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Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

Page 174

by William Somerset Maugham


  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 like 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.

  “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 side-door 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 Wilkinson 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 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 s
oft, 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.

 

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