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

<TRUNCATED>