http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/5d237b36/crunch-test/src/main/resources/maugham.txt ---------------------------------------------------------------------- diff --git a/crunch-test/src/main/resources/maugham.txt b/crunch-test/src/main/resources/maugham.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 16c45e8..0000000 --- a/crunch-test/src/main/resources/maugham.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,29112 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net - - -Title: Of Human Bondage - -Author: W. Somerset Maugham - -Release Date: May 6, 2008 [EBook #351] - -Language: English - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF HUMAN BONDAGE *** - - - - - - - - - - - - -OF HUMAN BONDAGE - - -BY - -W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM - - - - -I - -The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a -rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room -in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced -mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and -went to the child's bed. - -"Wake up, Philip," she said. - -She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him -downstairs. He was only half awake. - -"Your mother wants you," she said. - -She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over -to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out -her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had -been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt -the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer -to herself. - -"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said. - -Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great -distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very -happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to -make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he -kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep. -The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side. - -"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned. - -The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would -not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again; -and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held -the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly -passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob. - -"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired." - -She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. -The doctor bent down. - -"Let me take him." - -She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor -handed him back to his nurse. - -"You'd better put him back in his own bed." - -"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His -mother sobbed now broken-heartedly. - -"What will happen to him, poor child?" - -The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the -crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room, -upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted -the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the -woman guessed what he was doing. - -"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse. - -"Another boy." - -The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She -approached the bed. - -"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the -doctor felt his patient's pulse once more. - -"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call -again after breakfast." - -"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse. - -They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped. - -"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"D'you know at what time he'll be here?" - -"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram." - -"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way." - -"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir." - -"Who's she?" - -"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?" - -The doctor shook his head. - - - -II - -It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room -at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to -amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each -of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each -arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout -chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he -could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the -curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of -buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open, -he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand -piled away a chair and the cushions fell down. - -"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you." - -"Hulloa, Emma!" he said. - -The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions, -and put them back in their places. - -"Am I to come home?" he asked. - -"Yes, I've come to fetch you." - -"You've got a new dress on." - -It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of -black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had -three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She -hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could -not give the answer she had prepared. - -"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length. - -"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?" - -Now she was ready. - -"Your mamma is quite well and happy." - -"Oh, I am glad." - -"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not -know what she meant. - -"Why not?" - -"Your mamma's in heaven." - -She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried -too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features. -She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in -London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her -emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the -pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite -unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers. -But in a little while she pulled herself together. - -"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say -good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home." - -"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide -his tears. - -"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat." - -He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall. -He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He -paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends, -and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would -be sorry for him. - -"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin." - -"I think you'd better," said Emma. - -"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said. - -He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door -and walked in. He heard her speak. - -"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss." - -There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in. -Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In -those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much -gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an -elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies, -whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously. - -"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms. - -She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to -luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak. - -"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last. - -He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again. -Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange -ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission. -Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would -have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they -expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out -of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the -basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta -Watkin's voice. - -"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's -dead." - -"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I -knew it would upset you." - -Then one of the strangers spoke. - -"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world. -I see he limps." - -"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother." - -Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where -to go. - - - -III - - -When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary, -respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street, -Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing -letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which -had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the -hall-table. - -"Here's Master Philip," said Emma. - -Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on -second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of -somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, -worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was -clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine -that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a -gold cross. - -"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you -like that?" - -Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after -an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an -attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt. - -"Yes." - -"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother." - -The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer. - -"Your dear mother left you in my charge." - -Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that -his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way -thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if -her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over -fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was -childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a -small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his -sister-in-law. - -"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said. - -"With Emma?" - -The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it. - -"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey. - -"But I want Emma to come with me." - -Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey -looked at them helplessly. - -"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment." - -"Very good, sir." - -Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took -the boy on his knee and put his arm round him. - -"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must -see about sending you to school." - -"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated. - -"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and -I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend." - -Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's -father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments -suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden -death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more -than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house -in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in -delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and -accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her -furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a -furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience -till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of -money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered -circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way -and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than -two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn -his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was -sobbing still. - -"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console -the child better than anyone. - -Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped -him. - -"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon, -and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all -your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by -you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be -sold." - -The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he -turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was -a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially -seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered -from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead -woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon -herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have -dismissed her. - -But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though -his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own -son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft -words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that -she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was -going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike -on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and -there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his -tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey. -Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped -her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to -gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily. - -But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in -which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered -then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his -father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take. - -"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy." - -"Uncle William's there." - -"Never mind that. They're your own things now." - -Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left -the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short -a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him. -It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy. -But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the -landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his -mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately -upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and -listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that -it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat -uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the -handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from -hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold -for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened -now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were -drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark. -On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a -little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the -chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when -his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something -curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were -going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a -night-dress. - -Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took -as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They -smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers, -filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender -bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The -strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had -just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come -upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on -his lips. - -It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply -because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on -the pillow. He lay there quite still. - - - -IV - - -Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused -him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was -sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set -out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than -five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the -gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and -it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it. -They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by -visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went -up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a -side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for -beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a -red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical -style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room -windows were gothic. - -Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the -drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she -went to the door. - -"There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her -a kiss." - -Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then -stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her -husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale -blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion -of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold -chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice. - -"Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her -husband. - -"I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew. - -"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child. - -"No. I always walk." - -He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to -come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow -tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An -imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a -peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church -was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with -emblems of the Four Evangelists. - -"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your -journey," said Mrs. Carey. - -It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if -the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if -Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid, -didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they -must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the -dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not -get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on -Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the -study so that he could write his sermon. - -Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that -looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large -tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it -was possible to climb quite high up it. - -"A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened -at sleeping alone?" - -"Oh, no." - -On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs. -Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some -uncertainty. - -"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?" - -"I can wash myself," he answered firmly. - -"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey. - -She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should -come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat -him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found -herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be -noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys. -Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back -and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could -pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for -tea. - -The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of -it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle; -and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it. -In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs -covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and -was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife. -Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that -was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair -had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it. - -Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out -to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and -polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was -much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the -Curate. - -"What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey. - -"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your -journey." - -Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She -seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year, -and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two, -he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually -managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for -the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in -the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for -a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do. - -"I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann. - -She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book -from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on -Philip's chair. - -"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked -tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?" - -Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant. - -"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top, -Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men -like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship." - -"I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa. - -Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut -the top off his egg. - -"There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like." - -Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so -took what he could. - -"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar. - -"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day." - -"How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle. - -"Very much, thank you." - -"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon." - -Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be -fortified for the evening service. - - - -V - - -Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by -fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a -good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father -had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant -career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began -to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson -set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription, -he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey, -thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with -mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to -give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by -a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a -patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations, -but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding. -The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with -reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great -beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a -hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers -among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he -deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he -told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept -hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the -dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at -luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the -vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar -felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume -the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was -practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends -now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it -was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to -itself: she had no more idea of money than a child. - -When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which -seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the -breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the -late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the -parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed -the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than -usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was -thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features. -There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember. -The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this -was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent, -and he could not imagine who had ordered them. - -"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked. - -"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin -scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember -me by when he grows up." - -Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear -treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him. - -"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said -Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away." - -He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to -be taken. - -One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better -than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had -taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement: -suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear -seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was -expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be -expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow -up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately, -because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had -no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years -before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He -could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called -her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her, -and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to -struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had -been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the -soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the -ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when -she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never -do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep -rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt, -but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of -a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself -in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had -never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her -beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not -afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired; -and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas -before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped -downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove -to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to -ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant, -seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she -insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove -back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with -all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in. - -She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran -down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her -room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and -the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting -anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and -reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for, -and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She -fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained -unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched -her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day, -when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of -her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither -of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they -were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in -his memory. - -"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up." - -"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would -have done." - - - -VI - - -One day was very like another at the vicarage. - -Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it -with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took -it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then -it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it -late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was -making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the -Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to -do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing -village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank, -the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round -the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor -people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs. -Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to -the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this -fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had -never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street: -he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent -their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for -dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the -town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers; -Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the -difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to -church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with -both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of -going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher -who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come -to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was -very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity -further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat -was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often -stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager, -who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man -with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip -he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats -for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish -church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led -was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit -from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the -Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no -hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory -consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be -saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really -seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish. -Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care -he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey -advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his -fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in -the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged -himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back. - -Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey -still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate -had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and -Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission -Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few -words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the -chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views -upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a -churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He -reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was -the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to -recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics, -and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had -enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To -this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his -purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were -not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political -meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and -for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable -place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was -little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in -a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and -that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His -sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of -the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby -linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in -his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts -of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first -moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in -life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they -met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put -the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her -brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these -gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of -anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but -they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held -at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey -and Josiah Graves both made speeches. - -When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally -went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies -talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr. -Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least -five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in -the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with -the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never -opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had -a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with -banking. - -Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they -continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a -side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt -(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and -nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in -on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood -for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who -knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for -flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They -looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram -the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home. - -Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it -consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and -Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the -afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by -his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of -French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany -the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used -to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs -by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was -asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage. -There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their -parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr. -Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of -Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the -Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony. - -But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset -them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They -preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon. -Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like -losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary -Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to -clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a -little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat. -Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then -Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and -after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress -himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs. -Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She -then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey -continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got -up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed. - -When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening -he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water, -since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two -persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in -Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary -Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to -begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday, -because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired -after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for -the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for -Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night: -what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't -know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday -night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey -was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But -the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's -Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after -eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they -might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to -bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said -she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he -should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the -Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly -washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night. - - - -VII - - -Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say -that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week. - -The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a -poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at -the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she -got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her -husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers -were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After -breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip -was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a -marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was -thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was -regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and -on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were -most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not -so fine that people wanted to hurry away. - -Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood -in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten -the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took -several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a -voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his -face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the -arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife -could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black -satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time, -but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then, -in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink -rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he -said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed -as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage -when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew -that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house, -and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary -Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She -hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of -sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed -in the carriage, and they set off. - -The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw. -They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch -cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and -while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled -themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the -sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip -threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the -service began. - -Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a -gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained -interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the -plate. - -When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few -words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went -to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their -surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and -told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it -seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved -him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies, -sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one -put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes -there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was -always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But -Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that -the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the -drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his -mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates -Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey -remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and -somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the -vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner. - -When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay -down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks. - -They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for -evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she -read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the -evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the -darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church -with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very -friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew -used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more -easily for the feeling of protection. - -They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for -him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one -the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully -tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann -undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to -love her. - - - -VIII - - -Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his -loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother -lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of -thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at -eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it; -but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her -master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off -Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories -of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the -harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One -evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was -afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil -communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who -were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable -in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took -his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like -disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be -untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he -fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he -went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her -heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his -affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her -demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes -she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she -went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann -explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she -heard, and she smiled with constraint. - -"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she -returned to her sewing. - -"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into -shape." - -On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred. -Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the -drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah -Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which -the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in -Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said -they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had -been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the -Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for -the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate -than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his -secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the -line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a -Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they -were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best, -the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think -that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he -had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often -related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays -upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was -sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to -preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having -decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an -election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue -letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to -prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his -mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the -candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or -twice irritably. - -Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his -face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the -dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around -him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation -had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin. - -"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed -to play games on Sunday." - -Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit -was, flushed deeply. - -"I always used to play at home," he answered. - -"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as -that." - -Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be -supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not -answer. - -"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you -suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight, -and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws -in the afternoon?" - -Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him -while Philip did so. - -"You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're -causing your poor mother in heaven." - -Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to -letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent -the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to -turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage -was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one -saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green -fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip -felt infinitely unhappy. - -Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the -stairs. - -"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked. - -"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a -wink." - -This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own -thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made -a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept -before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar -narrated the facts. - -"He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished. - -"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the -child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be. - -Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not -know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any -expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined -to cry, but no word would issue from his lips. - -"You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey. - -Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously -now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his -uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got -his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said: - -"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in -a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God." - -Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was -placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his -uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual -went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip. - -"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and -then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening." - -She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room. - -"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the -hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?" - -Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would -not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with -him. - -"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked -helplessly. - -Philip broke his silence at last. - -"I want to be left alone," he said. - -"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your -uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?" - -"I hate you. I wish you was dead." - -Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a -start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as -she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her -eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even -though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could -scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached -so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her -cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief, -and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was -crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her -silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her -without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin, -shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little -boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart -would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt -that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new -love because he had made her suffer. - - - -IX - - -On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go -into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were -conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip -asked: - -"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?" - -"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?" - -"I can't sit still till tea-time." - -Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could -not suggest that Philip should go into the garden. - -"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day." - -He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and -turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted. - -"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in -to tea you shall have the top of my egg." - -Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had -bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him. - -"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey. - -He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful -blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened -his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the -sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought -him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his -feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes, -and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The -Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep. -He snored softly. - -It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the -words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the -works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal -life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began -saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him, -and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more -than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering: -there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long -twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in -the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside -his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by -tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not -try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory. - -Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so -wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his -collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle. -His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in -the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about -to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a -little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door. -She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and -then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had -put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was -sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. -Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the -child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now -she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his -fillings: he hid himself to weep. - -Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she -burst into the drawing-room. - -"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would -break." - -Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs. - -"What's he got to cry about?" - -"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you -think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do." - -Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless. - -"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more -than ten lines." - -"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William? -There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in -that." - -"Very well, I don't mind." - -Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only -passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two -in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty -volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading, -but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were -illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them -he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon -with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some -battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel -engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine. -She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to -compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him -in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went -in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands -so that she might not see he had been crying. - -"Do you know the collect yet?" she said. - -He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his -voice. She was oddly embarrassed. - -"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp. - -"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture -books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them -together." - -Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so -that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him. - -"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born." - -She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets. -In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting -two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if -he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads. - -"Read what it says," he asked. - -Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic -narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but -fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that -followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted -her. - -"I want to see another picture." - -When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth. -Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations. -It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for -tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart; -he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the -book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with -her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this -eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of -Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed -itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more -books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he -kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip -took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to -read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it -was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys. - -Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps -because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he -found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart -beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but -there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his -imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a -Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic -vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored -at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the -darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat -went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last -to some strange mansion. - -One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of -The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the -illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that -dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again -and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him. -He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner. -Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of -reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge -from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating -for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day -a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other -things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he -occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble -themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know -them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one -time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and -homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories -of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last -discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The -Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then -many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding -along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe. - -The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a -hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And -here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the -vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July; -August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the -collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the -Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for -they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London -with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman -who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go -and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was -afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was -going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved -from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel. - - - -X - - -The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at -Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united -by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon, -and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to -aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an -honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was -attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr. -Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of -September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew -little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's -Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little. - -When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with -apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The -high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There -was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, -untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They -were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly -furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a -forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster. - -"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while. - -"You'll see for yourself." - -There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not -come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again. - -"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said. - -Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into -the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet -high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked -loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror -in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's -small hand in his. - -"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted. - -Philip reddened and found no word to answer. - -"How old are you?" - -"Nine," said Philip. - -"You must say sir," said his uncle. - -"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed -cheerily. - -To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers. -Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch. - -"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that, -won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't -feel so strange." - -Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with -black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and -a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular -coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. -Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly -push towards her. - -"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey." - -Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not -speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and -what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little -embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two -got up. - -"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now." - -"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on -like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?" - -Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great -bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away. - -"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the -school-room." - -He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly -limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables -that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms. - -"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the -playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself." - -Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with -high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron -railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the -buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately, -kicking up the gravel as he walked. - -"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?" - -The small boy came forward and shook hands. - -"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully -him." - -The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear -by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them. - -"What's your name?" - -"Carey." - -"What's your father?" - -"He's dead." - -"Oh! Does your mother wash?" - -"My mother's dead, too." - -Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but -Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little. - -"Well, did she wash?" he went on. - -"Yes," said Philip indignantly. - -"She was a washerwoman then?" - -"No, she wasn't." - -"Then she didn't wash." - -The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then -he caught sight of Philip's feet. - -"What's the matter with your foot?" - -Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the -one which was whole. - -"I've got a club-foot," he answered. - -"How did you get it?" - -"I've always had it." - -"Let's have a look." - -"No." - -"Don't then." - -The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin, -which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was -so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the -surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence -of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and -he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit -anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third -boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed -that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his -feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable. - -But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to -talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what -wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these -presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was -anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to -say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite -willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket. - -"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot." - -The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had -asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at -Philip awkwardly. - - - -XI - - -Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his -cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he -was. - -"Are you awake, Singer?" - -The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was -a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of -ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was -aired in the morning. - -Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning, -and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his -prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than -if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was -beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the -discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for -the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his -washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and -a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily -while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and -they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of -the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his -wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an -impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice -as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip -listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and -the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two -large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and -butter. - -Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the -bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and -followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which -they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or -bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey -whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think -boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered -nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some -parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it. - -Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up -his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them. - -After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the -day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of -the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as -the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into -school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two -under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one, -leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To -attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known -officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower -second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a -pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the -time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven -and they were let out for ten minutes' rest. - -The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were -told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along -opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran -from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was -seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he -became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still -free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp -gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made -straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant -idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to -laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping -grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They -lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with -helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as -he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got -up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if -another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of -Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck -the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the -ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He -could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that -he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been -in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him, -mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he -did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using -all his strength to prevent himself from crying. - -Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee -was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice -could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange -novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his -feet. He tucked them under the bench. - -In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped -Philip on the way out after dinner. - -"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him. - -Philip blushed self-consciously. - -"No, sir." - -"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that, -can't you?" - -Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same. - -"Yes, sir." - -The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he -had not changed, asked why he was not going to play. - -"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip. - -"Why?" - -There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of -shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the -reply. - -"He's got a club-foot, sir." - -"Oh, I see." - -Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and -he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but -he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud. - -"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you." - -Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in -groups of two or three. - -"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know -the way, do you?" - -Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat. - -"I can't go very fast, sir." - -"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile. - -Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said -a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy. - -But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was -called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's. - -"I say, let's look at your foot," he said. - -"No," answered Philip. - -He jumped into bed quickly. - -"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason." - -The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words -he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off -him, but he held them tightly. - -"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried. - -Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched -on the blanket. Philip cried out. - -"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?" - -"I won't." - -In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him, -but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn -it. - -"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm." - -"Stop still then and put out your foot." - -Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The -pain was unendurable. - -"All right. I'll do it," said Philip. - -He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He -looked curiously at the deformity. - -"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason. - -Another came in and looked too. - -"Ugh," he said, in disgust. - -"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?" - -He touched it with the tip of his forefinger
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