Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did
not know why the sight he had of that overwhelming
love made him feel strangely ashamed. It was
incomprehensible that she should care so much for a
man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly
self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart
she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew
them and loved him humbly all the same.
“You will take the money, Philip?” she
said, gently stroking his hand. “I know
you can do without it, but it’ll give me so much
happiness. I’ve always wanted to do something
for you. You see, I never had a child of my own,
and I’ve loved you as if you were my son.
When you were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked,
I used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that
I could nurse you day and night. But you were
only ill once and then it was at school. I should
so like to help you. It’s the only chance
I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you’re
a great artist you won’t forget me, but you’ll
remember that I gave you your start.”
“It’s very good of you,” said Philip.
“I’m very grateful.” A smile
came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.
“Oh, I’m so glad.”
XL
A few days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to
see Philip off. She stood at the door of the
carriage, trying to keep back her tears. Philip
was restless and eager. He wanted to be gone.
“Kiss me once more,” she said.
He leaned out of the window and kissed her. The
train started, and she stood on the wooden platform
of the little station, waving her handkerchief till
it was out of sight. Her heart was dreadfully
heavy, and the few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed
very, very long. It was natural enough that he
should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy and
the future beckoned to him; but she—she
clenched her teeth so that she should not cry.
She uttered a little inward prayer that God would
guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give
him happiness and good fortune.
But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he
had settled down in his carriage. He thought
only of the future. He had written to Mrs. Otter,
the massiere to whom Hayward had given him an introduction,
and had in his pocket an invitation to tea on the
following day. When he arrived in Paris he had
his luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through
the gay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow
ways of the Latin Quarter. He had taken a room
at the Hotel des Deux Ecoles, which was in a shabby
street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse; it was convenient
for Amitrano’s School at which he was going
to work. A waiter took his box up five flights
of stairs, and Philip was shown into a tiny room, fusty
from unopened windows, the greater part of which was
taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy over
it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the windows
of the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served
also as a washing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe
of the style which is connected with the good King
Louis Philippe. The wall-paper was discoloured
with age; it was dark gray, and there could be vaguely
seen on it garlands of brown leaves. To Philip
the room seemed quaint and charming.
