crunch-commits mailing list archives

Site index · List index
Message view « Date » · « Thread »
Top « Date » · « Thread »
From jwi...@apache.org
Subject [5/9] Crunch on Spark
Date Wed, 11 Dec 2013 20:47:51 GMT
http://git-wip-us.apache.org/repos/asf/crunch/blob/6e623413/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
----------------------------------------------------------------------
diff --git a/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/maugham.txt b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..16c45e8
--- /dev/null
+++ b/crunch-spark/src/it/resources/maugham.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,29112 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Of Human Bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
+
+
+Title: Of Human Bondage
+
+Author: W. Somerset Maugham
+
+Release Date: May 6, 2008 [EBook #351]
+
+Language: English
+
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OF HUMAN BONDAGE ***
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+OF HUMAN BONDAGE
+
+
+BY
+
+W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a
+rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room
+in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced
+mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and
+went to the child's bed.
+
+"Wake up, Philip," she said.
+
+She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him
+downstairs. He was only half awake.
+
+"Your mother wants you," she said.
+
+She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over
+to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out
+her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had
+been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt
+the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer
+to herself.
+
+"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said.
+
+Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great
+distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very
+happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to
+make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he
+kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep.
+The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.
+
+"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned.
+
+The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would
+not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again;
+and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held
+the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly
+passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob.
+
+"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired."
+
+She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
+The doctor bent down.
+
+"Let me take him."
+
+She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor
+handed him back to his nurse.
+
+"You'd better put him back in his own bed."
+
+"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His
+mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.
+
+"What will happen to him, poor child?"
+
+The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the
+crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room,
+upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted
+the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the
+woman guessed what he was doing.
+
+"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse.
+
+"Another boy."
+
+The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She
+approached the bed.
+
+"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the
+doctor felt his patient's pulse once more.
+
+"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call
+again after breakfast."
+
+"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse.
+
+They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped.
+
+"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"D'you know at what time he'll be here?"
+
+"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram."
+
+"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way."
+
+"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir."
+
+"Who's she?"
+
+"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?"
+
+The doctor shook his head.
+
+
+
+II
+
+It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room
+at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to
+amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each
+of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each
+arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout
+chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he
+could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the
+curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of
+buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open,
+he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand
+piled away a chair and the cushions fell down.
+
+"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you."
+
+"Hulloa, Emma!" he said.
+
+The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions,
+and put them back in their places.
+
+"Am I to come home?" he asked.
+
+"Yes, I've come to fetch you."
+
+"You've got a new dress on."
+
+It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of
+black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had
+three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She
+hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could
+not give the answer she had prepared.
+
+"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length.
+
+"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?"
+
+Now she was ready.
+
+"Your mamma is quite well and happy."
+
+"Oh, I am glad."
+
+"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not
+know what she meant.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Your mamma's in heaven."
+
+She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried
+too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features.
+She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in
+London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her
+emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the
+pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite
+unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers.
+But in a little while she pulled herself together.
+
+"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say
+good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home."
+
+"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide
+his tears.
+
+"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat."
+
+He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall.
+He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He
+paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends,
+and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would
+be sorry for him.
+
+"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin."
+
+"I think you'd better," said Emma.
+
+"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said.
+
+He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door
+and walked in. He heard her speak.
+
+"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss."
+
+There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in.
+Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In
+those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much
+gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an
+elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies,
+whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously.
+
+"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms.
+
+She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to
+luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak.
+
+"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last.
+
+He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again.
+Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange
+ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission.
+Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would
+have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they
+expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out
+of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the
+basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta
+Watkin's voice.
+
+"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's
+dead."
+
+"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I
+knew it would upset you."
+
+Then one of the strangers spoke.
+
+"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world.
+I see he limps."
+
+"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother."
+
+Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where
+to go.
+
+
+
+III
+
+
+When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary,
+respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street,
+Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing
+letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which
+had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the
+hall-table.
+
+"Here's Master Philip," said Emma.
+
+Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on
+second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of
+somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair,
+worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was
+clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine
+that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a
+gold cross.
+
+"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you
+like that?"
+
+Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after
+an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an
+attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother."
+
+The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer.
+
+"Your dear mother left you in my charge."
+
+Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that
+his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way
+thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if
+her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over
+fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was
+childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a
+small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his
+sister-in-law.
+
+"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.
+
+"With Emma?"
+
+The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it.
+
+"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey.
+
+"But I want Emma to come with me."
+
+Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey
+looked at them helplessly.
+
+"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment."
+
+"Very good, sir."
+
+Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took
+the boy on his knee and put his arm round him.
+
+"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must
+see about sending you to school."
+
+"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated.
+
+"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and
+I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend."
+
+Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's
+father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments
+suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden
+death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more
+than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house
+in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in
+delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and
+accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her
+furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a
+furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience
+till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of
+money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered
+circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way
+and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than
+two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn
+his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was
+sobbing still.
+
+"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console
+the child better than anyone.
+
+Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped
+him.
+
+"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon,
+and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all
+your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by
+you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be
+sold."
+
+The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he
+turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was
+a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially
+seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered
+from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead
+woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon
+herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have
+dismissed her.
+
+But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though
+his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own
+son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft
+words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that
+she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was
+going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike
+on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and
+there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his
+tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.
+Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped
+her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to
+gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily.
+
+But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in
+which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered
+then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his
+father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take.
+
+"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy."
+
+"Uncle William's there."
+
+"Never mind that. They're your own things now."
+
+Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left
+the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short
+a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him.
+It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy.
+But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the
+landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his
+mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately
+upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and
+listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that
+it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat
+uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the
+handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from
+hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold
+for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened
+now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were
+drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark.
+On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a
+little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the
+chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when
+his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something
+curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were
+going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a
+night-dress.
+
+Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took
+as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They
+smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers,
+filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender
+bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The
+strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had
+just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come
+upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on
+his lips.
+
+It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply
+because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on
+the pillow. He lay there quite still.
+
+
+
+IV
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+V
+
+
+Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by
+fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a
+good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father
+had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant
+career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began
+to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson
+set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,
+he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey,
+thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with
+mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to
+give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by
+a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a
+patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,
+but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.
+The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with
+reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great
+beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a
+hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers
+among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he
+deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he
+told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept
+hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the
+dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at
+luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the
+vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar
+felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume
+the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was
+practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends
+now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it
+was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to
+itself: she had no more idea of money than a child.
+
+When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which
+seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the
+breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the
+late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the
+parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed
+the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than
+usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was
+thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.
+There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.
+The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this
+was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,
+and he could not imagine who had ordered them.
+
+"D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked.
+
+"I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin
+scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember
+me by when he grows up."
+
+Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear
+treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him.
+
+"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said
+Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."
+
+He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to
+be taken.
+
+One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better
+than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had
+taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:
+suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear
+seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was
+expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be
+expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow
+up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,
+because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had
+no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years
+before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He
+could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called
+her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,
+and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to
+struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had
+been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the
+soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the
+ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when
+she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never
+do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep
+rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,
+but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of
+a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself
+in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had
+never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her
+beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not
+afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;
+and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas
+before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped
+downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove
+to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to
+ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,
+seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she
+insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove
+back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with
+all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.
+
+She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran
+down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her
+room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and
+the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting
+anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and
+reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,
+and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She
+fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained
+unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched
+her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,
+when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of
+her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither
+of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they
+were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in
+his memory.
+
+"I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up."
+
+"I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would
+have done."
+
+
+
+VI
+
+
+One day was very like another at the vicarage.
+
+Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it
+with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took
+it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then
+it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it
+late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was
+making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the
+Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to
+do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing
+village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank,
+the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round
+the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor
+people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs.
+Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to
+the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this
+fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had
+never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street:
+he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent
+their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for
+dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the
+town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers;
+Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the
+difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to
+church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with
+both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of
+going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher
+who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come
+to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was
+very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity
+further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat
+was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often
+stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager,
+who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man
+with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip
+he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats
+for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish
+church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led
+was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit
+from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the
+Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no
+hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory
+consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be
+saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really
+seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish.
+Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care
+he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey
+advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his
+fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in
+the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged
+himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back.
+
+Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey
+still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate
+had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and
+Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission
+Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few
+words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the
+chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views
+upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a
+churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He
+reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was
+the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to
+recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics,
+and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had
+enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To
+this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his
+purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were
+not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political
+meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and
+for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable
+place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was
+little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in
+a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and
+that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His
+sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of
+the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby
+linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in
+his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts
+of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first
+moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in
+life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they
+met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put
+the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her
+brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these
+gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of
+anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but
+they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held
+at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey
+and Josiah Graves both made speeches.
+
+When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally
+went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies
+talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr.
+Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least
+five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in
+the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with
+the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never
+opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had
+a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with
+banking.
+
+Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they
+continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a
+side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt
+(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and
+nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in
+on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood
+for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who
+knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for
+flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They
+looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram
+the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home.
+
+Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it
+consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and
+Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the
+afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by
+his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of
+French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany
+the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used
+to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs
+by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was
+asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage.
+There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their
+parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr.
+Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of
+Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the
+Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony.
+
+But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset
+them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They
+preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon.
+Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like
+losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary
+Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to
+clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a
+little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat.
+Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then
+Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and
+after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress
+himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs.
+Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She
+then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey
+continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got
+up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed.
+
+When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening
+he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water,
+since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two
+persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in
+Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary
+Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to
+begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday,
+because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired
+after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for
+the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for
+Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night:
+what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't
+know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday
+night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey
+was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But
+the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's
+Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after
+eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they
+might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to
+bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said
+she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he
+should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the
+Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly
+washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night.
+
+
+
+VII
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+IX
+
+
+On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go
+into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were
+conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip
+asked:
+
+"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?"
+
+"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?"
+
+"I can't sit still till tea-time."
+
+Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could
+not suggest that Philip should go into the garden.
+
+"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day."
+
+He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and
+turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted.
+
+"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in
+to tea you shall have the top of my egg."
+
+Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had
+bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him.
+
+"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey.
+
+He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful
+blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened
+his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the
+sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought
+him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his
+feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes,
+and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The
+Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep.
+He snored softly.
+
+It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the
+words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the
+works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal
+life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began
+saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him,
+and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more
+than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering:
+there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long
+twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in
+the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside
+his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by
+tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not
+try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory.
+
+Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so
+wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his
+collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle.
+His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in
+the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about
+to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a
+little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door.
+She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and
+then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had
+put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was
+sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders.
+Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the
+child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now
+she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his
+fillings: he hid himself to weep.
+
+Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she
+burst into the drawing-room.
+
+"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would
+break."
+
+Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs.
+
+"What's he got to cry about?"
+
+"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you
+think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do."
+
+Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless.
+
+"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more
+than ten lines."
+
+"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William?
+There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in
+that."
+
+"Very well, I don't mind."
+
+Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only
+passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two
+in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty
+volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading,
+but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were
+illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them
+he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon
+with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some
+battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel
+engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine.
+She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to
+compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him
+in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went
+in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands
+so that she might not see he had been crying.
+
+"Do you know the collect yet?" she said.
+
+He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his
+voice. She was oddly embarrassed.
+
+"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp.
+
+"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture
+books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them
+together."
+
+Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so
+that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him.
+
+"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born."
+
+She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets.
+In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting
+two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if
+he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads.
+
+"Read what it says," he asked.
+
+Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic
+narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but
+fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that
+followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted
+her.
+
+"I want to see another picture."
+
+When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth.
+Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations.
+It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for
+tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart;
+he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the
+book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with
+her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this
+eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of
+Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed
+itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more
+books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he
+kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip
+took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to
+read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it
+was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys.
+
+Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps
+because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he
+found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart
+beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but
+there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his
+imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a
+Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic
+vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored
+at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the
+darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat
+went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last
+to some strange mansion.
+
+One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of
+The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the
+illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that
+dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again
+and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him.
+He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner.
+Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of
+reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge
+from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating
+for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day
+a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other
+things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he
+occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble
+themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know
+them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one
+time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and
+homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories
+of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last
+discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The
+Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then
+many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding
+along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe.
+
+The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a
+hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And
+here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the
+vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July;
+August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the
+collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the
+Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for
+they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London
+with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman
+who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go
+and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was
+afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was
+going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved
+from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel.
+
+
+
+X
+
+
+The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at
+Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united
+by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon,
+and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to
+aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an
+honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was
+attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr.
+Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of
+September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew
+little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's
+Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little.
+
+When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with
+apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The
+high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There
+was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy,
+untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They
+were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly
+furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a
+forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster.
+
+"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while.
+
+"You'll see for yourself."
+
+There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not
+come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again.
+
+"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said.
+
+Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into
+the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet
+high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked
+loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror
+in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's
+small hand in his.
+
+"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted.
+
+Philip reddened and found no word to answer.
+
+"How old are you?"
+
+"Nine," said Philip.
+
+"You must say sir," said his uncle.
+
+"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed
+cheerily.
+
+To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers.
+Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch.
+
+"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that,
+won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't
+feel so strange."
+
+Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with
+black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and
+a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular
+coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still.
+Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly
+push towards her.
+
+"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey."
+
+Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not
+speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and
+what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little
+embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two
+got up.
+
+"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now."
+
+"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on
+like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?"
+
+Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great
+bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away.
+
+"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the
+school-room."
+
+He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly
+limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables
+that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms.
+
+"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the
+playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself."
+
+Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with
+high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron
+railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the
+buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately,
+kicking up the gravel as he walked.
+
+"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?"
+
+The small boy came forward and shook hands.
+
+"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully
+him."
+
+The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear
+by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them.
+
+"What's your name?"
+
+"Carey."
+
+"What's your father?"
+
+"He's dead."
+
+"Oh! Does your mother wash?"
+
+"My mother's dead, too."
+
+Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but
+Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little.
+
+"Well, did she wash?" he went on.
+
+"Yes," said Philip indignantly.
+
+"She was a washerwoman then?"
+
+"No, she wasn't."
+
+"Then she didn't wash."
+
+The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then
+he caught sight of Philip's feet.
+
+"What's the matter with your foot?"
+
+Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the
+one which was whole.
+
+"I've got a club-foot," he answered.
+
+"How did you get it?"
+
+"I've always had it."
+
+"Let's have a look."
+
+"No."
+
+"Don't then."
+
+The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin,
+which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was
+so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the
+surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence
+of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and
+he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit
+anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third
+boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed
+that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his
+feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable.
+
+But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to
+talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what
+wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these
+presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was
+anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to
+say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite
+willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket.
+
+"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot."
+
+The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had
+asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at
+Philip awkwardly.
+
+
+
+XI
+
+
+Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his
+cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he
+was.
+
+"Are you awake, Singer?"
+
+The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was
+a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of
+ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was
+aired in the morning.
+
+Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning,
+and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his
+prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than
+if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was
+beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the
+discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for
+the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his
+washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and
+a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily
+while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and
+they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of
+the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his
+wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an
+impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice
+as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip
+listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and
+the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two
+large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and
+butter.
+
+Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the
+bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and
+followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which
+they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or
+bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey
+whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think
+boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered
+nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some
+parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it.
+
+Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up
+his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them.
+
+After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the
+day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of
+the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as
+the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into
+school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two
+under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one,
+leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To
+attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known
+officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower
+second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a
+pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the
+time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven
+and they were let out for ten minutes' rest.
+
+The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were
+told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along
+opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran
+from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was
+seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he
+became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still
+free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp
+gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made
+straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant
+idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to
+laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping
+grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They
+lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with
+helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as
+he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got
+up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if
+another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of
+Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck
+the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the
+ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He
+could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that
+he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been
+in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him,
+mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he
+did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using
+all his strength to prevent himself from crying.
+
+Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee
+was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice
+could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange
+novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his
+feet. He tucked them under the bench.
+
+In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped
+Philip on the way out after dinner.
+
+"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him.
+
+Philip blushed self-consciously.
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that,
+can't you?"
+
+Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he
+had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.
+
+"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip.
+
+"Why?"
+
+There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of
+shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the
+reply.
+
+"He's got a club-foot, sir."
+
+"Oh, I see."
+
+Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and
+he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but
+he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.
+
+"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you."
+
+Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in
+groups of two or three.
+
+"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know
+the way, do you?"
+
+Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.
+
+"I can't go very fast, sir."
+
+"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile.
+
+Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said
+a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.
+
+But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was
+called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's.
+
+"I say, let's look at your foot," he said.
+
+"No," answered Philip.
+
+He jumped into bed quickly.
+
+"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason."
+
+The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words
+he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off
+him, but he held them tightly.
+
+"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried.
+
+Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched
+on the blanket. Philip cried out.
+
+"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?"
+
+"I won't."
+
+In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him,
+but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn
+it.
+
+"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm."
+
+"Stop still then and put out your foot."
+
+Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The
+pain was unendurable.
+
+"All right. I'll do it," said Philip.
+
+He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He
+looked curiously at the deformity.
+
+"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason.
+
+Another came in and looked too.
+
+"Ugh," he said, in disgust.
+
+"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?"
+
+He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautio

<TRUNCATED>

Mime
View raw message