1915
OF HUMAN BONDAGE
by W Somerset Maugham
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
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 pulled away a chair and the cushions fell down.
"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin (r)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 goodbye 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 highroad
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 bedroom, 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 (r)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 harbour 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 (r)Songs without
Words, and Mrs. Carey sang (r)When the Swallows Homeward
Fly, or (r)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 (r)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 fidgeted 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
fidgetted 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 (r)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: (r)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 sentences 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 feelings: he hid himself to weep.
Without thinking that her husband disliked being awakened
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 (r)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 (r)The Lancashire Witches, and then he read
(r)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
(r)The Boy's Own Paper. He had also read (r)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
playground 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 (r)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 playground. 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 (r)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 we're 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, cautiously, as though
it were something that had a life of its own. Suddenly they heard
Mr. Watson's heavy tread on the stairs. They threw the clothes
back on Philip and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. Mr.
Watson came into the dormitory. Raising himself on tiptoe he
could see over the rod that bore the green curtain, and he looked
into two or three of the cubicles. The little boys were safely in bed.
He put out the light and went out.
Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got his
teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. He was
not crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the
humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but with
rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out
his foot of his own accord.
And then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his childish
mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no particular
reason he remembered that cold morning when Emma had taken
him out of bed and put him beside his mother. He had not thought
of it once since it happened, but now he seemed to feel the warmth
of his mother's body against his and her arms around him.
Suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a dream, his mother's
death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two wretched days at
school, and he would awake in the morning and be back again at
home. His tears dried as he thought of it. He was too unhappy, it
must be nothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and
Emma would come up presently and go to bed. He fell asleep.
But when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell,
and the first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his
cubicle.
XII
AS TIME went on Philip's deformity ceased to interest. It was
accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable
corpulence. But meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He
never ran if he could help it, because he knew it made his limp
more conspicuous, and he adopted a peculiar walk. He stood still
as much as he could, with his club-foot behind the other, so that it
should not attract notice, and he was constantly on the look out for
any reference to it. Because he could not join in the games which
other boys played, their life remained strange to him; he only
interested himself from the outside in their doings; and it seemed
to him that there was a barrier between them and him. Sometimes
they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play
football, and he was unable to make them understand. He was left
a good deal to himself. He had been inclined to talkativeness, but
gradually he became silent. He began to think of the difference
between himself and others.
The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him,
and Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of
hard treatment. About half-way through the term a mania ran
through the school for a game called Nibs. It was a game for two,
played on a table or a form with steel pens. You had to push your
nib with the fingernail so as to get the point of it over your
opponent's, while he manoeuvred to prevent this and to get the
point of his nib over the back of yours; when this result was
achieved you breathed on the ball of your thumb, pressed it hard
on the two nibs, and if you were able then to lift them without
dropping either, both nibs became yours. Soon nothing was seen
but boys playing this game, and the more skilful acquired vast
stores of nibs. But in a little while Mr. Watson made up his mind
that it was a form of gambling, forbade the game, and confiscated
all the nibs in the boys' possession. Philip had been very adroit,
and it was with a heavy heart that he gave up his winnings; but
his fingers itched to play still, and a few days later, on his way to
the football field, he went into a shop and bought a pennyworth of
pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and enjoyed feeling
them. Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer had
given up his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called
a Jumbo, which was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist
the opportunity of getting Philip's Js out of him. Though Philip
knew that he was at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an
adventurous disposition and was willing to take the risk; besides,
he was aware that Singer would not allow him to refuse. He had
not played for a week and sat down to the game now with a thrill
of excitement. He lost two of his small nibs quickly, and Singer
was jubilant, but the third time by some chance the Jumbo slipped
round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He crowed with
triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
He looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered.
"Don't you know that I've forbidden you to play that idiotic
game?"
Philip's heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was
dreadfully frightened, but in his fright there was a certain
exultation. He had never been swished. Of course it would hurt,
but it was something to boast about afterwards.
"Come into my study."
The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side.
Singer whispered to Philip:
"We're in for it."
Mr. Watson pointed to Singer.
"Bend over," he said.
Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after
the third he heard him cry out. Three more followed.
"That'll do. Get up."
Singer stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip
stepped forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment.
"I'm not going to cane you. You're a new boy. And I can't hit a
cripple. Go away, both of you, and don't be naughty again."
When they got, back into the school-room a group of boys, who
had learned in some mysterious way what was happening, were
waiting for them. They set upon Singer at once with eager
questions. Singer faced them, his face red with the pain and marks
of tears still on his cheeks. He pointed with his head at Philip,
who was standing a little behind him.
"He got off because he's a cripple," he said angrily.
Philip stood silent and flushed. He felt that they looked at him
with contempt.
"How many did you get?" one boy asked Singer.
But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt.
"Don't ask me to play Nibs with you again," he said to Philip.
"It's jolly nice for you. You don't risk anything."
"I didn't ask you."
"Didn't you!"
He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was
always rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the
ground.
"Cripple," said Singer.
For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though
Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it
was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he
abased himself so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer
took the knife he was not placated. Once or twice, driven beyond
endurance, he hit and kicked the bigger boy, but Singer was so
much stronger that Philip was helpless, and he was always forced
after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It was that which
rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation of
apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater than he
could bear. And what made it worse was that there seemed no end
to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven and would not go to
the upper school till he was thirteen. Philip realized that he must
live two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape.
He was only happy while he was working and when he got into
bed. And often there recurred to him then that queer feeling that
his life with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and that he
would awake in the morning in his own little bed in London.
XIII
TWO years passed, and Philip was nearly twelve. He was in the
first form, within two or three places of the top, and after
Christmas when several boys would be leaving for the senior
school he would be head boy. He had already quite a collection of
prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but in gorgeous bindings
decorated with the arms of the school: his position had freed him
from bullying, and he was not unhappy. His fellows forgave him
his success because of his deformity.
"After all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes," they said, "there's
nothing he (r)can do but swat."
He had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to
the loud voice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on
his shoulder Philip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. He
had the good memory which is more useful for scholastic
achievements than mental power, and he knew Mr. Watson
expected him to leave the preparatory school with a scholarship.
But he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does
not realise that his body is more a part of himself than
surrounding objects, and will play with his toes without any
feeling that they belong to him more than the rattle by his side;
and it is only by degrees, through pain, that he understands the
fact of the body. And experiences of the same kind are necessary
for the individual to become conscious of himself; but here there is
the difference that, although everyone becomes equally conscious
of his body as a separate and complete organism, everyone does
not become equally conscious of himself as a complete and
separate personality. The feeling of apartness from others comes
to most with puberty, but it is not always developed to such a
degree as to make the difference between the individual and his
fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as he, as little
conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in life,
for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are
shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they
are enjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday
dancing on Hampstead Heath, shouting at a football match, or
from club windows in Pall Mall cheering a royal procession. It is
because of them that man has been called a social animal.
Philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter
consciousness of himself by the ridicule which his club-foot had
excited. The circumstances of his case were so peculiar that he
could not apply to them the ready-made rules which acted well
enough in ordinary affairs, and he was forced to think for himself.
The many books he had read filled his mind with ideas which,
because he only half understood them, gave more scope to his
imagination. Beneath his painful shyness something was growing
up within him, and obscurely he realised his personality. But at
times it gave him odd surprises; he did things, he knew not why,
and afterwards when he thought of them found himself all at sea.
There was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a
friendship had arisen, and one day, when they were playing
together in the school-room, Luard began to perform some trick
with an ebony pen-holder of Philip's.
"Don't play the giddy ox," said Philip. "You'll only break it."
"I shan't."
But no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the
pen-holder snapped in two. Luard looked at Philip with dismay.
"Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry."
The tears rolled down Philip's cheeks, but he did not answer.
"I say, what's the matter?" said Luard, with surprise. "I'll get you
another one exactly the same."
"It's not about the pen-holder I care," said Philip, in a trembling
voice, "only it was given me by the mater, just before she died."
"I say, I'm awfully sorry, Carey."
"It doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault."
Philip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them.
He tried to restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And yet he
could not tell why, for he knew quite well that he had bought the
pen-holder during his last holidays at Blackstable for one and
twopence. He did not know in the least what had made him invent
that pathetic story, but he was quite as unhappy as though it had
been true. The pious atmosphere of the vicarage and the religious
tone of the school had made Philip's conscience very sensitive; he
absorbed insensibly the feeling about him that the Tempter was
ever on the watch to gain his immortal soul; and though he was
not more truthful than most boys he never told a lie without
suffering from remorse. When he thought over this incident he
was very much distressed, and made up his mind that he must go
to Luard and tell him that the story was an invention. Though he
dreaded humiliation more than anything in the world, he hugged
himself for two or three days at the thought of the agonising joy of
humiliating himself to the Glory of God. But he never got any
further. He satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable
method of expressing his repentance only to the Almighty. But he
could not understand why he should have been so genuinely
affected by the story he was making up. The tears that flowed
down his grubby cheeks were real tears. Then by some accident of
association there occurred to him that scene when Emma had told
him of his mother's death, and, though he could not speak for
crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye to the Misses
Watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him.
XIV
THEN a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad
language was no longer heard, and the little nastinesses of small
boys were looked upon with hostility; the bigger boys, like the
lords temporal of the Middle Ages, used the strength of their arms
to persuade those weaker than themselves to virtuous courses.
Philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very
devout. He heard soon that it was possible to join a Bible League,
and wrote to London for particulars. These consisted in a form to
be filled up with the applicant's name, age, and school; a solemn
declaration to be signed that he would read a set portion of Holy
Scripture every night for a year; and a request for half a crown;
this, it was explained, was demanded partly to prove the
earnestness of the applicant's desire to become a member of the
League, and partly to cover clerical expenses. Philip duly sent the
papers and the money, and in return received a calendar worth
about a penny, on which was set down the appointed passage to be
read each day, and a sheet of paper on one side of which was a
picture of the Good Shepherd and a lamb, and on the other,
decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer which had to be
said before beginning to read.
Every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to
have time for his task before the gas was put out. He read
industriously, as he read always, without criticism, stories of
cruelty, deceit, ingratitude, dishonesty, and low cunning. Actions
which would have excited his horror in the life about him, in the
reading passed through his mind without comment, because they
were committed under direct inspiration of God. The method of
the League was to alternate a book of the Old Testament with a
book of the New, and one night Philip came across these words of
Jesus Christ:
(r)If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which
is done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain,
Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done.
(r)And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye
shall receive.
They made no particular impression on him, but it happened that
two or three days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence
chose them for the text of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted
to hear this it would have been impossible, for the boys of King's
School sit in the choir, and the pulpit stands at the corner of the
transept so that the preacher's back is almost turned to them. The
distance also is so great that it needs a man with a fine voice and a
knowledge of elocution to make himself heard in the choir; and
according to long usage the Canons of Tercanbury are chosen for
their learning rather than for any qualities which might be of use
in a cathedral church. But the words of the text, perhaps because
he had read them so short a while before came clearly enough to
Philip's ears, and they seemed on a sudden to have a personal
application. He thought about them through most of the sermon,
and that night, on getting into bed, he turned over the pages of the
Gospel and found once more the passage. Though he believed
implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned already that
in the Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often
mysteriously meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at
school, so he kept the question he had in mind till the Christmas
holidays, and then one day he made an opportunity. It was after
supper and prayers were just finished. Mrs. Carey was counting
the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in as usual and writing on
each one the date. Philip stood at the table and pretended to turn
listlessly the pages of the Bible.
"I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean
that?"
He put his finger against it as though he had come across it
accidentally.
Mr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding (r)The
Blackstable Times in front of the fire. It had come in that
evening damp from the press, and the Vicar always aired it for ten
minutes before he began to read.
"What passage is that?" he asked.
"Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains."
"If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip," said Mrs. Carey gently,
taking up the plate-basket.
Philip looked at his uncle for an answer.
"It's a matter of faith."
"D'you mean to say that if you really believed you could move
mountains you could?"
"By the grace of God," said the Vicar.
"Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip," said Aunt Louisa.
"You're not wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?"
Philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle
and preceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he
wanted. His little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on
his nightgown. But he always felt that his prayers were more
pleasing to God when he said them under conditions of
discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet were an offering to
the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees, buried his face in
his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that He would
make his club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside the
moving of mountains. He knew that God could do it if He wished,
and his own faith was complete. Next morning, finishing his
prayers with the same request, he fixed a date for the miracle.
"Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will,
please make my foot all right on the night before I go back to
school."
He was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it
later in the dining-room during the short pause which the Vicar
always made after prayers, before he rose from his knees. He said
it again in the evening and again, shivering in his nightshirt,
before he got into bed. And he believed. For once he looked
forward with eagerness to the end of the holidays. He laughed to
himself as he thought of his uncle's astonishment when he ran
down the stairs three at a time; and after breakfast he and Aunt
Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of boots. At
school they would be astounded.
"Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?"
"Oh, it's all right now," he would answer casually, as though it
were the most natural thing in the world.
He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw
himself running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the
end of the Easter term there were the sports, and he would be able
to go in for the races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It
would be splendid to be like everyone else, not to be stared at
curiously by new boys who did not know about his deformity, nor
at the baths in summer to need incredible precautions, while he
was undressing, before he could hide his foot in the water.
He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him.
He was confident in the word of God. And the night before he was
to go back to school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement.
There was snow on the ground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed
herself the unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her bed-room; but in
Philip's little room it was so cold that his fingers were numb, and
he had great difficulty in undoing his collar. His teeth chattered.
The idea came to him that he must do something more than usual
to attract the attention of God, and he turned back the rug which
was in front of his bed so that he could kneel on the bare boards;
and then it struck him that his nightshirt was a softness that might
displease his Maker, so he took it off and said his prayers naked.
When he got into bed he was so cold that for some time he could
not sleep, but when he did, it was so soundly that Mary Ann had
to shake him when she brought in his hot water next morning.
She talked to him while she drew the curtains, but he did not
answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning for
the miracle. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first
instinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was
whole now, but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God.
He knew that his foot was well. But at last he made up his mind,
and with the toes of his right foot he just touched his left. Then he
passed his hand over it.
He limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the
dining-room for prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast.
"You're very quiet this morning, Philip," said Aunt Louisa
presently.
"He's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school
tomorrow," said the Vicar.
When Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his
uncle, with something that had nothing to do with the matter in
hand. He called it a bad habit of wool-gathering.
"Supposing you'd asked God to do something," said Philip, "and
really believed it was going to happen, like moving a mountain, I
mean, and you had faith, and it didn't happen, what would it
mean?"
"What a funny boy you are!" said Aunt Louisa. "You asked about
moving mountains two or three weeks ago."
"It would just mean that you hadn't got faith," answered Uncle
William.
Philip accepted the explanation. If God had not cured him, it was
because he did not really believe. And yet he did not see how he
could believe more than he did. But perhaps he had not given God
enough time. He had only asked Him for nineteen days. In a day
or two he began his prayer again, and this time he fixed upon
Easter. That was the day of His Son's glorious resurrection, and
God in His happiness might be mercifully inclined. But now
Philip added other means of attaining his desire: he began to
wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled horse, and he looked
out for shooting stars; during exeat they had a chicken at the
vicarage, and he broke the lucky bone with Aunt Louisa and
wished again, each time that his foot might be made whole. He
was appealing unconsciously to gods older to his race than the
God of Israel. And he bombarded the Almighty with his prayer, at
odd times of the day, whenever it occurred to him, in identical
words always, for it seemed to him important to make his request
in the same terms. But presently the feeling came to him that this
time also his faith would not be great enough. He could not resist
the doubt that assailed him. He made his own experience into a
general rule.
"I suppose no one ever has faith enough," he said.
It was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you
could catch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he had
taken a little bag of it into Kensington Gardens. But he could
never get near enough to put the salt on a bird's tail. Before Easter
he had given up the struggle. He felt a dull resentment against his
uncle for taking him in. The text which spoke of the moving of
mountains was just one of those that said one thing and meant
another. He thought his uncle had been playing a practical joke on
him.
XV
THE Kin |
