Chapter XXXV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but when hestretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through theVenetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed withsatisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He began to think of MissWilkinson. She had asked him to call her Emily, but, he knew not why, hecould not; he always thought of her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she chid himfor so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all. During hischildhood he had often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the widow of a navalofficer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him uncomfortable to call MissWilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that would have suitedher better. She had begun as Miss Wilkinson, and it seemed inseparablefrom his impression of her. He frowned a little: somehow or other he sawher now at her worst; he could not forget his dismay when she turned roundand he saw her in her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered theslight roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of theneck. His triumph was short-lived. He reckoned out her age again, and hedid not see how she could be less than forty. It made the affairridiculous. She was plain and old. His quick fancy showed her to him,wrinkled, haggard, made-up, in those frocks which were too showy for herposition and too young for her years. He shuddered; he felt suddenly thathe never wanted to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissingher. He was horrified with himself. Was that love?He took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back the momentof seeing her, and when at last he went into the dining-room it was witha sinking heart. Prayers were over, and they were sitting down atbreakfast."Lazybones," Miss Wilkinson cried gaily.He looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. She was sitting withher back to the window. She was really quite nice. He wondered why he hadthought 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 thrillingwith emotion immediately after breakfast that she loved him; and when alittle later they went into the drawing-room for his singing lesson andshe sat down on the music-stool she put up her face in the middle of ascale and said:"Embrasse-moi."When he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. It was slightlyuncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that he felt ratherchoked."Ah, je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime," she cried, with her extravagantlyFrench accent.Philip wished she would speak English."I say, I don't know if it's struck you that the gardener's quite likelyto pass the window any minute.""Ah, je m'en fiche du jardinier. Je m'en refiche, et je m'encontrefiche."Philip thought it was very like a French novel, and he did not know why itslightly 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?" Philipdid 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 thesalt 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 frightfullygone on him. As he limped along the high street of Blackstable he lookedwith a tinge of superciliousness at the people he passed. He knew a goodmany to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of recognition he thought tohimself, if they only knew! He did want someone to know very badly. Hethought he would write to Hayward, and in his mind composed the letter. Hewould talk of the garden and the roses, and the little French governess,like an exotic flower amongst them, scented and perverse: he would say shewas French, because--well, she had lived in France so long that she almostwas, and besides it would be shabby to give the whole thing away tooexactly, don't you know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen herfirst in her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. Hemade a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it passion andmagic, and the stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fitand exquisite setting. There was something Meredithian about it: it wasnot quite Lucy Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it wasinexpressibly charming. Philip's heart beat quickly. He was so delightedwith his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as hecrawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. He thought ofthe object of his affections. She had the most adorable little nose andlarge brown eyes--he would describe her to Hayward--and masses of softbrown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and askin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, redrose. How old was she? Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette. Herlaughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, itwas 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 areabsent-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, whenthey went into the garden after supper, Miss Wilkinson remarked that oneday more had gone, Philip was in too cheerful spirits to let the thoughtdepress him. One night Miss Wilkinson suggested that it would bedelightful if she could exchange her situation in Berlin for one inLondon. Then they could see one another constantly. Philip said it wouldbe very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he waslooking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred not to behampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do, and allowedMiss 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, andhated 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 havesuch a wretched life, and you've made me so happy."He kissed her silently. There really was anguish in her tone, and he wasfrightened. It had never occurred to him that she meant what she saidquite, quite seriously."I'm awfully sorry. You know I'm frightfully fond of you. I wish you wouldcome to London.""You know I can't. Places are almost impossible to get, and I hate Englishlife."Almost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her distress, hepressed her more and more. Her tears vaguely flattered him, and he kissedher with real passion.But a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a tennis-party atthe vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in anIndian regiment who had lately settled in Blackstable. They were verypretty, 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 ofhill-stations in India, and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kiplingwere in every hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased withthe novelty--the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar's nephewwith a certain seriousness--was gay and jolly. Some devil within himprompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as he wasthe only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him half-way. Ithappened that they played tennis quite well and Philip was tired ofpat-ball with Miss Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came toBlackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he suggested thatMiss Wilkinson should play against the curate's wife, with the curate asher partner; and he would play later with the new-comers. He sat down bythe 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 jollyset 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 thatshe 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'scrying.""What about?""Oh, something about a duffer's set. Do go to her, and say you didn't meanto be unkind, there's a good boy.""All right."He knocked at Miss Wilkinson's door, but receiving no answer went in. Hefound her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping. He touched her on theshoulder."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'tmean to. I say, do get up.""Oh, I'm so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I hate thatstupid game. I only play because I want to play with you."She got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick lookin the glass sank into a chair. She made her handkerchief into a ball anddabbed her eyes with it."I've given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man--oh, what a foolI was--and you have no gratitude. You must be quite heartless. How couldyou 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 onearth should you think I do?"Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made marks on herpowdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Her white dress didnot 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 feelstrangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he had never hadanything to do with Miss Wilkinson."I don't want to make you unhappy," he said awkwardly. "You'd better godown 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 daysthat remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk ofnothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss Wilkinsonto tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beasthe redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritatedhim: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it wassilly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never ceased reminding himthat 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 hedid not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she tohim. He was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which wererather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was anecessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as anunkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. The Miss O'Connorsasked them both to tea, and Philip would have liked to go, but MissWilkinson said she only had five days more and wanted him entirely toherself. It was flattering, but a bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories ofthe exquisite delicacy of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relationto fair ladies as he to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, theirpassion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson seemed towant a great deal.Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must bepossessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certainsatisfaction that she lived in Berlin."You will write to me, won't you? Write to me every day. I want to knoweverything 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 embarrassedsometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He would have preferredher to be more passive. It shocked him a little that she should give himso marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his prepossessionsabout the modesty of the feminine temperament.At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she camedown to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress ofblack and white check. She looked a very competent governess. Philip wassilent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit thecircumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said somethingflippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make ascene. They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden thenight before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no opportunityfor them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room after breakfast incase Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the stairs. He did notwant Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with a sharp tongue, tocatch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did not like MissWilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not very well andcould not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off. Justas 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, andMiss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and weptdisconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinctsensation 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 thesideboard. "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 ofmine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious tome, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and weagreed that it was charming. You wrote from your heart and you do not knowthe delightful naivete which is in every line. And because you love youwrite like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glowof your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity ofyour emotion. You must be happy! I wish I could have been present unseenin that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis andChloe, amid the flowers. I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light ofyoung love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe inyour arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'erconsent--consented. Roses and violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, Ienvy you. It is so good to think that your first love should have beenpure poetry. Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given youthe Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till yourdying day. You will never again enjoy that careless rapture. First love isbest love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world isyours. I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity youtold me that you buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it isthat exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would haveyou sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo andJuliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kissthe ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is thehomage 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 andJuliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then, as he put theletter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness becausereality seemed so different from the ideal.