sat in his shirt sleeves at a
large desk with a telephone by his side; before him were the
day's advertisements, Athelny's work, and cuttings from
newspapers pasted on a card. He gave Philip a glance but did not
speak to him; he dictated a letter to the typist, a girl who sat
at a small table in one corner; then he asked Philip his name,
age, and what experience he had had. He spoke with a cockney
twang in a high, metallic voice which he seemed not able always
to control; Philip noticed that his upper teeth were large and
protruding; they gave you the impression that they were loose
and would come out if you gave them a sharp tug.

"I think Mr. Athelny has spoken to you about me," said Philip.

"Oh, you are the young feller who did that poster?"

"Yes, sir."

"No good to us, you know, not a bit of good."

He looked Philip up and down. He seemed to notice that Philip
was in some way different from the men who had preceded him.

"You'd 'ave to get a frock coat, you know. I suppose you 'aven't
got one. You seem a respectable young feller. I suppose you
found art didn't pay."

Philip could not tell whether he meant to engage him or not. He
threw remarks at him in a hostile way.

"Where's your home?"

"My father and mother died when I was a child."

"I like to give young fellers a chance. Many's the one I've
given their chance to and they're managers of departments now.
And they're grateful to me, I'll say that for them. They know
what I done for them. Start at the bottom of the ladder, that's
the only way to learn the business, and then if you stick to it
there's no knowing what it can lead to. If you suit, one of
these days you may find yourself in a position like what mine
is. Bear that in mind, young feller."

"I'm very anxious to do my best, sir," said Philip.

He knew that he must put in the sir whenever he could, but it
sounded odd to him, and he was afraid of overdoing it. The
manager liked talking. It gave him a happy consciousness of his
own importance, and he did not give Philip his decision till he
had used a great many words.

"Well, I daresay you'll do," he said at last, in a pompous way.
"Anyhow I don't mind giving you a trial."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"You can start at once. I'll give you six shillings a week and
your keep. Everything found, you know; the six shillings is only
pocket money, to do what you like with, paid monthly. Start on
Monday. I suppose you've got no cause of complaint with that."

"No, sir."

"Harrington Street, d'you know where that is, Shaftesbury
Avenue. That's where you sleep. Number ten, it is. You can sleep
there on Sunday night, if you like; that's just as you please,
or you can send your box there on Monday." The manager nodded:
"Good-morning."


CHAPTER CIII

MRS. ATHELNY lent Philip money to pay his landlady enough of her
bill to let him take his things away. For five shillings and the
pawn-ticket on a suit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a
frock coat which fitted him fairly well. He redeemed the rest of
his clothes. He sent his box to Harrington Street by Carter
Patterson and on Monday morning went with Athelny to the shop.
Athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes and left
him. The buyer was a pleasant, fussy little man of thirty, named
Sampson; he shook hands with Philip, and, in order to show his
own accomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he
spoke French. He was surprised when Philip told him he did.

"Any other language?"

"I speak German."

"Oh! I go over to Paris myself occasionally. _Parlez-vous
francais?_ Ever been to Maxim's?"

Philip was stationed at the top of the stairs in the `costumes.'
His work consisted in directing people to the various
departments. There seemed a great many of them as Mr. Sampson
tripped them off his tongue. Suddenly he noticed that Philip
limped.

"What's the matter with your leg?" he asked.

"I've got a club-foot," said Philip. "But it doesn't prevent my
walking or anything like that."

The buyer looked at it for a moment doubtfully, and Philip
surmised that he was wondering why the manager had engaged him.
Philip knew that he had not noticed there was anything the
matter with him.

"I don't expect you to get them all correct the first day. If
you're in any doubt all you've got to do is to ask one of the
young ladies."

Mr. Sampson turned away; and Philip, trying to remember where
this or the other department was, watched anxiously for the
customer in search of information. At one o'clock he went up to
dinner. The dining-room, on the top floor of the vast building,
was large, long, and well lit; but all the windows were shut to
keep out the dust, and there was a horrid smell of cooking.
There were long tables covered with cloths, with big glass
bottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellars
and bottles of vinegar. The assistants crowded in noisily, and
sat down on forms still warm from those who had dined at
twelve-thirty.

"No pickles," remarked the man next to Philip.

He was a tall thin young man, with a hooked nose and a pasty
face; he had a long head, unevenly shaped as though the skull
had been pushed in here and there oddly, and on his forehead and
neck were large acne spots red and inflamed. His name was
Harris. Philip discovered that on some days there were large
soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles. They were very
popular. There were no knives and forks, but in a minute a large
fat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of
them and threw them loudly on the middle of the table. Each man
took what he wanted; they were warm and greasy from recent
washing in dirty water. Plates of meat swimming in gravy were
handed round by boys in white jackets, and as they flung each
plate down with the quick gesture of a prestidigitator the gravy
slopped over on to the table-cloth. Then they brought large
dishes of cabbages and potatoes; the sight of them turned
Philip's stomach; he noticed that everyone poured quantities of
vinegar over them. The noise was awful. They talked and laughed
and shouted, and there was the clatter of knives and forks, and
strange sounds of eating. Philip was glad to get back into the
department. He was beginning to remember where each one was, and
had less often to ask one of the assistants, when somebody
wanted to know the way.

"First to the right. Second on the left, madam."

One or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things
were slack, and he felt they were taking his measure. At five he
was sent up again to the dining-room for tea. He was glad to sit
down. There were large slices of bread heavily spread with
butter; and many had pots of jam, which were kept in the `store'
and had their names written on.

Philip was exhausted when work stopped at half past six. Harris,
the man he had sat next to at dinner, offered to take him over
to Harrington Street to show him where he was to sleep. He told
Philip there was a spare bed in his room, and, as the other
rooms were full, he expected Philip would be put there. The
house in Harrington Street had been a bootmaker's; and the shop
was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since the window
had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the
only ventilation came from a small skylight at the far end.
There was a musty smell, and Philip was thankful that he would
not have to sleep there. Harris took him up to the sitting-room,
which was on the first floor; it had an old piano in it with a
keyboard that looked like a row of decayed teeth; and on the
table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of dominoes; old
numbers of _The Strand Magazine_ and of _The Graphic_ were
lying about. The other rooms were used as bed-rooms. That in
which Philip was to sleep was at the top of the house. There
were six beds in it, and a trunk or a box stood by the side of
each. The only furniture was a chest of drawers: it had four
large drawers and two small ones, and Philip as the new-comer
had one of these; there were keys to them, but as they were all
alike they were not of much use, and Harris advised him to keep
his valuables in his trunk. There was a looking-glass on the
chimney-piece. Harris showed Philip the lavatory, which was a
fairly large room with eight basins in a row, and here all the
inmates did their washing. It led into another room in which
were two baths, discoloured, the woodwork stained with soap; and
in them were dark rings at various intervals which indicated the
water marks of different baths.

When Harris and Philip went back to their bed-room they found a
tall man changing his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling as
loud as he could while he brushed his hair. In a minute or two
without saying a word to anybody the tall man went out. Harris
winked at the boy, and the boy, whistling still, winked back.
Harris told Philip that the man was called Prior; he had been in
the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty much to
himself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so
much as a good-evening, to see his girl. Harris went out too,
and only the boy remained to watch Philip curiously while he
unpacked his things. His name was Bell and he was serving his
time for nothing in the haberdashery. He was much interested in
Philip's evening clothes. He told him about the other men in the
room and asked him every sort of question about himself. He was
a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in
a half-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. When Philip
had finished he went out to walk about the streets and look at
the crowd; occasionally he stopped outside the doors of
restaurants and watched the people going in; he felt hungry, so
he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled along. He had
been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned out
the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out
he returned in good time; he had learned already the system of
fines: you had to pay a shilling if you came in after eleven,
and half a crown after a quarter past, and you were reported
besides: if it happened three times you were dismissed.

All but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were
already in bed. Philip was greeted with cries.

"Oh, Clarence Naughty boy!"

He discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his
evening clothes. The boy was delighted with his joke.

"You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence."

"He'll catch the belle of Lynn's, if he's not careful."

Philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money
stopped from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances
of the staff. It was only two shillings a month, and it covered
medical attendance and the use of a library of worn novels; but
as four shillings a month besides was stopped for washing,
Philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings a week
would never be paid to him.

Most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a
roll of bread cut in two. These sandwiches, the assistants'
usual supper, were supplied by a small shop a few doors off at
twopence each. The soldier rolled in; silently, rapidly, took
off his clothes and threw himself into bed. At ten minutes past
eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes later went out.
The soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round the big
window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains
of their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below,
shouted to them facetious remarks. The house opposite, six
storeys high, was a workshop for Jewish tailors who left off
work at eleven; the rooms were brightly lit and there were no
blinds to the windows. The sweater's daughter--the family
consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a girl of
twenty--went round the house to put out the lights when work was
over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by
one of the tailors. The shop assistants in Philip's room got a
lot of amusement out of watching the manoeuvres of one man or
another to stay behind, and they made small bets on which would
succeed. At midnight the people were turned out of the
Harrington Arms at the end of the street, and soon after they
all went to bed: Bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way
across the room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got
to his own would not stop talking. At last everything was silent
but for the steady snoring of the soldier, and Philip went to
sleep.

He was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a
quarter to eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs
in their stockinged feet to pick out their boots. They laced
them as they ran along to the shop in Oxford Street for
breakfast. If they were a minute later than eight they got none,
nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves anything
to eat. Sometimes, if they knew they could not get into the
building in time, they stopped at the little shop near their
quarters and bought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and
most went without food till dinner. Philip ate some bread and
butter, drank a cup of tea, and at half past eight began his
day's work again.

"First to the right. Second on the left, madam."

Soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The
work was monotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet
hurt him so that he could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets
made them burn, and at night his socks were painful to remove.
It was a common complaint, and his fellow `floormen' told him
that socks and boots just rotted away from the continual
sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the same fashion,
and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside
the bed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was
obliged to spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room
at Harrington Street with his feet in a pail of cold water. His
companion on these occasions was Bell, the lad in the
haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the stamps he
collected. As he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper
he whistled monotonously.


CHAPTER CIV

THE social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was
one at the beginning of Philip's second week at Lynn's. He
arranged to go with one of the women in his department.

"Meet 'em 'alf-way," she said, "same as I do."

This was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with
badly dyed hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small
red veins all over it, and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes.
She took a fancy to Philip and called him by his Christian name
before he had been in the shop a week.

"We've both known what it is to come down," she said.

She told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she
always referred to 'me 'usband Misterodges;" he was a barrister
and he treated her simply shocking, so she left him as she
preferred to be independent like; but she had known what it was
to drive in her own carriage, dear--she called everyone
dear--and they always had late dinner at home. She used to pick
her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch. It was in
the form of a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in
the middle. Philip was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and
the girls in the shop called him `sidey.' One addressed him as
Phil, and he did not answer because he had not the least idea
that she was speaking to him; so she tossed her head, saying he
was a `stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical emphasis
called him Mister Carey. She was a Miss Jewell, and she was
going to marry a doctor. The other girls had never seen him, but
they said he must be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely
presents.

"Never you mind what they say, dear," said Mrs. Hodges. "I've
'ad to go through it same as you 'ave. They don't know any
better, poor things. You take my word for it, they'll like you
all right if you 'old your own same as I 'ave."

The social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement.
The tables were put on one side so that there might be room for
dancing, and smaller ones were set out for progressive whist.

"The 'eads 'ave to get there early," said Mrs. Hodges.

She introduced him to Miss Bennett, who was the belle of Lynn's.
She was the buyer in the `Petticoats,' and when Philip entered
was engaged in conversation with the buyer in the `Gentlemen's
Hosiery;' Miss Bennett was a woman of massive proportions, with
a very large red face heavily powdered and a bust of imposing
dimensions; her flaxen hair was arranged with elaboration. She
was overdressed, but not badly dressed, in black with a high
collar, and she wore black _glace_ gloves, in which she played
cards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck, bangles
on her wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of
Queen Alexandra; she carried a black satin bag and chewed
Sen-sens.

"Please to meet you, Mr. Carey," she said. "This is your first
visit to our social evenings, ain't it? I expect you feel a bit
shy, but there's no cause to, I promise you that."

She did her best to make people feel at home. She slapped them
on the shoulders and laughed a great deal.

"Ain't I a pickle?" she cried, turning to Philip. "What must you
think of me? But I can't 'elp meself."

Those who were going to take part in the social evening came in,
the younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls
of their own, and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk
with. Several of the young gentlemen wore lounge suits with
white evening ties and red silk handkerchiefs; they were going
to perform, and they had a busy, abstracted air; some were
self-confident, but others were nervous, and they watched their
public with an anxious eye. Presently a girl with a great deal
of hair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across the
keyboard. When the audience had settled itself she looked round
and gave the name of her piece.

"_A Drive in Russia_."

There was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed
bells to her wrists. She smiled a little and immediately burst
into energetic melody. There was a great deal more clapping when
she finished, and when this was over, as an encore, she gave a
piece which imitated the sea; there were little trills to
represent the lapping waves and thundering chords, with the loud
pedal down, to suggest a storm. After this a gentleman sang a
song called _Bid me Good-bye_, and as an encore obliged with
_Sing me to Sleep_. The audience measured their enthusiasm
with a nice discrimination. Everyone was applauded till he gave
an encore, and so that there might be no jealousy no one was
applauded more than anyone else. Miss Bennett sailed up to
Philip.

"I'm sure you play or sing, Mr. Carey," she said archly. "I can
see it in your face."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Don't you even recite?"

"I have no parlour tricks."

The buyer in the `gentleman's hosiery' was a well-known reciter,
and he was called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants
in his department. Needing no pressing, he gave a long poem of
tragic character, in which he rolled his eyes, put his hand on
his chest, and acted as though he were in great agony. The
point, that he had eaten cucumber for supper, was divulged in
the last line and was greeted with laughter, a little forced
because everyone knew the poem well, but loud and long. Miss
Bennett did not sing, play, or recite.

"Oh no, she 'as a little game of her own," said Mrs. Hodges.

"Now, don't you begin chaffing me. The fact is I know quite a
lot about palmistry and second sight."

"Oh, do tell my 'and, Miss Bennett," cried the girls in her
department, eager to please her.

"I don't like telling 'ands, I don't really. I've told people
such terrible things and they've all come true, it makes one
superstitious like."

"Oh, Miss Bennett, just for once."

A little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of
embarrassment, giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or
admiration, she talked mysteriously of fair and dark men, of
money in a letter, and of journeys, till the sweat stood in
heavy beads on her painted face.

"Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration."

Supper was at nine. There were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and
coffee, all free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay
for it. Gallantry often led young men to offer the ladies ginger
beer, but common decency made them refuse. Miss Bennett was very
fond of ginger beer, and she drank two and sometimes three
bottles during the evening; but she insisted on paying for them
herself. The men liked her for that.

"She's a rum old bird," they said, "but mind you, she's not a
bad sort, she's not like what some are."

After supper progressive whist was played. This was very noisy,
and there was a great deal of laughing and shouting, as people
moved from table to table. Miss Bennett grew hotter and hotter.

"Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration."

In due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked
that if they wanted to dance they'd better begin. The girl who
had played the accompaniments sat at the piano and placed a
decided foot on the loud pedal. She played a dreamy waltz,
marking the time with the bass, while with the right hand she
`tiddled' in alternate octaves. By way of a change she crossed
her hands and played the air in the bass.

"She does play well, doesn't she?" Mrs. Hodges remarked to
Philip. "And what's more she's never 'ad a lesson in 'er life;
it's all ear."

Miss Bennett liked dancing and poetry better than anything in
the world. She danced well, but very, very slowly, and an
expression came into her eyes as though her thoughts were far,
far away. She talked breathlessly of the floor and the heat and
the supper. She said that the Portman Rooms had the best floor
in London and she always liked the dances there; they were very
select, and she couldn't bear dancing with all sorts of men you
didn't know anything about; why, you might be exposing yourself
to you didn't know what all. Nearly all the people danced very
well, and they enjoyed themselves. Sweat poured down their
faces, and the very high collars of the young men grew limp.

Philip looked on, and a greater depression seized him than he
remembered to have felt for a long time. He felt intolerably
alone. He did not go, because he was afraid to seem
supercilious, and he talked with the girls and laughed, but in
his heart was unhappiness. Miss Bennett asked him if he had a
girl.

"No," he smiled.

"Oh, well, there's plenty to choose from here. And they're very
nice respectable girls, some of them. I expect you'll have a
girl before you've been here long."

She looked at him very archly.

"Meet 'em 'alf-way," said Mrs. Hodges. "That's what I tell him."

It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the party broke up. Philip
could not get to sleep. Like the others he kept his aching feet
outside the bed-clothes. He tried with all his might not to
think of the life he was leading. The soldier was snoring
quietly.


CHAPTER CV

THE wages were paid once a month by the secretary. On pay-day
each batch of assistants, coming down from tea, went into the
passage and joined the long line of people waiting orderly like
the audience in a queue outside a gallery door. One by one they
entered the office. The secretary sat at a desk with wooden
bowls of money in front of him, and he asked the employe's name;
he referred to a book, quickly, after a suspicious glance at the
assistant, said aloud the sum due, and taking money out of the
bowl counted it into his hand.

"Thank you," he said. "Next."

"Thank you," was the reply.

The assistant passed on to the second secretary and before
leaving the room paid him four shillings for washing money, two
shillings for the club, and any fines that he might have
incurred. With what he had left he went back into his department
and there waited till it was time to go. Most of the men in
Philip's house were in debt with the woman who sold the
sandwiches they generally ate for supper. She was a funny old
thing, very fat, with a broad, red face, and black hair
plastered neatly on each side of the forehead in the fashion
shown in early pictures of Queen Victoria. She always wore a
little black bonnet and a white apron; her sleeves were tucked
up to the elbow; she cut the sandwiches with large, dirty,
greasy hands; and there was grease on her bodice, grease on her
apron, grease on her skirt. She was called Mrs. Fletcher, but
everyone addressed her as, `Ma'. she was really fond of the shop
assistants, whom she called her boys; she never minded giving
credit towards the end of the month, and it was known that now
and then she had lent Someone or other a few shillings when he
was in straits. She was a good woman. When they were leaving or
when they came back from the holidays, the boys kissed her fat
red cheek; and more than one, dismissed and unable to find
another job, had got for nothing food to keep body and soul
together. The boys were sensible of her large heart and repaid
her with genuine affection. There was a story they liked to tell
of a man who had done well for himself at Bradford, and had five
shops of his own, and had come back after fifteen years and
visited Ma Fletcher and given her a gold watch.

Philip found himself with eighteen shillings left out of his
month's pay. It was the first money he had ever earned in his
life. It gave him none of the pride which might have been
expected, but merely a feeling of dismay. The smallness of the
sum emphasised the hopelessness of his position. He took fifteen
shillings to Mrs. Athelny to pay back part of what he owed her,
but she would not take more than half a sovereign.

"D'you know, at that rate it'll take me eight months to settle
up with you."

"As long as Athelny's in work I can afford to wait, and who
knows, p'raps they'll give you a rise."

Athelny kept on saying that he would speak to the manager about
Philip, it was absurd that no use should be made of his talents;
but he did nothing, and Philip soon came to the conclusion that
the press-agent was not a person of so much importance in the
manager's eyes as in his own. Occasionally he saw Athelny in the
shop. His flamboyance was extinguished; and in neat,
commonplace, shabby clothes he hurried, a subdued, unassuming
little man, through the departments as though anxious to escape
notice.

"When I think of how I'm wasted there," he said at home, "I'm
almost tempted to give in my notice. There's no scope for a man
like me. I'm stunted, I'm starved."

Mrs. Athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints.
Her mouth tightened a little.

"It's very hard to get jobs in these times. It's regular and
it's safe; I expect you'll stay there as long as you give
satisfaction."

It was evident that Athelny would. It was interesting to see the
ascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal
tie, had acquired over the brilliant, unstable man. Mrs. Athelny
treated Philip with motherly kindness now that he was in a
different position, and he was touched by her anxiety that he
should make a good meal. It was the solace of his life (and when
he grew used to it, the monotony of it was what chiefly appalled
him) that he could go every Sunday to that friendly house. It
was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss all
manner of things with Athelny. Though his condition seemed so
desperate he never left him to go back to Harrington Street
without a feeling of exultation. At first Philip, in order not
to forget what he had learned, tried to go on reading his
medical books, but he found it useless; he could not fix his
attention on them after the exhausting work of the day; and it
seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how
long he would be able to go back to the hospital. He dreamed
constantly that he was in the wards. The awakening was painful.
The sensation of other people sleeping in the room was
inexpressibly irksome to him; he had been used to solitude, and
to be with others always, never to be by himself for an instant
was at these moments horrible to him. It was then that he found
it most difficult to combat his despair. He saw himself going on
with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam,
indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away:
the men who had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the
firm had guaranteed to take them back, and this must mean that
others would be sacked; he would have to stir himself even to
keep the wretched post he had.

There was only one thing to free him and that was the death of
his uncle. He would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this
he could finish his course at the hospital. Philip began to wish
with all his might for the old man's death. He reckoned out how
long he could possibly live: he was well over seventy, Philip
did not know his exact age, but he must be at least
seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every
winter had a bad cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read
over and over again the details in his text-book of medicine of
chronic bronchitis in the old. A severe winter might be too much
for the old man. With all his heart Philip longed for cold and
rain. He thought of it constantly, so that it became a
monomania. Uncle William was affected by the great heat too, and
in August they had three weeks of sweltering weather. Philip
imagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come
saying that the Vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to
himself his unutterable relief. As he stood at the top of the
stairs and directed people to the departments they wanted, he
occupied his mind with thinking incessantly what he would do
with the money. He did not know how much it would be, perhaps no
more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough. He
would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give
notice, he would pack his box and go without saying a word to
anybody; and then he would return to the hospital. That was the
first thing. Would he have forgotten much? In six months he
could get it all back, and then he would take his three
examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then medicine
and surgery. The awful fear seized him that his uncle,
notwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to
the parish or the church. The thought made Philip sick. He could
not be so cruel. But if that happened Philip was quite
determined what to do, he would not go on in that way
indefinitely; his life was only tolerable because he could look
forward to something better. If he had no hope he would have no
fear. The only brave thing to do then would be to commit
suicide, and, thinking this over too, Philip decided minutely
what painless drug he would take and how he would get hold of
it. It encouraged him to think that, if things became
unendurable, he had at all events a way out.

"Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. First on the
left and straight through. Mr. Philips, forward please."

Once a month, for a week, Philip was `on duty.' He had to go to
the department at seven in the morning and keep an eye on the
sweepers. When they finished he had to take the sheets off the
cases and the models. Then, in the evening when the assistants
left, he had to put back the sheets on the models and the cases
and `gang' the sweepers again. It was a dusty, dirty job. He was
not allowed to read or write or smoke, but just had to walk
about, and the time hung heavily on his hands. When he went off
at half past nine he had supper given him, and this was the only
consolation; for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy
appetite, and the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the
firm provided, were welcome.

One day when Philip had been at Lynn's for three months, Mr.
Sampson, the buyer, came into the department, fuming with anger.
The manager, happening to notice the costume window as he came
in, had sent for the buyer and made satirical remarks upon the
colour scheme. Forced to submit in silence to his superior's
sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out of the assistants; and he rated
the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window.

"If you want a thing well done you must do it yourself," Mr.
Sampson stormed. "I've always said it and I always shall. One
can't leave anything to you chaps. Intelligent you call
yourselves, do you? Intelligent!"

He threw the word at the assistants as though it were the
bitterest term of reproach.

"Don't you know that if you put an electric blue in the window
it'll kill all the other blues?"

He looked round the department ferociously, and his eye fell
upon Philip.

"You'll dress the window next Friday, Carey. let's see what you
can make of it."

He went into his office, muttering angrily. Philip's heart sank.
When Friday morning came he went into the window with a
sickening sense of shame. His cheeks were burning. It was
horrible to display himself to the passers-by, and though he
told himself it was foolish to give way to such a feeling he
turned his back to the street. There was not much chance that
any of the students at the hospital would pass along Oxford
Street at that hour, and he knew hardly anyone else in London;
but as Philip worked, with a huge lump in his throat, he fancied
that on turning round he would catch the eye of some man he
knew. He made all the haste he could. By the simple observation
that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes more
than was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and when the
buyer went into the street to look at the result he was
obviously pleased.

"I knew I shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on the window.
The fact is, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I wouldn't say
this in the department, but you and me are gentlemen, and that
always tells. It's no good your telling me it doesn't tell,
because I know it does tell."

Philip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom
himself to the publicity; and he dreaded Friday morning, on
which the window was dressed, with a terror that made him awake
at five o'clock and lie sleepless with sickness in his heart.
The girls in the department noticed his shamefaced way, and they
very soon discovered his trick of standing with his back to the
street. They laughed at him and called him `sidey.'

"I suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and cut you out
of her will."

On the whole he got on well enough with the girls. They thought
him a little queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not
being like the rest, and they found in due course that he was
good-natured. He never minded helping anyone, and he was polite
and even tempered.

"You can see he's a gentleman," they said.

"Very reserved, isn't he?" said one young woman, to whose
passionate enthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved.

Most of them had `fellers,' and those who hadn't said they had
rather than have it supposed that no one had an inclination for
them. One or two showed signs of being willing to start a
flirtation with Philip, and he watched their manoeuvres with
grave amusement. He had had enough of love-making for some time;
and he was nearly always tired and often hungry.


CHAPTER CVI

PHILIP avoided the places he had known in happier times. The
little gatherings at the tavern in Beak Street were broken up:
Macalister, having let down his friends, no longer went there,
and Hayward was at the Cape. Only Lawson remained; and Philip,
feeling that now the painter and he had nothing in common, did
not wish to see him; but one Saturday afternoon, after dinner,
having changed his clothes he walked down Regent Street to go to
the free library in St. Martin's Lane, meaning to spend the
afternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with
him. His first instinct was to pass on without a word, but
Lawson did not give him the opportunity.

"Where on earth have you been all this time?" he cried.

"I?" said Philip.

"I wrote you and asked you to come to the studio for a beano and
you never even answered."

"I didn't get your letter."

"No, I know. I went to the hospital to ask for you, and I saw my
letter in the rack. Have you chucked the Medical?"

Philip hesitated for a moment. He was ashamed to tell the truth,
but the shame he felt angered him, and he forced himself to
speak. He could not help reddening.

"Yes, I lost the little money I had. I couldn't afford to go on
with it."

"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What are you doing?"

"I'm a shop-walker."

The words choked Philip, but he was determined not to shirk the
truth. He kept his eyes on Lawson and saw his embarrassment.
Philip smiled savagely.

"If you went into Lynn and Sedley, and made your way into the
`made robes' department, you would see me in a frock coat,
walking about with a _degage_ air and directing ladies who
want to buy petticoats or stockings. First to the right, madam,
and second on the left."

Lawson, seeing that Philip was making a jest of it, laughed
awkwardly. He did not know what to say. The picture that Philip
called up horrified him, but he was afraid to show his sympathy.

"That's a bit of a change for you," he said.

His words seemed absurd to him, and immediately he wished he had
not said them. Philip flushed darkly.

"A bit," he said. "By the way, I owe you five bob."

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some silver.

"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'd forgotten all about it."

"Go on, take it."

Lawson received the money silently. They stood in the middle of
the pavement, and people jostled them as they passed. There was
a sardonic twinkle in Philip's eyes, which made the painter
intensely uncomfortable, and he could not tell that Philip's
heart was heavy with despair. Lawson wanted dreadfully to do
something, but he did not know what to do.

"I say, won't you come to the studio and have a talk?"

"No," said Philip.

"Why not?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

He saw the pain come into Lawson's eyes, he could not help it,
he was sorry, but he had to think of himself; he could not bear
the thought of discussing his situation, he could endure it only
by determining resolutely not to think about it. He was afraid
of his weakness if once he began to open his heart. Moreover, he
took irresistible dislikes to the places where he had been
miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had endured when he
had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for lawson to
offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the
five shillings off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he
recalled those days of utter abasement.

"Then look here, come and dine with me one night. Choose your
own evening."

Philip was touched with the painter's kindness. All sorts of
people were strangely kind to him, he thought.

"It's awfully good of you, old man, but I'd rather not." He held
out his hand. "Good-bye."

Lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took
his hand, and Philip quickly limped away. His heart was heavy;
and, as was usual with him, he began to reproach himself for
what he had done: he did not know what madness of pride had made
him refuse the offered friendship. But he heard someone running
behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling him; he stopped
and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of him; he
presented to Lawson a cold, set face.

"What is it?"

"I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?"

"I know he went to the Cape."

"He died, you know, soon after landing."

For a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly believe his
ears.

"How?" he asked.

"Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you mightn't know.
Gave me a bit of a turn when I heard it."

Lawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a shiver pass
through his heart. He had never before lost a friend of his own
age, for the death of Cronshaw, a man so much older than
himself, had seemed to come in the normal course of things. The
news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded him of his own
mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly that
all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must
apply to himself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased
to have any warm feeling for him, affected him deeply. He
remembered on a sudden all the good talks they had had, and it
pained him to think that they would never talk with one another
again; he remembered their first meeting and the pleasant months
they had spent together in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank as he
thought of the lost years. He walked on mechanically, not
noticing where he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement
of irritation, that instead of turning down the Haymarket he had
sauntered along Shaftesbury Avenue. It bored him to retrace his
steps; and besides, with that news, he did not want to read, he
wanted to sit alone and think. He made up his mind to go to the
British Museum. Solitude was now his only luxury. Since he had
been at Lynn's he had often gone there and sat in front of the
groups from the Parthenon; and, not deliberately thinking, had
allowed their divine masses to rest his troubled soul. But this
afternoon they had nothing to say to him, and after a few
minutes, impatiently, he wandered out of the room. There were
too many people, provincials with foolish faces, foreigners
poring over guide-books; their hideousness besmirched the
everlasting masterpieces, their restlessness troubled the god's
immortal repose. He went into another room and here there was
hardly anyone. Philip sat down wearily. His nerves were on edge.
He could not get the people out of his mind. Sometimes at Lynn's
they affected him in the same way, and he looked at them file
past him with horror; they were so ugly and there was such
meanness in their faces, it was terrifying; their features were
distorted with paltry desires, and you felt they were strange to
any ideas of beauty. They had furtive eyes and weak chins. There
was no wickedness in them, but only pettiness and vulgarity.
Their humour was a low facetiousness. Sometimes he found himself
looking at them to see what animal they resembled (he tried not
to, for it quickly became an obsession,) and he saw in them all
the sheep or the horse or the fox or the goat. Human beings
filled him with disgust.

But presently the influence of the place descended upon him. He
felt quieter. He began to look absently at the tombstones with
which the room was lined. They were the work of Athenian stone
masons of the fourth and fifth centuries before Christ, and they
were very simple, work of no great talent but with the exquisite
spirit of Athens upon them; time had mellowed the marble to the
colour of honey, so that unconsciously one thought of the bees
of Hymettus, and softened their outlines. Some represented a
nude figure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the dead
from those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands with
one who remained behind. On all was the tragic word farewell;
that and nothing more. Their simplicity was infinitely touching.
Friend parted from friend, the son from his mother, and the
restraint made the survivor's grief more poignant. It was so
long, long ago, and century upon century had passed over that
unhappiness; for two thousand years those who wept had been dust
as those they wept for. Yet the woe was alive still, and it
filled Philip's heart so that he felt compassion spring up in
it, and he said:

"Poor things, poor things."

And it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the fat
strangers with their guide-books, and all those mean, common
people who thronged the shop, with their trivial desires and
vulgar cares, were mortal and must die. They too loved and must
part from those they loved, the son from his mother, the wife
from her husband; and perhaps it was more tragic because their
lives were ugly and sordid, and they knew nothing that gave
beauty to the world. There was one stone which was very
beautiful, a bas relief of two young men holding each other's
hand; and the reticence of line, the simplicity, made one like
to think that the sculptor here had been touched with a genuine
emotion. It was an exquisite memorial to that than which the
world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and
as Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He
thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first
they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference,
till nothing held them together but habit and old memories. It
was one of the queer things of life that you saw a person every
day for months and were so intimate with him that you could not
imagine existence without him; then separation came, and
everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had
seemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you
did not even miss him. Philip thought of those early days in
Heidelberg when Hayward, capable of great things, had been full
of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little,
achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure. Now he
was dead. His death had been as futile as his life. He died
ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even at
the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if
he had never lived.

Philip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at
all. It all seemed inane. It was the same with Cronshaw: it was
quite unimportant that he had lived; he was dead and forgotten,
his book of poems sold in remainder by second-hand booksellers;
his life seemed to have served nothing except to give a pushing
journalist occasion to write an article in a review. And Philip
cried out in his soul:

"What is the use of it?"

The effort was so incommensurate with the result. The bright
hopes of youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of
disillusionment. Pain and disease and unhappiness weighed down
the scale so heavily. What did it all mean? He thought of his
own life, the high hopes with which he had entered upon it, the
limitations which his body forced upon him, his friendlessness,
and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth. He did
not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to
do, and what a cropper he had come! Other men, with no more
advantages than he, succeeded, and others again, with many more,
failed. It seemed pure chance. The rain fell alike upon the just
and upon the unjust, and for nothing was there a why and a
wherefore.

Thinking of Cronshaw, Philip remembered the Persian rug which he
had given him, telling him that it offered an answer to his
question upon the meaning of life; and suddenly the answer
occurred to him: he chuckled: now that he had it, it was like
one of the puzzles which you worry over till you are shown the
solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have escaped
you. The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning. On the earth,
satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had
arisen under the influence of conditions which were part of the
planet's history; and as there had been a beginning of life upon
it so, under the influence of other conditions, there would be
an end: man, no more significant than other forms of life, had
come not as the climax of creation but as a physical reaction to
the environment. Philip remembered the story of the Eastern King
who, desiring to know the history of man, was brought by a sage
five hundred volumes; busy with affairs of state, he bade him go
and condense it; in twenty years the sage returned and his
history now was in no more than fifty volumes, but the King, too
old then to read so many ponderous tomes, bade him go and
shorten it once more; twenty years passed again and the sage,
old and gray, brought a single book in which was the knowledge
the King had sought; but the King lay on his death-bed, and he
had no time to read even that; and then the sage gave him the
history of man in a single line; it was this: he was born, he
suffered, and he died. There was no meaning in life, and man by
living served no end. It was immaterial whether he was born or
not born, whether he lived or ceased to live. Life was
insignificant and death without consequence. Philip exulted, as
he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God
was lifted from his shoulders: it seemed to him that the last
burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first
time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to
power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate
which had seemed to persecute him; for, if life was meaningless,
the world was robbed of its cruelty. What he did or left undone
did not matter. Failure was unimportant and success amounted to
nothing. He was the most inconsiderate creature in that swarming
mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of
the earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from
chaos the secret of its nothingness. Thoughts came tumbling over
one another in Philip's eager fancy, and he took long breaths of
joyous satisfaction. He felt inclined to leap and sing. He had
not been so happy for months.

"Oh, life," he cried in his heart, "Oh life, where is thy
sting?"

For the same uprush of fancy which had shown him with all the
force of mathematical demonstration that life had no meaning,
brought with it another idea; and that was why Cronshaw, he
imagined, had given him the Persian rug. As the weaver
elaborated his pattern for no end but the pleasure of his
aesthetic sense, so might a man live his life, or if one was
forced to believe that his actions were outside his choosing, so
might a man look at his life, that it made a pattern. There was
as little need to do this as there was use. It was merely
something he did for his own pleasure. Out of the manifold
events of his life, his deeds, his feelings, his thoughts, he
might make a design, regular, elaborate, complicated, or
beautiful; and though it might be no more than an illusion that
he had the power of selection, though it might be no more than
a fantastic legerdemain in which appearances were interwoven
with moonbeams, that did not matter: it seemed, and so to him it
was. In the vast warp of life (a river arising from no spring
and flowing endlessly to no sea), with the background to his
fancies that there was no meaning and that nothing was
important, a man might get a personal satisfaction in selecting
the various strands that worked out the pattern. There was one
pattern, the most obvious, perfect, and beautiful, in which a
man was born, grew to manhood, married, produced children,
toiled for his bread, and died; but there were others, intricate
and wonderful, in which happiness did not enter and in which
success was not attempted; and in them might be discovered a
more troubling grace. Some lives, and Hayward's was among them,
the blind indifference of chance cut off while the design was
still imperfect; and then the solace was comfortable that it did
not matter; other lives, such as Cronshaw's, offered a pattern
which was difficult to follow, the point of view had to be
shifted and old standards had to be altered before one could
understand that such a life was its own justification. Philip
thought that in throwing over the desire for happiness he was
casting aside the last of his illusions. His life had seemed
horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he
seemed to gather strength as he realised that it might be
measured by something else. Happiness mattered as little as
pain. They came in, both of them, as all the other details of
his life came in, to the elaboration of the design. He seemed
for an instant to stand above the accidents of his existence,
and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had
done before. Whatever happened to him now would be one more
motive to add to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end
approached he would rejoice in its completion. It would be a
work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because he
alone knew of its existence, and with his death it would at once
cease to be.

Philip was happy.


CHAPTER CVII

MR. SAMPSON, the buyer, took a fancy to Philip. Mr. Sampson was
very dashing, and the girls in his department said they would
not be surprised if he married one of the rich customers. He
lived out of town and often impressed the assistants by putting
on his evening clothes in the office. Sometimes he would be seen
by those on sweeping duty coming in next morning still dressed,
and they would wink gravely to one another while he went into
his office and changed into a frock coat. On these occasions,
having slipped out for a hurried breakfast, he also would wink
at Philip as he walked up the stairs on his way back and rub his
hands.

"What a night! What a night!" he said. "My word!"

He told Philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and
Philip were the only fellows who knew what life was. Having said
this, he changed his manner suddenly, called Philip Mr. Carey
instead of old boy, assumed the importance due to his position
as buyer, and put Philip back into his place of shop-walker.

Lynn and Sedley received fashion papers from Paris once a week
and adapted the costumes illustrated in them to the needs of
their customers. Their clientele was peculiar. The most
substantial part consisted of women from the smaller
manufacturing towns, who were too elegant to have their frocks
made locally and not sufficiently acquainted with London to
discover good dressmakers within their means. Beside these,
incongruously, was a large number of music-hall artistes. This
was a connection that Mr. Sampson had worked up for himself and
took great pride in. They had begun by getting their
stage-costumes at Lynn's, and he had induced many of them to get
their other clothes there as well.

"As good as Paquin and half the price," he said.

He had a persuasive, hail-fellow well-met air with him which
appealed to customers of this sort, and they said to one
another:

"What's the good of throwing money away when you can get a coat
and skirt at Lynn's that nobody knows don't come from Paris?"

Mr. Sampson was very proud of his friendship with the popular
favourites whose frocks he made, and when he went out to dinner
at two o'clock on Sunday with Miss Victoria Virgo--"she was
wearing that powder blue we made her and I lay she didn't let on
it come from us, I 'ad to tell her meself that if I 'adn't
designed it with my own 'ands I'd have said it must come from
Paquin"--at her beautiful house in Tulse Hill, he regaled the
department next day with abundant details. Philip had never paid
much attention to women's clothes, but in course of time he
began, a little amused at himself, to take a technical interest
in them. He had an eye for colour which was more highly trained
than that of anyone in the department, and he had kept from his
student days in Paris some knowledge of line. Mr. Sampson, an
ignorant man conscious of his incompetence, but with a
shrewdness that enabled him to combine other people's
suggestions, constantly asked the opinion of the assistants in
his department in making up new designs; and he had the
quickness to see that Philip's criticisms were valuable. But he
was very jealous, and would never allow that he took anyone's
advice. When he had altered some drawing in accordance with
Philip's suggestion, he always finished up by saying:

"Well, it comes round to my own idea in the end."

One day, when Philip had been at the shop for five months, Miss
Alice Antonia, the well-known serio-comic, came in and asked to
see Mr. Sampson. She was a large woman, with flaxen hair, and a
boldly painted face, a metallic voice, and the breezy manner of
a comedienne accustomed to be on friendly terms with the gallery
boys of provincial music-halls. She had a new song and wished
Mr. Sampson to design a costume for her.

"I want something striking," she said. "I don't want any old
thing you know. I want something different from what anybody
else has."

Mr. Sampson, bland and familiar, said he was quite certain they
could get her the very thing she required. He showed her
sketches.

"I know there's nothing here that would do, but I just want to
show you the kind of thing I would suggest."

"Oh no, that's not the sort of thing at all," she said, as she
glanced at them impatiently. "What I want is something that'll
just hit 'em in the jaw and make their front teeth rattle."

"Yes, I quite understand, Miss Antonia," said the buyer, with a
bland smile, but his eyes grew blank and stupid.

"I expect I shall 'ave to pop over to Paris for it in the end."

"Oh, I think we can give you satisfaction, Miss Antonia. What
you can get in Paris you can get here."

When she had swept out of the department Mr. Sampson, a little
worried, discussed the matter with Mrs. Hodges.

"She's a caution and no mistake," said Mrs. Hodges.

"Alice, where art thou?" remarked the buyer, irritably, and
thought he had scored a point against her.

His ideas of music-hall costumes had never gone beyond short
skirts, a swirl of lace, and glittering sequins; but Miss
Antonia had expressed herself on that subject in no uncertain
terms.

"Oh, my aunt!" she said.

And the invocation was uttered in such a tone as to indicate a
rooted antipathy to anything so commonplace, even if she had not
added that sequins gave her the sick. Mr. Sampson `got out' one
or two ideas, but Mrs. Hodges told him frankly she did not think
they would do. It was she who gave Philip the suggestion:

"Can you draw, Phil? Why don't you try your 'and and see what
you can do?"

Philip bought a cheap box of water colours, and in the evening
while Bell, the noisy lad of sixteen, whistling three notes,
busied himself with his stamps, he made one or two sketches. He
remembered some of the costumes he had seen in Paris, and he
adapted one of them, getting his effect from a combination of
violent, unusual colours. The result amused him and next morning
he showed it to Mrs. Hodges. She was somewhat astonished, but
took it at once to the buyer.

"It's unusual," he said, "there's no denying that."

It puzzled him, and at the same time his trained eye saw that it
would make up admirably. To save his face he began making
suggestions for altering it, but Mrs. Hodges, with more sense,
advised him to show it to Miss Antonia as it was.

"It's neck or nothing with her, and she may take a fancy to it."

"It's a good deal more nothing than neck," said Mr. Sampson,
looking at the _decolletage_. "He can draw, can't he? Fancy
'im keeping it dark all this time."

When Miss Antonia was announced, the buyer placed the design on
the table in such a position that it must catch her eye the
moment she was shown into his office. She pounced on it at once.

"What's that?" she said. "Why can't I 'ave that?"

"That's just an idea we got out for you," said Mr. Sampson
casually. "D'you like it?"

"Do I like it!" she said. "Give me 'alf a pint with a little
drop of gin in it."

"Ah, you see, you don't have to go to Paris. You've only got to
say what you want and there you are."

The work was put in hand at once, and Philip felt quite a thrill
of satisfaction when he saw the costume completed. The buyer and
Mrs. Hodges took all the credit of it; but he did not care, and
when he went with them to the Tivoli to see Miss Antonia wear it
for the first time he was filled with elation. In answer to her
questions he at last told Mrs. Hodges how he had learnt to
draw--fearing that the people he lived with would think he
wanted to put on airs, he had always taken the greatest care to
say nothing about his past occupations--and she repeated the
information to Mr. Sampson. The buyer said nothing to him on the
subject, but began to treat him a little more deferentially and
presently gave him designs to do for two of the country
customers. They met with satisfaction. Then he began to speak to
his clients of a "clever young feller, Paris art-student, you
know," who worked for him; and soon Philip, ensconced behind a
screen, in his shirt sleeves, was drawing from morning till
night. Sometimes he was so busy that he had to dine at three
with the `stragglers.' He liked it, because there were few of
them and they were all too tired to talk; the food also was
better, for it consisted of what was left over from the buyers'
table. Philip's rise from shop-walker to designer of costumes
had a great effect on the department. He realised that he was an
object of envy. Harris, the assistant with the queer-shaped
head, who was the first person he had known at the shop and had
attached himself to Philip, could not conceal his bitterness.

"Some people 'ave all the luck," he said. "You'll be a buyer
yourself one of these days, and we shall all be calling you
sir."

He told Philip that he should demand higher wages, for
notwithstanding the difficult work he was now engaged in, he
received no more than the six shillings a week with which he
started. But it was a ticklish matter to ask for a rise. The
manager had a sardonic way of dealing with such applicants.

"Think you're worth more, do you? How much d'you think you're
worth, eh?"

The assistant, with his heart in his mouth, would suggest that
he thought he ought to have another two shillings a week.

"Oh, very well, if you think you're worth it. You can 'ave it."
Then he paused and sometimes, with a steely eye, added: "And you
can 'ave your notice too."

It was no use then to withdraw your request, you had to go. The
manager's idea was that assistants who were dissatisfied did not
work properly, and if they were not worth a rise it was better
to sack them at once. The result was that they never asked for
one unless they were prepared to leave. Philip hesitated. He was
a little suspicious of the men in his room who told him that the
buyer could not do without him. They were decent fellows, but
their sense of humour was primitive, and it would have seemed
funny to them if they had persuaded Philip to ask for more wages
and he were sacked. He could not forget the mortification he had
suffered in looking for work, he did not wish to expose himself
to that again, and he knew there was small chance of his getting
elsewhere a post as designer: there were hundreds of people
about who could draw as well as he. But he wanted money very
badly; his clothes were worn out, and the heavy carpets rotted
his socks and boots; he had almost persuaded himself to take the
venturesome step when one morning, passing up from breakfast in
the basement through the passage that led to the manager's
office, he saw a queue of men waiting in answer to an
advertisement. There were about a hundred of them, and whichever
was engaged would be offered his keep and the same six shillings
a week that Philip had. He saw some of them cast envious glances
at him because he had employment. It made him shudder. He dared
not risk it.


CHAPTER CVIII

THE winter passed. Now and then Philip went to the hospital,
slinking in when it was late and there was little chance of
meeting anyone he knew, to see whether there were letters for
him. At Easter he received one from his uncle. He was surprised
to hear from him, for the Vicar of Blackstable had never written
him more than half a dozen letters in his whole life, and they
were on business matters.


_Dear Philip,

If you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to come
down here I shall be pleased to see you. I was very ill with my
bronchitis in the winter and Doctor Wigram never expected me to
pull through. I have a wonderful constitution and I made, thank
God, a marvellous recovery.
                                            Yours affectionately,
                                               William Carey._


The letter made Philip angry. How did his uncle think he was
living? He did not even trouble to inquire. He might have
starved for all the old man cared. But as he walked home
something struck him; he stopped under a lamp-post and read the
letter again; the handwriting had no longer the business-like
firmness which had characterised it; it was larger and wavering:
perhaps the illness had shaken him more than he was willing to
confess, and he sought in that formal note to express a yearning
to see the only relation he had in the world. Philip wrote back
that he could come down to Blackstable for a fortnight in July.
The invitation was convenient, for he had not known what to do,
with his brief holiday. The Athelnys went hopping in September,
but he could not then be spared, since during that month the
autumn models were prepared. The rule of Lynn's was that
everyone must take a fortnight whether he wanted it or not; and
during that time, if he had nowhere to go, the assistant might
sleep in his room, but he was not allowed food. A number had no
friends within reasonable distance of London, and to these the
holiday was an awkward interval when they had to provide food
out of their small wages and, with the whole day on their hands,
had nothing to spend. Philip had not been out of London since
his visit to Brighton with Mildred, now two years before, and he
longed for fresh air and the silence of the sea. He thought of
it with such a passionate desire, all through May and June,
that, when at length the time came for him to go, he was
listless.

On his last evening, when he talked with the buyer of one or two
jobs he had to leave over, Mr. Sampson suddenly said to him:

"What wages have you been getting?"

"Six shillings."

"I don't think it's enough. I'll see that you're put up to
twelve when you come back."

"Thank you very much," smiled Philip. "I'm beginning to want
some new clothes badly."

"If you stick to your work and don't go larking about with the
girls like what some of them do, I'll look after you, Carey.
Mind you, you've got a lot to learn, but you're promising, I'll
say that for you, you're promising, and I'll see that you get a
pound a week as soon as you deserve it."

Philip wondered how long he would have to wait for that. Two
years?

He was startled at the change in his uncle. When last he had
seen him he was a stout man, who held himself upright,
clean-shaven, with a round, sensual face; but he had fallen in
strangely, his skin was yellow; there were great bags under the
eyes, and he was bent and old. He had grown a beard during his
last illness, and he walked very slowly.

"I 'm not at my best today," he said when Philip, having just
arrived, was sitting with him in the dining-room. "The heat
upsets me."

Philip, asking after the affairs of the parish, looked at him
and wondered how much longer he could last. A hot summer would
finish him; Philip noticed how thin his hands were; they
trembled. It meant so much to Philip. If he died that summer he
could go back to the hospital at the beginning of the winter
session; his heart leaped at the thought of returning no more to
Lynn's. At dinner the Vicar sat humped up on his chair, and the
housekeeper who had been with him since his wife's death said:

"Shall Mr. Philip carve, sir?"

The old man, who had been about to do so from disinclination to
confess his weakness, seemed glad at the first suggestion to
relinquish the attempt.

"You've got a very good appetite," said Philip.

"Oh yes, I always eat well. But I'm thinner than when you were
here last. I'm glad to be thinner, I didn't like being so fat.
Dr. Wigram thinks I'm all the better for being thinner than I
was."

When dinner was over the housekeeper brought him some medicine.

"Show the prescription to Master Philip," he said. "He's a
doctor too. I'd like him to see that he thinks it's all right.
I told Dr. Wigram that now you're studying to be a doctor he
ought to make a reduction in his charges. It's dreadful the
bills I've had to pay. He came every day for two months, and he
charges five shillings a visit. It's a lot of money, isn't it?
He comes twice a week still. I'm going to tell him he needn't
come any more. I'll send for him if I want him."

He looked at Philip eagerly while he read the prescriptions.
They were narcotics. There were two of them, and one was a
medicine which the Vicar explained he was to use only if his
neuritis grew unendurable.

"I'm very careful," he said. "I don't want to get into the opium
habit."

He did not mention his nephew's affairs. Philip fancied that it
was by way of precaution, in case he asked for money, that his
uncle kept dwelling on the financial calls upon him. He had
spent so much on the doctor and so much more on the chemist,
while he was ill they had had to have a fire every day in his
bed-room, and now on Sunday he needed a carriage to go to church
in the evening as well as in the morning. Philip felt angrily
inclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to
borrow from him, but he held his tongue. It seemed to him that
everything had left the old man now but two things, pleasure in
his food and a grasping desire for money. It was a hideous old
age.

In the afternoon Dr. Wigram came, and after the visit Philip
walked with him to the garden gate.

"How d'you think he is?" said Philip.

Dr. Wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right,
and he never hazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. He
had practised at Blackstable for five-and-thirty years. He had
the reputation of being very safe, and many of his patients
thought it much better that a doctor should be safe than clever.
There was a new man at Blackstable--he had been settled there
for ten years, but they still looked upon him as an
interloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not
much practice among the better people, because no one really
knew anything about him.

"Oh, he's as well as can be expected," said Dr. Wigram in answer
to Philip's inquiry.

"Has he got anything seriously the matter with him?"

"Well, Philip, your uncle is no longer a young man," said the
doctor with a cautious little smile, which suggested that after
all the Vicar of Blackstable was not an old man either.

"He seems to think his heart's in a bad way."

"I'm not satisfied with his heart," hazarded the doctor, "I
think he should be careful, very careful."

On the tip of Philip's tongue was the question: how much longer
can he live? He was afraid it would shock. In these matters a
periphrase was demanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked
another question instead, it flashed through him that the doctor
must be accustomed to the impatience of a sick man's relatives.
He must see through their sympathetic expressions. Philip, with
a faint smile at his own hypocrisy, cast down his eyes.

"I suppose he's in no immediate danger?"

This was the kind of question the doctor hated. If you said a
patient couldn't live another month the family prepared itself
for a bereavement, and if then the patient lived on they visited
the medical attendant with the resentment they felt at having
tormented themselves before it was necessary. On the other hand,
if you said the patient might live a year and he died in a week
the family said you did not know your business. They thought of
all the affection they would have lavished on the defunct if
they had known the end was so near. Dr. Wigram made the gesture
of washing his hands.

"I don't think there's any grave risk so long as he--remains as
he is," he ventured at last. "But on the other hand, we mustn't
forget that he's no longer a young man, and well, the machine is
wearing out. If he gets over the hot weather I don't see why he
shouldn't get on very comfortably till the winter, and then if
the winter does not bother him too much, well, I don't see why
anything should happen."

Philip went back to the dining-room where his uncle was sitting.
With his skull-cap and a crochet shawl over his shoulders he
looked grotesque. His eyes had been fixed on the door, and they
rested on Philip's face as he entered. Philip saw that his uncle
had been waiting anxiously for his return.

"Well, what did he say about me?"

Philip understood suddenly that the old man was frightened of
dying. It made Philip a little ashamed, so that he looked away
involuntarily. He was always embarrassed by the weakness of
human nature.

"He says he thinks you're much better," said Philip.

A gleam of delight came into his uncle's eyes.

"I've got a wonderful constitution," he said. "What else did he
say?" he added suspiciously.

Philip smiled.

"He said that if you take care of yourself there's no reason why
you shouldn't live to be a hundred."

"I don't know that I can expect to do that, but I don't see why
I shouldn't see eighty. My mother lived till she was
eighty-four."

There was a little table by the side of Mr. Carey's chair, and
on it were a Bible and the large volume of the Common Prayer
from which for so many years he had been accustomed to read to
his household. He stretched out now his shaking hand and took
his Bible.

"Those old patriarchs lived to a jolly good old age, didn't
they?" he said, with a queer little laugh in which Philip read
a sort of timid appeal.

The old man clung to life. Yet he believed implicitly all that
his religion taught him. He had no doubt in the immortality of
the soul, and he felt that he had conducted himself well enough,
according to his capacities, to make it very likely that he
would go to heaven. In his long career to how many dying persons
must he have administered the consolations of religion! Perhaps
he was like the doctor who could get no benefit from his own
prescriptions. Philip was puzzled and shocked by that eager
cleaving to the earth. He wondered what nameless horror was at
the back of the old man's mind. He would have liked to probe
into his soul so that he might see in its nakedness the dreadful
dismay of the unknown which he suspected.

The fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London. He
passed a sweltering August behind his screen in the costumes
department, drawing in his shirt sleeves. The assistants in
relays went for their holidays. In the evening Philip generally
went into Hyde Park and listened to the band. Growing more
accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind,
recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity.
His whole desire now was set on his uncle's death. He kept on
dreaming the same dream: a telegram was handed to him one
morning, early, which announced the Vicar's sudden demise, and
freedom was in his grasp. When he awoke and found it was nothing
but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. He occupied himself,
now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time, with
elaborate plans for the future. In these he passed rapidly over
the year which he must spend before it was possible for him to
be qualified and dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his
heart was set. He read books about that country, which he
borrowed from the free library, and already he knew from
photographs exactly what each city looked like. He saw himself
lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned the
Gaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and
sat in churches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he
felt the mysterious painter held for him. Athelny entered into
his humour, and on Sunday afternoons they made out elaborate
itineraries so that Philip should miss nothing that was
noteworthy. To cheat his impatience Philip began to teach
himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in Harrington
Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercises
and puzzling out with an English translation by his side the
magnificent phrases of Don Quixote. Athelny gave him a lesson
once a week, and Philip learned a few sentences to help him on
his journey. Mrs. Athelny laughed at them.

"You two and your Spanish!" she said. "Why don't you do
something useful?"

But Sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at
Christmas, stood by sometimes and listened in her grave way
while her father and Philip exchanged remarks in a language she
did not understand. She thought her father the most wonderful
man who had ever existed, and she expressed her opinion of
Philip only through her father's commendations.

"Father thinks a rare lot of your Uncle Philip," she remarked to
her brothers and sisters.

Thorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the Arethusa,
and Athelny regaled his family with magnificent descriptions of
the appearance the lad would make when he came back in uniform
for his holidays. As soon as Sally was seventeen she was to be
apprenticed to a dressmaker. Athelny in his rhetorical way
talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who were leaving
the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that the
nest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it.
A shakedown and a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart
of a father would never be closed to the troubles of his
children.

"You do talk, Athelny," said his wife. "I don't know what
trouble they're likely to get into so long as they're steady. So
long as you're honest and not afraid of work you'll never be out
of a job, that's what I think, and I can tell you I shan't be
sorry when I see the last of them earning their own living."

Child-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to
tell on Mrs. Athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the
evening so that she had to sit down and rest herself. Her ideal
of happiness was to have a girl to do the rough work so that she
need not herself get up before seven. Athelny waved his
beautiful white hand.

"Ah, my Betty, we've deserved well of the state, you and I.
We've reared nine healthy children, and the boys shall serve
their king; the girls shall cook and sew and in their turn breed
healthy children." He turned to Sally, and to comfort her for
the anti-climax of the contrast added grandiloquently: "They
also serve who only stand and wait."

Athelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory
theories he vehemently believed in, and he stated now:

"In a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and I,
Betty."

"Oh, don't talk to me about your socialists, I've got no
patience with them," she cried. "It only means that another lot
of lazy loafers will make a good thing out of the working
classes. My motto is, leave me alone; I don't want anyone
interfering with me; I'll make the best of a bad job, and the
devil take the hindmost."

"D'you call life a bad job?" said Athelny. "Never! We've had our
ups and downs, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor,
but it's been worth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say when
I look round at my children."

"You do talk, Athelny," she said, looking at him, not with anger
but with scornful calm. "You've had the pleasant part of the
children, I've had the bearing of them, and the bearing with
them. I don't say that I'm not fond of them, now they're there,
but if I had my time over again I'd remain single. Why, if I'd
remained single I might have a little shop by now, and four or
five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough
work. Oh, I wouldn't go over my life again, not for something."

Philip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more
than unending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be
accepted in the same spirit as one accepts the changes of the
seasons. Fury seized him because it all seemed useless. He could
not reconcile himself to the belief that life had no meaning and
yet everything he saw, all his thoughts, added to the force of
his conviction. But though fury seized him it was a joyful fury.
life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, and he faced it
with a strange sense of power.


CHAPTER CIX

THE autumn passed into winter. Philip had left his address with
Mrs. Foster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she might
communicate with him, but still went once a week to the hospital
on the chance of there being a letter. One evening he saw his
name on an envelope in a handwriting he had hoped never to see
again. It gave him a queer feeling. For a little while he could
not bring himself to take it. It brought back a host of hateful
memories. But at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open
the envelope.

                                        7 William Street,
                                        Fitzroy Square.

_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."

She glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked
away.

"You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you? I always
thought it funny like how you could see so much in another man's
child."

When they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for
the medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby
room he made her take a dose. Then they sat together till it was
time for Philip to go back to Harrington Street. He was
hideously bored.

Philip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had
prescribed and followed his directions, and soon the results
were so apparent that she gained the greatest confidence in
Philip's skill. As she grew better she grew less despondent. She
talked more freely.

"As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right," she said.
"I've had my lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more
racketing about for yours truly."

Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work.
She told him not to worry, she would find something to do as
soon as she wanted it; she had several strings to her bow; it
was all the better not to do anything for a week or two. He
could not deny this, but at the end of that time he became more
insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more cheerful now,
and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories of
the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work
at some eating-house; what they said and what she answered.
Nothing definite was fixed, but she was sure to settle something
at the beginning of the following week: there was no use
hurrying, and it would be a mistake to take something
unsuitable.

"It's absurd to talk like that," he said impatiently. "You must
take anything you can get. I can't help you, and your money
won't last for ever."

"Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and chance it."

He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first
visit, and she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized
him. He remembered some of the things she had said. He put two
and two together. He wondered whether she 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.


CHAPTER 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 arm-chair, 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 bed-room 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 chimney-piece 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 his
symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of him. He broke
off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said:

"Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you
were."

When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy
if he was not certain that Mrs. Foster was within earshot; she
knew exactly what to do with him if anything happened. Philip,
seeing that she was tired and that her eyes were heavy from want
of sleep, suggested that he was working her too hard.

"Oh, nonsense," said the Vicar, "she's as strong as a horse."
And when next she came in to give him his medicine he said to
her:

"Master Philip says you've got too much to do, Mrs. Foster. You
like looking after me, don't you?"

"Oh, I don't mind, sir. I want to do everything I can."

Presently the medicine took effect and Mr. Carey fell asleep.
Philip went into the kitchen and asked Mrs. Foster whether she
could stand the work. He saw that for some months she had had
little peace.

"Well, sir, what can I do?" she answered. "The poor old
gentleman's so dependent on me, and, although he is troublesome
sometimes, you can't help liking him, can you? I've been here so
many years now, I don't know what I shall do when he comes to
go."

Philip saw that she was really fond of the old man. She washed
and dressed him, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen
times in the night; for she slept in the next room to his and
whenever he awoke he tinkled his little bell till she came in.
He might die at any moment, but he might live for months. It was
wonderful that she should look after a stranger with such
patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that she
should be alone in the world to care for him.

It seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had
preached all his life was now of no more than formal importance
to him: every Sunday the curate came and administered to him
Holy Communion, and he often read his Bible; but it was clear
that he looked upon death with horror. He believed that it was
the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter
upon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair and
having given up the hope of ever getting out into the open
again, like a child in the hands of a woman to whom he paid
wages, he clung to the world he knew.

In Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was
aware that his uncle would never give any but a conventional
answer: he wondered whether at the very end, now that the
machine was painfully wearing itself out, the clergyman still
believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of his soul, not
allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent, was
the conviction that there was no God and after this life
nothing.

On the evening of Boxing Day Philip sat in the dining-room with
his uncle. He had to start very early next morning in order to
get to the shop by nine, and he was to say good-night to Mr.
Carey then. The Vicar of Blackstable was dozing and Philip,
lying on the sofa by the window, let his book fall on his knees
and looked idly round the room. He asked himself how much the
furniture would fetch. He had walked round the house and looked
at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a few
pieces of china which might go for a decent price and Philip
wondered if it would be worth while to take them up to London;
but the furniture was of the Victorian order, of mahogany, solid
and ugly; it would go for nothing at an auction. There were
three or four thousand books, but everyone knew how badly they
sold, and it was not probable that they would fetch more than a
hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his uncle would
leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the
least sum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the
hospital, take his degree, and live during the time he wished to
spend on hospital appointments. He looked at the old man,
sleeping restlessly: there was no humanity left in that
shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer animal. Philip
thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life. He had
thought it each evening when Mrs. Foster prepared for his uncle
the medicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two
bottles: one contained a drug which he took regularly, and the
other an opiate if the pain grew unendurable. This was poured
out for him and left by his bed-side. He generally took it at
three or four in the morning. It would be a simple thing to
double the dose; he would die in the night, and no one would
suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him to
die. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he
thought of the money he wanted so badly. A few more months of
that wretched life could matter nothing to the old man, but the
few more months meant everything to him: he was getting to the
end of his endurance, and when he thought of going back to work
in the morning he shuddered with horror. His heart beat quickly
at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made an effort
to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so
desperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had
never liked him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to
his wife who adored him, indifferent to the boy who had been put
in his charge; he was not a cruel man, but a stupid, hard man,
eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be easy, desperately
easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it would be
no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he
had done. Though he had told himself so often that regret was
futile, there were certain things that came back to him
occasionally and worried him. He wished they were not on his
conscience.

His uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked a
little more human then. He was frankly horrified at the idea
that had come to him, it was murder that he was meditating; and
he wondered if other people had such thoughts or whether he was
abnormal and depraved. He supposed he could not have done it
when it came to the point, but there the thought was, constantly
recurring: if he held his hand it was from fear. His uncle
spoke.

"You're not looking forward to my death, Philip?" Philip felt
his heart beat against his chest.

"Good heavens, no."

"That's a good boy. I shouldn't like you to do that. You'll get
a little bit of money when I pass away, but you mustn't look
forward to it. It wouldn't profit you if you did."

He spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his
tone. It sent a pang into Philip's heart. He wondered what
strange insight might have led the old man to surmise what
strange desires were in Philip's mind.

"I hope you'll live for another twenty years," he said.

"Oh, well, I can't expect to do that, but if I take care of
myself I don't see why I shouldn't last another three or four."

He was silent for a while, and Philip found nothing to say.
Then, as if he had been thinking it all over, the old man spoke
again.

"Everyone has the right to live as long as he can."

Philip wanted to distract his mind.

"By the way, I suppose you never hear from Miss Wilkinson now?"

"Yes, I had a letter some time this year. She's married, you
know."

"Really?"

"Yes, she married a widower. I believe they're quite
comfortable."


CHAPTER CXI

NEXT day Philip began work again, but the end which he expected
within a few weeks did not come. The weeks passed into months.
The winter wore away, and in the parks the trees burst into bud
and into leaf. A terrible lassitude settled upon Philip. Time
was passing, though it went with such heavy feet, and he thought
that his youth was going and soon he would have lost it and
nothing would have been accomplished. His work seemed more
aimless now that there was the certainty of his leaving it. He
became skilful in the designing of costumes, and though he had
no inventive faculty acquired quickness in the adaptation of
French fashions to the English market. Sometimes he was not
displeased with his drawings, but they always bungled them in
the execution. He was amused to notice that he suffered from a
lively irritation when his ideas were not adequately carried
out. He had to walk warily. Whenever he suggested something
original Mr. Sampson turned it down: their customers did not
want anything _outre_, it was a very respectable class of
business, and when you had a connection of that sort it wasn't
worth while taking liberties with it. Once or twice he spoke
sharply to Philip; he thought the young man was getting a bit
above himself, because Philip's ideas did not always coincide
with his own.

"You jolly well take care, my fine young fellow, or one of these
days you'll find yourself in the street."

Philip longed to give him a punch on the nose, but he restrained
himself. After all it could not possibly last much longer, and
then he would he done with all these people for ever. Sometimes
in comic desperation he cried out that his uncle must be made of
iron. What a constitution! The ills he suffered from would have
killed any decent person twelve months before. When at last the
news came that the Vicar was dying Philip, who had been thinking
of other things, was taken by surprise. It was in July, and in
another fortnight he was to have gone for his holiday. He
received a letter from Mrs. Foster to say the doctor did not
give Mr. Carey many days to live, and if Philip wished to see
him again he must come at once. Philip went to the buyer and
told him he wanted to leave. Mr. Sampson was a decent fellow,
and when he knew the circumstances made no difficulties. Philip
said good-bye to the people in his department; the reason of his
leaving had spread among them in an exaggerated form, and they
thought he had come into a fortune. Mrs. Hodges had tears in her
eyes when she shook hands with him.

"I suppose we shan't often see you again," she said.

"I'm glad to get away from Lynn's," he answered.

It was strange, but he was actually sorry to leave these people
whom he thought he had loathed, and when he drove away from the
house in Harrington Street it was with no exultation. He had so
anticipated the emotions he would experience on this occasion
that now he felt nothing: he was as unconcerned as though he
were going for a few days' holiday.

"I've got a rotten nature," he said to himself. "I look forward
to things awfully, and then when they come I'm always
disappointed."

He reached Blackstable early in the afternoon. Mrs. Foster met
him at the door, and her face told him that his uncle was not
yet dead.

"He's a little better today," she said. "He's got a wonderful
constitution."

She led him into the bed-room where Mr. Carey lay on his back.
He gave philip a slight smile, in which was a trace of satisfied
cunning at having circumvented his enemy once more.

"I thought it was all up with me yesterday," he said, in an
exhausted voice. "They'd all given me up, hadn't you, Mrs.
Foster?"

"You've got a wonderful constitution, there's no denying that."

"There's life in the old dog yet."

Mrs. Foster said that the Vicar must not talk, it would tire
him; she treated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and
there was something childish in the old man's satisfaction at
having cheated all their expectations. It struck him at once
that Philip had been sent for, and he was amused that he had
been brought on a fool's errand. If he could only avoid another
of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or two;
and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt
as if he were going to die, but he never did. They all talked of
his constitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was.

"Are you going to stay a day or two?" He asked Philip,
pretending to believe he had come down for a holiday.

"I was thinking of it," Philip answered cheerfully.

"A breath of sea-air will do you good."

Presently Dr. Wigram came, and after he had seen the Vicar
talked with Philip. He adopted an appropriate manner.

"I'm afraid it is the end this time, Philip," he said. "It'll be
a great loss to all of us. I've known him for five-and-thirty
years."

"He seems well enough now," said Philip.

"I'm keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. It was
dreadful these last two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen
times."

The doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he
said suddenly to Philip:

"Has Mrs. Foster said anything to you?"

"What d'you mean?"

"They're very superstitious, these people: she's got hold of an
idea that he's got something on his mind, and he can't die till
he gets rid of it; and he can't bring himself to confess it."

Philip did not answer, and the doctor went on.

"Of course it's nonsense. He's led a very good life, he's done
his duty, he's been a good parish priest, and I'm sure we shall
all miss him; he can't have anything to reproach himself with.
I very much doubt whether the next vicar will suit us half so
well."

For several days Mr. Carey continued without change. His
appetite which had been excellent left him, and he could eat
little. Dr. Wigram did not hesitate now to still the pain of the
neuritis which tormented him; and that, with the constant
shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually exhausting him. His
mind remained clear. Philip and Mrs. Foster nursed him between
them. She was so tired by the many months during which she had
been attentive to all his wants that Philip insisted on sitting
up with the patient so that she might have her night's rest. He
passed the long hours in an arm-chair so that he should not
sleep soundly, and read by the light of shaded candles _The
Thousand and One Nights_. He had not read them since he was a
little boy, and they brought back his childhood to him.
Sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night. When
the effects of the opiate wore off Mr. Carey grew restless and
kept him constantly busy.

At last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering
noisily in the trees, he heard his name called. He went up to
the bed. Mr. Carey was lying on his back, with his eyes looking
at the ceiling; he did not turn them on Philip. Philip saw that
sweat was on his forehead, and he took a towel and wiped it.

"Is that you, Philip?" the old man asked.

Philip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed. It
was hoarse and low. So would a man speak if he was cold with
fear.

"Yes, d'you want anything?"

There was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the
ceiling. Then a twitch passed over the face.

"I think I'm going to die," he said.

"Oh, what nonsense!" cried Philip. "You're not going to die for
years."

Two tears were wrung from the old man's eyes. They moved Philip
horribly. His uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in
the affairs of life; and it was dreadful to see them now, for
they signified a terror that was unspeakable.

"Send for Mr. Simmonds," he said. "I want to take the
Communion."

Mr. Simmonds was the curate.

"Now?" asked Philip.

"Soon, or else it'll be too late."

Philip went to awake Mrs. Foster, but it was later than he
thought and she was up already. He told her to send the gardener
with a message, and he went back to his uncle's room.

"Have you sent for Mr. Simmonds?"

"Yes."

There was a silence. Philip sat by the bed-side, and
occasionally wiped the sweating forehead.

"Let me hold your hand, Philip," the old man said at last.

Philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for
comfort in his extremity. Perhaps he had never really loved
anyone in all his days, but now he turned instinctively to a
human being. His hand was wet and cold. It grasped Philip's with
feeble, despairing energy. The old man was fighting with the
fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go through that.
Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God that
allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! He had
never cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every
day for his death; but now he could not overcome the compassion
that filled his heart. What a price it was to pay for being
other than the beasts!

They remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from
Mr. Carey.

"Hasn't he come yet?"

At last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds
was there. He carried a bag in which were his surplice and his
hood. Mrs. Foster brought the communion plate. Mr. Simmonds
shook hands silently with Philip, and then with professional
gravity went to the sick man's side. Philip and the maid went
out of the room.

Philip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the
morning. The birds were singing gaily. The sky was blue, but the
air, salt-laden, was sweet and cool. The roses were in full
bloom. The green of the trees, the green of the lawns, was eager
and brilliant. Philip walked, and as he walked he thought of the
mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom. It gave him a
peculiar emotion. Presently Mrs. Foster came out to him and said
that his uncle wished to see him. The curate was putting his
things back into the black bag. The sick man turned his head a
little and greeted him with a smile. Philip was astonished, for
there was a change in him, an extraordinary change; his eyes had
no longer the terror-stricken look, and the pinching of his face
had gone: he looked happy and serene.

"I'm quite prepared now," he said, and his voice had a different
tone in it. "When the Lord sees fit to call me I am ready to
give my soul into his hands."

Philip did not speak. He could see that his uncle was sincere.
It was almost a miracle. He had taken the body and blood of his
Savior, and they had given him strength so that he no longer
feared the inevitable passage into the night. He knew he was
going to die: he was resigned. He only said one thing more:

"I shall rejoin my dear wife."

It startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous
selfishness his uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to
her humble, devoted love. The curate, deeply moved, went away
and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied him to the door. Mr.
Carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light doze, and
Philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. The morning
wore on, and the old man's breathing grew stertorous. The doctor
came and said he was dying. He was unconscious and he pecked
feebly at the sheets; he was restless and he cried out. Dr.
Wigram gave him a hypodermic injection.

"It can't do any good now, he may die at any moment."

The doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. Philip
saw that it was one o'clock. Dr. Wigram was thinking of his
dinner.

"It's no use your waiting," he said.

"There's nothing I can do," said the doctor.

When he was gone Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the
carpenter, who was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up
a woman to lay out the body.

"You want a little fresh air," she said, "it'll do you good."

The undertaker lived half a mile away. When Philip gave him his
message, he said:

"When did the poor old gentleman die?"

Philip hesitated. It occurred to him that it would seem brutal
to fetch a woman to wash the body while his uncle still lived,
and he wondered why Mrs. Foster had asked him to come. They
would think he was in a great hurry to kill the old man off. He
thought the undertaker looked at him oddly. He repeated the
question. It irritated Philip. It was no business of his.

"When did the Vicar pass away?"

Philip's first impulse was to say that it had just happened, but
then it would seem inexplicable if the sick man lingered for
several hours. He reddened and answered awkwardly.

"Oh, he isn't exactly dead yet."

The undertaker looked at him in perplexity, and he hurried to
explain.

"Mrs. Foster is all alone and she wants a woman there. You
understood, don't you? He may be dead by now."

The undertaker nodded.

"Oh, yes, I see. I'll send someone up at once."

When Philip got back to the vicarage he went up to the bed-room.
Mrs. Foster rose from her chair by the bed-side.

"He's just as he was when you left," she said.

She went down to get herself something to eat, and Philip
watched curiously the process of death. There was nothing human
now in the unconscious being that struggled feebly. Sometimes a
muttered ejaculation issued from the loose mouth. The sun beat
down hotly from a cloudless sky, but the trees in the garden
were pleasant and cool. It was a lovely day. A bluebottle buzzed
against the windowpane. Suddenly there was a loud rattle, it
made Philip start, it was horribly frightening; a movement
passed through the limbs and the old man was dead. The machine
had run down. The bluebottle buzzed, buzzed noisily against the
windowpane.


CHAPTER CXII

JOSIAH GRAVES in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming
but economical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back
to the vicarage with Philip. The will was in his charge, and
with a due sense of the fitness of things he read it to Philip
over an early cup of tea. It was written on half a sheet of
paper and left everything Mr. Carey had to his nephew. There was
the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank, twenty shares in
the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop's brewery, some in the
Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant. They
had been bought under Mr. Graves' direction, and he told Philip
with satisfaction:

"You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want
amusement. You're always safe if you put your money in what the
public thinks necessities."

His words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of
the vulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste
of the elect. Altogether in investments there was about five
hundred pounds; and to that must be added the balance at the
bank and what the furniture would fetch. It was riches to
Philip. He was not happy but infinitely relieved.

Mr. Graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which
must be held as soon as possible, and Philip sat himself down to
go through the papers of the deceased. The Rev. William Carey
had prided himself on never destroying anything, and there were
piles of correspondence dating back for fifty years and bundles
upon bundles of neatly docketed bills. He had kept not only
letters addressed to him, but letters which himself had written.
There was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to his
father in the forties, when as an Oxford undergraduate he had
gone to Germany for the long vacation. Philip read them idly. It
was a different William Carey from the William Carey he had
known, and yet there were traces in the boy which might to an
acute observer have suggested the man. The letters were formal
and a little stilted. He showed himself strenuous to see all
that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasm the
castles of the Rhine. The falls of Schaffhausen made him `offer
reverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the universe,
whose works were wondrous and beautiful,' and he could not help
thinking that they who lived in sight of `this handiwork of
their blessed Maker must be moved by the contemplation to lead
pure and holy lives.' Among some bills Philip found a miniature
which had been painted of William Carey soon after he was
ordained. It represented a thin young curate, with long hair
that fell over his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large
and dreamy, and a pale ascetic face. Philip remembered the
chuckle with which his uncle used to tell of the dozens of
slippers which were worked for him by adoring ladies.

The rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled
through the innumerable correspondence. He glanced at the
address and at the signature, then tore the letter in two and
threw it into the washing-basket by his side. Suddenly he came
upon one signed Helen. He did not know the writing. It was thin,
angular, and old-fashioned. It began: my dear William, and
ended: your affectionate sister. Then it struck him that it was
from his own mother. He had never seen a letter of hers before,
and her handwriting was strange to him. It was about himself.


_My dear William,

Stephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on
the birth of our son and your kind wishes to myself. Thank God
we are both well and I am deeply thankful for the great mercy
which has been shown me. Now that I can hold a Pen I want to
tell you and dear Louisa myself how truly grateful I am to you
both for all your kindness to me now and always since my
marriage. I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Both
Stephen and I wish you to be the boy's godfather, and we hope
that you will consent. I know I am not asking a small thing, for
I am sure you will take the responsibilities of the position
very seriously, but I am especially anxious that you should
undertake this office because you are a clergyman as well as the
boy's uncle. I am very anxious for the boy's welfare and I Pray
God night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and
Christian man. With you to guide him I hope that he will become
a soldier in Christ's Faith and be all the days of his life
God-fearing, humble, and pious.

                                      Your affectionate sister,
                                                   Helen._

Philip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his
face on his hands. It deeply touched and at the same time
surprised him. He was astonished at its religious tone, which
seemed to him neither mawkish nor sentimental. He knew nothing
of his mother, dead now for nearly twenty years, but that she
was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she was simple
and pious. He had never thought of that side of her. He read
again what she said about him, what she expected and thought
about him; he had turned out very differently; he looked at
himself for a moment; perhaps it was better that she was dead.
Then a sudden impulse caused him to tear up the letter; its
tenderness and simplicity made it seem peculiarly private; he
had a queer feeling that there was something indecent in his
reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. He went on with
the Vicar's dreary correspondence.

A few days later he went up to London, and for the first time
for two years entered by day the hall of St. Luke's Hospital. He
went to see the secretary of the Medical School; he was
surprised to see him and asked Philip curiously what he had been
doing. Philip's experiences had given him a certain confidence
in himself and a different outlook upon many things: such a
question would have embarrassed him before; but now he answered
coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented further
inquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in
the curriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as
possible. The first examination he could take was in midwifery
and the diseases of women, and he put his name down to be a
clerk in the ward devoted to feminine ailments; since it was
holiday time there happened to be no difficulty in getting a
post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that duty
during the last week of August and the first two of September.
After this interview Philip walked through the Medical School,
more or less deserted, for the examinations at the end of the
summer session were all over; and he wandered along the terrace
by the river-side. His heart was full. He thought that now he
could begin a new life, and he would put behind him all the
errors, follies, and miseries of the past. The flowing river
suggested that everything passed, was passing always, and
nothing mattered; the future was before him rich with
possibilities.

He went back to Blackstable and busied himself with the settling
up of his uncle's estate. The auction was fixed for the middle
of August, when the presence of visitors for the summer holidays
would make it possible to get better prices. Catalogues were
made out and sent to the various dealers in second-hand books at
Tercanbury, Maidstone, and Ashford.

One afternoon Philip took it into his head to go over to
Tercanbury and see his old school. He had not been there since
the day when, with relief in his heart, he had left it with the
feeling that thenceforward he was his own master. It was strange
to wander through the narrow streets of Tercanbury which he had
known so well for so many years. He looked at the old shops,
still there, still selling the same things; the booksellers with
school-books, pious works, and the latest novels in one window
and photographs of the Cathedral and of the city in the other;
the games shop, with its cricket bats, fishing tackle, tennis
rackets, and footballs; the tailor from whom he had got clothes
all through his boyhood; and the fishmonger where his uncle
whenever he came to Tercanbury bought fish. He wandered along
the sordid street in which, behind a high wall, lay the red
brick house which was the preparatory school. Further on was the
gateway that led into King's School, and he stood in the
quadrangle round which were the various buildings. It was just
four and the boys were hurrying out of school. He saw the
masters in their gowns and mortar-boards, and they were strange
to him. It was more than ten years since he had left and many
changes had taken place. He saw the headmaster; he walked slowly
down from the schoolhouse to his own, talking to a big boy who
Philip supposed was in the sixth; he was little changed, tall,
cadaverous, romantic as Philip remembered him, with the same
wild eyes; but the black beard was streaked with gray now and
the dark, sallow face was more deeply lined. Philip had an
impulse to go up and speak to him, but he was afraid he would
have forgotten him, and he hated the thought of explaining who
he was.

Boys lingered talking to one another, and presently some who had
hurried to change came out to play fives; others straggled out
in twos and threes and went out of the gateway, Philip knew they
were going up to the cricket ground; others again went into the
precincts to bat at the nets. Philip stood among them a
stranger; one or two gave him an indifferent glance; but
visitors, attracted by the Norman staircase, were not rare and
excited little attention. Philip looked at them curiously. He
thought with melancholy of the distance that separated him from
them, and he thought bitterly how much he had wanted to do and
how little done. It seemed to him that all those years, vanished
beyond recall, had been utterly wasted. The boys, fresh and
buoyant, were doing the same things that he had done, it seemed
that not a day had passed since he left the school, and yet in
that place where at least by name he had known everybody now he
knew not a soul. In a few years these too, others taking their
place, would stand alien as he stood; but the reflection brought
him no solace; it merely impressed upon him the futility of
human existence. Each generation repeated the trivial round. He
wondered what had become of the boys who were his companions:
they were nearly thirty now; some would be dead, but others were
married and had children; they were soldiers and parsons,
doctors, lawyers; they were staid men who were beginning to put
youth behind them. Had any of them  made such a hash of life as
he? He thought of the boy he had been devoted to; it was funny,
he could not recall his name; he remembered exactly what he
looked like, he had been his greatest friend; but his name would
not come back to him. He looked back with amusement on the
jealous emotions he had suffered on his account. It was
irritating not to recollect his name. He longed to be a boy
again, like those he saw sauntering through the quadrangle, so
that, avoiding his mistakes, he might start fresh and make
something more out of life. He felt an intolerable loneliness.
He almost regretted the penury which he had suffered during the
last two years, since the desperate struggle merely to keep body
and soul together had deadened the pain of living. _In the
sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy daily bread_: it was not
a curse upon mankind, but the balm which reconciled it to
existence.

But Philip was impatient with himself; he called to mind his
idea of the pattern of life: the unhappiness he had suffered was
no more than part of a decoration which was elaborate and
beautiful; he told himself strenuously that he must accept with
gaiety everything, dreariness and excitement, pleasure and pain,
because it added to the richness of the design. He sought for
beauty consciously, and he remembered how even as a boy he had
taken pleasure in the Gothic cathedral as one saw it from the
precincts; he went there and looked at the massive pile, gray
under the cloudy sky, with the central tower that rose like the
praise of men to their God; but the boys were batting at the
nets, and they were lissom and strong and active; he could not
help hearing their shouts and laughter. The cry of youth was
insistent, and he saw the beautiful thing before him only with
his eyes.


CHAPTER CXIII

AT the beginning of the last week in August Philip entered upon
his duties in the `district.' They were arduous, for he had to
attend on an average three confinements a day. The patient had
obtained a `card' from the hospital some time before; and when
her time came it was taken to the porter by a messenger,
generally a little girl, who was then sent across the road to
the house in which Philip lodged. At night the porter, who had
a latch-key, himself came over and awoke Philip. It was
mysterious then to get up in the darkness and walk through the
deserted streets of the South Side. At those hours it was
generally the husband who brought the card. If there had been a
number of babies before he took it for the most part with surly
indifference, but if newly married he was nervous and then
sometimes strove to allay his anxiety by getting drunk. Often
there was a mile or more to walk, during which Philip and the
messenger discussed the conditions of labour and the cost of
living; Philip learnt about the various trades which were
practised on that side of the river. He inspired confidence in
the people among whom he was thrown, and during the long hours
that he waited in a stuffy room, the woman in labour lying on a
large bed that took up half of it, her mother and the midwife
talked to him as naturally as they talked to one another. The
circumstances in which he had lived during the last two years
had taught him several things about the life of the very poor,
which it amused them to find he knew; and they were impressed
because he was not deceived by their little subterfuges. He was
kind, and he had gentle hands, and he did not lose his temper.
They were pleased because he was not above drinking a cup of tea
with them, and when the dawn came and they were still waiting
they offered him a slice of bread and dripping; he was not
squeamish and could eat most things now with a good appetite.
Some of the houses he went to, in filthy courts off a dingy
street, huddled against one another without light or air, were
merely squalid; but others, unexpectedly, though dilapidated,
with worm-eaten floors and leaking roofs, had the grand air: you
found in them oak balusters exquisitely carved, and the walls
had still their panelling. These were thickly inhabited. One
family lived in each room, and in the daytime there was the
incessant noise of children playing in the court. The old walls
were the breeding-place of vermin; the air was so foul that
often, feeling sick, Philip had to light his pipe. The people
who dwelt here lived from hand to mouth. Babies were unwelcome,
the man received them with surly anger, the mother with despair;
it was one more mouth to feed, and there was little enough
wherewith to feed those already there. Philip often discerned
the wish that the child might be born dead or might die quickly.
He delivered one woman of twins (a source of humour to the
facetious) and when she was told she burst into a long, shrill
wail of misery. Her mother said outright:

"I don't know how they're going to feed 'em."

"Maybe the Lord'll see fit to take 'em to 'imself," said the
midwife.

Philip caught sight of the husband's face as he looked at the
tiny pair lying side by side, and there was a ferocious
sullenness in it which startled him. He felt in the family
assembled there a hideous resentment against those poor atoms
who had come into the world unwished for; and he had a suspicion
that if he did not speak firmly an `accident' would occur.
Accidents occurred often; mothers `overlay' their babies, and
perhaps errors of diet were not always the result of
carelessness.

"I shall come every day," he said. "I warn you that if anything
happens to them there'll have to be an inquest."

The father made no reply, but he gave Philip a scowl. There was
murder in his soul.

"Bless their little 'earts," said the grandmother, "what should
'appen to them?"

The great difficulty was to keep the mothers in bed for ten
days, which was the minimum upon which the hospital practice
insisted. It was awkward to look after the family, no one would
see to the children without payment, and the husband tumbled
because his tea was not right when he came home tired from his
work and hungry. Philip had heard that the poor helped one
another, but woman after woman complained to him that she could
not get anyone in to clean up and see to the children's dinner
without paying for the service, and she could not afford to pay.
By listening to the women as they talked and by chance remarks
from which he could deduce much that was left unsaid, Philip
learned how little there was in common between the poor and the
classes above them. They did not envy their betters, for the
life was too different, and they had an ideal of ease which made
the existence of the middle-classes seem formal and stiff;
moreover, they had a certain contempt for them because they were
soft and did not work with their hands. The proud merely wished
to be left alone, but the majority looked upon the well-to-do as
people to be exploited; they knew what to say in order to get
such advantages as the charitable put at their disposal, and
they accepted benefits as a right which came to them from the
folly of their superiors and their own astuteness. They bore the
curate with contemptuous indifference, but the district visitor
excited their bitter hatred. She came in and opened your windows
without so much as a by your leave or with your leave, `and me
with my bronchitis, enough to give me my death of cold;' she
poked her nose into corners, and if she didn't say the place was
dirty you saw what she thought right enough, `an' it's all very
well for them as 'as servants, but I'd like to see what she'd
make of 'er room if she 'ad four children, and 'ad to do the
cookin', and mend their clothes, and wash them.'

Philip discovered that the greatest tragedy of life to these
people was not separation or death, that was natural and the
grief of it could be assuaged with tears, but loss of work. He
saw a man come home one afternoon, three days after his wife's
confinement, and tell her he had been dismissed; he was a
builder and at that time work was slack; he stated the fact, and
sat down to his tea.

"Oh, Jim," she said.

The man ate stolidly some mess which had been stewing in a
sauce-pan against his coming; he stared at his plate; his wife
looked at him two or three times, with little startled glances,
and then quite silently began to cry. The builder was an uncouth
little fellow with a rough, weather-beaten face and a long white
scar on his forehead; he had large, stubbly hands. Presently he
pushed aside his plate as if he must give up the effort to force
himself to eat, and turned a fixed gaze out of the window. The
room was at the top of the house, at the back, and one saw
nothing but sullen clouds. The silence seemed heavy with
despair. Philip felt that there was nothing to be said, he could
only go; and as he walked away wearily, for he had been up most
of the night, his heart was filled with rage against the cruelty
of the world. He knew the hopelessness of the search for work
and the desolation which is harder to bear than hunger. He was
thankful not to have to believe in God, for then such a
condition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile
oneself to existence only because it was meaningless.

It seemed to Philip that the people who spent their time in
helping the poorer classes erred because they sought to remedy
things which would harass them if themselves had to endure them
without thinking that they did not in the least disturb those
who were used to them. The poor did not want large airy rooms;
they suffered from cold, for their food was not nourishing and
their circulation bad; space gave them a feeling of chilliness,
and they wanted to burn as little coal as need be; there was no
hardship for several to sleep in one room, they preferred it;
they were never alone for a moment, from the time they were born
to the time they died, and loneliness oppressed them; they
enjoyed the promiscuity in which they dwelt, and the constant
noise of their surroundings pressed upon their ears unnoticed.
They did not feel the need of taking a bath constantly, and
Philip often heard them speak with indignation of the necessity
to do so with which they were faced on entering the hospital: it
was both an affront and a discomfort. They wanted chiefly to be
left alone; then if the man was in regular work life went easily
and was not without its pleasures: there was plenty of time for
gossip, after the day's work a glass of beer was very good to
drink, the streets were a constant source of entertainment, if
you wanted to read there was _Reynolds_' or _The News of the
World_; `but there, you couldn't make out 'ow the time did fly,
the truth was and that's a fact, you was a rare one for reading
when you was a girl, but what with one thing and another you
didn't get no time now not even to read the paper.'

The usual practice was to pay three visits after a confinement,
and one Sunday Philip went to see a patient at the dinner hour.
She was up for the first time.

"I couldn't stay in bed no longer, I really couldn't. I'm not
one for idling, and it gives me the fidgets to be there and do
nothing all day long, so I said to 'Erb, I'm just going to get
up and cook your dinner for you."

'Erb was sitting at table with his knife and fork already in his
hands. He was a young man, with an open face and blue eyes. He
was earning good money, and as things went the couple were in
easy circumstances. They had only been married a few months, and
were both delighted with the rosy boy who lay in the cradle at
the foot of the bed. There was a savoury smell of beefsteak in
the room and Philip's eyes turned to the range.

"I was just going to dish up this minute," said the woman.

"Fire away," said Philip. "I'll just have a look at the son and
heir and then I'll take myself off."

Husband and wife laughed at Philip's expression, and 'Erb
getting up went over with Philip to the cradle. He looked at his
baby proudly.

"There doesn't seem much wrong with him, does there?" said
Philip.

He took up his hat, and by this time 'Erb's wife had dished up
the beefsteak and put on the table a plate of green peas.

"You're going to have a nice dinner," smiled Philip.

"He's only in of a Sunday and I like to 'ave something special
for him, so as he shall miss his 'ome when he's out at work."

"I suppose you'd be above sittin' down and 'avin' a bit of
dinner with us?" said 'Erb.

"Oh, 'Erb," said his wife, in a shocked tone.

"Not if you ask me," answered Philip, with his attractive smile.

"Well, that's what I call friendly, I knew 'e wouldn't take
offence, Polly. Just get another plate, my girl."

Polly was flustered, and she thought 'Erb a regular caution, you
never knew what ideas 'e'd get in 'is 'ead next; but she got a
plate and wiped it quickly with her apron, then took a new knife
and fork from the chest of drawers, where her best cutlery
rested among her best clothes. There was a jug of stout on the
table, and 'Erb poured Philip out a glass. He wanted to give him
the lion's share of the beefsteak, but Philip insisted that they
should share alike. It was a sunny room with two windows that
reached to the floor; it had been the parlour of a house which
at one time was if not fashionable at least respectable: it
might have been inhabited fifty years before by a well-to-do
tradesman or an officer on half pay. 'Erb had been a football
player before he married, and there were photographs on the wall
of various teams in self-conscious attitudes, with neatly
plastered hair, the captain seated proudly in the middle holding
a cup. There were other signs of prosperity: photographs of the
relations of 'Erb and his wife in Sunday clothes; on the
chimney-piece an elaborate arrangement of shells stuck on a
miniature rock; and on each side mugs, `A present from Southend'
in Gothic letters, with pictures of a pier and a parade on them.
'Erb was something of a character; he was a non-union man and
expressed himself with indignation at the efforts of the union
to force him to join. The union wasn't no good to him, he never
found no difficulty in getting work, and there was good wages
for anyone as 'ad a head on his shoulders and wasn't above
puttin' 'is 'and to anything as come 'is way. Polly was
timorous. If she was 'im she'd join the union, the last time
there was a strike she was expectin' 'im to be brought back in
an ambulance every time he went out. She turned to Philip.

"He's that obstinate, there's no doing anything with 'im."

"Well, what I say is, it's a free country, and I won't be
dictated to."

"It's no good saying it's a free country," said Polly, "that
won't prevent 'em bashin' your 'ead in if they get the chanst."

When they had finished Philip passed his pouch over to 'Erb and
they lit their pipes; then he got up, for a `call' might be
waiting for him at his rooms, and shook hands. He saw that it
had given them pleasure that he shared their meal, and they saw
that he had thoroughly enjoyed it.

"Well, good-bye, sir," said 'Erb, "and I 'ope we shall 'ave as
nice a doctor next time the missus disgraces 'erself."

"Go on with you, 'Erb," she retorted." 'Ow d'you know there's
going to be a next time?"


CHAPTER CXIV

THE three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end.
Philip had attended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. When
he came home about ten o'clock on his last night he hoped with
all his heart that he would not be called out again. He had not
had a whole night's rest for ten days. The case which he had
just come from was horrible. He had been fetched by a huge,
burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in an
evil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it
was a tiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden
bed, with a canopy of dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so
low that Philip could touch it with the tips of his fingers;
with the solitary candle that afforded what light there was he
went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawled upon it. The
woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a long
succession of still-born children. It was a story that Philip
was not unaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in
India; the legislation forced upon that country by the prudery
of the English public had given a free run to the most
distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered. Yawning,
Philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over
the water and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. He
was just going to get into bed when there was a knock at the
door, and the hospital porter brought him a card.

"Curse you," said Philip. "You're the last person I wanted to
see tonight. Who's brought it?"

"I think it's the 'usband, sir. Shall I tell him to wait?"

Philip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar
to him, and told the porter that he would find his own way. He
dressed himself and in five minutes, with his black bag in his
hand, stepped into the street. A man, whom he could not see in
the darkness, came up to him, and said he was the husband.

"I thought I'd better wait, sir," he said. "It's a pretty rough
neighbour'ood, and them not knowing who you was."

Philip laughed.

"Bless your heart, they all know the doctor, I've been in some
damned sight rougher places than Waver Street."

It was quite true. The black bag was a passport through wretched
alleys and down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was
not ready to venture by himself. Once or twice a little group of
men had looked at Philip curiously as he passed; he heard a
mutter of observations and then one say:

"It's the 'orspital doctor."

As he went by one or two of them said: "Good-night, sir."

"We shall 'ave to step out if you don't mind, sir," said the man
who accompanied him now. "They told me there was no time to
lose."

"Why did you leave it so late?" asked Philip, as he quickened
his pace.

He glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post.

"You look awfully young," he said.

"I'm turned eighteen, sir."

He was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no
more than a boy; he was short, but thick set.

"You're young to be married," said Philip.

"We 'ad to."

"How much d'you earn?"

"Sixteen, sir."

Sixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child
on. The room the couple lived in showed that their poverty was
extreme. It was a fair size, but it looked quite large, since
there was hardly any furniture in it; there was no carpet on the
floor; there were no pictures on the walls; and most rooms had
something, photographs or supplements in cheap frames from the
Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. The patient lay on
a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. It startled Philip to
see how young she was.

"By Jove, she can't be more than sixteen," he said to the woman
who had come in to `see her through.'

She had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they
were very young they often put on a year or two. Also she was
pretty, which was rare in those classes in which the
constitution has been undermined by bad food, bad air, and
unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features and large blue
eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion of
the coster girl. She and her husband were very nervous.

"You'd better wait outside, so as to be at hand if I want you,"
Philip said to him.

Now that he saw him better Philip was surprised again at his
boyish air: you felt that he should be larking in the street
with the other lads instead of waiting anxiously for the birth
of a child. The hours passed, and it was not till nearly two
that the baby was born. Everything seemed to be going
satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touched Philip
to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; Philip
packed up his things. Before going he felt once more his
patient's pulse.

"Hulloa!" he said.

He looked at her quickly: something had happened. In cases of
emergency the S. O. C.--senior obstetric clerk--had to be sent
for; he was a qualified man, and the `district' was in his
charge. Philip scribbled a note, and giving it to the husband,
told him to run with it to the hospital; he bade him hurry, for
his wife was in a dangerous state. The man set off. Philip
waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding to death; he
was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took what
steps he could. He hoped fervently that the S. O. C. would not
have been called elsewhere. The minutes were interminable. He
came at last, and, while he examined the patient, in a low voice
asked Philip questions. Philip saw by his face that he thought
the case very grave. His name was Chandler. He was a tall man of
few words, with a long nose and a thin face much lined for his
age. He shook his head.

"It was hopeless from the beginning. Where's the husband?"

"I told him to wait on the stairs," said Philip.

"You'd better bring him in."

Philip opened the door and called him. He was sitting in the
dark on the first step of the flight that led to the next floor.
He came up to the bed.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Why, there's internal bleeding. It's impossible to stop it."
The S. O. C. hesitated a moment, and because it was a painful
thing to say he forced his voice to become brusque. "She's
dying."

The man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at
his wife, who lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. It was the
midwife who spoke.

"The gentlemen 'ave done all they could, 'Arry," she said. "I
saw what was comin' from the first."

"Shut up," said Chandler.

There were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night
seemed to lighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at
hand. Chandler was keeping the woman alive by all the means in
his power, but life was slipping away from her, and suddenly she
died. The boy who was her husband stood at the end of the cheap
iron bed with his hands resting on the rail; he did not speak;
but he looked very pale and once or twice Chandler gave him an
uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were
gray. The midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her.
His eyes were fixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter
bewilderment. He reminded you of a dog whipped for something he
did not know was wrong. When Chandler and Philip had gathered
together their things Chandler turned to the husband.

"You'd better lie down for a bit. I expect you're about done
up."

"There's nowhere for me to lie down, sir," he answered, and
there was in his voice a humbleness which was very distressing.

"Don't you know anyone in the house who'll give you a
shakedown?"

"No, sir."

"They only moved in last week," said the midwife. "They don't
know nobody yet."

Chandler hesitated a moment awkwardly, then he went up to the
man and said:

"I'm very sorry this has happened."

He held out his hand and the man, with an instinctive glance at
his own to see if it was clean, shook it.

"Thank you, sir."

Philip shook hands with him too. Chandler told the midwife to
come and fetch the certificate in the morning. They left the
house and walked along together in silence.

"It upsets one a bit at first, doesn't it?" said Chandler at
last.

"A bit," answered Philip.

"If you like I'll tell the porter not to bring you any more
calls tonight."

"I'm off duty at eight in the morning in any case."

"How many cases have you had?"

"Sixty-three."

"Good. You'll get your certificate then."

They arrived at the hospital, and the S. O. C. went in to see if
anyone wanted him. Philip walked on. It had been very hot all
the day before, and even now in the early morning there was a
balminess in the air. The street was very still. Philip did not
feel inclined to go to bed. It was the end of his work aud he
need not hurry. He strolled along, glad of the fresh air and the
silence; he thought that he would go on to the bridge and look
at day break on the river. A policeman at the corner bade him
good-morning. He knew who Philip was from his bag.

"Out late tonight, sir," he said.

Philip nodded and passed. He leaned against the parapet and
looked towards the morning. At that hour the great city was like
a city of the dead. The sky was cloudless, but the stars were
dim at the approach of day; there was a light mist on the river,
and the great buildings on the north side were like palaces in
an enchanted island. A group of barges was moored in midstream.
It was all of an unearthly violet, troubling somehow and
awe-inspiring; but quickly everything grew pale, and cold, and
gray. Then the sun rose, a ray of yellow gold stole across the
sky, and the sky was iridescent. Philip could not get out of his
eyes the dead girl lying on the bed, wan and white, and the boy
who stood at the end of it like a stricken beast. The bareness
of the squalid room made the pain of it more poignant. It was
cruel that a stupid chance should have cut off her life when she
was just entering upon it; but in the very moment of saying this
to himself, Philip thought of the life which had been in store
for her, the bearing of children, the dreary fight with poverty,
the youth broken by toil and deprivation into a slatternly
middle age--he saw the pretty face grow thin and white, the hair
grow scanty, the pretty hands, worn down brutally by work,
become like the claws of an old animal--then, when the man was
past his prime, the difficulty of getting jobs, the small wages
he had to take; and the inevitable, abject penury of the end:
she might be energetic, thrifty, industrious, it would not have
saved her; in the end was the workhouse or subsistence on the
charity of her children. Who could pity her because she had died
when life offered so little?

But pity was inane. Philip felt it was not that which these
people needed. They did not pity themselves. They accepted their
fate. It was the natural order of things. Otherwise, good
heavens! otherwise they would swarm over the river in their
multitude to the side where those great buildings were, secure
and stately. and they would pillage, burn, and sack. But the
day, tender and pale, had broken now, and the mist was tenuous;
it bathed everything in a soft radiance; and the Thames was
gray, rosy, and green; gray like mother-of-pearl and green like
the heart of a yellow rose. The wharfs and store-houses of the
Surrey Side were massed in disorderly loveliness. The scene was
so exquisite that Philip's heart beat passionately. He was
overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. Beside that nothing
seemed to matter.


CHAPTER CXV

PHILIP spent the few weeks that remained before the beginning of
the winter session in the out-patients' department, and in
October settled down to regular work. He had been away from the
hospital for so long that he found himself very largely among
new people; the men of different years had little to do with one
another, and his contemporaries were now mostly qualified: some
had left to take up assistantships or posts in country hospitals
and infirmaries, and some held appointments at St. luke's. The
two years during which his mind had lain fallow had refreshed
him, he fancied, and he was able now to work with energy.

The Athelnys were delighted with his change of fortune. He had
kept aside a few things from the sale of his uncle's effects and
gave them all presents. He gave Sally a gold chain that had
belonged to his aunt. She was now grown up. She was apprenticed
to a dressmaker and set out every morning at eight to work all
day in a shop in Regent Street. Sally had frank blue eyes, a
broad brow, and plentiful shining hair; she was buxom, with
broad hips and full breasts; and her father, who was fond of
discussing her appearance, warned her constantly that she must
not grow fat. She attracted because she was healthy, animal, and
feminine. She had many admirers, but they left her unmoved; she
gave one the impression that she looked upon love-making as
nonsense; and it was easy to imagine that young men found her
unapproachable. Sally was old for her years: she had been used
to help her mother in the household work and in the care of the
children, so that she had acquired a managing air, which made
her mother say that Sally was a bit too fond of having things
her own way. She did not speak very much, but as she grew older
she seemed to be acquiring a quiet sense of humour, and
sometimes uttered a remark which suggested that beneath her
impassive exterior she was quietly bubbling with amusement at
her fellow-creatures. Philip found that with her he never got on
the terms of affectionate intimacy upon which he was with the
rest of Athelny's huge family. Now and then her indifference
slightly irritated him. There was something enigmatic in her.

When Philip gave her the necklace Athelny in his boisterous way
insisted that she must kiss him; but Sally reddened and drew
back.

"No, I'm not going to," she said.

"Ungrateful hussy!" cried Athelny. "Why not?"

"I don't like being kissed by men," she said.

Philip saw her embarrassment, and, amused, turned Athelny's
attention to something else. That was never a very difficult
thing to do. But evidently her mother spoke of the matter later,
for next time Philip came she took the opportunity when they
were alone for a couple of minutes to refer to it.

"You didn't think it disagreeable of me last week when I
wouldn't kiss you?"

"Not a bit," he laughed.

"It's not because I wasn't grateful." She blushed a little as
she uttered the formal phrase which she had prepared. "I shall
always value the necklace, and it was very kind of you to give
it me."

Philip found it always a little difficult to talk to her. She
did all that she had to do very competently, but seemed to feel
no need of conversation; yet there was nothing unsociable in
her. One Sunday afternoon when Athelny and his wife had gone out
together, and Philip, treated as one of the family, sat reading
in the parlour, Sally came in and sat by the window to sew. The
girls' clothes were made at home and Sally could not afford to
spend Sundays in idleness. Philip thought she wished to talk and
put down his book.

"Go on reading," she said. "I only thought as you were alone I'd
come and sit with you."

"You're the most silent person I've ever struck," said Philip.

"We don't want another one who's talkative in this house," she
said.

There was no irony in her tone: she was merely stating a fact.
But it suggested to Philip that she measured her father, alas,
no longer the hero he was to her childhood, and in her mind
joined together his entertaining conversation and the
thriftlessness which often brought difficulties into their life;
she compared his rhetoric with her mother's practical common
sense; and though the liveliness of her father amused her she
was perhaps sometimes a little impatient with it. Philip looked
at her as she bent over her work; she was healthy, strong, and
normal; it must be odd to see her among the other girls in the
shop with their flat chests and anaemic faces. Mildred suffered
from anaemia.

After a time it appeared that Sally had a suitor. She went out
occasionally with friends she had made in the work-room, and had
met a young man, an electrical engineer in a very good way of
business, who was a most eligible person. One day she told her
mother that he had asked her to marry him.

"What did you say?" said her mother.

"Oh, I told him I wasn't over-anxious to marry anyone just yet
awhile." She paused a little as was her habit between
observations. "He took on so that I said he might come to tea on
Sunday."

It was an occasion that thoroughly appealed to Athelny. He
rehearsed all the afternoon how he should play the heavy father
for the young man's edification till he reduced his children to
helpless giggling. Just before he was due Athelny routed out an
Egyptian tarboosh and insisted on putting it on.

"Go on with you, Athelny," said his wife, who was in her best,
which was of black velvet, and, since she was growing stouter
every year, very tight for her. "You'll spoil the girl's
chances."

She tried to pull it off, but the little man skipped nimbly out
of her way.

"Unhand me, woman. Nothing will induce me to take it off. This
young man must be shown at once that it is no ordinary family he
is preparing to enter."

"Let him keep it on, mother," said Sally, in her even,
indifferent fashion. "If Mr. Donaldson doesn't take it the way
it's meant he can take himself off, and good riddance."

Philip thought it was a severe ordeal that the young man was
being exposed to, since Athelny, in his brown velvet jacket,
flowing black tie, and red tarboosh, was a startling spectacle
for an innocent electrical engineer. When he came he was greeted
by his host with the proud courtesy of a Spanish grandee and by
Mrs. Athelny in an altogether homely and natural fashion. They
sat down at the old ironing-table in the high-backed monkish
chairs, and Mrs. Athelny poured tea out of a lustre teapot which
gave a note of England and the country-side to the festivity.
She had made little cakes with her own hand, and on the table
was home-made jam. It was a farm-house tea, and to Philip very
quaint and charming in that Jacobean house. Athelny for some
fantastic reason took it into his head to discourse upon
Byzantine history; he had been reading the later volumes of the
_Decline and Fall_; and, his forefinger dramatically extended,
he poured into the astonished ears of the suitor scandalous
stories about Theodora and Irene. He addressed himself directly
to his guest with a torrent of rhodomontade; and the young man,
reduced to helpless silence and shy, nodded his head at
intervals to show that he took an intelligent interest. Mrs.
Athelny paid no attention to Thorpe's conversation, but
interrupted now and then to offer the young man more tea or to
press upon him cake and jam. Philip watched Sally; she sat with
downcast eyes, calm, silent, and observant; and her long
eye-lashes cast a pretty shadow on her cheek. You could not tell
whether she was amused at the scene or if she cared for the
young man. She was inscrutable. But one thing was certain: the
electrical engineer was good-looking, fair and clean-shaven,
with pleasant, regular features, and an honest face; he was tall
and well-made. Philip could not help thinking he would make an
excellent mate for her, and he felt a pang of envy for the
happiness which he fancied was in store for them.

Presently the suitor said he thought it was about time he was
getting along. Sally rose to her feet without a word and
accompanied him to the door. When she came back her father burst
out:

"Well, Sally, we think your young man very nice. We are prepared
to welcome him into our family. Let the banns be called and I
will compose a nuptial song."

Sally set about clearing away the tea-things. She did not
answer. Suddenly she shot a swift glance at Philip.

"What did you think of him, Mr. Philip?"

She had always refused to call him Uncle Phil as the other
children did, and would not call him Philip.

"I think you'd make an awfully handsome pair."

She looked at him quickly once more, and then with a slight
blush went on with her business.

"I thought him a very nice civil-spoken young fellow," said Mrs.
Athelny, "and I think he's just the sort to make any girl
happy."

Sally did not reply for a minute or two, and Philip looked at
her curiously: it might be thought that she was meditating upon
what her mother had said, and on the other hand she might be
thinking of the man in the moon.

"Why don't you answer when you're spoken to, Sally?" remarked
her mother, a little irritably.

"I thought he was a silly."

"Aren't you going to have him then?"

"No, I'm not."

"I don't know how much more you want," said Mrs. Athelny, and it
was quite clear now that she was put out. "He's a very decent
young fellow and he can afford to give you a thorough good home.
We've got quite enough to feed here without you. If you get a
chance like that it's wicked not to take it. And I daresay you'd
be able to have a girl to do the rough work."

Philip had never before heard Mrs. Athelny refer so directly to
the difficulties of her life. He saw how important it was that
each child should be provided for.

"It's no good your carrying on, mother," said Sally in her quiet
way. "I'm not going to marry him."

"I think you're a very hard-hearted, cruel, selfish girl."

"If you want me to earn my own living, mother, I can always go
into service."

"Don't be so silly, you know your father would never let you do
that."

Philip caught Sally's eye, and he thought there was in it a
glimmer of amusement. He wondered what there had been in the
conversation to touch her sense of humour. She was an odd girl.


CHAPTER CXVI

DURING his last year at St. Luke's Philip had to work hard. He
was contented with life. He found it very comfortable to be
heart-free and to have enough money for his needs. He had heard
people speak contemptuously of money: he wondered if they had
ever tried to do without it. He knew that the lack made a man
petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his character and caused him
to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had to consider
every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed a
competency to rate it at its proper value. He lived a solitary
life, seeing no one except the Athelnys, but he was not lonely;
he busied himself with plans for the future, and sometimes he
thought of the past. His recollection dwelt now and then on old
friends, but he made no effort to see them. He would have liked
to know what was become of Norah Nesbit; she was Norah something
else now, but he could not remember the name of the man she was
going to marry; he was glad to have known her: she was a good
and a brave soul. One evening about half past eleven he saw
Lawson, walking along Piccadilly; he was in evening clothes and
might be supposed to be coming back from a theatre. Philip gave
way to a sudden impulse and quickly turned down a side street.
He had not seen him for two years and felt that he could not now
take up again the interrupted friendship. He and Lawson had
nothing more to say to one another. Philip was no longer
interested in art; it seemed to him that he was able to enjoy
beauty with greater force than when he was a boy; but art
appeared to him unimportant. He was occupied with the forming of
a pattern out of the manifold chaos of life, and the materials
with which he worked seemed to make preoccupation with pigments
and words very trivial. Lawson had served his turn. Philip's
friendship with him had been a motive in the design he was
elaborating: it was merely sentimental to ignore the fact that
the painter was of no further interest to him.

Sometimes Philip thought of Mildred. He avoided deliberately the
streets in which there was a chance of seeing her; but
occasionally some feeling, perhaps curiosity, perhaps something
deeper which he would not acknowledge, made him wander about
Piccadilly and Regent Street during the hours when she might be
expected to be there. He did not know then whether he wished to
see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him of
hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a
curious sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart,
there was fear in it and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried
on and found that he was mistaken he did not know whether it was
relief that he experienced or disappointment.


At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last
examination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since
he had entered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He
walked down the stairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the
roll in his hand which qualified him to practice, and his heart
beat with satisfaction.

"Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought.

Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down
for one of the hospital appointments. The secretary was a
pleasant little man with a black beard, whom Philip had always
found very affable. He congratulated him on his success, and
then said:

"I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the
South coast? Three guineas a week with board and lodging."

"I wouldn't mind," said Philip.

"It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go
down at once; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's
a very pleasant place."

There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled
Philip. It was a little doubtful.

"What's the crab in it?" he asked.

The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating
fashion.

"Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old
fellow. The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks
his mind very openly, and men don't like it."

"But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just
qualified? After all I have no experience."

"He ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary
diplomatically.

Philip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next
few weeks, and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money.
He could put it aside for the holiday in Spain which he had
promised himself when he had finished his appointment at St.
Luke's or, if they would not give him anything there, at some
other hospital.

"All right. I'll go."

"The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit
you? If so, I'll send a wire at once."

Philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen
the Athelnys the night before (he had gone at Once to take them
his good news) and there was really no reason why he should not
start immediately. He had little luggage to pack. Soon after
seven that evening he got out of the station at Farnley and took
a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad low stucco house, with
a Virginia creeper growing over it. He was shown into the
consulting-room. An old man was writing at a desk. He looked up
as the maid ushered Philip in. He did not get up, and he did not
speak; he merely stared at Philip. Philip was taken aback.

"I think you're expecting me," he said. "The secretary of St.
luke's wired to you this morning."

"I kept dinner back for half an hour. D'you want to wash?"

"I do," said Philip.

Doctor South amused him by his odd manner. He got up now, and
Philip saw that he was a man of middle height, thin, with white
hair cut very short and a long mouth closed so tightly that he
seemed to have no lips at all; he was clean-shaven but for small
white whiskers, and they increased the squareness of face which
his firm jaw gave him. He wore a brown tweed suit and a white
stock. His clothes hung loosely about him as though they had
been made for a much larger man. He looked like a respectable
farmer of the middle of the nineteenth century. He opened the
door.

"There is the dining-room," he said, pointing to the door
opposite. "Your bed-room is the first door you come to when you
get on the landing. Come downstairs when you're ready."

During dinner Philip knew that Doctor South was examining him,
but he spoke little, and Philip felt that he did not want to
hear his assistant talk.

"When were you qualified?" he asked suddenly.

"Yesterday."

"Were you at a university?"

"No."

"Last year when my assistant took a holiday they sent me a
'Varsity man. I told 'em not to do it again. Too damned
gentlemanly for me."

There was another pause. The dinner was very simple and very
good. Philip preserved a sedate exterior, but in his heart he
was bubbling over with excitement. He was immensely elated at
being engaged as a locum; it made him feel extremely grown up;
he had an insane desire to laugh at nothing in particular; and
the more he thought of his professional dignity the more he was
inclined to chuckle.

But Doctor South broke suddenly into his thoughts. "How old are
you?"

"Getting on for thirty."

"How is it you're only just qualified?"

"I didn't go in for the medical till I was nearly twenty-three,
and I had to give it up for two years in the middle."

"Why?"

"Poverty."

Doctor South gave him an odd look and relapsed into silence. At
the end of dinner he got up from the table.

"D'you know what sort of a practice this is?"

"No," answered Philip.

"Mostly fishermen and their families. I have the Union and the
Seamen's Hospital. I used to be alone here, but since they tried
to make this into a fashionable sea-side resort a man has set up
on the cliff, and the well-to-do people go to him. I only have
those who can't afford to pay for a doctor at all."

Philip saw that the rivalry was a sore point with the old man.

"You know that I have no experience," said Philip.

"You none of you know anything."

He walked out of the room without another word and left Philip
by himself. When the maid came in to clear away she told Philip
that Doctor South saw patients from six till seven. Work for
that night was over. Philip fetched a book from his room, lit
his pipe, and settled himself down to read. It was a great
comfort, since he had read nothing but medical books for the
last few months. At ten o'clock Doctor South came in and looked
at him. Philip hated not to have his feet up, and he had dragged
up a chair for them.

"You seem able to make yourself pretty comfortable," said Doctor
South, with a grimness which would have disturbed Philip if he
had not been in such high spirits.

Philip's eyes twinkled as he answered.

"Have you any objection?"

Doctor South gave him a look, but did not reply directly.

"What's that you're reading?"

"_Peregrine Pickle_. Smollett."

"I happen to know that Smollett wrote _Peregrine Pickle_."

"I beg your pardon. Medical men aren't much interested in
literature, are they?"

Philip had put the book down on the table, and Doctor South took
it up. It was a volume of an edition which had belonged to the
Vicar of Blackstable. It was a thin book bound in faded morocco,
with a copperplate engraving as a frontispiece; the pages were
musty with age and stained with mould. Philip, without meaning
to, started forward a little as Doctor South took the volume in
his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. Very little
escaped the old doctor.

"Do I amuse you?" he asked icily.

"I see you're fond of books. You can always tell by the way
people handle them."

 Doctor South put down the novel immediately.

"Breakfast at eight-thirty," he said and left the room.

"What a funny old fellow!" thought Philip.

He soon discovered why Doctor South's assistants found it
difficult to get on with him. In the first place, he set his
face firmly against all the discoveries of the last thirty
years: he had no patience with the drugs which became modish,
were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a few years were
discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from St.
Luke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life;
he found them just as efficacious as anything that had come into
fashion since. Philip was startled at Doctor South's suspicion
of asepsis; he had accepted it in deference to universal
opinion; but he used the precautions which Philip had known
insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital with the
disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children.

"I've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before
them, and then I've seen asepsis take their place. Bunkum!"

The young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital
practice; and they came with the unconcealed scorn for the
General Practitioner which they had absorbed in the air at the
hospital; but they had seen only the complicated cases which
appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat an obscure disease
of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consulted for
a cold in the head. Their knowledge was theoretical and their
self-assurance unbounded. Doctor South watched them with
tightened lips; he took a savage pleasure in showing them how
great was their ignorance and how unjustified their conceit. It
was a poor practice, of fishing folk, and the doctor made up his
own prescriptions. Doctor South asked his assistant how he
expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fisherman with a
stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive
drugs. He complained too that the young medical men were
uneducated: their reading consisted of _The Sporting Times_
and _The British Medical Journal_; they could neither write a
legible hand nor spell correctly. For two or three days Doctor
South watched Philip closely, ready to fall on him with acid
sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and Philip, aware of
this, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. He
was pleased with the change of occupation. He liked the feeling
of independence and of responsibility. All sorts of people came
to the consulting-room. He was gratified because he seemed able
to inspire his patients with confidence; and it was entertaining
to watch the process of cure which at a hospital necessarily
could be watched only at distant intervals. His rounds took him
into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails
and here and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer
box from Japan, spears and oars from Melanesia, or daggers from
the bazaars of Stamboul; there was an air of romance in the
stuffy little rooms, and the salt of the sea gave them a bitter
freshness. Philip liked to talk to the sailor-men, and when they
found that he was not supercilious they told him long yarns of
the distant journeys of their youth.

Once or twice he made a mistake in diagnosis: (he had never seen
a case of measles before, and when he was confronted with the
rash took it for an obscure disease of the skin;) and once or
twice his ideas of treatment differed from Doctor South's. The
first time this happened Doctor South attacked him with savage
irony; but Philip took it with good humour; he had some gift for
repartee, and he made one or two answers which caused Doctor
South to stop and look at him curiously. Philip's face was
grave, but his eyes were twinkling. The old gentleman could not
avoid the impression that Philip was chaffing him. He was used
to being disliked and feared by his assistants, and this was a
new experience. He had half a mind to fly into a passion and
pack Philip off by the next train, he had done that before with
his assistants; but he had an uneasy feeling that Philip then
would simply laugh at him outright; and suddenly he felt amused.
His mouth formed itself into a smile against his will, and he
turned away. In a little while he grew conscious that Philip was
amusing himself systematically at his expense. He was taken
aback at first and then diverted.

"Damn his impudence," he chuckled to himself. "Damn his
impudence."


CHAPTER CXVII

PHILIP had written to Athelny to tell him that he was doing a
locum in Dorsetshire and in due course received an answer from
him. It was written in the formal manner he affected, studded
with pompous epithets as a Persian diadem was studded with
precious stones; and in the beautiful hand, like black letter
and as difficult to read, upon which he prided himself. He
suggested that Philip should join him and his family in the
Kentish hop-field to which he went every year; and to persuade
him said various beautiful and complicated things about Philip's
soul and the winding tendrils of the hops. Philip replied at
once that he would come on the first day he was free. Though not
born there, he had a peculiar affection for the Isle of Thanet,
and he was fired with enthusiasm at the thought of spending a
fortnight so close to the earth and amid conditions which needed
only a blue sky to be as idyllic as the olive groves of Arcady.

The four weeks of his engagement at Farnley passed quickly. On
the cliff a new town was springing up, with red brick villas
round golf links, and a large hotel had recently been opened to
cater for the summer visitors; but Philip went there seldom.
Down below, by the harbour, the little stone houses of a past
century were clustered in a delightful confusion, and the narrow
streets, climbing down steeply, had an air of antiquity which
appealed to the imagination. By the water's edge were neat
cottages with trim, tiny gardens in front of them; they were
inhabited by retired captains in the merchant service, and by
mothers or widows of men who had gained their living by the sea;
and they had an appearance which was quaint and peaceful. In the
little harbour came tramps from Spain and the Levant, ships of
small tonnage; and now and then a windjammer was borne in by the
winds of romance. It reminded Philip of the dirty little harbour
with its colliers at Blackstable, and he thought that there he
had first acquired the desire, which was now an obsession, for
Eastern lands and sunlit islands in a tropic sea. But here you
felt yourself closer to the wide, deep ocean than on the shore
of that North Sea which seemed always circumscribed; here you
could draw a long breath as you looked out upon the even
vastness; and the west wind, the dear soft salt wind of England,
uplifted the heart and at the same time melted it to tenderness.

One evening, when Philip had reached his last week with Doctor
South, a child came to the surgery door while the old doctor and
Philip were making up prescriptions. It was a little ragged girl
with a dirty face and bare feet. Philip opened the door.

"Please, sir, will you come to Mrs. Fletcher's in Ivy Lane at
once?"

"What's the matter with Mrs. Fletcher?" called out Doctor South
in his rasping voice.

The child took no notice of him, but addressed herself again to
Philip.

"Please, sir, her little boy's had an accident and will you come
at once?"

"Tell Mrs. Fletcher I'm coming," called out Doctor South.

The little girl hesitated for a moment, and putting a dirty
finger in a dirty mouth stood still and looked at Philip.

"What's the matter, Kid?" said Philip, smiling.

"Please, sir, Mrs. Fletcher says, will the new doctor come?"
There was a sound in the dispensary and Doctor South came out
into the passage.

"Isn't Mrs. Fletcher satisfied with me?" he barked. "I've
attended Mrs. Fletcher since she was born. Why aren't I good
enough to attend her filthy brat?"

The little girl looked for a moment as though she were going to
cry, then she thought better of it; she put out her tongue
deliberately at Doctor South, and, before he could recover from
his astonishment, bolted off as fast as she could run. Philip
saw that the old gentleman was annoyed.

"You look rather fagged, and it's a goodish way to Ivy Lane," he
said, by way of giving him an excuse not to go himself.

Doctor South gave a low snarl.

"It's a damned sight nearer for a man who's got the use of both
legs than for a man who's only got one and a half."

Philip reddened and stood silent for a while.

"Do you wish me to go or will you go yourself?" he said at last
frigidly.

"What's the good of my going? They want you."

Philip took up his hat and went to see the patient. It was hard
upon eight o'clock when he came back. Doctor South was standing
in the dining-room with his back to the fireplace.

"You've been a long time," he said.

"I'm sorry. Why didn't you start dinner?"

"Because I chose to wait. Have you been all this while at Mrs.
Fletcher's?"

"No, I'm afraid I haven't. I stopped to look at the sunset on my
way back, and I didn't think of the time."

Doctor South did not reply, and the servant brought in some
grilled sprats. Philip ate them with an excellent appetite.
Suddenly Doctor South shot a question at him.

"Why did you look at the sunset?"

Philip answered with his mouth full.

"Because I was happy."

Doctor South gave him an odd look, and the shadow of a smile
flickered across his old, tired face. They ate the rest of the
dinner in silence; but when the maid had given them the port and
left the room, the old man leaned back and fixed his sharp eyes
on Philip.

"It stung you up a bit when I spoke of your game leg, young
fellow?" he said.

"People always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry
with me."

"I suppose they know it's your weak point."

Philip faced him and looked at him steadily.

"Are you very glad to have discovered it?"

The doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter
mirth. They sat for a while staring at one another. Then Doctor
South surprised Philip extremely.

"Why don't you stay here and I'll get rid of that damned fool
with his mumps?"

"It's very kind of you, but I hope to get an appointment at the
hospital in the autumn. It'll help me so much in getting other
work later."

"I'm offering you a partnership," said Doctor South grumpily.

"Why?" asked Philip, with surprise.

"They seem to like you down here."

"I didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your
approval," Philip said drily.

"D'you suppose that after forty years' practice I care a
twopenny damn whether people prefer my assistant to me? No, my
friend. There's no sentiment between my patients and me. I don't
expect gratitude from them, I expect them to pay my fees. Well,
what d'you say to it?"

Philip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the
proposal, but because he was astonished. It was evidently very
unusual for someone to offer a partnership to a newly qualified
man; and he realised with wonder that, although nothing would
induce him to say so, Doctor South had taken a fancy to him. He
thought how amused the secretary at St. Luke's would be when he
told him.

"The practice brings in about seven hundred a year. We can
reckon out how much your share would be worth, and you can pay
me off by degrees. And when I die you can succeed me. I think
that's better than knocking about hospitals for two or three
years, and then taking assistantships until you can afford to
set up for yourself."

Philip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession
would jump at; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men
he knew would be thankful to accept the certainty of even so
modest a competence as that.

"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," he said. "It means giving up
everything I've aimed at for years. In one way and another I've
had a roughish time, but I always had that one hope before me,
to get qualified so that I might travel; and now, when I wake in
the morning, my bones simply ache to get off, I don't mind where
particularly, but just away, to places I've never been to."

Now the goal seemed very near. He would have finished his
appointment at St. Luke's by the middle of the following year,
and then he would go to Spain; he could afford to spend several
months there, rambling up and down the land which stood to him
for romance; after that he would get a ship and go to the East.
Life was before him and time of no account. He could wander, for
years if he chose, in unfrequented places, amid strange peoples,
where life was led in strange ways. He did not know what he
sought or what his journeys would bring him; but he had a
feeling that he would learn something new about life and gain
some clue to the mystery that he had solved only to find more
mysterious. And even if he found nothing he would allay the
unrest which gnawed at his heart. But Doctor South was showing
him a great kindness, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse his
offer for no adequate reason; so in his shy way, trying to
appear as matter of fact as possible, he made some attempt to
explain why it was so important to him to carry out the plans he
had cherished so passionately.

Doctor South listened quietly, and a gentle look came into his
shrewd old eyes. It seemed to Philip an added kindness that he
did not press him to accept his offer. Benevolence is often very
peremptory. He appeared to look upon Philip's reasons as sound.
Dropping the subject, he began to talk of his own youth; he had
been in the Royal Navy, and it was his long connection with the
sea that, when he retired, had made him settle at Farnley. He
told Philip of old days in the Pacific and of wild adventures in
China. He had taken part in an expedition against the
head-hunters of Borneo and had known Samoa when it was still an
independent state. He had touched at coral islands. Philip
listened to him entranced. Little by little he told Philip about
himself. Doctor South was a widower, his wife had died thirty
years before, and his daughter had married a farmer in Rhodesia;
he had quarrelled with him, and she had not come to England for
ten years. It was just as if he had never had wife or child. He
was very lonely. His gruffness was little more than a protection
which he wore to hide a complete disillusionment; and to Philip
it seemed tragic to see him just waiting for death, not
impatiently, but rather with loathing for it, hating old age and
unable to resign himself to its limitations, and yet with the
feeling that death was the only solution of the bitterness of
his life. Philip crossed his path, and the natural affection
which long separation from his daughter had killed--she had
taken her husband's part in the quarrel and her children he had
never seen--settled itself upon Philip. At first it made him
angry, he told himself it was a sign of dotage; but there was
something in Philip that attracted him, and he found himself
smiling at him he knew not why. Philip did not bore him. Once or
twice he put his hand on his shoulder: it was as near a caress
as he had got since his daughter left England so many years
before. When the time came for Philip to go Doctor South
accompanied him to the station: he found himself unaccountably
depressed.

"I've had a ripping time here," said Philip. "You've been
awfully kind to me."

"I suppose you're very glad to go?"

"I've enjoyed myself here."

"But you want to get out into the world? Ah, you have youth." He
hesitated a moment. "I want you to remember that if you change
your mind my offer still stands."

"That's awfully kind of you."

Philip shook hands with him out of the carriage window, and the
train steamed out of the station. Philip thought of the
fortnight he was going to spend in the hop-field: he was happy
at the idea of seeing his friends again, and he rejoiced because
the day was fine. But Doctor South walked slowly back to his
empty house. He felt very old and very lonely.


CHAPTER CXVIII

IT was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne. It was
Mrs. Athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from
her childhood to pick in the hop-field to which with her husband
and her children she still went every year. Like many Kentish
folk her family had gone out regularly, glad to earn a little
money, but especially regarding the annual outing, looked
forward to for months, as the best of holidays. The work was not
hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the
children it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men
met the maidens; in the long evenings when work was over they
wandered about the lanes, making love; and the hopping season
was generally followed by weddings. They went out in carts with
bedding, pots and pans, chairs and tables; and Ferne while the
hopping lasted was deserted. They were very exclusive and would
have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they called the
people who came from London; they looked down upon them and
feared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable
country folk did not want to mix with them. In the old days the
hoppers slept in barns, but ten years ago a row of huts had been
erected at the side of a meadow; and the Athelnys, like many
others, had the same hut every year.

Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from
the public-house at which he had got a room for Philip. It was
a quarter of a mile from the hop-field. They left his bag there
and walked over to the meadow in which were the huts. They were
nothing more than a long, low shed, divided into little rooms
about twelve feet square. In front of each was a fire of sticks,
round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching the cooking
of supper. The sea-air and the sun had browned already the faces
of Athelny's children. Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in
her sun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had
made no real difference to her; she was the country woman born
and bred, and you could see how much at home she found herself
in the country. She was frying bacon and at the same time
keeping an eye on the younger children, but she had a hearty
handshake and a jolly smile for Philip. Athelny was enthusiastic
over the delights of a rural existence.

"We're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. It
isn't life, it's a long imprisonment. Let us sell all we have,
Betty, and take a farm in the country."

"I can see you in the country," she answered with good-humoured
scorn. "Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be
crying for London." She turned to Philip. "Athelny's always like
this when we come down here. Country, I like that! Why, he don't
know a swede from a mangel-wurzel."

"Daddy was lazy today," remarked Jane, with the frankness which
characterized her, "he didn't fill one bin."

"I'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill
more bins than all of you put together."

"Come and eat your supper, children," said Mrs. Athelny.
"Where's Sally?"

"Here I am, mother."

She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood
fire leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. Of late
Philip had only seen her in the trim frocks she had taken to
since she was at the dressmaker's, and there was something very
charming in the print dress she wore now, loose and easy to work
in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed her strong, round
arms. She too had a sun-bonnet.

"You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story," said Philip, as he
shook hands with her.

"She's the belle of the hop-fields," said Athelny. "My word, if
the Squire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage
before you can say Jack Robinson."

"The Squire hasn't got a son, father," said Sally.

She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made
room for her beside him. She looked wonderful in the night lit
by wood fires. She was like some rural goddess, and you thought
of those fresh, strong girls whom old Herrick had praised in
exquisite numbers. The supper was simple, bread and butter,
crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs.
Athelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all
he ate. He flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives
upon Brillat-Savarin.

"There's one thing one can say for you, Athelny," said his wife,
"you do enjoy your food and no mistake!"

"Cooked by your hand, my Betty," he said, stretching out an
eloquent forefinger.

Philip felt himself very comfortable. He looked happily at the
line of fires, with people grouped about them, and the colour of
the flames against the night; at the end of the meadow was a
line of great elms, and above the starry sky. The children
talked and laughed, and Athelny, a child among them, made them
roar by his tricks and fancies.

"They think a rare lot of Athelny down here," said his wife.
"Why, Mrs. Bridges said to me, I don't know what we should do
without Mr. Athelny now, she said. He's always up to something,
he's more like a schoolboy than the father of a family."

Sally sat in silence, but she attended to Philip's wants in a
thoughtful fashion that charmed him. It was pleasant to have her
beside him, and now and then he glanced at her sunburned,
healthy face. Once he caught her eyes, and she smiled quietly.
When supper was over Jane and a small brother were sent down to
a brook that ran at the bottom of the meadow to fetch a pail of
water for washing up.

"You children, show your Uncle Philip where we sleep, and then
you must be thinking of going to bed."

Small hands seized Philip, and he was dragged towards the hut.
He went in and struck a match. There was no furniture in it; and
beside a tin box, in which clothes were kept, there was nothing
but the beds; there were three of them, one against each wall.
Athelny followed Philip in and showed them proudly.

"That's the stuff to sleep on," he cried. "None of your
spring-mattresses and swansdown. I never sleep so soundly
anywhere as here. _You_ will sleep between sheets. My dear
fellow, I pity you from the bottom of my soul."

The beds consisted of a thick layer of hopvine, on the top of
which was a coating of straw, and this was covered with a
blanket. After a day in the open air, with the aromatic scent of
the hops all round them, the happy pickers slept like tops. By
nine o'clock all was quiet in the meadow and everyone in bed but
one or two men who still lingered in the public-house and would
not come back till it was closed at ten. Athelny walked there
with Philip. But before he went Mrs. Athelny said to him:

"We breakfast about a quarter to six, but I daresay you won't
want to get up as early as that. You see, we have to set to work
at six."

"Of course he must get up early," cried Athelny, "and he must
work like the rest of us. He's got to earn his board. No work,
no dinner, my lad."

"The children go down to bathe before breakfast, and they can
give you a call on their way back. They pass The Jolly Sailor."

"If they'll wake me I'll come and bathe with them," said Philip.

Jane and Harold and Edward shouted with delight at the prospect,
and next morning Philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by
their bursting into his room. The boys jumped on his bed, and he
had to chase them out with his slippers. He put on a coat and a
pair of trousers and went down. The day had only just broken,
and there was a nip in the air; but the sky was cloudless, and
the sun was shining yellow. Sally, holding Connie's hand, was
standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a
bathing-dress over her arm. He saw now that her sun-bonnet was
of the colour of lavender, and against it her face, red and
brown, was like an apple. She greeted him with her slow, sweet
smile, and he noticed suddenly that her teeth were small and
regular and very white. He wondered why they had never caught
his attention before.

"I was for letting you sleep on," she said, "but they would go
up and wake you. I said you didn't really want to come."

"Oh, yes, I did."

They walked down the road and then cut across the marshes. That
way it was under a mile to the sea. The water looked cold and
gray, and Philip shivered at the sight of it; but the others
tore off their clothes and ran in shouting. Sally did everything
a little slowly, and she did not come into the water till all
the rest were splashing round Philip. Swimming was his only
accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he had
them all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a
drowning man, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair. The
bathe was uproarious, and it was necessary for Sally to be very
severe to induce them all to come out.

"You're as bad as any of them," she said to Philip, in her
grave, maternal way, which was at once comic and touching.
"They're not anything like so naughty when you're not here."

They walked back, Sally with her bright hair streaming over one
shoulder and her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to
the huts Mrs. Athelny had already started for the hop-garden.
Athleny, in a pair of the oldest trousers anyone had ever worn,
his jacket buttoned up to show he had no shirt on, and in a
wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fire of sticks.
He was delighted with himself: he looked every inch a brigand.
As soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches'
chorus from _Macbeth_ over the odorous kippers.

"You mustn't dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be
angry," he said, when they came up.

And in a few minutes, Harold and Jane with pieces of bread and
butter in their hands, they sauntered through the meadow into
the hop-field. They were the last to leave. A hop-garden was one
of the sights connected with Philip's boyhood and the
oast-houses to him the most typical feature of the Kentish
scene. It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he
were at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines
of the hops. The sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow.
Philip feasted his eyes on the richness of the green leaves. The
hops were yellowing, and to him they had the beauty and the
passion which poets in Sicily have found in the purple grape. As
they walked along Philip felt himself overwhelmed by the rich
luxuriance. A sweet scent arose from the fat Kentish soil, and
the fitful September breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of
the hops. Athelstan felt the exhilaration instinctively, for he
lifted up his voice and sang; it was the cracked voice of the
boy of fifteen, and Sally turned round.

"You be quiet, Athelstan, or we shall have a thunderstorm."

In a moment they heard the hum of voices, and in a moment more
came upon the pickers. They were all hard at work, talking and
laughing as they picked. They sat on chairs, on stools, on
boxes, with their baskets by their sides, and some stood by the
bin throwing the hops they picked straight into it. There were
a lot of children about and a good many babies, some in
makeshift cradles, some tucked up in a rug on the soft brown dry
earth. The children picked a little and played a great deal. The
women worked busily, they had been pickers from childhood, and
they could pick twice as fast as foreigners from London. They
boasted about the number of bushels they had picked in a day,
but they complained you could not make money now as in former
times: then they paid you a shilling for five bushels, but now
the rate was eight and even nine bushels to the shilling. In the
old days a good picker could earn enough in the season to keep
her for the rest of the year, but now there was nothing in it;
you got a holiday for nothing, and that was about all. Mrs. Hill
had bought herself a pianner out of what she made picking, so
she said, but she was very near, one wouldn't like to be near
like that, and most people thought it was only what she said, if
the truth was known perhaps it would be found that she had put
a bit of money from the savings bank towards it.

The hoppers were divided into bin companies of ten pickers, not
counting children, and Athelny loudly boasted of the day when he
would have a company consisting entirely of his own family. Each
company had a bin-man, whose duty it was to supply it with
strings of hops at their bins (the bin was a large sack on a
wooden frame, about seven feet high, and long rows of them were
placed between the rows of hops;) and it was to this position
that Athelny aspired when his family was old enough to form a
company. Meanwhile he worked rather by encouraging others than
by exertions of his own. He sauntered up to Mrs. Athelny, who
had been busy for half an hour and had already emptied a basket
into the bin, and with his cigarette between his lips began to
pick. He asserted that he was going to pick more than anyone
that day, but mother; of course no one could pick so much as
mother; that reminded him of the trials which Aphrodite put upon
the curious Psyche, and he began to tell his children the story
of her love for the unseen bridegroom. He told it very well. It
seemed to Philip, listening with a smile on his lips, that the
old tale fitted in with the scene. The sky was very blue now,
and he thought it could not be more lovely even in Greece. The
children with their fair hair and rosy cheeks, strong, healthy,
and vivacious; the delicate form of the hops; the challenging
emerald of the leaves, like a blare of trumpets; the magic of
the green alley, narrowing to a point as you looked down the
row, with the pickers in their sun-bonnets: perhaps there was
more of the Greek spirit there than you could find in the books
of professors or in museums. He was thankful for the beauty of
England. He thought of the winding white roads and the
hedgerows, the green meadows with their elm-trees, the delicate
line of the hills and the copses that crowned them, the flatness
of the marshes, and the melancholy of the North Sea. He was very
glad that he felt its loveliness. But presently Athelny grew
restless and announced that he would go and ask how Robert
Kemp's mother was. He knew everyone in the garden and called
them all by their Christian names; he knew their family
histories and all that had happened to them from birth. With
harmless vanity he played the fine gentleman among them, and
there was a touch of condescension in his familiarity. Philip
would not go with him.

"I'm going to earn my dinner," he said.

"Quite right, my boy," answered Athelny, with a wave of the
hand, as he strolled away. "No work, no dinner."


CHAPTER CXIX

PHILIP had not a basket of his own, but sat with Sally. Jane
thought it monstrous that he should help her elder sister rather
than herself, and he had to promise to pick for her when Sally's
basket was full. Sally was almost as quick as her mother.

"Won't it hurt your hands for sewing?" asked Philip.

"Oh, no, it wants soft hands. That's why women pick better than
men. If your hands are hard and your fingers all stiff with a
lot of rough work you can't pick near so well."

He liked to see her deft movements, and she watched him too now
and then with that maternal spirit of hers which was so amusing
and yet so charming. He was clumsy at first, and she laughed at
him. When she bent over and showed him how best to deal with a
whole line their hands met. He was surprised to see her blush.
He could not persuade himself that she was a woman; because he
had known her as a flapper, he could not help looking upon her
as a child still; yet the number of her admirers showed that she
was a child no longer; and though they had only been down a few
days one of Sally's cousins was already so attentive that she
had to endure a lot of chaffing. His name was Peter Gann, and he
was the son of Mrs. Athelny's sister, who had married a farmer
near Ferne. Everyone knew why he found it necessary to walk
through the hop-field every day.

A call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for breakfast at
eight, and though Mrs. Athelny told them they had not deserved
it, they ate it very heartily. They set to work again and worked
till twelve, when the horn sounded once more for dinner. At
intervals the measurer went his round from bin to bin,
accompanied by the booker, who entered first in his own book and
then in the hopper's the number of bushels picked. As each bin
was filled it was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag
called a poke; and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried
off between them and put on the waggon. Athelny came back now
and then with stories of how much Mrs. Heath or Mrs. Jones had
picked, and he conjured his family to beat her: he was always
wanting to make records, and sometimes in his enthusiasm picked
steadily for an hour. His chief amusement in it, however, was
that it showed the beauty of his graceful hands, of which he was
excessively proud. He spent much time manicuring them. He told
Philip, as he stretched out his tapering fingers, that the
Spanish grandees had always slept in oiled gloves to preserve
their whiteness. The hand that wrung the throat of Europe, he
remarked dramatically, was as shapely and exquisite as a
woman's; and he looked at his own, as he delicately picked the
hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction. When he grew tired of
this he rolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to Philip of
art and literature. In the afternoon it grew very hot. Work did
not proceed so actively and conversation halted. The incessant
chatter of the morning dwindled now to desultory remarks. Tiny
beads of sweat stood on Sally's upper lip, and as she worked her
lips were slightly parted. She was like a rosebud bursting into
flower.

Calling-off time depended on the state of the oast-house.
Sometimes it was filled early, and as many hops had been picked
by three or four as could be dried during the night. Then work
was stopped. But generally the last measuring of the day began
at five. As each company had its bin measured it gathered up its
things and, chatting again now that work was over, sauntered out
of the garden. The women went back to the huts to clean up and
prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down
the road to the public-house. A glass of beer was very pleasant
after the day's work.

The Athelnys' bin was the last to be dealt with. When the
measurer came Mrs. Athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood up and
stretched her arms: she had been sitting in the same position
for many hours and was stiff.

"Now, let's go to The Jolly Sailor," said Athelny. "The rites of
the day must be duly performed, and there is none more sacred
than that."

"Take a jug with you, Athelny," said his wife, "and bring back
a pint and a half for supper."

She gave him the money, copper by copper. The bar-parlour was
already well filled. It had a sanded floor, benches round it,
and yellow pictures of Victorian prize-fighters on the walls.
The licencee knew all his customers by name, and he leaned over
his bar smiling benignly at two young men who were throwing
rings on a stick that stood up from the floor: their failure was
greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the
company. Room was made for the new arrivals. Philip found
himself sitting between an old labourer in corduroys, with
string tied under his knees, and a shiny-faced lad of seventeen
with a love-lock neatly plastered on his red forehead. Athelny
insisted on trying his hand at the throwing of rings. He backed
himself for half a pint and won it. As he drank the loser's
health he said:

"I would sooner have won this than won the Derby, my boy."

He was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed hat and
pointed beard, among those country folk, and it was easy to see
that they thought him very queer; but his spirits were so high,
his enthusiasm so contagious, that it was impossible not to like
him. Conversation went easily. A certain number of pleasantries
were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of the Isle of Thanet,
and there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of the local
wag. A pleasant gathering! It would have been a hard-hearted
person who did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows.
Philip's eyes wandered out of the window where it was bright and
sunny still; there were little white curtains in it tied up with
red ribbon like those of a cottage window, and on the sill were
pots of geraniums. In due course one by one the idlers got up
and sauntered back to the meadow where supper was cooking.

"I expect you'll be ready for your bed," said Mrs. Athelny to
Philip. "You're not used to getting up at five and staying in
the open air all day."

"You're coming to bathe with us, Uncle Phil, aren't you?" the
boys cried.

"Rather."

He was tired and happy. After supper, balancing himself against
the wall of the hut on a chair without a back, he smoked his
pipe and looked at the night. Sally was busy. She passed in and
out of the hut, and he lazily watched her methodical actions.
Her walk attracted his notice; it was not particularly graceful,
but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs from the hips,
and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision. Athelny
had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently
Philip heard his wife address the world in general.

"There now, I'm out of tea and I wanted Athelny to go down to
Mrs. Black's and get some." A pause, and then her voice was
raised: "Sally, just run down to Mrs. Black's and get me half a
pound of tea, will you? I've run quite out of it."

"All right, mother."

Mrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and
she combined the office of postmistress with that of universal
provider. Sally came out of the hut, turning down her sleeves.

"Shall I come with you, Sally?" asked Philip.

"Don't you trouble. I'm not afraid to go alone."

"I didn't think you were; but it's getting near my bedtime, and
I was just thinking I'd like to stretch my legs."

Sally did not answer, and they set out together. The road was
white and silent. There was not a sound in the summer night.
They did not speak much.

"It's quite hot even now, isn't it?" said Philip.

"I think it's wonderful for the time of year."

But their silence did not seem awkward. They found it was
pleasant to walk side by side and felt no need of words.
Suddenly at a stile in the hedgerow they heard a low murmur of
voices, and in the darkness they saw the outline of two people.
They were sitting very close to one another and did not move as
Philip and Sally passed.

"I wonder who that was," said Sally.

"They looked happy enough, didn't they?"

"I expect they took us for lovers too."

They saw the light of the cottage in front of them, and in a
minute went into the little shop. The glare dazzled them for a
moment.

"You are late," said Mrs. Black. "I was just going to shut up."
She looked at the clock. "Getting on for nine."

Sally asked for her half pound of tea (Mrs. Athelny could never
bring herself to buy more than half a pound at a time), and they
set off up the road again. Now and then some beast of the night
made a short, sharp sound, but it seemed only to make the
silence more marked.

"I believe if you stood still you could hear the sea," said
Sally.

They strained their ears, and their fancy presented them with a
faint sound of little waves lapping up against the shingle. When
they passed the stile again the lovers were still there, but now
they were not speaking; they were in one another's arms, and the
man's lips were pressed against the girl's.

"They seem busy," said Sally.

They turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat for a
moment against their faces. The earth gave forth its freshness.
There was something strange in the tremulous night, and
something, you knew not what, seemed to be waiting; the silence
was on a sudden pregnant with meaning. Philip had a queer
feeling in his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt
(the hackneyed phrases expressed precisely the curious
sensation), he felt happy and anxious and expectant. To his
memory came back those lines in which Jessica and Lorenzo murmur
melodious words to one another, capping each other's utterance;
but passion shines bright and clear through the conceits that
amuse them. He did not know what there was in the air that made
his senses so strangely alert; it seemed to him that he was pure
soul to enjoy the scents and the sounds and the savours of the
earth. He had never felt such an exquisite capacity for beauty.
He was afraid that Sally by speaking would break the spell, but
she said never a word, and he wanted to hear the sound of her
voice. Its low richness was the voice of the country night
itself.

They arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get
back to the huts. Philip went in to hold the gate open for her.

"Well, here I think I'll say good-night."

"Thank you for coming all that way with me."

She gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said:

"If you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like the rest of
the family."

"I don't mind," she said.

Philip had spoken in jest. He merely wanted to kiss her, because
he was happy and he liked her and the night was so lovely.

"Good-night then," he said, with a little laugh, drawing her
towards him.

She gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he
lingered a little, they were like a flower; then, he knew not
how, without meaning it, he flung his arms round her. She
yielded quite silently. Her body was firm and strong. He felt
her heart beat against his. Then he lost his head. His senses
overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. He drew her into
the darker shadow of the hedge.


CHAPTER CXX

PHILIP slept like a log and awoke with a start to find Harold
tickling his face with a feather. There was a shout of delight
when he opened his eyes. He was drunken with sleep.

"Come on, lazybones," said Jane. "Sally says she won't wait for
you unless you hurry up."

Then he remembered what had happened. His heart sank, and, half
out of bed already, he stopped; he did not know how he was going
to face her; he was overwhelmed with a sudden rush of
self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly, he regretted what he had
done. What would she say to him that morning? He dreaded meeting
her, and he asked himself how he could have been such a fool.
But the children gave him no time; Edward took his
bathing-drawers and his towel, Athelstan tore the bed-clothes
away; and in three minutes they all clattered down into the
road. Sally gave him a smile. It was as sweet and innocent as it
had ever been.

"You do take a time to dress yourself," she said. "I thought you
was never coming."

There was not a particle of difference in her manner. He had
expected some change, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there
would be shame in the way she treated him, or anger, or perhaps
some increase of familiarity; but there was nothing. She was
exactly the same as before. They walked towards the sea all
together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but she was
always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and
gentle. She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it.
Philip was astounded. He had expected the incident of the night
before to have caused some revolution in her, but it was just as
though nothing had happened; it might have been a dream; and as
he walked along, a little girl holding on to one hand and a
little boy to the other, while he chatted as unconcernedly as he
could, he sought for an explanation. He wondered whether Sally
meant the affair to be forgotten. Perhaps her senses had run
away with her just as his had, and, treating what had occurred
as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that
she had decided to put the matter out of her mind. It was
ascribing to her a power of thought and a mature wisdom which
fitted neither with her age nor with her character. But he
realised that he knew nothing of her. There had been in her
always something enigmatic.

They played leap-frog in the water, and the bathe was as
uproarious as on the previous day. Sally mothered them all,
keeping a watchful eye on them, and calling to them when they
went out too far. She swam staidly backwards and forwards while
the others got up to their larks, and now and then turned on her
back to float. Presently she went out and began drying herself;
she called to the others more or less peremptorily, and at last
only Philip was left in the water. He took the opportunity to
have a good hard swim. He was more used to the cold water this
second morning, and he revelled in its salt freshness; it
rejoiced him to use his limbs freely, and he covered the water
with long, firm strokes. But Sally, with a towel round her, went
down to the water's edge.

"You're to come out this minute, Philip," she called, as though
he were a small boy under her charge.

And when, smiling with amusement at her authoritative way, he
came towards her, she upbraided him.

"It is naughty of you to stay in so long. Your lips are quite
blue, and just look at your teeth, they're chattering."

"All right. I'll come out."

She had never talked to him in that manner before. It was as
though what had happened gave her a sort of right over him, and
she looked upon him as a child to be cared for. In a few minutes
they were dressed, and they started to walk back. Sally noticed
his hands.

"Just look, they're quite blue."

"Oh, that's all right. It's only the circulation. I shall get
the blood back in a minute."

"Give them to me."

She took his hands in hers and rubbed them, first one and then
the other, till the colour returned. Philip, touched and
puzzled, watched her. He could not say anything to her on
account of the children, and he did not meet her eyes; but he
was sure they did not avoid his purposely, it just happened that
they did not meet. And during the day there was nothing in her
behaviour to suggest a consciousness in her that anything had
passed between them. Perhaps she was a little more talkative
than usual. When they were all sitting again in the hop-field
she told her mother how naughty Philip had been in not coming
out of the water till he was blue with cold. It was incredible,
and yet it seemed that the only effect of the incident of the
night before was to arouse in her a feeling of protection
towards him: she had the same instinctive desire to mother him
as she had with regard to her brothers and sisters.

It was not till the evening that he found himself alone with
her. She was cooking the supper, and Philip was sitting on the
grass by the side of the fire. Mrs. Athelny had gone down to the
village to do some shopping, and the children were scattered in
various pursuits of their own. Philip hesitated to speak. He was
very nervous. Sally attended to her business with serene
competence and she accepted placidly the silence which to him
was so embarrassing. He did not know how to begin. Sally seldom
spoke unless she was spoken to or had something particular to
say. At last he could not bear it any longer.

"You're not angry with me, Sally?" he blurted out suddenly.

She raised her eyes quietly and looked at him without emotion.

"Me? No. Why should I be?"

He was taken aback and did not reply. She took the lid off the
pot, stirred the contents, and put it on again. A savoury smell
spread over the air. She looked at him once more, with a quiet
smile which barely separated her lips; it was more a smile of
the eyes.

"I always liked you," she said.

His heart gave a great thump against his ribs, and he felt the
blood rushing to his cheeks. He forced a faint laugh.

"I didn't know that."

"That's because you're a silly."

"I don't know why you liked me."

"I don't either." She put a little more wood on the fire. "I
knew I liked you that day you came when you'd been sleeping out
and hadn't had anything to eat, d'you remember? And me and
mother, we got Thorpy's bed ready for you."

He flushed again, for he did not know that she was aware of that
incident. He remembered it himself with horror and shame.

"That's why I wouldn't have anything to do with the others. You
remember that young fellow mother wanted me to have? I let him
come to tea because he bothered so, but I knew I'd say no."

Philip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. There was
a queer feeling in his heart; he did not know what it was,
unless it was happiness. Sally stirred the pot once more.

"I wish those children would make haste and come. I don't know
where they've got to. Supper's ready now."

"Shall I go and see if I can find them?" said Philip.

It was a relief to talk about practical things.

"Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, I must say.... There's mother
coming."

Then, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment.

"Shall I come for a walk with you tonight when I've put the
children to bed?"

"Yes."

"Well, you wait for me down by the stile, and I'll come when I'm
ready."

He waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges
with their ripening blackberries were high on each side of him.
From the earth rose rich scents of the night, and the air was
soft and still. His heart was beating madly. He could not
understand anything of what happened to him. He associated
passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was
nothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but
passion could have caused her to give herself. But passion for
him? He would not have been surprised if she had fallen to her
cousin, Peter Gann, tall, spare, and straight, with his
sunburned face and long, easy stride. Philip wondered what she
saw in him. He did not know if she loved him as he reckoned
love. And yet? He was convinced of her purity. He had a vague
inkling that many things had combined, things that she felt
though was unconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the
hops and the night, the healthy instincts of the natural woman,
a tenderness that overflowed, and an affection that had in it
something maternal and something sisterly; and she gave all she
had to give because her heart was full of charity.

He heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the
darkness.

"Sally," he murmured.

She stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet,
clean odours of the country-side. She seemed to carry with her
scents of the new-mown hay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the
freshness of young grass. Her lips were soft and full against
his, and her lovely, strong body was firm within his arms.

"Milk and honey," he said. "You're like milk and honey."

He made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and
then the other. Her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the
elbow; he passed his hand over it and wondered at its beauty; it
gleamed in the darkness; she had the skin that Rubens painted,
astonishingly fair and transparent, and on one side were little
golden hairs. It was the arm of a Saxon goddess; but no immortal
had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and Philip thought of a
cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men's
hearts, of the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is
called York and Lancaster, and of love--in-a-mist and Sweet
William, and honeysuckle, larkspur, and London Pride.

"How can you care for me?" he said. "I'm insignificant and
crippled and ordinary and ugly."

She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips.

"You're an old silly, that's what you are," she said.


CHAPTER CXXI

WHEN the hops were picked, Philip with the news in his pocket
that he had got the appointment as assistant house-physician at
St. Luke's, accompanied the Athelnys back to London. He took
modest rooms in Westminster and at the beginning of October
entered upon his duties. The work was interesting and varied;
every day he learned something new; he felt himself of some
consequence; and he saw a good deal of Sally. He found life
uncommonly pleasant. He was free about six, except on the days
on which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at
which Sally worked to meet her when she came out. There were
several young men, who hung about opposite the `trade entrance'
or a little further along, at the first corner; and the girls,
coming out two and two or in little groups, nudged one another
and giggled as they recognised them. Sally in her plain black
dress looked very different from the country lass who had picked
hops side by side with him. She walked away from the shop
quickly, but she slackened her pace when they met, and greeted
him with her quiet smile. They walked together through the busy
street. He talked to her of his work at the hospital, and she
told him what she had been doing in the shop that day. He came
to know the names of the girls she worked with. He found that
Sally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and
she made remarks about the girls or the men who were set over
them which amused him by their unexpected drollery. She had a
way of saying a thing which was very characteristic, quite
gravely, as though there were nothing funny in it at all, and
yet it was so sharp-sighted that Philip broke into delighted
laughter. Then she would give him a little glance in which the
smiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. They
met with a handshake and parted as formally. Once Philip asked
her to come and have tea with him in his rooms, but she refused.

"No, I won't do that. It would look funny."

Never a word of love passed between them. She seemed not to
desire anything more than the companionship of those walks. Yet
Philip was positive that she was glad to be with him. She
puzzled him as much as she had done at the beginning. He did not
begin to understand her conduct; but the more he knew her the
fonder he grew of her; she was competent and self controlled,
and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that you could
rely upon her in every circumstance.

"You are an awfully good sort," he said to her once _a propos_
of nothing at all.

"I expect I'm just the same as everyone else," she answered.

He knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that
he felt for her, and he liked her company; it was curiously
soothing; and he had a feeling for her which seemed to him
ridiculous to entertain towards a shop-girl of nineteen: he
respected her. And he admired her magnificent healthiness. She
was a splendid animal, without defect; and physical perfection
filled him always with admiring awe. She made him feel unworthy.

Then, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to
London as they walked together, he noticed that she was
unusually silent. The serenity of her expression was altered by
a slight line between the eyebrows: it was the beginning of a
frown.

"What's the matter, Sally?" he asked.

She did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her
colour darkened.

"I don't know."

He understood at once what she meant. His heart gave a sudden,
quick beat, and he felt the colour leave his cheeks.

"What d'you mean? Are you afraid that... ?"

He stopped. He could not go on. The possibility that anything of
the sort could happen had never crossed his mind. Then he saw
that her lips were trembling, and she was trying not to cry.

"I'm not certain yet. Perhaps it'll be all right."

They walked on in silence till they came to the corner of
Chancery Lane, where he always left her. She held out her hand
and smiled.

"Don't worry about it yet. Let's hope for the best."

He walked away with a tumult of thoughts in his head. What a
fool he had been! That was the first thing that struck him, an
abject, miserable fool, and he repeated it to himself a dozen
times in a rush of angry feeling. He despised himself. How could
he have got into such a mess? But at the same time, for his
thoughts chased one another through his brain and yet seemed to
stand together, in a hopeless confusion, like the pieces of a
jig-saw puzzle seen in a nightmare, he asked himself what he was
going to do. Everything was so clear before him, all he had
aimed at so long within reach at last, and now his inconceivable
stupidity had erected this new obstacle. Philip had never been
able to surmount what he acknowledged was a defect in his
resolute desire for a well ordered life, and that was his
passion for living in the future; and no sooner was he settled
in his work at the hospital than he had busied himself with
arrangements for his travels. In the past he had often tried not
to think too circumstantially of his plans for the future, it
was only discouraging; but now that his goal was so near he saw
no harm in giving away to a longing that was so difficult to
resist. First of all he meant to go to Spain. That was the land
of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its
romance and colour and history and grandeur; he felt that it had
a message for him in particular which no other country could
give. He knew the fine old cities already as though he had
trodden their tortuous streets from childhood. Cordova, Seville,
Toledo, Leon, Tarragona, Burgos. The great painters of Spain
were the painters of his soul, and his pulse beat quickly as he
pictured his ecstasy on standing face to face with those works
which were more significant than any others to his own tortured,
restless heart. He had read the great poets, more characteristic
of their race than the poets of other lands; for they seemed to
have drawn their inspiration not at all from the general
currents of the world's literature but directly from the torrid,
scented plains and the bleak mountains of their country. A few
short months now, and he would hear with his own ears all around
him the language which seemed most apt for grandeur of soul and
passion. His fine taste had given him an inkling that Andalusia
was too soft and sensuous, a little vulgar even, to satisfy his
ardour; and his imagination dwelt more willingly among the
wind-swept distances of Castile and the rugged magnificence of
Aragon and Leon. He did not know quite what those unknown
contacts would give him, but he felt that he would gather from
them a strength and a purpose which would make him more capable
of affronting and comprehending the manifold wonders of places
more distant and more strange.

For this was only a beginning. He had got into communication
with the various companies which took surgeons out on their
ships, and knew exactly what were their routes, and from men who
had been on them what were the advantages and disadvantages of
each line. He put aside the Orient and the P. & O. It was
difficult to get a berth with them; and besides their passenger
traffic allowed the medical officer little freedom; but there
were other services which sent large tramps on leisurely
expeditions to the East, stopping at all sorts of ports for
various periods, from a day or two to a fortnight, so that you
had plenty of time, and it was often possible to make a trip
inland. The pay was poor and the food no more than adequate, so
that there was not much demand for the posts, and a man with a
London degree was pretty sure to get one if he applied. Since
there were no passengers other than a casual man or so, shipping
on business from some out-of-the-way port to another, the life
on board was friendly and pleasant. Philip knew by heart the
list of places at which they touched; and each one called up in
him visions of tropical sunshine, and magic colour, and of a
teeming, mysterious, intense life. Life! That was what he
wanted. At last he would come to close quarters with Life. And
perhaps, from Tokyo or Shanghai it would be possible to tranship
into some other line and drip down to the islands of the South
Pacific. A doctor was useful anywhere. There might be an
opportunity to go up country in Burmah, and what rich jungles in
Sumatra or Borneo might he not visit? He was young still and
time was no object to him. He had no ties in England, no
friends; he could go up and down the world for years, learning
the beauty and the wonder and the variedness of life.

Now this thing had come. He put aside the possibility that Sally
was mistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right;
after all, it was so likely; anyone could see that Nature had
built her to be the mother of children. He knew what he ought to
do. He ought not to let the incident divert him a hair's breadth
from his path. He thought of Griffiths; he could easily imagine
with what indifference that young man would have received such
a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisance and
would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he
would have left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she
could. Philip told himself that if this had happened it was
because it was inevitable. He was no more to blame than Sally;
she was a girl who knew the world and the facts of life, and she
had taken the risk with her eyes open. It would be madness to
allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of his life.
He was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of the
transitoriness of Life, and how necessary it was to make the
most of it. He would do what he could for Sally; he could afford
to give her a sufficient sum of money. A strong man would never
allow himself to be turned from his purpose.

Philip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it.
He simply could not. He knew himself.

"I'm so damned weak," he muttered despairingly.

She had trusted him and been kind to him. He simply could not do
a thing which, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was
horrible. He knew he would have no peace on his travels if he
had the thought constantly with him that she was wretched.
Besides, there were her father and mother: they had always
treated him well; it was not possible to repay them with
ingratitude. The only thing was to marry Sally as quickly as
possible. He would write to Doctor South, tell him he was going
to be married at once, and say that if his offer still held he
was willing to accept it. That sort of practice, among poor
people, was the only one possible for him; there his deformity
did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simple manners
of his wife. It was curious to think of her as his wife, it gave
him a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him
as he thought of the child which was his. He had little doubt
that Doctor South would be glad to have him, and he pictured to
himself the life he would lead with Sally in the fishing
village. They would have a little house within sight of the sea,
and he would watch the mighty ships passing to the lands he
would never know. Perhaps that was the wisest thing. Cronshaw
had told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who
by the power of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and
time. It was true. _Forever wilt thou love and she be fair!_

His wedding present to his wife would be all his high hopes.
Self-sacrifice! Philip was uplifted by its beauty, and all
through the evening he thought of it. He was so excited that he
could not read. He seemed to be driven out of his rooms into the
streets, and he walked up and down Birdcage Walk, his heart
throbbing with joy. He could hardly bear his impatience. He
wanted to see Sally's happiness when he made her his offer, and
if it had not been so late he would have gone to her there and
then. He pictured to himself the long evenings he would spend
with Sally in the cosy sitting-room, the blinds undrawn so that
they could watch the sea; he with his books, while she bent over
her work, and the shaded lamp made her sweet face more fair.
They would talk over the growing child, and when she turned her
eyes to his there was in them the light of love. And the
fishermen and their wives who were his patients would come to
feel a great affection for them, and they in their turn would
enter into the pleasures and pains of those simple lives. But
his thoughts returned to the son who would be his and hers.
Already he felt in himself a passionate devotion to it. He
thought of passing his hands over his little perfect limbs, he
knew he would be beautiful; and he would make over to him all
his dreams of a rich and varied life. And thinking over the long
pilgrimage of his past he accepted it joyfully. He accepted the
deformity which had made life so hard for him; he knew that it
had warped his character, but now he saw also that by reason of
it he had acquired that power of introspection which had given
him so much delight. Without it he would never have had his keen
appreciation of beauty, his passion for art and literature, and
his interest in the varied spectacle of life. The ridicule and
the contempt which had so often been heaped upon him had turned
his mind inward and called forth those flowers which he felt
would never lose their fragrance. Then he saw that the normal
was the rarest thing in the world. Everyone had some defect, of
body or of mind: he thought of all the people he had known (the
whole world was like a sick-house, and there was no rhyme or
reason in it), he saw a long procession, deformed in body and
warped in mind, some with illness of the flesh, weak hearts or
weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit, languor of
will, or a craving for liquor. At this moment he could feel a
holy compassion for them all. They were the helpless instruments
of blind chance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and
Mildred for the pain she had caused him. They could not help
themselves. The only reasonable thing was to accept the good of
men and be patient with their faults. The words of the dying God
crossed his memory:

_Forgive them, for they know not what they do._


CHAPTER CXXII

HE had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National
Gallery. She was to come there as soon as she was released from
the shop and had agreed to lunch with him. Two days had passed
since he had seen her, and his exultation had not left him for
a moment. It was because he rejoiced in the feeling that he had
not attempted to see her. He had repeated to himself exactly
what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his
impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and
had in his pocket a telegram from him received that morning:
"_Sacking the mumpish fool. When will you come_?" Philip walked
along Parliament Street. It was a fine day, and there was a
bright, frosty sun which made the light dance in the street. It
was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance, and it
softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He
crossed Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of
twist in his body; he saw a woman in front of him who he thought
was Mildred. She had the same figure, and she walked with that
slight dragging of the feet which was so characteristic of her.
Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he hurried till he
came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it was
someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person,
with a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was
infinitely relieved, but it was not only relief that he felt; it
was disappointment too; he was seized with horror of himself.
Would he never be free from that passion? At the bottom of his
heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a strange,
desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That
love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would
never, never quite be free of it. Only death could finally
assuage his desire.

But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally,
with her kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed
themselves into a smile. He walked up the steps of the National
Gallery and sat down in the first room, so that he should see
her the moment she came in. It always comforted him to get among
pictures. He looked at none in particular, but allowed the
magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to work
upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be
pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed
an unusual figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and
azaleas; he had learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did
not belong to the town; and he was sure that she would blossom
under the soft skies of Dorset to a rarer beauty. She came in,
and he got up to meet her. She was in black, with white cuffs at
her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They shook hands.

"Have you been waiting long?"

"No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?"

"Not very."

"Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?"

"If you like."

They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed
having her near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow
of life seemed like an aureole to shine about her.

"Well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile.

"Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm."

"Was it?"

"Aren't you glad?"

An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that
Sally's suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him
for an instant that there was a possibility of error. All his
plans were suddenly overthrown, and the existence, so
elaborately pictured, was no more than a dream which would never
be realised. He was free once more. Free! He need give up none
of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him to do
what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay.
His heart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate
emptiness. It was as though he had sailed for many years over a
great waste of waters, with peril and privation, and at last had
come upon a fair haven, but as he was about to enter, some
contrary wind had arisen and drove him out again into the open
sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these soft meads
and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean
filled him with anguish. He could not confront again the
loneliness and the tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear
eyes.

"Aren't you glad?" she asked again. "I thought you'd be as
pleased as Punch."

He met her gaze haggardly. "I'm not sure," he muttered.

"You are funny. Most men would."

He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no
self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the
desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all
seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair.
He wanted all that more than anything in the world. What did he
care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to
him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea
Islands? America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his
life he had followed the ideals that other people, by their
words or their writings, had instilled into him, and never the
desires of his own heart. Always his course had been swayed by
what he thought he should do and never by what he wanted with
his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a gesture
of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the
present always, always had slipped through his fingers. His
ideals? He thought of his desire to make a design, intricate and
beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he
not seen also that the simplest pattern, that in which a man was
born, worked, married, had children, and died, was likewise the
most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was to
accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories.

He glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking,
and then looked away again.

"I was going to ask you to marry me," he said.

"I thought p'raps you might, but I shouldn't have liked to stand
in your way."

"You wouldn't have done that."

"How about your travels, Spain and all that?"

"How d'you know I want to travel?"

"I ought to know something about it. I've heard you and Dad talk
about it till you were blue in the face."

"I don't care a damn about all that." He paused for an instant
and then spoke in a low, hoarse whisper. "I don't want to leave
you! I can't leave you."

She did not answer. He could not tell what she thought.

"I wonder if you'll marry me, Sally."

She did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her
face, but she did not look at him when she answered.

"If you like."

"Don't you want to?"

"Oh, of course I'd like to have a house of my own, and it's
about time I was settling down."

He smiled a little. He knew her pretty well by now, and her
manner did not surprise him.

"But don't you want to marry _me?_"

"There's no one else I would marry."

"Then that settles it."

"Mother and Dad will be surprised, won't they?"

"I'm so happy."

"I want my lunch," she said.

"Dear!"

He smiled and took her hand and pressed it. They got up and
walked out of the gallery. They stood for a moment at the
balustrade and looked at Trafalgar Square. Cabs and omnibuses
hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every
direction, and the sun was shining.

[End.]