Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham.mobi [84]
“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.
But a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a tennis-party at the vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in an Indian regiment who had lately settled in Blackstable. They were very pretty, 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 of hill-stations in India, and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kipling were in every hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased with the novelty—the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar’s nephew with a certain seriousness—was gay and jolly. Some devil within him prompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as he was the only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him half-way. It happened that they played tennis quite well and Philip was tired of pat-ball with Miss Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came to Blackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he suggested that Miss Wilkinson should play against the curate’s wife, with the curate as her partner; and he would play later with the newcomers. He sat down by the 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 jolly set afterward.”
Apparently Miss Wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her racket, and, saying she had a headache, went away. It was plain to everyone that she 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’s crying.”
“What about?”
“Oh, something about a duffer’s set. Do go to her, and say you didn’t mean to be unkind, there’s a good boy.”
“All right.”
He knocked at Miss Wilkinson’s door, but receiving no answer went in. He found her lying face downward on her bed, weeping. He touched her on the shoulder.
“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’t mean to. I say, do get up.”
“Oh, I’m so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I hate that stupid game. I only play because I want to play with you.”
She got up and walked toward the dressing-table, but after a quick look in the glass sank into a chair. She made her handkerchief into a ball and dabbed her eyes with it.
“I’ve given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man—oh, what a fool I was!—and you have no gratitude. You must be quite heartless. How could you 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 behavior 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 on earth should you think I do?”
Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made marks on her powdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Her white dress did not 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 feel strangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he had never had anything to do with Miss Wilkinson.
“I don’t want to make you unhappy,” he said awkwardly.
“You’d better go down 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 days that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk of nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss Wilkinson to tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beast he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated him: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never ceased reminding him that 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 he did not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she to him. He was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which were rather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was a necessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an unkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. The Miss O