Of Human Bondage Read Free Page B

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.

V
      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 garden.
Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar felt the
satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume the
city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was
practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine
friends now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really
criminal, and it was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take
his dear mother to itself: she had no more idea of money than a
child.
      When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an
incident happened which seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One
morning he found on the breakfast table a small packet which had
been sent on by post from the late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It
was addressed to her. When the parson opened it he found a dozen
photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed the head and shoulders only,
and her hair was more plainly done than usual, low on the forehead,
which gave her an unusual look; the face was thin and worn, but no
illness could impair the beauty of her features. There was in the
large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember. The first
sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this was
quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite
recent, and he could not imagine who had ordered them.
      "D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he
asked.
      "I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he
answered. "Miss Watkin scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy
to have something to remember me by when he grows up."
      Mr. Carey looked at Philip for