‘I'm not going to tell you,' he answered.
He was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. He wondered if she expected him to do it; but after all he didn't see how he could without any preliminary business at all. She would just think him mad, or she might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle. He wondered how Herr Sung had started with Fräulein Cäcilie. It would be beastly if she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tell the doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool. Aunt Louisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was a day; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to; they would say she was old enough to be his mother.
‘Twopence for your thoughts,' smiled Miss Wilkinson.
‘I was thinking about you,' he answered boldly.
That at all events committed him to nothing.
‘What were you thinking?'
‘Ah, now you want to know too much.'
‘Naughty boy!' said Miss Wilkinson.
There it was again! Whenever he had succeeded in working himself up she said something which reminded him of the governess. She called him playfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to her satisfaction. This time he grew quite sulky.
‘I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child.'
‘Are you cross?'
‘Very.'
‘I didn't mean to.'
She put out her hand and he took it. Once or twice lately when they shook hands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed his hand, but this time there was no doubt about it.
He did not quite know what he ought to say next. Here at last was his chance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to take it; but it was a little ordinary, and he had expected more glamour. He had read many descriptions of love, and he felt in himself none of that uprush of emotion which novelists described; he was not carried off his feet in wave upon wave of passion; nor was Miss Wilkinson the ideal: he had often pictured to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of some lovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in the rippling masses of her auburn hair. He could not imagine himself burying his face in Miss Wilkinson's hair, it always struck him as a little sticky. All the same it would be very satisfactory to have an intrigue, and he thrilled with the legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest. He owed it to himself to seduce her. He made up his mind to kiss Miss Wilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in the dark, and after he had kissed her the rest would follow. He would kiss her that very evening. He swore an oath to that effect.
He laid his plans. After supper he suggested that they should take a stroll in the garden. Miss Wilkinson accepted, and they sauntered side by side. Philip was very nervous. He did not know why, but the conversation would not lead in the right direction; he had decided that the first thing to do was to put his arm round her waist; but he could not suddenly put his arm round her waist when she was talking of the regatta which was to be held next week. He led her artfully into the darkest parts of the garden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. They sat on a bench, and he had really made up his mind that here was his opportunity when Miss Wilkinson said she was sure there were earwigs and insisted on moving. They walked round the garden once more, and Philip promised himself he would take the plunge before they arrived at that bench again; but as they passed the house, they saw Mrs Carey standing at the door.
‘Hadn't you young people better come in? I'm sure the night air isn't good for you.'
‘Perhaps we had better go in,' said Philip. ‘I don't want you to catch cold.'
He said it with a sigh of relief. He could attempt nothing more that night. But afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he was furious with himself. He had been a perfect fool. He was certain that Miss Wilkinson expected him to kiss her, otherwise she wouldn't have come into the garden. She was always saying that only Frenchmen knew how to treat women. Philip had read French novels. If he had been a Frenchman he would have seized her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; he would have pressed his lips on her nuque. He did not know why Frenchmen always kissed ladies on the nuque. He did not himself see anything so very attractive in the nape of the neck. Of course it was much easier for Frenchmen to do these things; the language was such an aid; Philip could never help feeling that to say passionate things in English sounded a little absurd. He wished now that he had never undertaken the siege of Miss Wilkinson's virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly, and now he was wretched; but he was determined not to give in, he would never respect himself again if he did, and he made up his mind irrevocably that the next night he would kiss her without fail.
Next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first thought was that they would not be able to go into the garden that evening. He was in high spirits at breakfast. Miss Wilkinson sent Mary in to say that she had a headache and would remain in bed. She did not come down till tea-time, when she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she was quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. After prayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed Mrs Carey. Then she turned to Philip.
‘Good gracious!' she cried. ‘I was just going to kiss you too.'
‘Why don't you?' he said.
She laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly pressed his.
The following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the garden was sweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down to the beach to bathe and when he came home ate a magnificent dinner. They were having a tennis party at the vicarage in the afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her best dress. She certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could not help noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife and the doctor's married daughter. There were two roses in her waistband. She sat in a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol over herself, and the light on her face was very becoming. Philip was fond of tennis. He served well and as he ran clumsily played close to the net: notwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get a ball past him. He was pleased because he won all his sets. At tea he lay down at Miss Wilkinson's feet, hot and panting.
‘Flannels suit you,' she said. ‘You look very nice this afternoon.'
He blushed with delight.
‘I can honestly return the compliment. You look perfectly ravishing.'
She smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes.
After supper he insisted that she should come out.
‘Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?'
‘It'll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars are all out.'
He was in high spirits.
‘D'you know, Mrs Carey has been scolding me on your account?' said Miss Wilkinson, when they were sauntering through the kitchen-garden. ‘She says I mustn't flirt with you.'
‘Have you been flirting with me? I hadn't noticed it.'
‘She was only joking.'
‘It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night.'
‘If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said what I did!'
‘Was that all that prevented you?'
‘I prefer to kiss people without witnesses.'
‘There are no witnesses now.'
Philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. She only laughed a little and made no attempt to withdraw. It had come quite naturally. Philip was very proud of himself. He said he would, and he had. It was the easiest thing in the world. He wished he had done it before. He did it again.
‘Oh, you mustn't,' she said.
‘Why not?'
‘Because I liked it,' she laughed.
XXXIV
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.
br /> ‘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 sidedoor 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 Wilki
nson 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.
XXXV
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 her 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?