Chapter LXXXIX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatterup the stairs. Athelny opened the door for the children coming back fromSunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. Gaily he askedthem what they had learned. Sally appeared for a moment, with instructionsfrom her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got teaready; and Athelny began to tell them one of Hans Andersen's stories. Theywere not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that Philipwas not formidable. Jane came and stood by him and presently settledherself on his knees. It was the first time that Philip in his lonely lifehad been present in a family circle: his eyes smiled as they rested on thefair children engrossed in the fairy tale. The life of his new friend,eccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty ofperfect naturalness. Sally came in once more."Now then, children, tea's ready," she said.Jane slipped off Philip's knees, and they all went back to the kitchen.Sally began to lay the cloth on the long Spanish table."Mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?" she asked. "I cangive the children their tea.""Tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favourus with her company," said Athelny.It seemed to Philip that he could never say anything without an oratoricalflourish."Then I'll lay for her," said Sally.She came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf,a slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam. While she placed the thingson the table her father chaffed her. He said it was quite time she waswalking out; he told Philip that she was very proud, and would havenothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, twoby two, outside the Sunday school and craved the honour of escorting herhome."You do talk, father," said Sally, with her slow, good-natured smile."You wouldn't think to look at her that a tailor's assistant has enlistedin the army because she would not say how d'you do to him and anelectrical engineer, an electrical engineer, mind you, has taken to drinkbecause she refused to share her hymn-book with him in church. I shudderto think what will happen when she puts her hair up.""Mother'll bring the tea along herself," said Sally."Sally never pays any attention to me," laughed Athelny, looking at herwith fond, proud eyes. "She goes about her business indifferent to wars,revolutions, and cataclysms. What a wife she'll make to an honest man!"Mrs. Athelny brought in the tea. She sat down and proceeded to cut breadand butter. It amused Philip to see that she treated her husband as thoughhe were a child. She spread jam for him and cut up the bread and butterinto convenient slices for him to eat. She had taken off her hat; and inher Sunday dress, which seemed a little tight for her, she looked like oneof the farmers' wives whom Philip used to call on sometimes with his unclewhen he was a small boy. Then he knew why the sound of her voice wasfamiliar to him. She spoke just like the people round Blackstable."What part of the country d'you come from?" he asked her."I'm a Kentish woman. I come from Ferne.""I thought as much. My uncle's Vicar of Blackstable.""That's a funny thing now," she said. "I was wondering in Church just nowwhether you was any connection of Mr. Carey. Many's the time I've seen'im. A cousin of mine married Mr. Barker of Roxley Farm, over byBlackstable Church, and I used to go and stay there often when I was agirl. Isn't that a funny thing now?"She looked at him with a new interest, and a brightness came into herfaded eyes. She asked him whether he knew Ferne. It was a pretty villageabout ten miles across country from Blackstable, and the Vicar had comeover sometimes to Blackstable for the harvest thanksgiving. She mentionednames of various farmers in the neighbourhood. She was delighted to talkagain of the country in which her youth was spent, and it was a pleasureto her to recall scenes and people that had remained in her memory withthe tenacity peculiar to her class. It gave Philip a queer sensation too.A breath of the country-side seemed to be wafted into that panelled roomin the middle of London. He seemed to see the fat Kentish fields withtheir stately elms; and his nostrils dilated with the scent of the air; itis laden with the salt of the North Sea, and that makes it keen and sharp.Philip did not leave the Athelnys' till ten o'clock. The children came into say good-night at eight and quite naturally put up their faces forPhilip to kiss. His heart went out to them. Sally only held out her hand."Sally never kisses gentlemen till she's seen them twice," said herfather."You must ask me again then," said Philip."You mustn't take any notice of what father says," remarked Sally, with asmile."She's a most self-possessed young woman," added her parent.They had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while Mrs. Athelny wasputting the children to bed; and when Philip went into the kitchen to bidher good-night (she had been sitting there, resting herself and readingThe Weekly Despatch) she invited him cordially to come again."There's always a good dinner on Sundays so long as Athelny's in work,"she said, "and it's a charity to come and talk to him."On the following Saturday Philip received a postcard from Athelny sayingthat they were expecting him to dinner next day; but fearing their meanswere not such that Mr. Athelny would desire him to accept, Philip wroteback that he would only come to tea. He bought a large plum cake so thathis entertainment should cost nothing. He found the whole family glad tosee him, and the cake completed his conquest of the children. He insistedthat they should all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal wasnoisy and hilarious.Soon Philip got into the habit of going to Athelny's every Sunday. Hebecame a great favourite with the children, because he was simple andunaffected and because it was so plain that he was fond of them. As soonas they heard his ring at the door one of them popped a head out of windowto make sure it was he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuouslyto let him in. They flung themselves into his arms. At tea they fought forthe privilege of sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him UnclePhilip.Athelny was very communicative, and little by little Philip learned thevarious stages of his life. He had followed many occupations, and itoccurred to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything heattempted. He had been on a tea plantation in Ceylon and a traveller inAmerica for Italian wines; his secretaryship of the water company inToledo had lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been ajournalist and for some time had worked as police-court reporter for anevening paper; he had been sub-editor of a paper in the Midlands andeditor of another on the Riviera. From all his occupations he had gatheredamusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure in his own powers ofentertainment. He had read a great deal, chiefly delighting in books whichwere unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse knowledge withchild-like enjoyment of the amazement of his hearers. Three or four yearsbefore abject poverty had driven him to take the job ofpress-representative to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt thework unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly, the firmness of hiswife and the needs of his family had made him stick to it.