They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up.
The nurse entered.
There was a slight smile on her lips.
LXXIII
Three weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to Brighton.
She had made a quick recovery and looked better than he had ever seen her.
She was going to a boarding-house where she had spent a couple of weekends with Emil Miller, and had written to say that her husband was obliged to go to Germany on business and she was coming down with her baby.
She got pleasure out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain fertility of invention in the working out of the details.
Mildred proposed to find in Brighton some woman who would be willing to take charge of the baby.
Philip was startled at the callousness with which she insisted on getting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor child had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her.
Philip had expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she had had the baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to help him persuade her to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred.
Mildred was not unkind to her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and she talked about it a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it.
She could not look upon it as part of herself.
She fancied it resembled its father already.
She was continually wondering how she would manage when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such a fool as to have it at all.
"If I'd only known then all I do now," she said.
She laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare.
"You couldn't make more fuss if you was the father," she said.
"I'd like to see Emil getting into such a stew about it."
Philip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of baby-farming and the ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children that selfish, cruel parents have put in their charge.
"Don't be so silly," said Mildred. "That's when you give a woman a sum down to look after a baby.
But when you're going to pay so much a week it's to their interest to look after it well."
Philip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people who had no children of their own and would promise to take no other.
"Don't haggle about the price," he said. "I'd rather pay half a guinea a week than run any risk of the kid being starved or beaten."
"You're a funny old thing, Philip," she laughed.
To him there was something very touching in the child's helplessness.
It was small, ugly, and querulous.
Its birth had been looked forward to with shame and anguish.
Nobody wanted it.
It was dependent on him, a stranger, for food, shelter, and clothes to cover its nakedness.
As the train started he kissed Mildred.
He would have kissed the baby too, but he was afraid she would laugh at him.
"You will write to me, darling, won't you?
And I shall look forward to your coming back with oh! such impatience."
"Mind you get through your exam."
He had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten days before him he made a final effort.
He was very anxious to pass, first to save himself time and expense, for money had been slipping through his fingers during the last four months with incredible speed; and then because this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that the student had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of which was more vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had been hitherto concerned.
Philip looked forward with interest to the rest of the curriculum.
Nor did he want to have to confess to Mildred that he had failed: though the examination was difficult and the majority of candidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she would think less well of him if he did not succeed; she had a peculiarly humiliating way of showing what she thought.
Mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he snatched half an hour every day to write a long letter to her.
He had always a certain shyness in expressing himself by word of mouth, but he found he could tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of things which it would have made him feel ridiculous to say.
Profiting by the discovery he poured out to her his whole heart.
He had never been able to tell her before how his adoration filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his thoughts, were touched with it.
He wrote to her of the future, the happiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her.
He asked himself (he had often asked himself before but had never put it into words) what it was in her that filled him with such extravagant delight; he did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, and when she was away from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he knew only that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against his lungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her presence was almost pain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely weak as though, not having eaten, he were tremulous from want of food.
He looked forward eagerly to her answers.
He did not expect her to write often, for he knew that letter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the clumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his.
She spoke of the boarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather and the baby, told him she had been for a walk on the front with a lady-friend whom she had met in the boarding-house and who had taken such a fancy to baby, she was going to the theatre on Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up.
It touched Philip because it was so matter-of-fact.
The crabbed style, the formality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to take her in his arms and kiss her.