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.
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