"OF HUMAN BONDAGE" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maugham W. Somerset)

"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.


CHAPTER IV