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.”
“All right.”
He was glad to leave her.
The quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days
that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk of
nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss
Wilkinson to tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling
himself a beast he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but
now it irritated him: it would have been all very well if she had been
a girl, but it was silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never
ceased reminding him that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which
he could never repay. He was willing to acknowledge this since she made
a point of it, but he did not really know why he should be any more
grateful to her than she to him. He was expected to show his sense of
obligation in ways which were rather a nuisance: he had been a good
deal used to solitude, and it was a necessity to him sometimes; but
Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an unkindness if he was not always at
her beck and call. The Miss O’Connors asked them both to tea, and
Philip would have liked to go, but Miss Wilkinson said she only had
five days more and wanted him entirely to herself. It was flattering,
but a bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories of the exquisite delicacy
of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation to fair ladies as he
to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, their passion for
self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson seemed to want a
great deal.
Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be
possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain
satisfaction that she lived in Berlin.
“You will write to me, won’t you? Write to me every day. I want to know
everything you’re doing. You must keep nothing from me.”
“I shall be awfully, busy” he answered. “I’ll write as often as I can.”
She flung her arms passionately round his neck. He was embarrassed
sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He would have
preferred her to be more passive. It shocked him a little that she
should give him so marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his
prepossessions about the modesty of the feminine temperament.
At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she came
down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress
of black and white check. She looked a very competent governess. Philip
was silent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit
the circumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something
flippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a
scene. They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden
the night before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no
opportunity for them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room after
breakfast in case Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the
stairs. He did not want Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with
a sharp tongue, to catch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did
not like Miss Wilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not
very well and could not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip
saw her off. Just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed
Mr. Carey.
“I must kiss you too, Philip,” she said.
“All right,” he said, blushing.
He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train started,
and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept
disconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a
distinct sensation of relief.
“Well, did you see her safely off?” asked Aunt Louisa, when they got
in.
“Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip.”
“Oh, well, at her age it’s not dangerous.” Mrs. Carey pointed to the
sideboard. “There’s a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second
post.”
It was from Hayward and ran as follows:
My dear boy,
I answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great friend
of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very
precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and
literature; and we agreed that it was charming. You wrote from your
heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every
line. And because you love you write like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is
the real thing: I felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose
was musical from the sincerity of your emotion. You must be happy! I
wish I could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while
you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers. I
can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes,
tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms, so young and
soft and fresh, vowing she would ne’er consent—consented. Roses and
violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, I envy you. It is so good to
think that your first love should have been pure poetry. Treasure the
moments, for the immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All,
and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day. You will never
again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is best love; and she is
beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours. I felt my
pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you
buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it is that exquisite
chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would have you sit under
a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and Juliet; and then
I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on
which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of
a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her.
Yours always,
G. Etheridge Hayward.
“What damned rot!” said Philip, when he finished the letter.
Miss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read Romeo
and Juliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then, as he put
the letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness
because reality seemed so different from the ideal.