CXII

Josiah Graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming but economical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to the vicarage with Philip.  The will was in his charge, and with a due sense of the fitness of things he read it to Philip over an early cup of tea.  It was written on half a sheet of paper and left everything Mr. Carey had to his nephew.  There was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank, twenty shares in the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop’s brewery, some in the Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant.  They had been bought under Mr. Graves’ direction, and he told Philip with satisfaction: 

“You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement.  You’re always safe if you put your money in what the public thinks necessities.”

His words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of the vulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect.  Altogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to that must be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch.  It was riches to Philip.  He was not happy but infinitely relieved.

Mr. Graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which must be held as soon as possible, and Philip sat himself down to go through the papers of the deceased.  The Rev. William Carey had prided himself on never destroying anything, and there were piles of correspondence dating back for fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed bills.  He had kept not only letters addressed to him, but letters which himself had written.  There was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to his father in the forties, when as an Oxford undergraduate he had gone to Germany for the long vacation.  Philip read them idly.  It was a different William Carey from the William Carey he had known, and yet there were traces in the boy which might to an acute observer have suggested the man.  The letters were formal and a little stilted.  He showed himself strenuous to see all that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasm the castles of the Rhine.  The falls of Schaffhausen made him `offer reverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the universe, whose works were wondrous and beautiful,’ and he could not help thinking that they who lived in sight of `this handiwork of their blessed Maker must be moved by the contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.’  Among some bills Philip found a miniature which had been painted of William Carey soon after he was ordained.  It represented a thin young curate, with long hair that fell over his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and a pale ascetic face.  Philip remembered the chuckle with which his uncle used to tell of the dozens of slippers which were worked for him by adoring ladies.