"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 say-ing; 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 deli-
ciously flattered to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in love with him: she told him so in English, and she told him so in French.
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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."
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"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