Of Human Bondage (27 page)

  Philip was much exercised over her age. He added
twenty and seventeen together, and could not bring them to a
satisfactory total. He asked Aunt Louisa more than once why she
thought Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven: she didn't look more than
thirty, and everyone knew that foreigners aged more rapidly than
English women; Miss Wilkinson had lived so long abroad that she
might almost be called a foreigner. He personally wouldn't have
thought her more than twenty-six.

  "She's more than that," said Aunt Louisa.

  Philip did not believe in the accuracy of the
Careys' statements. All they distinctly remembered was that Miss
Wilkinson had not got her hair up the last time they saw her in
Lincolnshire. Well, she might have been twelve then: it was so long
ago and the Vicar was always so unreliable. They said it was twenty
years ago, but people used round figures, and it was just as likely
to be eighteen years, or seventeen. Seventeen and twelve were only
twenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn't old, was it? Cleopatra
was forty-eight when Antony threw away the world for her sake.

  It was a fine summer. Day after day was hot and
cloudless; but the heat was tempered by the neighbourhood of the
sea, and there was a pleasant exhilaration in the air, so that one
was excited and not oppressed by the August sunshine. There was a
pond in the garden in which a fountain played; water lilies grew in
it and gold fish sunned themselves on the surface. Philip and Miss
Wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions there after dinner and lie
on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses. They talked and
read all the afternoon. They smoked cigarettes, which the Vicar did
not allow in the house; he thought smoking a disgusting habit, and
used frequently to say that it was disgraceful for anyone to grow a
slave to a habit. He forgot that he was himself a slave to
afternoon tea.

  One day Miss Wilkinson gave Philip La Vie de Boheme.
She had found it by accident when she was rummaging among the books
in the Vicar's study. It had been bought in a lot with something
Mr. Carey wanted and had remained undiscovered for ten years.

  Philip began to read Murger's fascinating,
ill-written, absurd masterpiece, and fell at once under its spell.
His soul danced with joy at that picture of starvation which is so
good-humoured, of squalor which is so picturesque, of sordid love
which is so romantic, of bathos which is so moving. Rodolphe and
Mimi, Musette and Schaunard! They wander through the gray streets
of the Latin Quarter, finding refuge now in one attic, now in
another, in their quaint costumes of Louis Philippe, with their
tears and their smiles, happy-go-lucky and reckless. Who can resist
them? It is only when you return to the book with a sounder
judgment that you find how gross their pleasures were, how vulgar
their minds; and you feel the utter worthlessness, as artists and
as human beings, of that gay procession. Philip was enraptured.

  "Don't you wish you were going to Paris instead of
London?" asked Miss Wilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm.

  "It's too late now even if I did," he answered.

  During the fortnight he had been back from Germany
there had been much discussion between himself and his uncle about
his future. He had refused definitely to go to Oxford, and now that
there was no chance of his getting scholarships even Mr. Carey came
to the conclusion that he could not afford it. His entire fortune
had consisted of only two thousand pounds, and though it had been
invested in mortgages at five per cent, he had not been able to
live on the interest. It was now a little reduced. It would be
absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could live on at a
university, for three years at Oxford which would lead him no
nearer to earning his living. He was anxious to go straight to
London. Mrs. Carey thought there were only four professions for a
gentleman, the Army, the Navy, the Law, and the Church. She had
added medicine because her brother-in-law practised it, but did not
forget that in her young days no one ever considered the doctor a
gentleman. The first two were out of the question, and Philip was
firm in his refusal to be ordained. Only the law remained. The
local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went in for
engineering, but Mrs. Carey opposed the idea at once.

  "I shouldn't like Philip to go into trade," she
said.

  "No, he must have a profession," answered the
Vicar.

  "Why not make him a doctor like his father?"

  "I should hate it," said Philip.

  Mrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the
question, since he was not going to Oxford, for the Careys were
under the impression that a degree was still necessary for success
in that calling; and finally it was suggested that he should become
articled to a solicitor. They wrote to the family lawyer, Albert
Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar of Blackstable for the
late Henry Carey's estate, and asked him whether he would take
Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not a
vacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the
profession was greatly overcrowded, and without capital or
connections a man had small chance of becoming more than a managing
clerk; he suggested, however, that Philip should become a chartered
accountant. Neither the Vicar nor his wife knew in the least what
this was, and Philip had never heard of anyone being a chartered
accountant; but another letter from the solicitor explained that
the growth of modern businesses and the increase of companies had
led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examine the
books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an order
which old-fashioned methods had lacked. Some years before a Royal
Charter had been obtained, and the profession was becoming every
year more respectable, lucrative, and important. The chartered
accountants whom Albert Nixon had employed for thirty years
happened to have a vacancy for an articled pupil, and would take
Philip for a fee of three hundred pounds. Half of this would be
returned during the five years the articles lasted in the form of
salary. The prospect was not exciting, but Philip felt that he must
decide on something, and the thought of living in London
over-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of
Blackstable wrote to ask Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession
suited to a gentleman; and Mr. Nixon replied that, since the
Charter, men were going into it who had been to public schools and
a university; moreover, if Philip disliked the work and after a
year wished to leave, Herbert Carter, for that was the accountant's
name, would return half the money paid for the articles. This
settled it, and it was arranged that Philip should start work on
the fifteenth of September.

  "I have a full month before me," said Philip.

  "And then you go to freedom and I to bondage,"
returned Miss Wilkinson.

  Her holidays were to last six weeks, and she would
be leaving Blackstable only a day or two before Philip.

  "I wonder if we shall ever meet again," she
said.

  "I don't know why not."

  "Oh, don't speak in that practical way. I never knew
anyone so unsentimental."

  Philip reddened. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson
would think him a milksop: after all she was a young woman,
sometimes quite pretty, and he was getting on for twenty; it was
absurd that they should talk of nothing but art and literature. He
ought to make love to her. They had talked a good deal of love.
There was the art-student in the Rue Breda, and then there was the
painter in whose family she had lived so long in Paris: he had
asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so
violently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him
again. It was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to
attentions of that sort. She looked very nice now in a large straw
hat: it was hot that afternoon, the hottest day they had had, and
beads of sweat stood in a line on her upper lip. He called to mind
Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung. He had never thought of Cacilie in
an amorous way, she was exceedingly plain; but now, looking back,
the affair seemed very romantic. He had a chance of romance too.
Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and that added zest to a
possible adventure. When he thought of it at night in bed, or when
he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled by
it; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it seemed less picturesque.

  At all events, after what she had told him, she
would not be surprised if he made love to her. He had a feeling
that she must think it odd of him to make no sign: perhaps it was
only his fancy, but once or twice in the last day or two he had
imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in her eyes.

  "A penny for your thoughts," said Miss Wilkinson,
looking at him with a smile.

  "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 Fraulein Cacilie. 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.