At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter
dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements
of accounts.
Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he
would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand
with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr.
Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with
one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of
some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with
respect and which were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures
were given him to add up. He attended lectures for his first
examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at
first, but he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and
walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for him
when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. On
Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward had
recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin’s
works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after
room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a picture and
then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same things in it.
His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in London and
spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to spend a
Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of
exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the
heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever
he liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for
a formal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers
of friends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent
boy whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he
got up late and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is
muddy, dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the
Thames above the locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below
London Bridge. In the afternoon he walked about the common; and that is
gray and dingy too; it is neither country nor town; the gorse is
stunted; and all about is the litter of civilisation. He went to a play
every Saturday night and stood cheerfully for an hour or more at the
gallery-door. It was not worth while to go back to Barnes for the
interval between the closing of the Museum and his meal in an A. B. C.
shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands. He strolled up Bond
Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he was tired went and
sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public library in St.
Martin’s Lane. He looked at the people walking about and envied them
because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred because
they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that it was
possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was
standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a
conversation; but Philip had the country boy’s suspicion of strangers
and answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance.
After the play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought
about it, he hurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to
his rooms, in which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank.
It was horribly cheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long
solitary evenings he spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he
could not read, and then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour
in bitter wretchedness.
He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday
at Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One
evening Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a
music-hall together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked
all the time of things he did not care about, and while he looked upon
Watson as a Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry
because Watson obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way
of taking himself at the estimate at which he saw others held him he
began to despise the acquirements which till then had seemed to him not
unimportant. He felt for the first time the humiliation of poverty. His
uncle sent him fourteen pounds a month and he had had to buy a good
many clothes. His evening suit cost him five guineas. He had not dared
tell Watson that it was bought in the Strand. Watson said there was
only one tailor in London.
“I suppose you don’t dance,” said Watson, one day, with a glance at
Philip’s club-foot.
“No,” said Philip.
“Pity. I’ve been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could
have introduced you to some jolly girls.”
Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had
remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End
till he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the
little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests
arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window.
Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony
and stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining
that they were in love with one another, turned away and limped along
the street with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that
man’s place. He felt that no woman could ever really look upon him
without distaste for his deformity.
That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without
satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she
should write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her
an address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She
wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip
wondered why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and
her passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French
novel, left him cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and
when he answered he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He
did not quite know how to start the letter. He could not bring himself
to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so
finally he began with the word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself,
and rather silly, but he made it do. It was the first love letter he
had ever written, and he was conscious of its tameness; he felt that he
should say all sorts of vehement things, how he thought of her every
minute of the day and how he longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how
he trembled at the thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable
modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his
office. The answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken,
reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he not know that she hung on
his letters? She had given him all that a woman could give, and this
was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then, because he did not
reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him with letters. She
could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never
brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night,
she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love
her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live without
him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told him he
was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and Philip
knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried
all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little while
she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she would
arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that he
would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend
Christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could
break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him,
it was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply
hurt, and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her
kindness. Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of
her tears on the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was
dreadfully sorry and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that
he received her answer in which she said that she found it would be
impossible for her to get away. Presently when her letters came his
heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what they would
contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would make him
feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what he had to blame
himself. He put off his answer from day to day, and then another letter
would come, saying she was ill and lonely and miserable.
“I wish to God I’d never had anything to do with her,” he said.
He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young
man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring
companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious
amazement. But after a time Watson’s young affections changed, and one
day he described the rupture to Philip.
“I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her
I’d had enough of her,” he said.
“Didn’t she make an awful scene?” asked Philip.
“The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on
that sort of thing with me.”
“Did she cry?”
“She began to, but I can’t stand women when they cry, so I said she’d
better hook it.”
Philip’s sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years.
“And did she hook it?” he asked smiling.
“Well, there wasn’t anything else for her to do, was there?”
Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill
all through November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar
should go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she
should get back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to
go, and he spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward’s
influence he had persuaded himself that the festivities that attend
this season were vulgar and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he
would take no notice of the day; but when it came, the jollity of all
around affected him strangely. His landlady and her husband were
spending the day with a married daughter, and to save trouble Philip
announced that he would take his meals out. He went up to London
towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some Christmas pudding by
himself at Gatti’s, and since he had nothing to do afterwards went to
Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The streets were almost
empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied look; they did
not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and hardly
anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself more
solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to
kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but
he could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking,
laughing, and making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way
through the Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of
mince pies and went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely
little room and spent the evening with a book. His depression was
almost intolerable.
When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to
Watson’s account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls
staying with them, and after dinner they had cleared out the
drawing-room and had a dance.
“I didn’t get to bed till three and I don’t know how I got there then.
By George, I was squiffy.”
At last Philip asked desperately:
“How does one get to know people in London?”
Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous
amusement.
“Oh, I don’t know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon
get to know as many people as you can do with.”
Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change
places with him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to
him, and he tried to throw himself into the other’s skin, imagining
what life would be if he were Watson.