“Oh, William, he can’t sit on the Bible,”
said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked tone. “Couldn’t
you get him some books out of the study?”
Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant.
“I don’t think it matters this once if
you put the prayer-book on the top, Mary Ann,”
he said. “The book of Common Prayer is the
composition of men like ourselves. It has no
claim to divine authorship.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, William,”
said Aunt Louisa.
Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar,
having said grace, cut the top off his egg.
“There,” he said, handing it to Philip,
“you can eat my top if you like.”
Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he
was not offered one, so took what he could.
“How have the chickens been laying since I went
away?” asked the Vicar.
“Oh, they’ve been dreadful, only one or
two a day.”
“How did you like that top, Philip?” asked
his uncle.
“Very much, thank you.”
“You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon.”
Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday,
so that he might be fortified for the evening service.
Philip came gradually to know the people he was to
live with, and by fragments of conversation, some
of it not meant for his ears, learned a good deal
both about himself and about his dead parents.
Philip’s father had been much younger than the
Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant career
at St. Luke’s Hospital he was put on the staff,
and presently began to earn money in considerable
sums. He spent it freely. When the parson
set about restoring his church and asked his brother
for a subscription, he was surprised by receiving
a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey, thrifty
by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted
it with mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother
because he could afford to give so much, pleased for
the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by a
generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then
Henry Carey married a patient, a beautiful girl but
penniless, an orphan with no near relations, but of
good family; and there was an array of fine friends
at the wedding. The parson, on his visits to
her when he came to London, held himself with reserve.
He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her
great beauty: she dressed more magnificently
than became the wife of a hardworking surgeon; and
the charming furniture of her house, the flowers among
which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance
which he deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments
she was going to; and, as he told his wife on getting
home again, it was impossible to accept hospitality
without making some return. He had seen grapes
in the dining-room that must have cost at least eight
shillings a pound; and at luncheon he had been given
asparagus two months before it was ready in the vicarage
