Of Human Bondage (28 page)

  Next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and
his first thought was that they would not be able to go into the
garden that evening. He was in high spirits at breakfast. Miss
Wilkinson sent Mary Ann in to say that she had a headache and would
remain in bed. She did not come down till tea-time, when she
appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she was quite
recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. After prayers
she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed Mrs. Carey.
Then she turned to Philip.

  "Good gracious!" she cried. "I was just going to
kiss you too."

  "Why don't you?" he said.

  She laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly
pressed his.

  The following day there was not a cloud in the sky,
and the garden was sweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down
to the beach to bathe and when he came home ate a magnificent
dinner. They were having a tennis party at the vicarage in the
afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her best dress. She certainly
knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could not help noticing
how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife and the doctor's
married daughter. There were two roses in her waistband. She sat in
a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol over
herself, and the light on her face was very becoming. Philip was
fond of tennis. He served well and as he ran clumsily played close
to the net: notwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was
difficult to get a ball past him. He was pleased because he won all
his sets. At tea he lay down at Miss Wilkinson's feet, hot and
panting.

  "Flannels suit you," she said. "You look very nice
this afternoon."

  He blushed with delight.

  "I can honestly return the compliment. You look
perfectly ravishing."

  She smiled and gave him a long look with her black
eyes.

  After supper he insisted that she should come
out.

  "Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?"

  "It'll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars
are all out."

  He was in high spirits.

  "D'you know, Mrs. Carey has been scolding me on your
account?" said Miss Wilkinson, when they were sauntering through
the kitchen garden. "She says I mustn't flirt with you."

  "Have you been flirting with me? I hadn't noticed
it."

  "She was only joking."

  "It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last
night."

  "If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said
what I did!"

  "Was that all that prevented you?"

  "I prefer to kiss people without witnesses."

  "There are no witnesses now."

  Philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her
lips. She only laughed a little and made no attempt to withdraw. It
had come quite naturally. Philip was very proud of himself. He said
he would, and he had. It was the easiest thing in the world. He
wished he had done it before. He did it again.

  "Oh, you mustn't," she said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I like it," she laughed.

  Next day after dinner they took their rugs and
cushions to the fountain, and their books; but they did not read.
Miss Wilkinson made herself comfortable and she opened the red
sun-shade. Philip was not at all shy now, but at first she would
not let him kiss her.

  "It was very wrong of me last night," she said. "I
couldn't sleep, I felt I'd done so wrong."

  "What nonsense!" he cried. "I'm sure you slept like
a top."

  "What do you think your uncle would say if he
knew?"

  "There's no reason why he should know."

  He leaned over her, and his heart went
pit-a-pat.

  "Why d'you want to kiss me?"

  He knew he ought to reply: "Because I love you." But
he could not bring himself to say it.

  "Why do you think?" he asked instead.

  She looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his
face with the tips of her fingers.

  "How smooth your face is," she murmured.

  "I want shaving awfully," he said.

  It was astonishing how difficult he found it to make
romantic speeches. He found that silence helped him much more than
words. He could look inexpressible things. Miss Wilkinson
sighed.

  "Do you like me at all?"

  "Yes, awfully."

  When he tried to kiss her again she did not resist.
He pretended to be much more passionate than he really was, and he
succeeded in playing a part which looked very well in his own
eyes.

  "I'm beginning to be rather frightened of you," said
Miss Wilkinson.

  "You'll come out after supper, won't you?" he
begged.

  "Not unless you promise to behave yourself."

  "I'll promise anything."

  He was catching fire from the flame he was partly
simulating, and at tea-time he was obstreperously merry. Miss
Wilkinson looked at him nervously.

  "You mustn't have those shining eyes," she said to
him afterwards. "What will your Aunt Louisa think?"

  "I don't care what she thinks."

  Miss Wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. They
had no sooner finished supper than he said to her:

  "Are you going to keep me company while I smoke a
cigarette?"

  "Why don't you let Miss Wilkinson rest?" said Mrs.
Carey. "You must remember she's not as young as you."

  "Oh, I'd like to go out, Mrs. Carey," she said,
rather acidly.

  "After dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a
while," said the Vicar.

  "Your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves
sometimes," said Miss Wilkinson, as soon as they closed the
side-door behind them.

  Philip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted,
and flung his arms round her. She tried to push him away.

  "You promised you'd be good, Philip."

  "You didn't think I was going to keep a promise like
that?"

  "Not so near the house, Philip," she said.
"Supposing someone should come out suddenly?"

  He led her to the kitchen garden where no one was
likely to come, and this time Miss Wilkinson did not think of
earwigs. He kissed her passionately. It was one of the things that
puzzled him that he did not like her at all in the morning, and
only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the touch of her
hand thrilled him. He said things that he would never have thought
himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them
in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder
and satisfaction.

  "How beautifully you make love," she said.

  That was what he thought himself.

  "Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my
heart!" he murmured passionately.

  It was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he
had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost
all he said. It was only that he exaggerated a little. He was
tremendously interested and excited in the effect he could see it
had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at last she
suggested going in.

  "Oh, don't go yet," he cried.

  "I must," she muttered. "I'm frightened."

  He had a sudden intuition what was the right thing
to do then.

  "I can't go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My
cheeks are burning. I want the night-air. Good-night."

  He held out his hand seriously, and she took it in
silence. He thought she stifled a sob. Oh, it was magnificent!
When, after a decent interval during which he had been rather bored
in the dark garden by himself, he went in he found that Miss
Wilkinson had already gone to bed.

  After that things were different between them. The
next day and the day after Philip showed himself an eager lover. He
was deliciously flattered to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in
love with him: she told him so in English, and she told him so in
French. She paid him compliments. No one had ever informed him
before that his eyes were charming and that he had a sensual mouth.
He had never bothered much about his personal appearance, but now,
when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with
satisfaction. When he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the
passion that seemed to thrill her soul. He kissed her a good deal,
for he found it easier to do that than to say the things he
instinctively felt she expected of him. It still made him feel a
fool to say he worshipped her. He wished there were someone to whom
he could boast a little, and he would willingly have discussed
minute points of his conduct. Sometimes she said things that were
enigmatic, and he was puzzled. He wished Hayward had been there so
that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had
better do next. He could not make up his mind whether he ought to
rush things or let them take their time. There were only three
weeks more.

  "I can't bear to think of that," she said. "It
breaks my heart. And then perhaps we shall never see one another
again."

  "If you cared for me at all, you wouldn't be so
unkind to me," he whispered.

  "Oh, why can't you be content to let it go on as it
is? Men are always the same. They're never satisfied."

  And when he pressed her, she said:

  "But don't you see it's impossible. How can we
here?"

  He proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not
have anything to do with them.

  "I daren't take the risk. It would be too dreadful
if your aunt found out."

  A day or two later he had an idea which seemed
brilliant.

  "Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening
and offered to stay at home and look after the house, Aunt Louisa
would go to church."

  Generally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening
in order to allow 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.