The Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which
Philip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick to
whatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress
on not changing one’s mind.
“You chose to be an accountant of your own free will,” he said.
“I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up to
town. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go
back to it.”
Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip’s idea of being an
artist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother
were gentlefolk, and painting wasn’t a serious profession; it was
Bohemian, disreputable, immoral. And then Paris!
“So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you
to live in Paris,” said the Vicar firmly.
It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon
flaunted their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more
wicked.
“You’ve been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should be
false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if I
allowed you to expose yourself to such temptation.”
“Well, I know I’m not a Christian and I’m beginning to doubt whether
I’m a gentleman,” said Philip.
The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip
took possession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr.
Carey proposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the
office. It was clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with
accountancy he must leave it while he could still get back half the
money that had been paid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen.
Philip, losing all reserve, said things to wound and irritate.
“You’ve got no right to waste my money,” he said at last. “After all
it’s my money, isn’t it? I’m not a child. You can’t prevent me from
going to Paris if I make up my mind to. You can’t force me to go back
to London.”
“All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit.”
“Well, I don’t care, I’ve made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell
my clothes, and my books, and my father’s jewellery.”
Aunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. She saw that Philip
was beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase his
anger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing more
about it and with dignity left the room. For the next three days
neither Philip nor he spoke to one another. Philip wrote to Hayward for
information about Paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he
got a reply. Mrs. Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly;
she felt that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband,
and the thought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At
length she spoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out
all his disillusionment of London and his eager ambition for the
future.
“I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can’t be a worse
failure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that I can paint.
I know I’ve got it in me.”
She was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting so
strong an inclination. She had read of great painters whose parents had
opposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; and
after all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life
to the glory of God as for a chartered accountant.
“I’m so afraid of your going to Paris,” she said piteously. “It
wouldn’t be so bad if you studied in London.”
“If I’m going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it’s only in
Paris that you can get the real thing.”
At his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that Philip
was discontented with his work in London, and asking what he thought of
a change. Mr. Nixon answered as follows:
Dear Mrs. Carey,
I have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you that
Philip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he is very
strongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should take
the opportunity there is now to break his articles. I am naturally very
disappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but
you can’t make him drink.
Yours very sincerely,
Albert Nixon.
The letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase his
obstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up some other
profession, he suggested his father’s calling, medicine, but nothing
would induce him to pay an allowance if Philip went to Paris.
“It’s a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality,” he said.
“I’m interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others,” retorted
Philip acidly.
But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of a
hotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and
enclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. Philip
read the letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he proposed to start on the
first of September.
“But you haven’t got any money?” she said.
“I’m going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery.”
He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three
rings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might
fetch a considerable sum.
“It’s a very different thing, what a thing’s worth and what it’ll
fetch,” said Aunt Louisa.
Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle’s stock phrases.
“I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the
lot, and that’ll keep me till I’m twenty-one.”
Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little
black bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went
to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an
envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s a little present for you,” she answered, smiling shyly.
He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack
bulging with sovereigns.
“I couldn’t bear to let you sell your father’s jewellery. It’s the
money I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds.”
Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes.
“Oh, my dear, I can’t take it,” he said. “It’s most awfully good of
you, but I couldn’t bear to take it.”
When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this
money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen
expense, any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents
for her husband and for Philip. In the course of years it had
diminished sadly, but it was still with the Vicar a subject for
jesting. He talked of his wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke
of the ‘nest egg.’
“Oh, please take it, Philip. I’m so sorry I’ve been extravagant, and
there’s only that left. But it’ll make me so happy if you’ll accept
it.”
“But you’ll want it,” said Philip.
“No, I don’t think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle died
before me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I
could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don’t think I shall live
very much longer now.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t say that. Why, of course you’re going to live for
ever. I can’t possibly spare you.”
“Oh, I’m not sorry.” Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a
moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. “At first, I used to pray to
God that He might not take me first, because I didn’t want your uncle
to be left alone, I didn’t want him to have all the suffering, but now
I know that it wouldn’t mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to
me. He wants to live more than I do, I’ve never been the wife he
wanted, and I daresay he’d marry again if anything happened to me. So I
should like to go first. You don’t think it’s selfish of me, Philip, do
you? But I couldn’t bear it if he went.”
Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight
he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It
was incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so
indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined
dimly that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness,
knew them and loved him humbly all the same.
“You will take the money, Philip?” she said, gently stroking his hand.
“I know you can do without it, but it’ll give me so much happiness.
I’ve always wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a
child of my own, and I’ve loved you as if you were my son. When you
were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost
that you might be ill, so that I could nurse you day and night. But you
were only ill once and then it was at school. I should so like to help
you. It’s the only chance I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when
you’re a great artist you won’t forget me, but you’ll remember that I
gave you your start.”
“It’s very good of you,” said Philip. “I’m very grateful.” A smile came
into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.
“Oh, I’m so glad.”