Chapter VIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and hisloneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his motherlived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person ofthirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage ateighteen; 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 hermaster and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house offHarbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her storiesof the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round theharbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. Oneevening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt wasafraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evilcommunications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, whowere rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortablein the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he tookhis toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not likedisorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to beuntidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If hefidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time hewent to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and herheart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain hisaffection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received herdemonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimesshe heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when shewent in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Annexplained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what sheheard, and she smiled with constraint."He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when shereturned to her sewing."One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking intoshape."On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred.Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in thedrawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. JosiahGraves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with whichthe Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand inTercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves saidthey were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He hadbeen at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from theEstablished Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy forthe Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornatethan had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in hissecret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew theline at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself aCatholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, theywere 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 thinkthat his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth hehad possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He oftenrelated that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidaysupon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he wassitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him topreach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, havingdecided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at anelection the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blueletters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened toprosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up hismind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove thecandlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once ortwice irritably.Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off hisface, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into thedining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks aroundhim. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundationhad just brought the structure down in noisy ruin."What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowedto play games on Sunday."Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habitwas, 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 asthat."Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to besupposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did notanswer."Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'yousuppose 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 lawsin the afternoon?"Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over himwhile Philip did so."You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you'recausing your poor mother in heaven."Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination toletting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to preventthe sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began toturn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicaragewas set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room onesaw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon greenfields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philipfelt infinitely unhappy.Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended thestairs."Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked."No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep awink."This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his ownthoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only madea noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have sleptbefore or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicarnarrated 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 thechild should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be.Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did notknow what power it was in him that prevented him from making anyexpression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclinedto 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 surreptitiouslynow and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw hisuncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and gothis 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 ina proper frame of mind to enter the House of God."Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that wasplaced upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching hisuncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usualwent 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, andthen 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 thehymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?"Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he wouldnot read the evening service with her she did not know what to do withhim."Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she askedhelplessly.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 youruncle 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 astart. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and asshe thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and hereager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, eventhough it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she couldscarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart achedso--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down hercheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief,and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she wascrying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to hersilently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given herwithout being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin,shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the littleboy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heartwould break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she feltthat the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a newlove because he had made her suffer.