Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [187]
Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.
“I say, you’re not putting off a party tonight, are you?” he asked.
“Not on your account. I must work at my surgery.”
“Don’t put it off. I shall be all right. You needn’t bother about me.”
“That’s all right.”
Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths get out of an armchair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece after piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row.”
“Why aren’t you in bed? What’s the time?”
“About five. I thought I’d better sit up with you tonight. I brought an armchair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so soundly that I shouldn’t hear you if you wanted anything.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so good to me,” groaned Philip. “Suppose you catch it?”
“Then you shall nurse me, old man,” said Griffiths, with a laugh.
In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired after his night’s watch, but was full of spirits.
“Now I’m going to wash you,” he said to Philip cheerfully.
“I can wash myself,” said Philip, ashamed.
“Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I can do it just as well as a nurse.”
Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; and he changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow, and arranged the bedclothes.
“I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up. Deacon’s coming in to see you early.”
“I can’t imagine why you should be so good to me,” said Philip.
“It’s good practice for me. It’s rather a lark having a patient.”
Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of grapes and a few flowers.
“You are awfully kind,” said Philip.
He was in bed for five days.
Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths was the same age as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. He was a thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his greatest quality was a vitality which seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in contact. Philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of this strong young man. Philip grew better. Then Griffiths, sitting idly in Philip’s room, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. He was a flirtatious creature, capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a time; and his account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out of difficulties made excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing a romantic glamour over everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed always to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by nature. He loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was enormous. Loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles, difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound notes. He was ploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully, and submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations that his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart to be seriously angry with him.
“I’m an awful fool at books,” he said cheerfully, “but I can’t work.”
Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got through the exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a tremendous success in practice. He would