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.
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.