Chapter 79
第七十九章
菲利普于开学前两三天赶回伦敦，以便为自己找个栖身之所。他在威斯敏斯特大桥路以远一带走街穿巷，四处寻觅，但这一带的房子肮脏极了，看了叫人恶心。最后，他终于在肯宁顿区找到了一幢房子。该地区弥漫着一种幽静、古朴的气氛，使人回想起当年萨克雷所了解的泰晤士河彼岸的伦敦的情景来。眼下肯宁顿大街两旁的梧桐树工纷纷抽出新叶。想当年纽科姆一家乘坐的四轮四座马车肯定是经过这儿鳞鳞驶往伦敦西区的。菲利普看中的那条街上的房子都是一色的两层楼房，窗户上大都张贴着供出租字样的告示。他走到一幢告示上注明房间无家具配备的房子跟前，举手叩了叩门。一位面孔板板的、不苟言笑的妇人应声出来开门，并带菲利普去看了看四个小房间，其中一个房间里有炉灶和洗涤槽。房租每周九个先令。菲利普并不需要这么多房间，但鉴于房租低廉，他希望同那位女人当场拍板。他问她是否可以为他打扫房间和烧顿早饭，但她回答说她不做这两件事就已经够忙的了。菲利普听了此话反而觉得挺高兴，因为她这是在暗示他，她除了收他的房租以外，不想同他有什么瓜葛。她接着又告诉菲利普说，如果他到街头拐角处那爿食品店--同时又是邮政所--去打听一下，说不定可以找到个愿意来"照料"他的女人。
菲利普的家具不多，还是他几次搬迁时逐步集拢来的。一张安乐椅是他在巴黎买的；一张桌子，三两幅画，还有一条小小的波斯地毯，这些东西都是克朗肖送给他的。他大伯给了他一张折叠床。因为现在他大伯不再在八月份出租房子了，所以用不着折叠床了。此外，他花了十先令买了几样必不可少的家具用品。他还花了十先令买了一种金黄色的糊墙纸，把那个他打算辟为起居室的房间裱糊起来。墙上挂着劳森送给他的一幅描绘大奥古斯丁街的素描画，以及安格尔的《女奴》和马奈的名画《奥兰毕亚》。他当年在巴黎时，每当刮胡子，他都对着这两张画沉思。为使自己不忘记一度涉足艺坛的经历，菲利普还挂起了他给那位年轻的西班牙人米格尔·阿胡里亚画的木炭肖像画--这是他的最佳画作，画面上挺立着一位赤身裸体的青年男子，双拳紧握，十个脚趾以一种奇特的力量紧紧抠着地板，脸上透出一股刚毅的神气，使人看后经久难忘。虽说隔了这么长时间，菲利普对这幅杰作的不足之处还是一目了然的，但是由这幅画勾起的种种联想使得自己原谅了这些暇疵。他心中纳闷，不知米格尔怎么样了。本无艺术天赋的人却偏要去敲艺术之宫的大门，世上没有比这种事儿更可怕的了。说不定，他因为不堪忍受餐风宿露、饥饿和疾病的折磨，最后病死在医院里；或者绝望之余，最后葬身于污浊的塞纳河；也许因为南方人所特有的不坚定性，他自动急流勇退，而现在兴许作为马德里一办公室的职员，正把他的雄才大略倾注于角逐政治或者斗牛场中。
菲利普邀请劳森和海沃德前来参观他乔迁的新居。他们俩践约而来，一个人手里拎了瓶威士忌酒，另一个人拿了包pate de foie gras。听到他们俩对自己的眼力啧啧称赞时，菲利普心里美极了。他本想把那位当证券经纪人的苏格兰佬一并请来热闹一番，无奈他只有三张椅子，只能招待两位客人，多请一位就没椅子啦。劳森知道菲利普正是通过他才同诺拉·内斯比特结识的。此时，他同菲利普说起了几天前他邂遇诺拉的事儿。
"她还问你好呢。"
一提起诺拉的名字，菲利普顿时双颊绊红（他就是改不了一发窘就脸红的令人难堪的习惯），劳森在一旁用疑惑的目光瞅着菲利普。现在，劳森一年中有大半时间呆在伦敦。他还真是人乡随俗哩，头发也理得短短的，一身笔挺的哗叽制服，头上还戴了顶圆顶硬礼帽。
"我想，你跟诺拉之间的事儿完结了吧，"劳森说。
"我已经有好几个月没见到她了。"
"她看上去还挺精神的哩。那天她戴了顶非常漂亮的帽子，上面还装饰着很多雪白雪白的鸵鸟羽毛。她日子一定过得很不错。"
菲利普转换了话题，可心里头却放不下诺拉。过了一会儿，他们三人正在谈论别的事情，菲利普却突然脱口问劳森说：
"你碰见她那会儿，有没有她还在生我的气的印象啊？"
"一点儿也没有。她还说了你一百二十个好哩！"
"我想去看看她。"
"她又不会把你吃掉的。"
前一个时期，菲利普常常思念诺拉。米尔德丽德抛弃他时，他第一个念头就是想起了诺拉，并满怀苦涩的心情对自己说，诺拉决不会像米尔德丽德那样对待他的。他一时情不自禁地想回到诺拉的身边去，而诺拉一定同情他的遭遇的。然而他又自惭形秽，因为诺拉一向待他很好，而他却待她非常刻薄。
劳森和海沃德告辞后，他吸着就寝前的最后一斗烟。这当儿，他自言自语地说："假使我一直守着她该多好啊！"
菲利普浮想联翩，回想起他和诺拉在文森特广场边那个舒适的小房间里度过的良辰美景，想起了他们俩上美术馆参观和上戏院看戏的情景，回忆起那一个个他们俩在一起促膝谈心的迷人的夜晚。他追忆起诺拉时刻把他的健康挂在心间，凡是有关他的事儿，她都深表关切。她怀着一种诚挚的、忠贞不渝的情意深深地爱着菲利普，这种爱远不止是性爱，而几乎是一种母爱。他知道这种爱是十分可贵的，正是为了这一点，他该诚心诚意地感谢上天诸神的恩泽。他拿定主意去求诺拉开恩。她内心一定非常痛苦，但他觉得她心地高洁、豁达大度，定会宽宥他的，因为她一向与人友善。是否给她写封信呢？不。他要突然闯进她的屋去，一下拜倒在她的脚下--他心里明白，到时候他怯心怯胆的，做不出这个富有戏剧性的动作来的。不过这确是他喜欢考虑的方式--直截了当地告诉她，如果她愿意收留他，那么她尽可以永远信赖他。他已经从他所经历的那令人憎恶的灾难中恢复过来了，他了解她的人品之可贵，向现在她完全可以相信他。他遐思翩跹，思绪一下子转入对未来的憧憬。他想象自己星期天同诺拉一道在河面上泛舟荡漾；他还要带她去格林威治游览。他永远忘不了那次同海沃德一道出去游览观光的欢乐，那伦敦港的美景永远深深地留在他的记忆里。炎夏的下午，他和诺拉将坐在公园里闲聊。他想起诺拉的欢声笑语，宛如一弯溪水旧泪流过卵石时发出的声响，趣味隽永，絮絮叨叨，却又富有个性。想到这里，菲利普不禁哧哧地笑了起来。到那时，他所蒙受的痛苦将像一场恶梦似的从他脑海里隐去。
次日下午用茶点时分，菲利普想这个时候诺拉肯定在家。但是他举手叩门时，一股勇气顿时跑得无影无踪。诺拉会宽恕他吗？他这样死乞白赖地缠着她太可鄙了。一位女用人应声出来开门。他以前每天来访时都没见过这位女用人。菲利普向她打听内斯比特太太是否在家。
"请你去问她能否见见凯里先生？"菲利普说，"我在这里等回话。"
那位女用人噔噔奔上楼去，不一会儿，又噔噔奔了下来。
"先生，请您上楼。二楼前面那个房间。"
"我知道，"菲利普说着，脸上绽出一丝微笑。
菲利普怀着一颗怦怦直跳的心走进屋去。他笃笃敲着房门。
"请进，"那个熟悉的、欢快的声音说道。
这个声音好比是在招呼他走到充满恬静、幸福的新大地里去。他的脚一跨入房间，诺拉便迎上前来。
她同菲利普握了握手，仿佛他们俩前一天才分手似的。这当儿，一个男人倏地站了起来。
"这位是凯里先生--这位是金斯福德先生。"
见到诺拉并非独自一人在家，菲利普感到很失望。他在就座的当儿，暗暗地仔细打量着面前的陌生男人。他从未听到诺拉提起过这个男人的名字，不过在他看来，那个陌生男人坐在椅子里无拘无束，就像是在自己家里一般。这个男人四十岁光景，胡子剃得溜光，一头长长的金发，搽着发油，梳理得平整熨贴。他的肤色红红的，长着一对美男子过了青春期才有的充满倦意的、浑浊的眼睛。他嘴大鼻大，颧骨高高隆起，突儿分明。他身材魁梧，腰圆背粗，个儿中等偏高。
"我一直在想，不知你究意怎么了，"诺拉说话时脸上还是原先那副欢天喜地的样子。"前些日子我碰见劳森先生--他告诉你了吗？--我对他说你也该来看看我。"
菲利普从她的面部表情情捉到一丝局促的神色。菲利普自己对眼下这次见面颇感别扭尴尬，看到诺拉却安之若素，钦慕之心油然而生。诺拉为他沏了杯茶，正要往茶里加糖时，菲利普连忙出来制上。
"瞧我的记性！"她嚷了起来，"我都忘了。"
菲利普才不信她会忘呢，他喝茶从不加糖这一习惯，她一定记得牢着呢。他把这件事当作她方寸已乱、沉不住气的一种外露。
因菲利普突然来访而中断的谈话又开始了。菲利普渐渐觉得自己夹在他们中问有点儿不尴不尬，似乎是个多余的人。金斯福德旁若无人，只当没他在场，一味自顾自的高谈阔沦。他的谈吐倒也不无幽默，只是口气嫌武断了点。他看上去是个报界人士，对每一个涉及到的论题他都有些饶有兴味的内容。菲利普发觉自己渐渐被挤出了谈话圈子，感到不胜惊愕。他打定生意要奉陪到底，一直坐到这位不速之客起身告退为止。他心中暗自纳闷，不知这位金斯福德先生是否也看上了诺拉。以往，他同诺拉经常在一起议论有些油头光棍想同诺拉吊膀子的事儿，还在一起嘲笑过那些不知趣的家伙呢。菲利普想方设法把谈话引入只有他同诺拉熟悉的话题中去，但是他每次这样做的时候，那位报界人士总是插进来，而且还总是成功地把谈话引入一个不容菲利普置喙、只得保持沉默的话题。对此，菲利普心中不觉对诺拉有些忿忿然，因为她应该看得出他正在被人愚弄的呀。不过说不定她这是借此对他惩罚，于是，这么一想，菲利普又恢复了原先的那股高兴劲儿。最后钟敲六点的时候，金斯福德蓦地站起身来。
"我得告辞了，"他说。
诺拉同他握了握手后，陪他走到楼梯平台处。她随手把房门带上，在外面呆了两三分钟。菲利普不知他们俩嘀咕了些什么。
"金斯福德先生是什么人？"诺拉回到房间时，菲利普兴高采烈地问道。
"噢，他是哈姆斯沃思市一家杂志的编辑，近来他录用了不少我的稿子。
"我还以为他想赖在这儿不走了呢。"
"你能留下来，我很高兴。我想同你聊聊。"她坐在一张大安乐椅里，把她那瘦小的身子尽可能蜷成一团，双腿盘在屁股底下。菲利普看到她这个逗人发笑的习惯姿势，不觉莞尔。
"你看上去活脱像只猫咪。"
"我是该把这个习惯改掉了。到了我这样的年纪，动作还像个孩子似的，是有点儿荒唐，可是把双腿盘在屁股底下坐着，我就觉得舒服。"
"又坐在这个房间里了，我太高兴了，"菲利普愉快地说，"你不知道我是多想念这个房间啊！"
"那你前一时期到底为什么不来？"诺拉快活地问了一句。
"我怕来这儿，"菲利普说罢，脸又红了。
诺拉用充满慈爱的目光瞅了他一眼，嘴角泛起了妩媚的笑意。
"你大可不必嘛。"
菲利普犹豫了好一会儿。他的心怦怦直跳。
"我们上一次见面的情形你还记得吗？我待你太不像话了，对此，我深感惭愧。"
她两眼直直地凝视着菲利普，但没有说话。菲利普昏头昏脑的，仿佛上这儿来是为了完成一件他这时才意识到是荒谬绝伦的差事似的。诺拉只是闷声不响，于是菲利普又得生硬地脱口而说：
"你能宽恕我吗？"
接着，菲利普把感到痛心疾首几乎自杀的事儿告诉了诺拉，并把他和米尔德丽德之间所发生的一切，那个孩子的出世、格里菲思结识米尔德丽德的过程，以及自己的一片痴情、信任以及受人欺骗的事儿，一一抖搂了出来。他还对诺拉倾诉他常常想起她对自己的好意和爱情，并为自己抛弃了她对自己的好意和爱情而无限懊悔。只有当他同诺拉在一起的时候，他才感到幸福，而且他现在真正认识到诺拉的人品之高贵。由于情绪激动，菲利普的声音也变得嘶哑了。有时，他深感羞愧，简直到了无地自容的地步，因此说话时一双眼睛死死盯住地板。他那张脸因痛苦而扭曲着，然而能一诉满腔的情愫，使他获得了一种莫可名状的轻松感。他终于说完了。他颓然倒人椅子，筋疲力尽，默默地等待着诺拉开腔说话。他把心里话都和盘托出了，甚至在诉说的过程中，还把自己说成是个卑劣宵小之徒。可诺拉始终不吭一声，他感到十分惊讶。他抬起眼皮瞅着她，发觉她并未看着自己。诺拉的脸色异常苍白，一副心事重重的样子。
"你就没有话要对我说吗？"
诺拉不由得一惊，双颊蓦地绯红。
"你恐怕过了好长一段很不顺心的日子，"她说，"我太对不起你了。"
她看样子想继续往下讲，但又戛然打住话头。菲利普只得耐住性子等着。最后她像是强迫自己说话似的。
"我已经同金斯福德先生订婚了。"
"你为何不一开始就告诉我呢？"菲利普不禁嚷了起来，"你完全不必让我在你而前出自己的洋相嘛！"
"对不起，我是不忍打断你的话啊……你告诉我说你的朋友又回到了你的身边后不久，我就遇上了他--"她似乎在竭力搜寻不使菲利普伤心的词儿--"我难过了好一阵于，可他又待我非常好。他知道有人伤了我的心，当然他不了解此人就是你。要没有他，日子还真不知怎么过呢。突然间，我觉得我总不能老是这样子没完没了的干啊，干啊，干啊；我疲劳极了，觉得身体很不好。我把我丈夫的事儿告诉了他。要是我答应尽快同他结婚，他愿意给我笔钱去同我丈夫办理离婚手续。他有个好差使，因此我不必事事都去张罗，除非我想这么干。他非常喜欢我，而且还急于来照料我，这深深地打动了我的心。眼下我也非常喜欢他。"
"那么离婚手续办妥了没有？"
"离婚判决书已经拿到了，不过要等到七月才能生效。一到七月我们就立即结婚。"
有好一会儿，菲利普默然不语。
"但愿我没出自己的丑，"他最后喃喃地说。
此时，他在回味着自己那番长长的、出乖露丑的自白。诺拉用好奇的目光注视着他。
"你从来就没有正正经经受过我，"诺拉说。
"堕入情网不是件令人很愉快的事儿。"
不过，菲利普一向能很快使自己镇静下来。他站了起来，向诺拉伸出手去。这当儿，他嘴里说道：
"我希望你生活幸福。无论如何，这对你来说是件最好不过的事情。"
"你会再来看我的，不是吗？"诺拉问了一声。
"不会再来了，"菲利普边说边摇头，"看到你很幸福，我会吃醋的。"
菲利普踏着缓慢的步子离开了诺拉的寓所。不管怎么说，诺拉说他从来就没有爱过她，这话是说对了。他感到失望，甚至还有些儿忿然，不过与其说他伤心，还不如说是他的虚荣心受到了损伤。对此，他自己肚子里有数。这时，他渐渐意识到上帝跟自己开了个不大不小的玩笑，不由得噙着悲泪嘲笑起自己来了。借嘲笑自己的荒唐行为而自娱的滋味可不是好受的啊！
Philip went up to London a couple of days before the session began in order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out of the Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him; and at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and old-world air. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that side of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf. The houses in the street which Philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the windows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one which announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an austere, silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a kitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down at once. He asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him and cook his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do without that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she intimated that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to receive his rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer’s round the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who would ‘do’ for him.
Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings, and the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. His uncle had offered a fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in August, he had no further use; and by spending another ten pounds Philip bought himself whatever else was essential. He spent ten shillings on putting a corn-coloured paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on the walls a sketch which Lawson had given him of the Quai des Grands Augustins, and the photograph of the Odalisque by Ingres and Manet’s Olympia which in Paris had been the objects of his contemplation while he shaved. To remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the practice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel Ajuria: it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with clenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on his face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and though Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his work its associations made him look upon it with tolerance. He wondered what had happened to Miguel. There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who have no talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure, starvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access of despair had sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his Southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and now, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to politics and bull-fighting.
Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras; and he was delighted when they praised his taste. He would have invited the Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could entertain only a definite number of guests. Lawson was aware that through him Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked that he had run across her a few days before.
‘She was asking how you were.’
Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson looked at him quizzically. Lawson, who now spent most of the year in London, had so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.
‘I gather that all is over between you,’ he said.
‘I’ve not seen her for months.’
‘She was looking rather nice. She had a very smart hat on with a lot of white ostrich feathers on it. She must be doing pretty well.’
Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked suddenly:
‘Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?’
‘Not a bit. She talked very nicely of you.’
‘I’ve got half a mind to go and see her.’
‘She won’t eat you.’
Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his first thought was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated him so. His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he was ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had treated her abominably.
‘If I’d only had the sense to stick to her!’ he said to himself, afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last pipe before going to bed.
He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the play, and the charming evenings of intimate conversation. He recollected her solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. She had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods. He made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. She must have suffered horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him: she was incapable of malice. Should he write to her? No. He would break in on her suddenly and cast himself at her feet—he knew that when the time came he would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how he liked to think of it—and tell her that if she would take him back she might rely on him for ever. He was cured of the hateful disease from which he had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His imagination leaped forward to the future. He pictured himself rowing with her on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never forgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the Park together and talk: he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter, which poured out like a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of character. The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad dream.
But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed him. Was it possible for her to forgive him? It would be abominable of him to force himself on her presence. The door was opened by a maid new since he had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs. Nesbit was in.
‘Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?’ he said. ‘I’ll wait here.’
The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.
‘Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front.’
‘I know,’ said Philip, with a slight smile.
He went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door.
‘Come in,’ said the well-known, cheerful voice.
It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. When he entered Norah stepped forward to greet him. She shook hands with him as if they had parted the day before. A man stood up.
‘Mr. Carey—Mr. Kingsford.’
Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took stock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention his name, but he seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home. He was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men get when their youth is passed. He had a large nose, a large mouth; the bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of more than average height, and broad-shouldered.
‘I was wondering what had become of you,’ said Norah, in her sprightly manner. ‘I met Mr. Lawson the other day—did he tell you?—and I informed him that it was really high time you came to see me again.’
Philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance, and he admired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which himself felt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea. She was about to put sugar in it when he stopped her.
‘How stupid of me!’ she cried. ‘I forgot.’
He did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he never took sugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign that her nonchalance was affected.
The conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and presently he began to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took no particular notice of him. He talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a slightly dogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had something amusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated Philip to find himself edged out of the conversation. He was determined to stay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired Norah. In the old days they had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt with her and had laughed at them together. Philip tried to bring back the conversation to matters which only he and Norah knew about, but each time the journalist broke in and succeeded in drawing it away to a subject upon which Philip was forced to be silent. He grew faintly angry with Norah, for she must see he was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this upon him as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his good humour. At last, however, the clock struck six, and Kingsford got up.
‘I must go,’ he said.
Norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. She shut the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes. Philip wondered what they were talking about.
‘Who is Mr. Kingsford?’ he asked cheerfully, when she returned.
‘Oh, he’s the editor of one of Harmsworth’s Magazines. He’s been taking a good deal of my work lately.’
‘I thought he was never going.’
‘I’m glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you.’ She curled herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size made possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled when he saw her assume the attitude which had always amused him.
‘You look just like a cat.’
She gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes.
‘I really ought to break myself of the habit. It’s absurd to behave like a child when you’re my age, but I’m comfortable with my legs under me.’
‘It’s awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again,’ said Philip happily. ‘You don’t know how I’ve missed it.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you come before?’ she asked gaily.
‘I was afraid to,’ he said, reddening.
She gave him a look full of kindness. Her lips outlined a charming smile.
‘You needn’t have been.’
He hesitated for a moment. His heart beat quickly.
‘D’you remember the last time we met? I treated you awfully badly—I’m dreadfully ashamed of myself.’
She looked at him steadily. She did not answer. He was losing his head; he seemed to have come on an errand of which he was only now realising the outrageousness. She did not help him, and he could only blurt out bluntly.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’
Then impetuously he told her that Mildred had left him and that his unhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself. He told her of all that had happened between them, of the birth of the child, and of the meeting with Griffiths, of his folly and his trust and his immense deception. He told her how often he had thought of her kindness and of her love, and how bitterly he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been happy when he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. His voice was hoarse with emotion. Sometimes he was so ashamed of what he was saying that he spoke with his eyes fixed on the ground. His face was distorted with pain, and yet he felt it a strange relief to speak. At last he finished. He flung himself back in his chair, exhausted, and waited. He had concealed nothing, and even, in his self-abasement, he had striven to make himself more despicable than he had really been. He was surprised that she did not speak, and at last he raised his eyes. She was not looking at him. Her face was quite white, and she seemed to be lost in thought.
‘Haven’t you got anything to say to me?’
She started and reddened.
‘I’m afraid you’ve had a rotten time,’ she said. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry.’
She seemed about to go on, but she stopped, and again he waited. At length she seemed to force herself to speak.
‘I’m engaged to be married to Mr. Kingsford.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me at once?’ he cried. ‘You needn’t have allowed me to humiliate myself before you.’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop you.... I met him soon after you’—she seemed to search for an expression that should not wound him—‘told me your friend had come back. I was very wretched for a bit, he was extremely kind to me. He knew someone had made me suffer, of course he doesn’t know it was you, and I don’t know what I should have done without him. And suddenly I felt I couldn’t go on working, working, working; I was so tired, I felt so ill. I told him about my husband. He offered to give me the money to get my divorce if I would marry him as soon as I could. He had a very good job, and it wouldn’t be necessary for me to do anything unless I wanted to. He was so fond of me and so anxious to take care of me. I was awfully touched. And now I’m very, very fond of him.’
‘Have you got your divorce then?’ asked Philip.
‘I’ve got the decree nisi. It’ll be made absolute in July, and then we are going to be married at once.’
For some time Philip did not say anything.
‘I wish I hadn’t made such a fool of myself,’ he muttered at length.
He was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. She looked at him curiously.
‘You were never really in love with me,’ she said.
‘It’s not very pleasant being in love.’
But he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and holding out his hand, he said:
‘I hope you’ll be very happy. After all, it’s the best thing that could have happened to you.’
She looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it.
‘You’ll come and see me again, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It would make me too envious to see you happy.’
He walked slowly away from her house. After all she was right when she said he had never loved her. He was disappointed, irritated even, but his vanity was more affected than his heart. He knew that himself. And presently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical joke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. It is not very comfortable to have the gift of being amused at one’s own absurdity.
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