At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter
dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of
accounts.
Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would
have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with
disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy
who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the
more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he
came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which
were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to
add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy
repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to
it. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo.
His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent
the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National
Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled
out of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through
room after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a
picture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same
things in it. His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in
London and spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to
spend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of
exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the
heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he
liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a
formal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of
friends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy
whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got up
late and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is muddy,
dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames above
the locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. In
the afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too;
it is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the
litter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stood
cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth while
to go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum
and his meal in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands.
He strolled up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he
was tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public
library in St. Martin's Lane. He looked at the people walking about and
envied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred
because they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that
it was possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was
standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a
conversation; but Philip had the country boy's suspicion of strangers and
answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After the
play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he
hurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in
which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly
cheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings
he spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and
then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness.
He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday at
Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One evening
Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall
together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of
things he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a
Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watson
obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself
at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the
acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He felt
for the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen
pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suit
cost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in
the Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London.
"I suppose you don't dance," said Watson, one day, with a glance at
Philip's club-foot.
"No," said Philip.
"Pity. I've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could have
introduced you to some jolly girls."
Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had
remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End
till he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the
little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests
arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window.
Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and
stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they
were in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street
with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man's place. He
felt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for
his deformity.
That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without
satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should
write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an
address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She wrote
on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wondered
why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her
passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left
him cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered
he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite know
how to start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest or
darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with
the word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he
made it do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was
conscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of
vehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he
longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of
her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he
told her of his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return of
post, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he
not know that she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman
could give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then,
because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him
with letters. She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post,
and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night
after night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he
did not love her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live
without him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told
him he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and
Philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was
worried all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little
while she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she
would arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that
he would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend
Christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could
break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, it
was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt,
and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her kindness.
Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of her tears on
the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry
and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received her
answer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her to
get away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayed
opening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches and
pathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did
not see with what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from day
to day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonely
and miserable.
"I wish to God I'd never had anything to do with her," he said.
He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young
man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring
companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious
amazement. But after a time Watson's young affections changed, and one day
he described the rupture to Philip.
"I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I'd
had enough of her," he said.
"Didn't she make an awful scene?" asked Philip.
"The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on that
sort of thing with me."
"Did she cry?"
"She began to, but I can't stand women when they cry, so I said she'd
better hook it."
Philip's sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years.
"And did she hook it?" he asked smiling.
"Well, there wasn't anything else for her to do, was there?"
Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill all
through November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar should
go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she should
get back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, and
he spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward's influence he had
persuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar
and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the
day; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely.
His landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married
daughter, and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take his
meals out. He went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey
and some Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti's, and since he had nothing
to do afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The
streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied
look; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and
hardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself
more solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to
kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he
could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and
making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through the
Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and
went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spent
the evening with a book. His depression was almost intolerable.
When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to Watson's
account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying with
them, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a
dance.
"I didn't get to bed till three and I don't know how I got there then. By
George, I was squiffy."
At last Philip asked desperately:
"How does one get to know people in London?"
Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous
amusement.
"Oh, I don't know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon get
to know as many people as you can do with."
Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places
with him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and
he tried to throw himself into the other's skin, imagining what life would
be if he were Watson.
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