“I waited,” said the doctor, “I waited, dear, because I was a coward. Two things held me back. Your riches, for I found it hard to take so much from any woman, and my fear lest you should think that it was only for the child’s sake, just because I could not bear to see her motherless any longer.”
She looked at him wistfully, knowing that what he had given to his first wife he could not give again, but she knew also that his love for her was deep and true. She smiled at him, and was about to answer when Philomène’s voice was heard outside.
“You had better go now,” said Isolde hastily, “I would rather be alone with her when I tell her.”
In another moment Philomène had entered. The cold wind had heightened her colour, and her hazel eyes shone with eager expectation. “O, Godmother,” she exclaimed, running up to Isolde, “I have been thinking all to-day how very, very sorry one ought to feel for the poor people in the Old Testament who never had any Christmases. I do so wonder how they got on without them.”
“I daresay they had a great many more birthdays than we have, little cushat,” Isolde replied merrily, “you see, they are supposed to have lived so very very long. Only think how many birthdays Methuselah must have had, and they would more than make up for the Christmas presents he didn’t get!”
“I suppose so,” said Philomène, thoughtfully, “and of course they had the Passover; not that they got anything then, except dull roast lamb and parsley, but at least it must have been rather fun striking the hyssop on to the door lintels.”
The Christmas tree was standing in the bow-window, decorated with fir cones and lighted candles, and below it was a little crèche, with the Madonna and the Christchild, and the ox and ass standing by the manger. Beside it was a table, on which Philomène’s Christmas presents had been spread, and it was when these had been looked at and admired, that Isolde sat down on the floor close to the crèche, and drew Philomène towards her.
“Little cushat,” said she, “on this night, of all nights in the year, when we are thinking of the best and dearest mother that ever was or will be, I want to tell you that Daddy has asked me to be your mother. Are you a little bit glad?”
Philomène was very glad, too glad to speak at first. Then a shadow fell. “Godmother,” she whispered, “there is just one thing I should like to say, but I’m afraid it may hurt you. I was thinking that you would want me to call you “Mother,” as though I were really your own little girl, and I wish I were, or at least I wish I had been to start with, because you know how I love you, Godmother dear, and I should have been ever so glad if you had been my real mother properly from the beginning. But you aren’t, you see, and it seems to me it would be better not to call you ‘Mother,’ nor to make-believe, but to go on calling you Godmother just as I used to do, and to keep ‘Mother’ for when I meet my own mother later on. Don’t you think she might feel a little bit sorry and left out if I had used up that name for someone else, even for you?”
“You are right,” said Isolde in a very low voice, “we will not defraud the dead.”