Of Human Bondage (16 page)

  Mr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no
effect on Philip, and for the rest of the term ignored him. He
wrote a report which was vitriolic. When it arrived and Aunt Louisa
asked Philip what it was like, he answered cheerfully.

  "Rotten."

  "Is it?" said the Vicar. "I must look at it
again."

  "Do you think there's any use in my staying on at
Tercanbury? I should have thought it would be better if I went to
Germany for a bit."

  "What has put that in your head?" said Aunt
Louisa.

  "Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"

  Sharp had already left King's School and had written
to Philip from Hanover. He was really starting life, and it made
Philip more restless to think of it. He felt he could not bear
another year of restraint.

  "But then you wouldn't get a scholarship."

  "I haven't a chance of getting one anyhow. And
besides, I don't know that I particularly want to go to
Oxford."

  "But if you're going to be ordained, Philip?" Aunt
Louisa exclaimed in dismay.

  "I've given up that idea long ago."

  Mrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and
then, used to self-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for
his uncle. They did not speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly
falling down her cheeks. His heart was suddenly wrung because he
caused her pain. In her tight black dress, made by the dressmaker
down the street, with her wrinkled face and pale tired eyes, her
gray hair still done in the frivolous ringlets of her youth, she
was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure. Philip saw it for
the first time.

  Afterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study
with the curate, he put his arms round her waist.

  "I say, I'm sorry you're upset, Aunt Louisa," he
said. "But it's no good my being ordained if I haven't a real
vocation, is it?"

  "I'm so disappointed, Philip," she moaned. "I'd set
my heart on it. I thought you could be your uncle's curate, and
then when our time came – after all, we can't last for ever, can
we? – you might have taken his place."

  Philip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart
beat like a pigeon in a trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept
softly, her head upon his shoulder.

  "I wish you'd persuade Uncle William to let me leave
Tercanbury. I'm so sick of it."

  But the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter
any arrangements he had made, and it had always been intended that
Philip should stay at King's School till he was eighteen, and
should then go to Oxford. At all events he would not hear of Philip
leaving then, for no notice had been given and the term's fee would
have to be paid in any case.

  "Then will you give notice for me to leave at
Christmas?" said Philip, at the end of a long and often bitter
conversation.

  "I'll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he
says."

  "Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is
awful to be at somebody else's beck and call."

  "Philip, you shouldn't speak to your uncle like
that," said Mrs. Carey gently.

  "But don't you see that Perkins will want me to
stay? He gets so much a head for every chap in the school."

  "Why don't you want to go to Oxford?"

  "What's the good if I'm not going into the
Church?"

  "You can't go into the Church: you're in the Church
already," said the Vicar.

  "Ordained then," replied Philip impatiently.

  "What are you going to be, Philip?" asked Mrs.
Carey.

  "I don't know. I've not made up my mind. But
whatever I am, it'll be useful to know foreign languages. I shall
get far more out of a year in Germany than by staying on at that
hole."

  He would not say that he felt Oxford would be little
better than a continuation of his life at school. He wished
immensely to be his own master. Besides he would be known to a
certain extent among old schoolfellows, and he wanted to get away
from them all. He felt that his life at school had been a failure.
He wanted to start fresh.

  It happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in
with certain ideas which had been of late discussed at Blackstable.
Sometimes friends came to stay with the doctor and brought news of
the world outside; and the visitors spending August by the sea had
their own way of looking at things. The Vicar had heard that there
were people who did not think the old-fashioned education so useful
nowadays as it had been in the past, and modern languages were
gaining an importance which they had not had in his own youth. His
own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had been sent to
Germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating a
precedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible
to look upon the experiment as other than dangerous. The result of
innumerable conversations was that Philip should go back to
Tercanbury for another term, and then should leave. With this
agreement Philip was not dissatisfied. But when he had been back a
few days the headmaster spoke to him.

  "I've had a letter from your uncle. It appears you
want to go to Germany, and he asks me what I think about it."

  Philip was astounded. He was furious with his
guardian for going back on his word.

  "I thought it was settled, sir," he said.

  "Far from it. I've written to say I think it the
greatest mistake to take you away."

  Philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent
letter to his uncle. He did not measure his language. He was so
angry that he could not get to sleep till quite late that night,
and he awoke in the early morning and began brooding over the way
they had treated him. He waited impatiently for an answer. In two
or three days it came. It was a mild, pained letter from Aunt
Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his uncle,
who was very much distressed. He was unkind and unchristian. He
must know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they
were so much older than he that they must be better judges of what
was good for him. Philip clenched his hands. He had heard that
statement so often, and he could not see why it was true; they did
not know the conditions as he did, why should they accept it as
self-evident that their greater age gave them greater wisdom? The
letter ended with the information that Mr. Carey had withdrawn the
notice he had given.

  Philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday.
They had them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday
afternoons they had to go to a service in the Cathedral. He stopped
behind when the rest of the Sixth went out.

  "May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please,
sir?" he asked.

  "No," said the headmaster briefly.

  "I wanted to see my uncle about something very
important."

  "Didn't you hear me say no?"

  Philip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost
sick with humiliation, the humiliation of having to ask and the
humiliation of the curt refusal. He hated the headmaster now.
Philip writhed under that despotism which never vouchsafed a reason
for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry to care what he did,
and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back ways he
knew so well, just in time to catch the train to Blackstable. He
walked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in
the dining-room.

  "Hulloa, where have you sprung from?" said the
Vicar.

  It was very clear that he was not pleased to see
him. He looked a little uneasy.

  "I thought I'd come and see you about my leaving. I
want to know what you mean by promising me one thing when I was
here, and doing something different a week after."

  He was a little frightened at his own boldness, but
he had made up his mind exactly what words to use, and, though his
heart beat violently, he forced himself to say them.

  "Have you got leave to come here this
afternoon?"

  "No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to
write and tell him I've been here you can get me into a really fine
old row."

  Mrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She
was unused to scenes and they agitated her extremely.

  "It would serve you right if I told him," said Mr.
Carey.

  "If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After
writing to Perkins as you did you're quite capable of it."

  It was foolish of Philip to say that, because it
gave the Vicar exactly the opportunity he wanted.

  "I'm not going to sit still while you say
impertinent things to me," he said with dignity.

  He got up and walked quickly out of the room into
his study. Philip heard him shut the door and lock it.

  "Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to
be tied down like this."

  Aunt Louisa began to cry quietly.

  "Oh, Philip, you oughtn't to have spoken to your
uncle like that. Do please go and tell him you're sorry."

  "I'm not in the least sorry. He's taking a mean
advantage. Of course it's just waste of money keeping me on at
school, but what does he care? It's not his money. It was cruel to
put me under the guardianship of people who know nothing about
things."

  "Philip."

  Philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the
sound of her voice. It was heart-broken. He had not realised what
bitter things he was saying.

  "Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are
only trying to do our best for you, and we know that we have no
experience; it isn't as if we'd had any children of our own: that's
why we consulted Mr. Perkins." Her voice broke. "I've tried to be
like a mother to you. I've loved you as if you were my own
son."

  She was so small and frail, there was something so
pathetic in her old-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great
lump came suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with
tears.

  "I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be
beastly."

  He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms,
and kissed her wet, withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he
seemed to feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. She had
never surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion.

  "I know I've not been what I wanted to be to you,
Philip, but I didn't know how. It's been just as dreadful for me to
have no children as for you to have no mother."

  Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but
thought only of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little
caresses. Then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to
catch the only train that would get him back to Tercanbury in time
for call-over. As he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he
saw that he had done nothing. He was angry with himself for his
weakness. It was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned
from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and the tears of
his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations
between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster.
Mr. Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He
showed it to Philip. It ran:

  Dear Mr. Perkins,

  Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward,
but both his Aunt and I have been uneasy about him. He seems very
anxious to leave school, and his Aunt thinks he is unhappy. It is
very difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents.
He does not seem to think he is doing very well and he feels it is
wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much obliged if you
would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same mind
perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originally
intended. Yours very truly,

William Carey.

  Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of
pride in his triumph. He had got his own way, and he was satisfied.
His will had gained a victory over the wills of others.

  "It's not much good my spending half an hour writing
to your uncle if he changes his mind the next letter he gets from
you," said the headmaster irritably.

  Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly
placid; but he could not prevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr.
Perkins noticed it and broke into a little laugh.

  "You've rather scored, haven't you?" he said.

  Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal
his exultation.

  "Is it true that you're very anxious to leave?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Are you unhappy here?"

  Philip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt
to get into the depths of his feelings.

  "Oh, I don't know, sir."

  Mr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his
beard, looked at him thoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to
himself.

  "Of course schools are made for the average. The
holes are all round, and whatever shape the pegs are they must
wedge in somehow. One hasn't time to bother about anything but the
average." Then suddenly he addressed himself to Philip: "Look here,
I've got a suggestion to make to you. It's getting on towards the
end of the term now. Another term won't kill you, and if you want
to go to Germany you'd better go after Easter than after Christmas.
It'll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. If at the
end of the next term you still want to go I'll make no objection.
What d'you say to that?"