Chapter III

by William Somerset Maugham

　　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 writingletters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, whichhad arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on thehall-table."Here's Master Philip," said Emma.Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then onsecond thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man ofsomewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair,worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He wasclean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imaginethat in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore agold cross."You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall youlike that?"Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage afteran attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of anattic 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 thathis sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the waythought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused ifher death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well overfifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, waschildless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of asmall boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked hissister-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. Careylooked 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 tookthe 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 mustsee 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, andI 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'sfather was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointmentssuggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his suddendeath from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little morethan his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their housein Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already indelicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head andaccepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored herfurniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took afurnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconveniencetill her child was born. But she had never been used to the management ofmoney, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her alteredcircumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one wayand another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more thantwo thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earnhis own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he wassobbing still."You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could consolethe child better than anyone.Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stoppedhim."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 allyour toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother byyou can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to besold."The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and heturned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk wasa bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especiallyseemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had orderedfrom the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the deadwoman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much uponherself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would havedismissed her.But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as thoughhis heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her ownson--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with softwords. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and thatshe would never forget him; and she told him about the country he wasgoing to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpikeon the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, andthere was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot histears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey.Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helpedher to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery togather 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, inwhich Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he rememberedthen that his uncle had said he might take something to remember hisfather 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 leftthe room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so shorta 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 thelandlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard hismother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolatelyupstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped andlistened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling thatit would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beatuncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn thehandle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within fromhearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the thresholdfor a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightenednow, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds weredrawn, 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 alittle tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on thechimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room whenhis mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was somethingcurious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone weregoing to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was anight-dress.Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, tookas many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. Theysmelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers,filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavenderbags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. Thestrangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother hadjust gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would comeupstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss onhis lips.It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simplybecause it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head onthe pillow. He lay there quite still.