The Magic City Page 2

  CHAPTER I

  THE BEGINNING

  Philip Haldane and his sister lived in a little red-roofed house in alittle red-roofed town. They had a little garden and a little balcony,and a little stable with a little pony in it--and a little cart for thepony to draw; a little canary hung in a little cage in the littlebow-window, and the neat little servant kept everything as bright andclean as a little new pin.

  Philip had no one but his sister, and she had no one but Philip. Theirparents were dead, and Helen, who was twenty years older than Philip andwas really his half-sister, was all the mother he had ever known. And hehad never envied other boys their mothers, because Helen was so kind andclever and dear. She gave up almost all her time to him; she taught himall the lessons he learned; she played with him, inventing the mostwonderful new games and adventures. So that every morning when Philipwoke he knew that he was waking to a new day of joyous and interestinghappenings. And this went on till Philip was ten years old, and he hadno least shadow of a doubt that it would go on for ever. The beginningof the change came one day when he and Helen had gone for a picnic tothe wood where the waterfall was, and as they were driving back behindthe stout old pony, who was so good and quiet that Philip was allowed todrive it. They were coming up the last lane before the turning wheretheir house was, and Helen said:

  'To-morrow we'll weed the aster bed and have tea in the garden.'

  'Jolly,' said Philip, and they turned the corner and came in sight oftheir white little garden gate. And a man was coming out of it--a manwho was not one of the friends they both knew. He turned and came tomeet them. Helen put her hand on the reins--a thing which she had alwaystaught Philip was _never_ done--and the pony stopped. The man, who was,as Philip put it to himself, 'tall and tweedy,' came across in front ofthe pony's nose and stood close by the wheel on the side where Helensat. She shook hands with him, and said, 'How do you do?' in quite theusual way. But after that they whispered. Whispered! And Philip knewhow rude it is to whisper, because Helen had often told him this. Heheard one or two words, 'at last,' and 'over now,' and 'this evening,then.'

  After that Helen said, 'This is my brother Philip,' and the man shookhands with him--across Helen, another thing which Philip knew was notmanners, and said, 'I hope we shall be the best of friends.' Pip said,'How do you do?' because that is the polite thing to say. But insidehimself he said, 'I don't want to be friends with _you_.'

  Then the man took off his hat and walked away, and Philip and his sisterwent home. She seemed different, somehow, and he was sent to bed alittle earlier than usual, but he could not go to sleep for a long time,because he heard the front-door bell ring and afterwards a man's voiceand Helen's going on and on in the little drawing-room under the roomwhich was his bedroom. He went to sleep at last, and when he woke up inthe morning it was raining, and the sky was grey and miserable. He losthis collar-stud, he tore one of his stockings as he pulled it on, hepinched his finger in the door, and he dropped his tooth-mug, with waterin it too, and the mug was broken and the water went into his boots.There are mornings, you know, when things happen like that. This wasone of them.

  Then he went down to breakfast, which tasted not quite so nice as usual.He was late, of course. The bacon fat was growing grey with waiting forhim, as Helen said, in the cheerful voice that had always said all thethings he liked best to hear. But Philip didn't smile. It did not seemthe sort of morning for smiling, and the grey rain beat against thewindow.

  After breakfast Helen said, 'Tea in the garden is indefinitelypostponed, and it's too wet for lessons.'

  That was one of her charming ideas--that wet days should not be madeworse by lessons.

  'What shall we do?' she said; 'shall we talk about the island? Shall Imake another map of it? And put in all the gardens and fountains andswings?'

  The island was a favourite play. Somewhere in the warm seas where palmtrees are, and rainbow-coloured sands, the island was said to be--theirown island, beautified by their fancy with everything they liked andwanted, and Philip was never tired of talking about it. There were timeswhen he almost believed that the island was real. He was king of theisland and Helen was queen, and no one else was to be allowed on it.Only these two.

  But this morning even the thought of the island failed to charm. Philipstraggled away to the window and looked out dismally at the soaked lawnand the dripping laburnum trees, and the row of raindrops hanging fatand full on the iron gate.

  'What is it, Pippin?' Helen asked. 'Don't tell me you're going to havehorrid measles, or red-hot scarlet fever, or noisy whooping-cough.'

  She came across and laid her hand on his forehead.

  'Why, you're quite hot, boy of my heart. Tell sister, what is it?'

  '_You_ tell _me_,' said Philip slowly.

  'Tell you what, Pip?'

  'You think you ought to bear it alone, like in books, and be noble andall that. But you _must_ tell me; you promised you'd never have anysecrets from me, Helen, you know you did.'

  Helen put her arm round him and said nothing. And from her silence Pipdrew the most desperate and harrowing conclusions. The silence lasted.The rain gurgled in the water-pipe and dripped on the ivy. The canary inthe green cage that hung in the window put its head on one side andtweaked a seed husk out into Philip's face, then twittered defiantly.But his sister said nothing.

  'Don't,' said Philip suddenly, 'don't break it to me; tell me straightout.'

  'Tell you what?' she said again.

  'What is it?' he said. '_I_ know how these unforetold misfortuneshappen. Some one always comes--and then it's broken to the family.'

  '_What_ is?' she asked.

  'The misfortune,' said Philip breathlessly. 'Oh, Helen, I'm not a baby.Do tell me! Have we lost our money in a burst bank? Or is the landlordgoing to put bailiffs into our furniture? Or are we going to be falselyaccused about forgery, or being burglars?'

  All the books Philip had ever read worked together in his mind toproduce these melancholy suggestions. Helen laughed, and instantly felta stiffening withdrawal of her brother from her arm.

  'No, no, my Pippin, dear,' she made haste to say. 'Nothing horrid likethat has happened.'

  'Then what is it?' he asked, with a growing impatience that felt like awolf gnawing inside him.

  'I didn't want to tell you all in a hurry like this,' she saidanxiously; 'but don't you worry, my boy of boys. It's something thatmakes me very happy. I hope it will you, too.'

  He swung round in the circling of her arm and looked at her with suddenecstasy.

  'Oh, Helen, dear--I know! Some one has left you a hundred thousandpounds a year--some one you once opened a railway-carriage door for--andnow I can have a pony of my very own to ride. Can't I?'

  'Yes,' said Helen slowly, 'you can have a pony; but nobody's left meanything. Look here, my Pippin,' she added, very quickly, 'don't ask anymore questions. I'll tell you. When I was quite little like you I had adear friend I used to play with all day long, and when we grew up wewere friends still. He lived quite near us. And then he married some oneelse. And then the some one died. And now he wants me to marry him. Andhe's got lots of horses and a beautiful house and park,' she added.

  'And where shall I be?' he asked.

  'With me, of course, wherever I am.'

  'It won't be just us two any more, though,' said Philip, 'and you saidit should be, for ever and ever.'

  'But I didn't know then, Pip, dear. He's been wanting me so long----'

  'Don't _I_ want you?' said Pip to himself.

  'And he's got a little girl that you'll like so to play with,' she wenton. 'Her name's Lucy, and she's just a year younger than you. Andyou'll be the greatest friends with her. And you'll both have ponies toride, and----'

  'I hate her,' cried Philip, very loud, 'and I hate him, and I hate theirbeastly ponies. And I hate _you_!' And with these dreadful words heflung off her arm and rushed out of the room, banging the door afterhim--on purpose.

  Well, she found him in the boot-cupboard, among th
e gaiters and goloshesand cricket-stumps and old rackets, and they kissed and cried and huggedeach other, and he said he was sorry he had been naughty. But in hisheart that was the only thing he was sorry for. He was sorry that he hadmade Helen unhappy. He still hated 'that man,' and most of all he hatedLucy.

  He had to be polite to that man. His sister was very fond of that man,and this made Philip hate him still more, while at the same time it madehim careful not to show how he hated him. Also it made him feel thathating that man was not quite fair to his sister, whom he loved. Butthere were no feelings of that kind to come in the way of thedetestation he felt for Lucy. Helen had told him that Lucy had fair hairand wore it in two plaits; and he pictured her to himself as a fat,stumpy little girl, exactly like the little girl in the story of 'TheSugar Bread' in the old oblong 'Shock-Headed Peter' book that hadbelonged to Helen when she was little.

  Helen was quite happy. She divided her love between the boy she lovedand the man she was going to marry, and she believed that they were bothas happy as she was. The man, whose name was Peter Graham, was happyenough; the boy, who was Philip, was amused--for she kept him so--butunder the amusement he was miserable.

  And the wedding-day came and went. And Philip travelled on a very hotafternoon by strange trains and a strange carriage to a strange house,where he was welcomed by a strange nurse and--Lucy.

  'You won't mind going to stay at Peter's beautiful house without me,will you, dear?' Helen had asked. 'Every one will be kind to you, andyou'll have Lucy to play with.'

  And Philip said he didn't mind. What else could he say, without beingnaughty and making Helen cry again?

  Lucy was not a bit like the Sugar-Bread child. She had fair hair, it istrue, and it was plaited in two braids, but they were very long andstraight; she herself was long and lean and had a freckled face andbright, jolly eyes.

  'I'm so glad you've come,' she said, meeting him on the steps of themost beautiful house he had ever seen; 'we can play all sort of thingsnow that you can't play when you're only one. I'm an only child,' sheadded, with a sort of melancholy pride. Then she laughed. '"Only" rhymeswith "lonely," doesn't it?' she said.

  'I don't know,' said Philip, with deliberate falseness, for he knewquite well.

  He said no more.

  Lucy tried two or three other beginnings of conversation, but Philipcontradicted everything she said.

  'I'm afraid he's very very stupid,' she said to her nurse, an extremelytrained nurse, who firmly agreed with her. And when her aunt came to seeher next day, Lucy said that the little new boy was stupid, anddisagreeable as well as stupid, and Philip confirmed this opinion of hisbehaviour to such a degree that the aunt, who was young andaffectionate, had Lucy's clothes packed at once and carried her off fora few days' visit.

  So Philip and the nurse were left at the Grange. There was nobody elsein the house but servants. And now Philip began to know what lonelinessmeant. The letters and the picture post-cards which his sister sentevery day from the odd towns on the continent of Europe, which shevisited on her honeymoon, did not cheer the boy. They merelyexasperated him, reminding him of the time when she was all his own, andwas too near to him to need to send him post-cards and letters.

  The extremely trained nurse, who wore a grey uniform and white cap andapron, disapproved of Philip to the depths of her well-disciplinednature. 'Cantankerous little pig,' she called him to herself.

  To the housekeeper she said, 'He is an unusually difficult anddisagreeable child. I should imagine that his education has been muchneglected. He wants a tight hand.'

  She did not use a tight hand to him, however. She treated him with anindifference more annoying than tyranny. He had immense liberty of adesolate, empty sort. The great house was his to go to and fro in. Buthe was not allowed to touch anything in it. The garden was his--towander through, but he must not pluck flowers or fruit. He had nolessons, it is true; but, then, he had no games either. There was anursery, but he was not imprisoned in it--was not even encouraged tospend his time there. He was sent out for walks, and alone, for the parkwas large and safe. And the nursery was the room of all that great housethat attracted him most, for it was full of toys of the most fascinatingkind. A rocking-horse as big as a pony, the finest dolls' house youever saw, boxes of tea-things, boxes of bricks--both the wooden and theterra-cotta sorts--puzzle maps, dominoes, chessmen, draughts, every kindof toy or game that you have ever had or ever wished to have.

  And Pip was not allowed to play with any of them.

  'You mustn't touch anything, if you please,' the nurse said, with thaticy politeness which goes with a uniform. 'The toys are Miss Lucy's. No;I couldn't be responsible for giving you permission to play with them.No; I couldn't think of troubling Miss Lucy by writing to ask her if youmay play with them. No; I couldn't take upon myself to give you MissLucy's address.'

  For Philip's boredom and his desire had humbled him even to the askingfor this.

  For two whole days he lived at the Grange, hating it and every one init; for the servants took their cue from the nurse, and the child feltthat in the whole house he had not a friend. Somehow he had got the ideafirmly in his head that this was a time when Helen was not to bebothered about anything; so he wrote to her that he was quite well,thank you, and the park was very pretty and Lucy had lots of nice toys.He felt very brave and noble, and like a martyr. And he set his teethto bear it all. It was like spending a few days at the dentist's.

  And then suddenly everything changed. The nurse got a telegram. Abrother who had been thought to be drowned at sea had abruptly comehome. She must go to see him. 'If it costs me the situation,' she saidto the housekeeper, who answered:

  'Oh, well--go, then. I'll be responsible for the boy--sulky littlebrat.'

  And the nurse went. In a happy bustle she packed her boxes and went. Atthe last moment Philip, on the doorstep watching her climb into thedog-cart, suddenly sprang forward.

  'Oh, Nurse!' he cried, blundering against the almost moving wheel, andit was the first time he had called her by any name. 'Nurse, do--do sayI 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 thethought of the brother who was not drowned. Perhaps she was only in sucha hurry that she did not know what she was saying. At any rate, whenPhilip said for the third time, 'May I take them?' she hastilyanswered:

  'Bless the child! Take anything you like. Mind the wheel, for goodness'sake. Good-bye, everybody!' waved her hand to the servants assembled atthe top of the wide steps, and was whirled off to joyous reunion withthe undrowned brother.

  Philip drew a deep breath of satisfaction, went straight up to thenursery, 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 makesomething with them. He was accustomed to the joy that comes of makingthings. He and Helen had built many a city for the dream island out ofhis own two boxes of bricks and certain other things in the house--herJapanese cabinet, the dominoes and chessmen, cardboard boxes, books, thelids of kettles and teapots. But they had never had enough bricks. Lucyhad enough bricks for anything.

  He began to build a city on the nursery table. But to build with bricksalone is poor work when you have been used to building with all sorts ofother things.

  'It looks like a factory,' said Philip discontentedly. He swept thebuilding down and replaced the bricks in their different boxes.

  'There must be something downstairs that would come in useful,' he toldhimself, 'and she did say, "Take what you like."'

  By armfuls, two and three at a time, he carried down the boxes of bricksand the boxes of blocks, the draughts, the chessmen, and the box ofdominoes. He took them into the long drawing-room where the crystalchandeliers were, and the chairs covered in brown holland--and the manylong, light windows, and the cabinets and tables covered with the mostinteresting things.

  He cleared a big
writing-table of such useless and unimportant objectsas blotting-pad, silver inkstand, and red-backed books, and there was aclear space for his city.

  He began to build.

  A bronze Egyptian god on a black and gold cabinet seemed to be lookingat 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 madea journey to the nursery to fetch the Noah's Ark animals--the pair ofelephants, each standing on a brick, flanked the entrance. It lookedsplendid, like an Assyrian temple in the pictures Helen had shown him.But the bricks, wherever he built with them alone, looked mean, and likefactories 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 marbledboards, a set of Shakespeare, ten volumes in green morocco. These madepillars and cloisters, dark, mysterious, and attractive. More Noah's Arkanimals added an Egyptian-looking finish to the building.

  'Lor', ain't it pretty!' said the parlour-maid, who came to call him totea. 'You are clever with your fingers, Master Philip, I will say thatfor you. But you'll catch it, taking all them things.'

  'That grey nurse said I might,' said Philip, 'and it doesn't hurt thingsbuilding with them. My sister and I always did it at home,' he added,looking confidingly at the parlour-maid. She had praised his building.And it was the first time he had mentioned his sister to any one in thathouse.

  'Well, it's as good as a peep-show,' said the parlour-maid; 'it's justlike them picture post-cards my brother in India sends me. All thempillars and domes and things--and the animals too. I don't know how youfare to think of such things, that I don't.'

  'Lor', ain't it pretty!' said the parlour-maid.]

  Praise is sweet. He slipped his hand into that of the parlour-maid asthey went down the wide stairs to the hall, where tea awaited him--avery 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 herprim 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 lookhow he behaved to her.'

  'Well, he's quiet enough, anyhow. You don't hear a breath of him frommorning 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 toldthem. '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 buildinghad progressed, though it was not finished.

  'I shan't touch a thing,' said Susan. 'Let him have it to play withto-morrow. We'll clear it all away before that nurse comes back with hercaps and her collars and her stuck-up cheek.'

  So next day Philip went on with his building. He put everything you canthink of into it: the dominoes, and the domino-box; bricks and books;cotton-reels that he begged from Susan, and a collar-box and somecake-tins contributed by the cook. He made steps of the dominoes and aterrace of the domino-box. He got bits of southernwood out of the gardenand stuck them in cotton-reels, which made beautiful pots, and theylooked like bay trees in tubs. Brass finger-bowls served for domes, andthe lids of brass kettles and coffee-pots from the oak dresser in thehall made minarets of dazzling splendour. Chessmen were useful forminarets, too.

  'I must have paved paths and a fountain,' said Philip thoughtfully. Thepaths were paved with mother-of-pearl card counters, and the fountainwas a silver and glass ash-tray, with a needlecase of filigree silverrising up from the middle of it; and the falling water was made quitenicely out of narrow bits of the silver paper off the chocolate Helenhad given him at parting. Palm trees were easily made--Helen had shownhim how to do that--with bits of larch fastened to elder stems withplasticine. There was plenty of plasticine among Lucy's toys; there wasplenty of everything.

  And the city grew, till it covered the table. Philip, unwearied, setabout to make another city on another table. This had for chief featurea great water-tower, with a fountain round its base; and now he stoppedat nothing. He unhooked the crystal drops from the great chandeliers tomake his fountains. This city was grander than the first. It had a grandtower made of a waste-paper basket and an astrologer's tower that was aphotograph-enlarging machine.

  The cities were really very beautiful. I wish I could describe themthoroughly to you. But it would take pages and pages. Besides all thethings I have told of alone there were towers and turrets and grandstaircases, pagodas and pavilions, canals made bright and water-like bystrips of silver paper, and a lake with a boat on it. Philip put intohis buildings all the things out of the doll's house that seemedsuitable. The wooden things-to-eat and dishes. The leaden tea-cups andgoblets. He peopled the place with dominoes and pawns. The handsomechessmen were used for minarets. He made forts and garrisoned them withlead soldiers.

  He worked hard and he worked cleverly, and as the cities grew in beautyand interestingness he loved them more and more. He was happy now. Therewas no time to be unhappy in.

  'I will keep it as it is till Helen comes. How she will _love_ it!' hesaid.

  The two cities were connected by a bridge which was a yard-stick he hadfound in the servants' sewing-room and taken without hindrance, for bythis time all the servants were his friends. Susan had been thefirst--that was all.

  He had just laid his bridge in place, and put Mr. and Mrs. Noah in thechief square to represent the inhabitants, and was standing rapt inadmiration of his work, when a hard hand on each of his shoulders madehim start and scream.

  It was the nurse. She had come back a day sooner than any one expectedher. The brother had brought home a wife, and she and the nurse had notliked each other; so she was very cross, and she took Philip by theshoulders and shook him, a thing which had never happened to him before.

  'You naughty, wicked boy!' she said, still shaking.

  'But I haven't hurt anything--I'll put everything back,' he said,trembling and very pale.

  'You'll not touch any of it again,' said the nurse. 'I'll see to that. Ishall put everything away myself in the morning. Taking what doesn'tbelong to you!'

  'But you said I might take anything I liked,' said Philip, 'so if it'swrong it's your fault.'

  'You untruthful child!' cried the nurse, and hit him over the knuckles.Now, no one had ever hit Philip before. He grew paler than ever, but hedid not cry, though his hands hurt rather badly. For she had snatched upthe yard-stick to hit him with, and it was hard and cornery.

  'You are a coward,' said Philip, 'and it is you who are untruthful andnot me.'

  'Hold your tongue,' said the nurse, and whirled him off to bed.

  'You'll get no supper, so there!' she said, angrily tucking him up.

  'I don't want any,' said Philip, 'and I have to forgive you before thesun goes down.'

  'Forgive, indeed!' said she, flouncing out.

  'When you get sorry you'll know I've forgiven you,' Philip called afterher, which, of course, made her angrier than ever.

  Whether Philip cried when he was alone is not our business. Susan, whohad watched the shaking and the hitting without daring to interfere,crept up later with milk and sponge-cakes. She found him asleep, and shesays his eyelashes were wet.

  When he awoke he thought at first that it was morning, the room was solight. But presently he saw that it was not yellow sunlight but whitemoonshine which made the beautiful brightness.

  He wondered at first why he felt so unhappy, then he remembered howHelen had gone away and how hateful the nurse had been. And now shewould pull down the city and Helen would never see it. And he wouldnever be able to build such a beautiful one again. In the morning itwould be gone, and he would not be able even to remember how it wasbuilt.

  The moonlight was very bright.

  'I wonder
how my city looks by moonlight?' he said.

  And then, all in a thrilling instant, he made up his mind to go down andsee for himself how it did look.

  He slipped on his dressing-gown, opened his door softly, and crept alongthe corridor and down the broad staircase, then along the gallery andinto the drawing-room. It was very dark, but he felt his way to a windowand undid the shutter, and there lay his city, flooded with moonlight,just as he had imagined it.

  He gazed on it for a moment in ecstasy and then turned to shut the door.As he did so he felt a slight strange giddiness and stood a moment withhis hand to his head. He turned and went again towards the city, andwhen he was close to it he gave a little cry, hastily stifled, for fearsome one should hear him and come down and send him to bed. He stood andgazed about him bewildered and, once more, rather giddy. For the cityhad, in a quick blink of light, followed by darkness, disappeared. Sohad the drawing-room. So had the chair that stood close to the table. Hecould see mountainous shapes raising enormous heights in the distance,and the moonlight shone on the tops of them. But he himself seemed to bein a vast, flat plain. There was the softness of long grass round hisfeet, but there were no trees, no houses, no hedges or fences to breakthe expanse of grass. It seemed darker in some parts than others. Thatwas all. It reminded him of the illimitable prairie of which he had readin books of adventure.

  'I suppose I'm dreaming,' said Philip, 'though I don't see how I canhave gone to sleep just while I was turning the door handle.However----'

  He stood still expecting that something would happen. In dreamssomething always does happen, if it's only that the dream comes to anend. But nothing happened now--Philip just stood there quite quietly andfelt the warm soft grass round his ankles.

  Then, as his eyes became used to the darkness of the plain, he saw someway off a very steep bridge leading up to a dark height on whose summitthe moon shone whitely. He walked towards it, and as he approached hesaw that it was less like a bridge than a sort of ladder, and that itrose to a giddy height above him. It seemed to rest on a rock far upagainst dark sky, and the inside of the rock seemed hollowed out in onevast dark cave.

  Beyond it he could see dim piles that looked likechurches and houses.]

  And now he was close to the foot of the ladder. It had no rungs, butnarrow ledges made hold for feet and hands. Philip remembered Jack andthe Beanstalk, and looked up longingly; but the ladder was a very verylong one. On the other hand, it was the only thing that seemed to leadanywhere, and he had had enough of standing lonely in the grassyprairie, where he seemed to have been for a very long time indeed. So heput his hands and feet to the ladder and began to go up. It was a verylong climb. There were three hundred and eight steps, for he countedthem. And the steps were only on one side of the ladder, so he had tobe extremely careful. On he went, up and on, on and up, till his feetached and his hands felt as though they would drop off for tiredness. Hecould not look up far, and he dared not look down at all. There wasnothing for it but to climb and climb and climb, and at last he saw theground on which the ladder rested--a terrace hewn in regular lines, and,as it seemed, hewn from the solid rock. His head was level with theground, now his hands, now his feet. He leaped sideways from the ladderand threw himself face down on the ground, which was cold and smoothlike marble. There he lay, drawing deep breaths of weariness and relief.

  There was a great silence all about, which rested and soothed, andpresently he rose and looked around him. He was close to an archway withvery thick pillars, and he went towards it and peeped cautiously in. Itseemed to be a great gate leading to an open space, and beyond it hecould see dim piles that looked like churches and houses. But all wasdeserted; the moonlight and he had the place, whatever it was, tothemselves.

  'I suppose every one's in bed,' said Philip, and stood there trembling alittle, but very curious and interested, in the black shadow of thestrange arch.