Of Human Bondage
Mary Ann to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of
attending evensong.
Philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change
in his views on Christianity which had occurred in Germany; they could
not be expected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to
church quietly. But he only went in the morning. He regarded this as a
graceful concession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go
a second time as an adequate assertion of free thought.
When he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a moment,
then shook her head.
“No, I won’t,” she said.
But on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip. “I don’t think I’ll
come to church this evening,” she said suddenly. “I’ve really got a
dreadful headache.”
Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some ‘drops’ which
she was herself in the habit of using. Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and
immediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie
down.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you’ll want?” asked Mrs. Carey anxiously.
“Quite sure, thank you.”
“Because, if there isn’t, I think I’ll go to church. I don’t often have
the chance of going in the evening.”
“Oh yes, do go.”
“I shall be in,” said Philip. “If Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she
can always call me.”
“You’d better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that if Miss
Wilkinson rings, you’ll hear.”
“Certainly,” said Philip.
So after six o’clock Philip was left alone in the house with Miss
Wilkinson. He felt sick with apprehension. He wished with all his heart
that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must
take the opportunity which he had made. What would Miss Wilkinson think
of him if he did not! He went into the hall and listened. There was not
a sound. He wondered if Miss Wilkinson really had a headache. Perhaps
she had forgotten his suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He crept up
the stairs as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they
creaked. He stood outside Miss Wilkinson’s room and listened; he put
his hand on the knob of the door-handle. He waited. It seemed to him
that he waited for at least five minutes, trying to make up his mind;
and his hand trembled. He would willingly have bolted, but he was
afraid of the remorse which he knew would seize him. It was like
getting on the highest diving-board in a swimming-bath; it looked
nothing from below, but when you got up there and stared down at the
water your heart sank; and the only thing that forced you to dive was
the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you had climbed up. Philip
screwed up his courage. He turned the handle softly and walked in. He
seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf.
Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the
door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open.
“Oh, it’s you. What d’you want?”
She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her
petticoat. It was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the
upper part of it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red
flounce. She wore a camisole of white calico with short arms. She
looked grotesque. Philip’s heart sank as he stared at her; she had
never seemed so unattractive; but it was too late now. He closed the
door behind him and locked it.
XXXV
Philip woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but when
he stretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through the
Venetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed with
satisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He began to think of Miss
Wilkinson. She had asked him to call her Emily, but, he knew not why,
he could not; he always thought of her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she
chid him for so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all.
During his childhood he had often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the
widow of a naval officer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him
uncomfortable to call Miss Wilkinson by that name, nor could he think
of any that would have suited her better. She had begun as Miss
Wilkinson, and it seemed inseparable from his impression of her. He
frowned a little: somehow or other he saw her now at her worst; he
could not forget his dismay when she turned round and he saw her in her
camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the slight roughness of
her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of the neck. His triumph
was short-lived. He reckoned out her age again, and he did not see how
she could be less than forty. It made the affair ridiculous. She was
plain and old. His quick fancy showed her to him, wrinkled, haggard,
made-up, in those frocks which were too showy for her position and too
young for her years. He shuddered; he felt suddenly that he never
wanted to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissing her.
He was horrified with himself. Was that love?
He took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back the
moment of seeing her, and when at last he went into the dining-room it
was with a sinking heart. Prayers were over, and they were sitting down
at breakfast.
“Lazybones,” Miss Wilkinson cried gaily.
He looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. She was sitting with
her back to the window. She was really quite nice. He wondered why he
had thought such things about her. His self-satisfaction returned to
him.
He was taken aback by the change in her. She told him in a voice
thrilling with emotion immediately after breakfast that she loved him;
and when a little later they went into the drawing-room for his singing
lesson and she sat down on the music-stool she put up her face in the
middle of a scale and said:
“Embrasse-moi.”
When he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. It was slightly
uncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that he felt rather
choked.
“Ah, je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime,” she cried, with her
extravagantly French accent.
Philip wished she would speak English.
“I say, I don’t know if it’s struck you that the gardener’s quite
likely to pass the window any minute.”
“Ah, je m’en fiche du jardinier. Je m’en refiche, et je m’en
contrefiche.”
Philip thought it was very like a French novel, and he did not know why
it slightly irritated him.
At last he said:
“Well, I think I’ll tootle along to the beach and have a dip.”
“Oh, you’re not going to leave me this morning—of all mornings?” Philip
did not quite know why he should not, but it did not matter.
“Would you like me to stay?” he smiled.
“Oh, you darling! But no, go. Go. I want to think of you mastering the
salt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad ocean.”
He got his hat and sauntered off.
“What rot women talk!” he thought to himself.
But he was pleased and happy and flattered. She was evidently
frightfully gone on him. As he limped along the high street of
Blackstable he looked with a tinge of superciliousness at the people he
passed. He knew a good many to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of
recognition he thought to himself, if they only knew! He did want
someone to know very badly. He thought he would write to Hayward, and
in his mind composed the letter. He would talk of the garden and the
roses, and the little French governess, like an exotic flower amongst
them, scented and perverse: he would say she was French, because—well,
she had lived in France so long that she almost was, and besides it
would be shabby to give the whole thing away too exactly, don’t you
know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen her first in her pretty
muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. He made a delicate
idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it passion and magic, and the
stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fit and exquisite
setting. There was something Meredithian about it: it was not quite
Lucy Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was inexpressibly
charming. Philip’s heart beat quickly. He was so delighted with his
fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he crawled
back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. He thought of the
object of his affections. She had the most adorable little nose and
large brown eyes—he would describe her to Hayward—and masses of soft
brown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and
a skin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red,
red rose. How old was she? Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette.
Her laughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so
low, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard.
“What ARE you thinking about?”
Philip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home.
“I’ve been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You ARE
absent-minded.”
Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise.
“I thought I’d come and meet you.”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said.
“Did I startle you?”
“You did a bit,” he admitted.
He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were eight pages of
it.
The fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each evening,
when they went into the garden after supper, Miss Wilkinson remarked
that one day more had gone, Philip was in too cheerful spirits to let
the thought depress him. One night Miss Wilkinson suggested that it
would be delightful if she could exchange her situation in Berlin for
one in London. Then they could see one another constantly. Philip said
it would be very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him;
he was looking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred
not to be hampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do,
and allowed Miss Wilkinson to see that already he was longing to be
off.
“You wouldn’t talk like that if you loved me,” she cried.
He was taken aback and remained silent.
“What a fool I’ve been,” she muttered.
To his surprise he saw that she was crying. He had a tender heart, and
hated to see anyone miserable.
“Oh, I’m awfully sorry. What have I done? Don’t cry.”
“Oh, Philip, don’t leave me. You don’t know what you mean to me. I have
such a wretched life, and you’ve made me so happy.”
He kissed her silently. There really was anguish in her tone, and he
was frightened. It had never occurred to him that she meant what she
said quite, quite seriously.
“I’m awfully sorry. You know I’m frightfully fond of you. I wish you
would come to London.”
“You know I can’t. Places are almost impossible to get, and I hate
English life.”
Almost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her distress, he
pressed her more and more. Her tears vaguely flattered him, and he
kissed her with real passion.
But a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a tennis-party
at the vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in an
Indian regiment who had lately settled in Blackstable. They were very
pretty, one was Philip’s age and the other was a year or two younger.
Being used to the society of young men (they were full of stories of
hill-stations in India, and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kipling
were in every hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased
with the novelty—the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar’s
nephew with a certain seriousness—was gay and jolly. Some devil within
him prompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as
he was the only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him
half-way. It happened that they played tennis quite well and Philip was
tired of pat-ball with Miss Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when
she came to Blackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he
suggested that Miss Wilkinson should play against the curate’s wife,