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.
