Chapter 72

第七十二章

以后的三个月里，菲利普每天都去看望米尔德丽德。他去时随身带着书，一用过茶点，便埋首攻读，这当儿，米尔德丽德便躺在沙发上欣赏小说。有时，他抬起头来，盯着她瞅上一会儿，嘴角隐隐露出一丝甜蜜的笑意。然而，米尔德丽德总是能觉察出他向自己投来的目光。

"别望着我浪费你的时间，傻瓜！快做你的功课吧，"她说。

"好一个独裁者，"他兴高采烈地应答着。

菲利普见房东太太进来铺台布准备开饭，便放下书本，兴致勃勃地同她打趣逗乐。这位房东太太是个上了年纪、个儿瘦小的伦敦佬，伶牙俐齿的，具有逗人发笑的幽默感。米尔德丽德已经同她交上了朋友，并且还把导致自己处于目前这种不幸境遇的种种情况，对她作了一番详尽的但是虚假的叙述。这位好心肠的瘦小女人却深受感动，觉得只要米尔德丽德日子过得舒适，再大的麻烦也不为大。米尔德丽德出于礼貌起见，建议菲利普以她兄长的身分出现。他俩在一起用餐，米尔德丽德的胃口变幻莫测。但每当订到能引起她的食欲的饭菜时，菲利普心里总有说不出的高兴。看到她就坐在自己的对面，他不禁为之心醉；他按捺不住内心的喜悦，不时地拉起她的手紧紧地攥着。饭后，米尔德丽德坐进靠近壁炉的安乐椅里，他则紧挨着她坐在地板上，身子倚着她的双膝，嘴里叼着支烟。他俩常常不言不语。有时，发觉她打着盹儿，菲利普便不敢动作，生怕惊醒她，悄没声息地坐在那儿，眼睛懒懒地望着炉火，尽情享受着他的幸福。

"午觉睡得香吗？"她醒来时，他笑吟吟地问道。

"我可没睡，"她回答说，"只是闭闭眼睛就是了。"

她从来不会承认自己睡着的。她生性冷漠，而眼下她身体状况也没有使她感到特别的不便之处。她为了自身的健康，可算是费尽心机，不论什么，只要他愿意提出建议，她都照听不误。每天早晨，只要天好，她都出去，在外面呆上一段时间。天气不太冷的话，她就坐在圣詹姆士公园里。一天余下的时光，她全是悠闲地坐在沙发里消磨掉的，不是读着一本又一本的小说，就是同房东太太在一块儿唠叨扯淡。她就爱说东道西的，其谈兴之浓，经久不衰。她对菲利普絮絮叨叨地讲述房东太太的身世，谈论住在起居室那层楼上的房客以及左邻右舍的趣闻轶事。时而她脸上现出惊恐的神色，对菲利普诉说起自己害怕分娩的痛苦，生怕自己因此而撒手人世。接着，又把房东太太以及那位住在起居室那层楼上的太太的分娩情况，对菲利普从头至尾说了个罄尽。（至于那位住在起居室那层楼上的太太，米尔德丽德还不认识呢。"我这个人就喜欢清静，"她说，"可不是那种见人就搭讪的人儿。"）她带着一种莫可名状的既兴奋又惊悸的口吻娓娓叙来，不过，在大部分时间里，她对近在眼前的临产一事，却处之泰然。

"不管怎么说，我不是第一个生孩子的女人呀，对不？况且大夫说我是不会有什么麻烦的。你瞧，看来我还不是生来就不能生孩子的女人呢。"

眼看产期将至，米尔德丽德去找了房东欧文太太。欧文太太给她推荐了一位大夫，米尔德丽德每隔一周去检查一次。这位大夫索费十五畿尼。

"当然咯，我完全可以还他的价，不过这位大夫是欧文太太竭力推荐的，因此我想总不能因小失大吧。"

"如果你觉得愉快、舒适，费用我才不在乎呢！"菲利普说。

菲利普为她做什么，她都心安理得，似乎这是天经地义的；而在菲利普这方面说来，他就喜欢为她花钱，每给她一张五英镑的钞票，都在他心头激起一种幸福感和自豪感。菲利普给了她好一笔数字的钱，因为她从来不是算计着花钱的。

"我也说不清钱是怎么花的，"她自言自语地说，"就像水似的，都从我指缝里流掉了。"

"这不打紧，"菲利普说，"我能为你做的，我都乐意去做。"

她既不擅针线活，又不为那即将出世的孩子缝制几件必不可少的衣衫。她对菲利普说到头来买它几件比自己做还要便宜得多。菲利普手头有几张抵押契据，这就是他的全部钱财。近日他卖掉了一张，换来的五百英镑，眼下存在银行里，准备往一桩其意义不能一下子就能理解的事业里投资。此时，他感到自己异乎寻常的富有。他们俩常常在一起憧憬未来。菲利普切望米尔德丽德把孩子带在身边，但是米尔德丽德却连声拒绝，因为她还得去挣钱糊口，要是不带孩子，去找工作就要容易得多。她打算重新回到她先前工作过的商店里去，而把孩子交给乡下一个正经女人抚养。

"我能找到只要七先令六便士就会带好孩子的人。这样，无论对我还是对孩子来说，都有好处。"

这在菲利普看来似乎有点不近人情。但是当他试图同米尔德丽德说理时，她却装作认为菲利普只是肉痛要付孩子的抚养费。

"孩子的抚养费，你大可不必操心，"她说，"我决不会叫你付的。"

"要我付多少钱，我是不计较的，这你是知道的。"

米尔德丽德内心深处巴不得这孩子是个死胎。虽说她丝毫没有流露，但菲利普看出她存有这份心思。起初，菲利普不由得一怔，可后来，经过一番考虑，也不得不承认，鉴于种种因素，事情果真如此，倒是求之不得的。

"坐着说这论那的倒是很动听，"米尔德丽德抱怨地说，"可是叫一个姑娘出去自谋生计就艰难了，要是身边再拖着个孩子，那就更不容易了。"

"幸运的是，你还有我可以助你一臂之力呢，"菲利普笑吟吟地说着便拉起了米尔德丽德的手。

"菲利普，你一直待我很好。"

"喔，尽说些混帐话！"

"你可不能说我以往对你为我所做的一切一点都没有酬报你啊。"

"老天在上，我可从来不曾想从你那儿得到什么酬报。如果说我为你做了些什么的话，那是因为我爱你才这么做的。你什么也不欠我。我希望你也爱我。除此之外，我对你没什么企求了。"

对米尔德丽德把自己的肉体看作是件商品，她可以为了尽其用途而随随便便地提供给买主的想法，菲利普感到有点吃惊。

"不过我真想报答你，菲利普。你待我一直是那么情深意切。"

"嗯，再等一段时间也无甚害处。等你身体好了以后，咱俩再去度几天蜜月不迟。"

"你真淘气，"她粲然一笑，怪嗔着菲利普。

米尔德丽德企望在阳春三月坐月子，身体一好便去海边过上半个月，这样可以让菲利普不受干扰地复习迎考，然后就是复活节，他们俩早已打算双双去巴黎度假。菲利普滔滔不绝地数说着他俩在巴黎的种种活动。到那时，巴黎可是个赏心悦目的好去处。他们可以在他所熟悉的拉丁区的一家小旅馆里开个房间，上各式各样的迷人的小饭馆去品尝食物，上戏院观看歌剧。他还要带她去欣赏音乐，引她去见见自己的亲朋好友。这一切会使她感到很有趣的。他曾在米尔德丽德面前谈起过克朗肖，她很想见见他。还有劳森，他已经去巴黎好几个月了。他们还可以去逛逛皮利埃舞厅，还将去凡尔赛、恰特兹、枫丹白露游览观光。

"那可要花一大笔钱哩，"她说。

"哦，甭管花多少钱。想想吧。我朝思暮想的就盼着这一天哪。难道你不清楚这对我有多么重要吗？过去我除了你谁也不爱，以后也不会去爱旁人。"

米尔德丽德笑眯眯的，默默地谛听着他这番慷慨陈词。他认为从她笑眼里看到的是一片脉脉柔情，对此，他对她满怀感激。她比往常要温存得多。以往她身上那种令人不快的傲慢神气，眼下已杏无踪影。她在他跟前呆惯了，不再故作姿态了，也不再像先前那样精心梳理她的头发了，只是随随便便地拢成一个发髻。她通常把她那浓密的刘海梳得齐齐整整，现在却任其披散着。她那张瘦削的脸庞使她那双眼睛显得格外的大。下眼睑布满了皱纹，在苍白的双颊衬托下，更显突兀分明。她神情阴郁，悲哀之至。从她身上，菲利普仿佛看到了圣母马利亚的影子。他希望米尔德丽德岁岁年年永不改颜。他体会到今生前所未有过的幸福。

每天晚上，一到十点，菲利普便起身向米尔德丽德告辞，一来因为她喜欢早早就寝，二来因为他回去后还得用功一两个钟头，以弥补先前几个小时耽误下来的功课。他通常在离开她之前替她梳理头发。在同她道过晚安之后，菲利普便举行仪式般地把他的亲吻奉献给她。首先，他吻吻她的手掌心（她的手指是多么的纤细，那指甲又是多么的秀美，因为她花了不少时间来修剪指甲），接着便先右后左地亲亲她那双合上的眼睛，最后贴着她的嘴唇亲了又亲，吻了又吻。在回家的路上，他那颗心充溢着爱。他引颈盼望能有机会一遂平生心愿，以弥补因自我牺牲而使自己心劳神疲的亏缺。

不久，米尔德丽德该移居私人医院了，她将要在那儿生产。此时，菲利普只能于下午去探望她了。米尔德丽德另编了一套说法，把自己说成是一名随团队驻扎在印度的士兵的妻子，而把菲利普作为自己的小叔子介绍给这家私人医院的女院长。

"我说什么都得当心，"她告诉菲利普说，"因为这儿还有一位太太，她的丈夫就在印度民政部工作。"

"我要是你的话，才不为此担忧呢，"菲利普说。"我相信她的丈夫同你的丈夫是搭乘同一条船去的。"

"什么船？"她天真地问道。

"鬼船呗！"

米尔德丽德顺利地生下了个女孩。当菲利普获准进去看她时，那婴儿就躺在她的身边。米尔德丽德的身体非常虚弱，但因为一切都过去了，心情还是轻松的。她把孩子抱给菲利普看，而她自己用一种古怪的目光打量着这孩子。

"这小东西看上去怪滑稽可笑的，是不？我简直不敢相信她是我生的。"

那新生儿浑身通红，皮肤皱皱的，模样古怪。菲利普瞅着瞧着，脸上现出了笑容，不知说什么是好。他感到很是尴尬，因为此时那位拥有这家私人医院的看护就站在他的身旁。从她瞧自己的目光看来，菲利普觉得她压根儿就不相信米尔德丽德那种颇为复杂的说法，她认为菲利普就是这孩子的生身父亲。

"你准备给她起个什么名儿？"菲利普问道。

"究竟是叫她马德琳还是塞西莉亚，我还没打定主意。"

那位护士走开了，让他们俩单独呆上几分钟。于是，菲利普弯下腰去，对着米尔德丽德的嘴吻了一下。

"亲爱的，一切都平安地过去了，我感到很高兴。"

她抬起纤细的双臂，勾住菲利普的脖子。

"你真是个热心肠的人儿，亲爱的菲尔。"

"现在我终于觉得你是我的人啦。我等你等了好久了，我的亲爱的人儿。"

他们听到那位看护走到门边的声响，于是菲利普急急乎直起身子。看护走进房间时，嘴角露出一丝淡淡的笑意。
 

For the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. A happy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her.

‘Don’t waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work,’ she said.

‘Tyrant,’ he answered gaily.

He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue. Mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the pass she was in. The good-hearted little woman was touched and found no trouble too great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred’s sense of propriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered something which tempted Mildred’s capricious appetite. It enchanted him to see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he took her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against her knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and sometimes Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He dared not move then in case he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire and enjoying his happiness.

‘Had a nice little nap?’ he smiled, when she woke.

‘I’ve not been sleeping,’ she answered. ‘I only just closed my eyes.’

She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a phlegmatic temperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her. She took a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone who chose to offer it. She went for a ‘constitutional’ every morning that it was fine and remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she sat in St. James’ Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady; she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant detail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room floor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. Now and then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die; she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; ‘I’m one to keep myself to myself,’ she said, ‘I’m not one to go about with anybody.’) and she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity.

‘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 still-born. 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 every night, for she liked to go to bed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple of hours’ work to make up for the lost evening. He generally brushed her hair for her before he went. He had made a ritual of the kisses he gave her when he bade her good-night; first he kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers were, the nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and then the left, and at last he kissed her lips. He went home with a heart overflowing with love. He longed for an opportunity to gratify the desire for self-sacrifice which consumed him.

Presently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home where she was to be confined. Philip was then able to visit her only in the afternoons. Mildred changed her story and represented herself as the wife of a soldier who had gone to India to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to the mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law.

‘I have to be rather careful what I say,’ she told him, ‘as there’s another lady here whose husband’s in the Indian Civil.’

‘I wouldn’t let that disturb me if I were you,’ said Philip. ‘I’m convinced that her husband and yours went out on the same boat.’

‘What boat?’ she asked innocently.

‘The Flying Dutchman.’

Mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when Philip was allowed to see her the child was lying by her side. Mildred was very weak, but relieved that everything was over. She showed him the baby, and herself looked at it curiously.

‘It’s a funny-looking little thing, isn’t it? I can’t believe it’s mine.’

It was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled when he looked at it. He did not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him because the nurse who owned the house was standing by his side; and he felt by the way she was looking at him that, disbelieving Mildred’s complicated story, she thought he was the father.

‘What are you going to call her?’ asked Philip.

‘I can’t make up my mind if I shall call her Madeleine or Cecilia.’

The nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip bent down and kissed Mildred on the mouth.

‘I’m so glad it’s all over happily, darling.’

She put her thin arms round his neck.

‘You have been a brick to me, Phil dear.’

‘Now I feel that you’re mine at last. I’ve waited so long for you, my dear.’

They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up. The nurse entered. There was a slight smile on her lips.