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But Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops. What had
happened to him when first he was seized by the religious emotion happened to
him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty of faith, because the desire for
self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such a gem-like glow, his strength
seemed inadequate to his ambition. He was tired out by the violence of his
passion. His soul was filled on a sudden with a singular aridity. He began to
forget the presence of God which had seemed so surrounding; and his religious
exercises, still very punctually performed, grew merely formal. At first he
blamed himself for this falling away, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to
renewed vehemence; but the passion was dead, and gradually other interests
distracted his thoughts.
Philip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it became such a need
that after being in company for some time he grew tired and restless; he was
vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from the perusal of so many books,
his mind was alert, and he had not the skill to hide his contempt for his
companions' stupidity. They complained that he was conceited; and, since he
excelled only in matters which to them were unimportant, they asked satirically
what he had to be conceited about. He was developing a sense of humour, and
found that he had a knack of saying bitter things, which caught people on the
raw; he said them because they amused him, hardly realising how much they hurt,
and was much offended when he found that his victims regarded him with active
dislike. The humiliations he suffered when first he went to school had caused in
him a shrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome; he
remained shy and silent. But though he did everything to alienate the sympathy
of other boys he longed with all his heart for the popularity which to some was
so easily accorded. These from his distance he admired extravagantly; and though
he was inclined to be more sarcastic with them than with others, though he made
little jokes at their expense, he would have given anything to change places
with them. Indeed he would gladly have changed places with the dullest boy in
the school who was whole of limb. He took to a singular habit. He would imagine
that he was some boy whom he had a particular fancy for; he would throw his
soul, as it were, into the other's body, talk with his voice and laugh with his
heart; he would imagine himself doing all the things the other did. It was so
vivid that he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this way he
enjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness.
At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his confirmation Philip
found himself moved into another study. One of the boys who shared it was called
Rose. He was in the same form as Philip, and Philip had always looked upon him
with envious admiration. He was not good-looking; though his large hands and big
bones suggested that he would be a tall man, he was clumsily made; but his eyes
were charming, and when he laughed (he was constantly laughing) his face
wrinkled all round them in a jolly way. He was neither clever nor stupid, but
good enough at his work and better at games. He was a favourite with masters and
boys, and he in his turn liked everyone.
When Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the others, who
had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. It made him nervous to
feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to hide his feelings, and they
found him quiet and unobtrusive. With Rose, because he was as little able as
anyone else to resist his charm, Philip was even more than usually shy and
abrupt; and whether on account of this, unconsciously bent upon exerting the
fascination he knew was his only by the results, or whether from sheer kindness
of heart, it was Rose who first took Philip into the circle. One day, quite
suddenly, he asked Philip if he would walk to the football field with him.
Philip flushed.
"I can't walk fast enough for you," he said.
"Rot. Come on."
And just before they were setting out some boy put his head in the study-door
and asked Rose to go with him.
"I can't," he answered. "I've already promised Carey."
"Don't bother about me," said Philip quickly. "I shan't mind."
"Rot," said Rose.
He looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed. Philip felt
a curious tremor in his heart.
In a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the pair were
inseparable. Other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy, and Rose was asked
what he saw in Philip.
"Oh, I don't know," he answered. "He's not half a bad chap really."
Soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm or strolling
round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the other could be found
also, and, as though acknowledging his proprietorship, boys who wanted Rose
would leave messages with Carey. Philip at first was reserved. He would not let
himself yield entirely to the proud joy that filled him; but presently his
distrust of the fates gave way before a wild happiness. He thought Rose the most
wonderful fellow he had ever seen. His books now were insignificant; he could
not bother about them when there was something infinitely more important to
occupy him. Rose's friends used to come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit
about when there was nothing better to do--Rose liked a crowd and the chance of
a rag--and they found that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy.
When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train they should
come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea in the town
before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy heart. He thought of
Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active with the things they
would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage, and when on the last
day his uncle put him the usual question in the usual facetious tone:
"Well, are you glad to be going back to school?"
Philip answered joyfully.
"Rather."
In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earlier train than
he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour. When the train
came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to change, he ran along it
excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a porter to tell him when another
train was due, and he waited; but again he was disappointed; and he was cold and
hungry, so he walked, through side-streets and slums, by a short cut to the
school. He found Rose in the study, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking
eighteen to the dozen with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there
was to sit on. He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip's face
fell, for he realised that Rose had forgotten all about their appointment.
"I say, why are you so late?" said Rose. "I thought you were never coming."
"You were at the station at half-past four," said another boy. "I saw you when I
came."
Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had been such a
fool as to wait for him.
"I had to see about a friend of my people's," he invented readily. "I was asked
to see her off."
But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, and when
spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind to have it out
with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had gone Rose at once came
over and sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip was lounging.
"I say, I'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term. Ripping, isn't it?"
He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip's annoyance vanished.
They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes to talk eagerly of
the thousand things that interested them.
XIX
At first Philip had been too grateful for Rose's friendship to make any demands
on him. He took things as they came and enjoyed life. But presently he began to
resent Rose's universal amiability; he wanted a more exclusive attachment, and
he claimed as a right what before he had accepted as a favour. He watched
jealously Rose's companionship with others; and though he knew it was
unreasonable could not help sometimes saying bitter things to him. If Rose spent
an hour playing the fool in another study, Philip would receive him when he
returned to his own with a sullen frown. He would sulk for a day, and he
suffered more because Rose either did not notice his ill-humour or deliberately
ignored it. Not seldom Philip, knowing all the time how stupid he was, would
force a quarrel, and they would not speak to one another for a couple of days.
But Philip could not bear to be angry with him long, and even when convinced
that he was in the right, would apologise humbly. Then for a week they would be
as great friends as ever. But the best was over, and Philip could see that Rose
often walked with him merely from old habit or from fear of his anger; they had
not so much to say to one another as at first, and Rose was often bored. Philip
felt that his lameness began to irritate him.
Towards the end of the term two or three boys caught scarlet fever, and there
was much talk of sending them all home in order to escape an epidemic; but the
sufferers were isolated, and since no more were attacked it was supposed that
the outbreak was stopped. One of the stricken was Philip. He remained in
hospital through the Easter holidays, and at the beginning of the summer term
was sent home to the vicarage to get a little fresh air. The Vicar,
notwithstanding medical assurance that the boy was no longer infectious,
received him with suspicion; he thought it very inconsiderate of the doctor to
suggest that his nephew's convalescence should be spent by the seaside, and
consented to have him in the house only because there was nowhere else he could
go.
Philip went back to school at half-term. He had forgotten the quarrels he had
had with Rose, but remembered only that he was his greatest friend. He knew that
he had been silly. He made up his mind to be more reasonable. During his illness
Rose had sent him in a couple of little notes, and he had ended each with the
words: "Hurry up and come back." Philip thought Rose must be looking forward as
much to his return as he was himself to seeing Rose.
He found that owing to the death from scarlet fever of one of the boys in the
Sixth there had been some shifting in the studies and Rose was no longer in his.
It was a bitter disappointment. But as soon as he arrived he burst into Rose's
study. Rose was sitting at his desk, working with a boy called Hunter, and
turned round crossly as Philip came in.
"Who the devil's that?" he cried. And then, seeing Philip: "Oh, it's you."
Philip stopped in embarrassment.
"I thought I'd come in and see how you were."
"We were just working."
Hunter broke into the conversation.
"When did you get back?"
"Five minutes ago."
They sat and looked at him as though he was disturbing them. They evidently
expected him to go quickly. Philip reddened.
"I'll be off. You might look in when you've done," he said to Rose.
"All right."
Philip closed the door behind him and limped back to his own study. He felt
frightfully hurt. Rose, far from seeming glad to see him, had looked almost put
out. They might never have been more than acquaintances. Though he waited in his
study, not leaving it for a moment in case just then Rose should come, his
friend never appeared; and next morning when he went in to prayers he saw Rose
and Hunter singing along arm in arm. What he could not see for himself others
told him. He had forgotten that three months is a long time in a schoolboy's
life, and though he had passed them in solitude Rose had lived in the world.
Hunter had stepped into the vacant place. Philip found that Rose was quietly
avoiding him. But he was not the boy to accept a situation without putting it
into words; he waited till he was sure Rose was alone in his study and went in.
"May I come in?" he asked.
Rose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry with Philip.
"Yes, if you want to."
"It's very kind of you," said Philip sarcastically.
"What d'you want?"
"I say, why have you been so rotten since I came back?"
"Oh, don't be an ass," said Rose.
"I don't know what you see in Hunter."
"That's my business."
Philip looked down. He could not bring himself to say what was in his heart. He
was afraid of humiliating himself. Rose got up.
"I've got to go to the Gym," he said.
When he was at the door Philip forced himself to speak.
"I say, Rose, don't be a perfect beast."
"Oh, go to hell."
Rose slammed the door behind him and left Philip alone. Philip shivered with
rage. He went back to his study and turned the conversation over in his mind. He
hated Rose now, he wanted to hurt him, he thought of biting things he might have
said to him. He brooded over the end to their friendship and fancied that others
were talking of it. In his sensitiveness he saw sneers and wonderings in other
fellows' manner when they were not bothering their heads with him at all. He
imagined to himself what they were saying.
"After all, it wasn't likely to last long. I wonder he ever stuck Carey at all.
Blighter!"
To show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with a boy called
Sharp whom he hated and despised. He was a London boy, with a loutish air, a
heavy fellow with the beginnings of a moustache on his lip and bushy eyebrows
that joined one another across the bridge of his nose. He had soft hands and
manners too suave for his years. He spoke with the suspicion of a cockney
accent. He was one of those boys who are too slack to play games, and he
exercised great ingenuity in making excuses to avoid such as were compulsory. He
was regarded by boys and masters with a vague dislike, and it was from arrogance
that Philip now sought his society. Sharp in a couple of terms was going to
Germany for a year. He hated school, which he looked upon as an indignity to be
endured till he was old enough to go out into the world. London was all he cared
for, and he had many stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays.
From his conversation--he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice--there emerged the
vague rumour of the London streets by night. Philip listened to him at once
fascinated and repelled. With his vivid fancy he seemed to see the surging
throng round the pit-door of theatres, and the glitter of cheap restaurants,
bars where men, half drunk, sat on high stools talking with barmaids; and under
the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds bent upon pleasure. Sharp
lent him cheap novels from Holywell Row, which Philip read in his cubicle with a
sort of wonderful fear.
Once Rose tried to effect a reconciliation. He was a good-natured fellow, who
did not like having enemies.
"I say, Carey, why are you being such a silly ass? It doesn't do you any good
cutting me and all that."
"I don't know what you mean," answered Philip.
"Well, I don't see why you shouldn't talk."
"You bore me," said Philip.
"Please yourself."
Rose shrugged his shoulders and left him. Philip was very white, as he always
became when he was moved, and his heart beat violently. When Rose went away he
felt suddenly sick with misery. He did not know why he had answered in that
fashion. He would have given anything to be friends with Rose. He hated to have
quarrelled with him, and now that he saw he had given him pain he was very
sorry. But at the moment he had not been master of himself. It seemed that some
devil had seized him, forcing him to say bitter things against his will, even
though at the time he wanted to shake hands with Rose and meet him more than
halfway. The desire to wound had been too strong for him. He had wanted to
revenge himself for the pain and the humiliation he had endured. It was pride:
it was folly too, for he knew that Rose would not care at all, while he would
suffer bitterly. The thought came to him that he would go to Rose, and say:
"I say, I'm sorry I was such a beast. I couldn't help it. Let's make it up."
But he knew he would never be able to do it. He was afraid that Rose would sneer
at him. He was angry with himself, and when Sharp came in a little while
afterwards he seized upon the first opportunity to quarrel with him. Philip had
a fiendish instinct for discovering other people's raw spots, and was able to
say things that rankled because they were true. But Sharp had the last word.
"I heard Rose talking about you to Mellor just now," he said. "Mellor said: Why
didn't you kick him? It would teach him manners. And Rose said: I didn't like
to. Damned cripple."
Philip suddenly became scarlet. He could not answer, for there was a lump in his
throat that almost choked him.
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