Of Human Bondage W. Somerset Maugham (epub e reader txt) 📖

“After all, I’m not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the doctor says I shan’t have any trouble. You see, it isn’t as if I wasn’t well made.”

Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came, had recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week. He was to charge fifteen guineas.

“Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen strongly recommended him, and I thought it wasn’t worth while to spoil the ship for a coat of tar.”

“If you feel happy and comfortable I don’t mind a bit about the expense,” said Philip.

She accepted all that Philip did for her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend money on her: each five-pound note he gave her caused him a little thrill of happiness and pride; he gave her a good many, for she was not economical.

“I don’t know where the money goes to,” she said herself, “it seems to slip through my fingers like water.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Philip. “I’m so glad to be able to do anything I can for you.”

She could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things for the baby; she told Philip it was much cheaper in the end to buy them. Philip had lately sold one of the mortgages in which his money had been put; and now, with five hundred pounds in the bank waiting to be invested in something that could be more easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly well-to-do. They talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that Mildred should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also to look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one of the shops of the company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put with some decent woman in the country.

“I can find someone who’ll look after it well for seven and sixpence a week. It’ll be better for the baby and better for me.”

It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with her she pretended to think he was concerned with the expense.

“You needn’t worry about that,” she said. “I shan’t ask you to pay for it.”

“You know I don’t care how much I pay.”

At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be stillborn. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that the thought was there. He was shocked at first; and then, reasoning with himself, he was obliged to confess that for all concerned such an event was to be desired.

“It’s all very fine to say this and that,” Mildred remarked querulously, “but it’s jolly difficult for a girl to earn her living by herself; it doesn’t make it any easier when she’s got a baby.”

“Fortunately you’ve got me to fall back on,” smiled Philip, taking her hand.

“You’ve been good to me, Philip.”

“Oh, what rot!”

“You can’t say I didn’t offer anything in return for what you’ve done.”

“Good heavens, I don’t want a return. If I’ve done anything for you, I’ve done it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I don’t want you to do anything unless you love me.”

He was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a commodity which she could deliver indifferently as an acknowledgment for services rendered.

“But I do want to, Philip. You’ve been so good to me.”

“Well, it won’t hurt for waiting. When you’re all right again we’ll go for our little honeymoon.”

“You are naughty,” she said, smiling.

Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as she was well enough she was to go to the seaside for a fortnight: that would give Philip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after that came the Easter holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris together. Philip talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was delightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the Latin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little restaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to music halls. It would amuse her to meet his friends. He had talked to her about Cronshaw, she would see him; and there was Lawson, he had gone to Paris for a couple of months; and they would go to the Bal Bullier; there were excursions; they would make trips to Versailles, Chartres, Fontainebleau.

“It’ll cost a lot of money,” she said.

“Oh, damn the expense. Think how I’ve been looking forward to it. Don’t you know what it means to me? I’ve never loved anyone but you. I never shall.”

She listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He thought he saw in them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. She was much gentler than she used to be. There was in her no longer the superciliousness which had irritated him. She was so accustomed to him now that she took no pains to keep up before him any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair with the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the vast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless style suited her. Her face was so thin that it made her eyes seem very large; there were heavy lines under them, and the pallor of her cheeks made their colour more profound. She had a wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. There seemed to Philip to be in her something of the Madonna. He wished they could continue in that same way always. He was happier than he had ever been in his life.

He used to leave her at ten o’clock