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.