But Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops.
What had happened to him when first he was seized by the religious
emotion happened to him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty of
faith, because the desire for self-sacrifice burned in his heart with
such a gem-like glow, his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition.
He was tired out by the violence of his passion. His soul was filled on
a sudden with a singular aridity. He began to forget the presence of
God which had seemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still
very punctually performed, grew merely formal. At first he blamed
himself for this falling away, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to
renewed vehemence; but the passion was dead, and gradually other
interests distracted his thoughts.
Philip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it became
such a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and
restless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from the
perusal of so many books, his mind was alert, and he had not the skill
to hide his contempt for his companions’ stupidity. They complained
that he was conceited; and, since he excelled only in matters which to
them were unimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be
conceited about. He was developing a sense of humour, and found that he
had a knack of saying bitter things, which caught people on the raw; he
said them because they amused him, hardly realising how much they hurt,
and was much offended when he found that his victims regarded him with
active dislike. The humiliations he suffered when first he went to
school had caused in him a shrinking from his fellows which he could
never entirely overcome; he remained shy and silent. But though he did
everything to alienate the sympathy of other boys he longed with all
his heart for the popularity which to some was so easily accorded.
These from his distance he admired extravagantly; and though he was
inclined to be more sarcastic with them than with others, though he
made little jokes at their expense, he would have given anything to
change places with them. Indeed he would gladly have changed places
with the dullest boy in the school who was whole of limb. He took to a
singular habit. He would imagine that he was some boy whom he had a
particular fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were, into the
other’s body, talk with his voice and laugh with his heart; he would
imagine himself doing all the things the other did. It was so vivid
that he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this way
he enjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness.
At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his
confirmation Philip found himself moved into another study. One of the
boys who shared it was called Rose. He was in the same form as Philip,
and Philip had always looked upon him with envious admiration. He was
not good-looking; though his large hands and big bones suggested that
he would be a tall man, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were
charming, and when he laughed (he was constantly laughing) his face
wrinkled all round them in a jolly way. He was neither clever nor
stupid, but good enough at his work and better at games. He was a
favourite with masters and boys, and he in his turn liked everyone.
When Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the
others, who had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. It
made him nervous to feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to
hide his feelings, and they found him quiet and unobtrusive. With Rose,
because he was as little able as anyone else to resist his charm,
Philip was even more than usually shy and abrupt; and whether on
account of this, unconsciously bent upon exerting the fascination he
knew was his only by the results, or whether from sheer kindness of
heart, it was Rose who first took Philip into the circle. One day,
quite suddenly, he asked Philip if he would walk to the football field
with him. Philip flushed.
“I can’t walk fast enough for you,” he said.
“Rot. Come on.”
And just before they were setting out some boy put his head in the
study-door and asked Rose to go with him.
“I can’t,” he answered. “I’ve already promised Carey.”
“Don’t bother about me,” said Philip quickly. “I shan’t mind.”
“Rot,” said Rose.
He looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed.
Philip felt a curious tremor in his heart.
In a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the
pair were inseparable. Other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy,
and Rose was asked what he saw in Philip.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “He’s not half a bad chap really.”
Soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm or
strolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the
other could be found also, and, as though acknowledging his
proprietorship, boys who wanted Rose would leave messages with Carey.
Philip at first was reserved. He would not let himself yield entirely
to the proud joy that filled him; but presently his distrust of the
fates gave way before a wild happiness. He thought Rose the most
wonderful fellow he had ever seen. His books now were insignificant; he
could not bother about them when there was something infinitely more
important to occupy him. Rose’s friends used to come in to tea in the
study sometimes or sit about when there was nothing better to do—Rose
liked a crowd and the chance of a rag—and they found that Philip was
quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy.
When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train they
should come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea
in the town before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy
heart. He thought of Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was
active with the things they would do together next term. He was bored
at the vicarage, and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual
question in the usual facetious tone:
“Well, are you glad to be going back to school?”
Philip answered joyfully.
“Rather.”
In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earlier
train than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an
hour. When the train came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to
change, he ran along it excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a
porter to tell him when another train was due, and he waited; but again
he was disappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through
side-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in
the study, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the
dozen with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to
sit on. He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip’s face
fell, for he realised that Rose had forgotten all about their
appointment.
“I say, why are you so late?” said Rose. “I thought you were never
coming.”
“You were at the station at half-past four,” said another boy. “I saw
you when I came.”
Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had been
such a fool as to wait for him.
“I had to see about a friend of my people’s,” he invented readily. “I
was asked to see her off.”
But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, and
when spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind to
have it out with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had
gone Rose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which
Philip was lounging.
“I say, I’m jolly glad we’re in the same study this term. Ripping,
isn’t it?”
He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip’s annoyance
vanished. They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes
to talk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them.