Of Human Bondage (29 page)

  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.

  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, 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."