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.