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.
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