“Oh, Nurse!” he cried, blundering against the almost moving wheel, and it was the first time he had called her by any name. “Nurse, do—do say I may take Lucy’s toys to play with; it is so lonely here. I may, mayn’t I? I may take them?”
Perhaps the nurse’s heart was softened by her own happiness and the thought of the brother who was not drowned. Perhaps she was only in such a hurry that she did not know what she was saying. At any rate, when Philip said for the third time, “May I take them?” she hastily answered:
“Bless the child! Take anything you like. Mind the wheel, for goodness’ sake. Goodbye, everybody!” waved her hand to the servants assembled at the top of the wide steps, and was whirled off to joyous reunion with the undrowned brother.
Philip drew a deep breath of satisfaction, went straight up to the nursery, took out all the toys, and examined every single one of them. It took him all the afternoon.
The next day he looked at all the things again and longed to make something with them. He was accustomed to the joy that comes of making things. He and Helen had built many a city for the dream island out of his own two boxes of bricks and certain other things in the house—her Japanese cabinet, the dominoes and chessmen, cardboard boxes, books, the lids of kettles and teapots. But they had never had enough bricks. Lucy had enough bricks for anything.
He began to build a city on the nursery table. But to build with bricks alone is poor work when you have been used to building with all sorts of other things.
“It looks like a factory,” said Philip discontentedly. He swept the building down and replaced the bricks in their different boxes.
“There must be something downstairs that would come in useful,” he told himself, “and she did say, ‘Take what you like.’ ”
By armfuls, two and three at a time, he carried down the boxes of bricks and the boxes of blocks, the draughts, the chessmen, and the box of dominoes. He took them into the long drawing-room where the crystal chandeliers were, and the chairs covered in brown holland—and the many long, light windows, and the cabinets and tables covered with the most interesting things.
He cleared a big writing-table of such useless and unimportant objects as blotting-pad, silver inkstand, and red-backed books, and there was a clear space for his city.
He began to build.
A bronze Egyptian god on a black and gold cabinet seemed to be looking at him from across the room.
“All right,” said Philip. “I’ll build you a temple. You wait a bit.”
The bronze god waited and the temple grew, and two silver candlesticks, topped by chessmen, served admirably as pillars for the portico. He made a journey to the nursery to fetch the Noah’s Ark animals—the pair of elephants, each standing on a brick, flanked the entrance. It looked splendid, like an Assyrian temple in the pictures Helen had shown him. But the bricks, wherever he built with them alone, looked mean, and like factories or workhouses. Bricks alone always do.
Philip explored again. He found the library. He made several journeys. He brought up twenty-seven volumes bound in white vellum with marbled boards, a set of Shakespeare, ten volumes in green morocco. These made pillars and cloisters, dark, mysterious, and attractive. More Noah’s Ark animals added an Egyptian-looking finish to the building.
“Lor’, ain’t it pretty!” said the parlourmaid, who came to call him to tea. “You are clever with your fingers, Master Philip, I will say that for you. But you’ll catch it, taking all them things.”
“That grey nurse said I might,” said Philip, “and it doesn’t hurt things building with them. My sister and I always did it at home,” he added, looking confidingly at the parlourmaid. She had praised his building. And it was the first time he had mentioned his sister to anyone in that house.
“Well, it’s as good as a peepshow,” said the parlourmaid; “it’s just like them picture postcards my brother in India sends me. All them pillars and domes and things—and the animals too. I don’t know how you fare to think of such things, that I don’t.”
Praise is sweet. He slipped his hand into that of the parlourmaid as they went down the wide stairs to the hall, where tea awaited him—a very little tray on a very big, dark table.
“He’s not half a bad child,” said Susan at her tea in the servants’ quarters. “That nurse frightened him out of his little wits with her prim ways, you may depend. He’s civil enough if you speak him civil.”
“But Miss Lucy didn’t frighten him, I suppose,” said the cook; “and look how he behaved to her.”
“Well, he’s quiet enough, anyhow. You don’t hear a breath of him from morning till night,” said the upper housemaid; “seems silly-like to me.”
“You slip in and look what he’s been building, that’s all,” Susan told them. “You won’t call him silly then. India an’ pagodas ain’t in it.”
They did slip in, all of them, when Philip had gone to bed. The building had progressed, though it was not finished.
“I shan’t touch a thing,” said Susan. “Let him have it to play with tomorrow. We’ll clear it all away before that nurse comes back with her caps and her collars and her stuck-up cheek.”
So next day Philip went on with his building. He put everything you can think of into it: the dominoes, and the domino-box; bricks and books; cotton-reels that he begged from Susan, and a collar-box and some cake-tins contributed by the cook. He made steps of the dominoes and a terrace of the domino-box. He got bits of southernwood out of the garden and stuck them in cotton-reels, which made beautiful pots, and they looked like bay trees in tubs. Brass finger-bowls served for domes, and the lids of brass kettles and coffeepots from the oak dresser in the hall
