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?”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
Philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did not
mind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison when he knew
that before Easter he would be free from it for ever. His heart danced
within him. That evening in chapel he looked round at the boys,
standing according to their forms, each in his due place, and he
chuckled with satisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see
them again. It made him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His
eyes rested on Rose. Rose took his position as a monitor very
seriously: he had quite an idea of being a good influence in the
school; it was his turn to read the lesson that evening, and he read it
very well. Philip smiled when he thought that he would be rid of him
for ever, and it would not matter in six months whether Rose was tall
and straight-limbed; and where would the importance be that he was a
monitor and captain of the eleven? Philip looked at the masters in
their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died of apoplexy two years before,
but all the rest were there. Philip knew now what a poor lot they were,
except Turner perhaps, there was something of a man in him; and he
writhed at the thought of the subjection in which they had held him. In
six months they would not matter either. Their praise would mean
nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders at their censure.
Philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, and
shyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spirits; and
then, though he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed
to be hallooing in his heart. He seemed to himself to walk more
lightly. All sorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one
another so furiously that he could not catch them; but their coming and
their going filled him with exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able
to work, and during the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make
up for his long neglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen
pleasure in the activity of his intellect. He did very well in the
examinations that closed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one remark: he
was talking to him about an essay he had written, and, after the usual
criticisms, said:
“So you’ve made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, have
you?”
He smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking down, gave
an embarrassed smile.
The half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various
prizes which were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to
look upon Philip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him
with some uneasiness. He told no one that he was leaving at Easter and
so was in no sense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. He
knew that Rose flattered himself on his French, for he had spent two or
three holidays in France; and he expected to get the Dean’s Prize for
English essay; Philip got a good deal of satisfaction in watching his
dismay when he saw how much better Philip was doing in these subjects
than himself. Another fellow, Norton, could not go to Oxford unless he
got one of the scholarships at the disposal of the school. He asked
Philip if he was going in for them.
“Have you any objection?” asked Philip.
It entertained him to think that he held someone else’s future in his
hand. There was something romantic in getting these various rewards
actually in his grasp, and then leaving them to others because he
disdained them. At last the breaking-up day came, and he went to Mr.
Perkins to bid him good-bye.
“You don’t mean to say you really want to leave?”
Philip’s face fell at the headmaster’s evident surprise.
“You said you wouldn’t put any objection in the way, sir,” he answered.
“I thought it was only a whim that I’d better humour. I know you’re
obstinate and headstrong. What on earth d’you want to leave for now?
You’ve only got another term in any case. You can get the Magdalen
scholarship easily; you’ll get half the prizes we’ve got to give.”
Philip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked; but he
had the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it.
“You’ll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn’t decide at once
what you’re going to do afterwards. I wonder if you realise how
delightful the life is up there for anyone who has brains.”
“I’ve made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir,” said Philip.
“Are they arrangements that couldn’t possibly be altered?” asked Mr.
Perkins, with his quizzical smile. “I shall be very sorry to lose you.
In schools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the
clever boy who’s idle, but when the clever boy works—why then, he does
what you’ve done this term.”
Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one had
ever told him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on Philip’s
shoulder.
“You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull
work, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy who
comes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you’ve got
the words out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most
exhilarating thing in the world.” Philip was melted by kindness; it had
never occurred to him that it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he
went or stayed. He was touched and immensely flattered. It would be
pleasant to end up his school-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in
a flash there appeared before him the life which he had heard described
from boys who came back to play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from
the University read out in one of the studies. But he was ashamed; he
would look such a fool in his own eyes if he gave in now; his uncle
would chuckle at the success of the headmaster’s ruse. It was rather a
come-down from the dramatic surrender of all these prizes which were in
his reach, because he disdained to take them, to the plain, ordinary
winning of them. It only required a little more persuasion, just enough
to save his self-respect, and Philip would have done anything that Mr.
Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of his conflicting
emotions. It was placid and sullen.
“I think I’d rather go, sir,” he said.
Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal
influence, grew a little impatient when his power was not immediately
manifest. He had a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more
time on a boy who seemed to him insanely obstinate.
“Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and I keep
my promise. When do you go to Germany?”
Philip’s heart beat violently. The battle was won, and he did not know
whether he had not rather lost it.
“At the beginning of May, sir,” he answered.
“Well, you must come and see us when you get back.”
He held out his hand. If he had given him one more chance Philip would
have changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the matter as
settled. Philip walked out of the house. His school-days were over, and
he was free; but the wild exultation to which he had looked forward at
that moment was not there. He walked round the precincts slowly, and a
profound depression seized him. He wished now that he had not been
foolish. He did not want to go, but he knew he could never bring
himself to go to the headmaster and tell him he would stay. That was a
humiliation he could never put upon himself. He wondered whether he had
done right. He was dissatisfied with himself and with all his
circumstances. He asked himself dully whether whenever you got your way
you wished afterwards that you hadn’t.