“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.
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,
