Of Human Bondage
with the curate as her partner; and he would play later with the
new-comers. He sat down by the elder Miss O’Connor and said to her in
an undertone:
“We’ll get the duffers out of the way first, and then we’ll have a
jolly set afterwards.”
Apparently Miss Wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her racket,
and, saying she had a headache, went away. It was plain to everyone
that she was offended. Philip was annoyed that she should make the fact
public. The set was arranged without her, but presently Mrs. Carey
called him.
“Philip, you’ve hurt Emily’s feelings. She’s gone to her room and she’s
crying.”
“What about?”
“Oh, something about a duffer’s set. Do go to her, and say you didn’t
mean to be unkind, there’s a good boy.”
“All right.”
He knocked at Miss Wilkinson’s door, but receiving no answer went in.
He found her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping. He touched her
on the shoulder.
“I say, what on earth’s the matter?”
“Leave me alone. I never want to speak to you again.”
“What have I done? I’m awfully sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. I
didn’t mean to. I say, do get up.”
“Oh, I’m so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I hate that
stupid game. I only play because I want to play with you.”
She got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick
look in the glass sank into a chair. She made her handkerchief into a
ball and dabbed her eyes with it.
“I’ve given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man—oh, what a
fool I was—and you have no gratitude. You must be quite heartless. How
could you be so cruel as to torment me by flirting with those vulgar
girls. We’ve only got just over a week. Can’t you even give me that?”
Philip stood over her rather sulkily. He thought her behaviour
childish. He was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper before
strangers.
“But you know I don’t care twopence about either of the O’Connors. Why
on earth should you think I do?”
Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made marks on
her powdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Her white
dress did not suit her very well just then. She looked at Philip with
hungry, passionate eyes.
“Because you’re twenty and so’s she,” she said hoarsely. “And I’m old.”
Philip reddened and looked away. The anguish of her tone made him feel
strangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he had never had
anything to do with Miss Wilkinson.
“I don’t want to make you unhappy,” he said awkwardly. “You’d better go
down and look after your friends. They’ll wonder what has become of
you.”
“All right.”
He was glad to leave her.
The quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days
that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk of
nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss
Wilkinson to tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling
himself a beast he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but
now it irritated him: it would have been all very well if she had been
a girl, but it was silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never
ceased reminding him that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which
he could never repay. He was willing to acknowledge this since she made
a point of it, but he did not really know why he should be any more
grateful to her than she to him. He was expected to show his sense of
obligation in ways which were rather a nuisance: he had been a good
deal used to solitude, and it was a necessity to him sometimes; but
Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an unkindness if he was not always at
her beck and call. The Miss O’Connors asked them both to tea, and
Philip would have liked to go, but Miss Wilkinson said she only had
five days more and wanted him entirely to herself. It was flattering,
but a bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories of the exquisite delicacy
of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation to fair ladies as he
to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, their passion for
self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson seemed to want a
great deal.
Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be
possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain
satisfaction that she lived in Berlin.
“You will write to me, won’t you? Write to me every day. I want to know
everything you’re doing. You must keep nothing from me.”
“I shall be awfully, busy” he answered. “I’ll write as often as I can.”
She flung her arms passionately round his neck. He was embarrassed
sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He would have
preferred her to be more passive. It shocked him a little that she
should give him so marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his
prepossessions about the modesty of the feminine temperament.
At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she came
down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress
of black and white check. She looked a very competent governess. Philip
was silent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit
the circumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something
flippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a
scene. They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden
the night before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no
opportunity for them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room after
breakfast in case Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the
stairs. He did not want Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with
a sharp tongue, to catch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did
not like Miss Wilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not
very well and could not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip
saw her off. Just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed
Mr. Carey.
“I must kiss you too, Philip,” she said.
“All right,” he said, blushing.
He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train started,
and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept
disconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a
distinct sensation of relief.
“Well, did you see her safely off?” asked Aunt Louisa, when they got
in.
“Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip.”
“Oh, well, at her age it’s not dangerous.” Mrs. Carey pointed to the
sideboard. “There’s a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second
post.”
It was from Hayward and ran as follows:
My dear boy,
I answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great friend
of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very
precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and
literature; and we agreed that it was charming. You wrote from your
heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every
line. And because you love you write like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is
the real thing: I felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose
was musical from the sincerity of your emotion. You must be happy! I
wish I could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while
you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers. I
can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes,
tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms, so young and
soft and fresh, vowing she would ne’er consent—consented. Roses and
violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, I envy you. It is so good to
think that your first love should have been pure poetry. Treasure the
moments, for the immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All,
and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day. You will never
again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is best love; and she is
beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours. I felt my
pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you
buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it is that exquisite
chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would have you sit under
a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and Juliet; and then
I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on
which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of
a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her.
Yours always,
G. Etheridge Hayward.
“What damned rot!” said Philip, when he finished the letter.
Miss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read Romeo
and Juliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then, as he put
the letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness
because reality seemed so different from the ideal.
XXXVI
A few days later Philip went to London. The curate had recommended
rooms in Barnes, and these Philip engaged by letter at fourteen
shillings a week. He reached them in the evening; and the landlady, a
funny little old woman with a shrivelled body and a deeply wrinkled
face, had prepared high tea for him. Most of the sitting-room was taken
up by the sideboard and a square table; against one wall was a sofa
covered with horsehair, and by the fireplace an arm-chair to match:
there was a white antimacassar over the back of it, and on the seat,
because the springs were broken, a hard cushion.
After having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he sat
down and tried to read; but he was depressed. The silence in the street
made him slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very much alone.
Next day he got up early. He put on his tail-coat and the tall hat
which he had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he made up his
mind to stop at the Stores on his way to the office and buy a new one.
When he had done this he found himself in plenty of time and so walked
along the Strand. The office of Messrs. Herbert Carter & Co. was in a
little street off Chancery Lane, and he had to ask his way two or three
times. He felt that people were staring at him a great deal, and once
he took off his hat to see whether by chance the label had been left
on. When he arrived he knocked at the door; but no one answered, and
looking at his watch he found it was barely half past nine; he supposed
he was too early. He went away and ten minutes later returned to find
an office-boy, with a long nose, pimply face, and a Scotch accent,
opening the door. Philip asked for Mr. Herbert Carter. He had not come
yet.
“When will he be here?”
“Between ten and half past.”
“I’d better wait,” said Philip.
“What are you wanting?” asked the office-boy.
Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner.
“Well, I’m going to work here if you have no objection.”
“Oh, you’re the new articled clerk? You’d better come in. Mr.
Goodworthy’ll be here in a while.”
Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy—he was about the
same age as Philip and called himself a junior clerk—look at his foot.
He flushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other. He looked round
the room. It was dark and very dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There
were three rows of desks in it and against them high stools. Over the
chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. Presently a clerk
came in and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone
asked the office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who he was.
A whistle blew, and Macdougal got up.
“Mr. Goodworthy’s come. He’s the managing clerk. Shall I tell him
you’re here?”
“Yes, please,” said Philip.
The office-boy went out and in a moment returned.
“Will you come this way?”
Philip followed him across the passage and was shown into a room, small
and barely furnished, in which a little, thin man was standing with his