“Papa,” said Arthur presently, “what can you mean? Do you really mean that you and mother are going out to India, and that you are going to leave me in England by myself?”
“Dear Arthur, you know we must.”
Arthur turned away, and for a little while he said nothing. Presently he spoke—it seemed as if half to himself—“No, I don’t believe that,” he said. “I don’t believe that could be true.”
“Arthur, my darling, darling boy, come here,” said his mother, after some time when nobody had spoken.
Arthur came nearer to his mother, and laid his head upon her knee. He was feeling almost stunned, and as if he had not understood yet what he had heard. Then a sudden thought came over him, that it meant he would soon not be able to do this any more.
“Mamma,” he said in a low voice, which was very touchingly sad in its hopelessness, “need you go? Wouldn’t you rather stay at home with me?”
“Oh, Arthur,” said Mrs. Vivyan, “you must not say those things, dear.”
“Won’t you take me with you, then? I don’t believe I could stay at home without you. Won’t you take me? Oh, do! please, do!”
All this was said in a very low, mournful voice; for Arthur felt almost as if he had not strength to cry about it.
“Arthur,” said Mr. Vivyan, speaking gravely but kindly, “I tell you we would if we could; but you must be contented to believe that it cannot be.”