“I don’t think there’s anything
I can do just now,” he said. “I’ll
call again after breakfast.”
“I’ll show you out, sir,” said the
child’s nurse.
They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall
the doctor stopped.
“You’ve sent for Mrs. Carey’s brother-in-law,
haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“D’you know at what time he’ll be
here?”
“No, sir, I’m expecting a telegram.”
“What about the little boy? I should think
he’d be better out of the way.”
“Miss Watkin said she’d take him, sir.”
“Who’s she?”
“She’s his godmother, sir. D’you
think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?”
The doctor shook his head.
It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the
floor in the drawing-room at Miss Watkin’s house
in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used
to amusing himself. The room was filled with
massive furniture, and on each of the sofas were three
big cushions. There was a cushion too in each
arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the
help of the gilt rout chairs, light and easy to move,
had made an elaborate cave in which he could hide
himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind
the curtains. He put his ear to the floor and
listened to the herd of buffaloes that raced across
the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open,
he held his breath so that he might not be discovered;
but a violent hand piled away a chair and the cushions
fell down.
“You naughty boy, Miss Watkin will be cross
with you.”
“Hulloa, Emma!” he said.
The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to
shake out the cushions, and put them back in their
places.
“Am I to come home?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ve come to fetch you.”
“You’ve got a new dress on.”
It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle.
Her gown was of black velvet, with tight sleeves and
sloping shoulders, and the skirt had three large flounces.
She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She
hesitated. The question she had expected did not
come, and so she could not give the answer she had
prepared.
“Aren’t you going to ask how your mamma
is?” she said at length.
“Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?”
Now she was ready.
“Your mamma is quite well and happy.”
“Oh, I am glad.”
“Your mamma’s gone away. You won’t
ever see her any more.” Philip did not
know what she meant.
“Why not?”
“Your mamma’s in heaven.”
She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite
understand, cried too. Emma was a tall, big-boned
woman, with fair hair and large features. She
came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many
years of service in London, had never lost the breadth
of her accent. Her tears increased her emotion,
and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She
felt vaguely the pity of that child deprived of the
only love in the world that is quite unselfish.
It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers.
But in a little while she pulled herself together.
