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THE PARTING.
I
T had to come at length. Arthur awoke that morning with a great, dreary burden pressing on his heart, and a feeling of half horror, and half unbelieving, that it could really be true.
He hardly knew how he dressed, and he did not notice that the daylight had not changed the dreariness of last night’s weather; for a chill mist was falling outside, and if he had looked for the fields and hills near he would have found them all hidden in the damp fog.
Mrs. Vivyan was waiting for him in the breakfast-room, and presently, as she stood there, the door opened, and a very solemn-looking face appeared. Arthur had been nerving himself for this time; he had been trying very hard not to cry; and he had succeeded pretty well until now, although on the way down stairs he had to bite his lips very hard as he felt the tears in his eyes. But now, as he came into the warm, comfortable room, and noticed everything there, it was no use trying to keep it in any longer. His mother had provided that morning everything he liked best, he could see that.
“Come, dear,” she said, “you must make a goodbreakfast to please me, you know, Arthur.” Her own face was very, very pale, and Arthur little knew the intense effort it was to her to speak at all. So he sat down in his own little chair, and was very still and silent for some moments; but presently Mrs. Vivyan saw him moving his cup of coffee away, and when there was a clear space before him he threw his arms on the table and buried his head there. It was only just in time; for a very bitter cry broke from his heart and his lips: “Oh, mamma, mamma, I can’t go! Oh, do stay with me! Don’t you think you ought to stay?”
What could she say? What could she do, but lift up her heart to her refuge and strength?
While she was doing this, Arthur’s sobs gradually ceased, and presently he said, in a little broken voice, “I did not mean to do it, mother; I did try not.”
But he could not eat much breakfast, and after a little while he came nearer to her side, and said, “Just let me stay until papa comes for me. I don’t want you to talk. I only want to stay here.” For Mr. Vivyan had gone into the town, not intending to come back until just before the time, when he would come to fetch Arthur away to the new home, where his heart certainly was not.
So they did not speak at all during that hour; only Arthur sat with his head pressed very closely on his mother’s shoulder, and holding her hands in both his, as if he would never loosen his hold.
By and by there was a brisk step in the hall, and out of doors carriage wheels could be heard on the road;and then Mrs. Vivyan lifted the curly head, that was leaning on her shoulder. Arthur knew what it meant—the bitterest moment that had ever come to him was now at hand—and it was only a few minutes, before the good-bye would begin the five long years of separation.
Everything was ready, and he had only to put on his coat and comforter. He was in a kind of maze, as he felt the warm coat put on him, and as his mother’s white hands tied the scarf round his neck. Then her arms were pressed very closely around him, and as he lay there like a helpless little baby, he could just hear her whispered farewell, “Good-bye, my own child; may God take care of you.” Then Arthur felt that his father’s hand was holding his, and that he was leading him away. Suddenly he remembered something that he had forgotten. “Oh, father!” he said, “please stop a moment; I must do something I forgot.” This was a tiny white paper parcel, which he had been keeping for this last moment, in a hidden corner upstairs. Arthur ran up to the place, and bringing it down he put it in his mother’s hands, and said, “That’s what I made for you, mother.”
She did not open it until he was gone; and perhaps it was well that Arthur did not see the passion of tears that were shed over that little parcel. It was only a piece of ivory carved in the shape of a horseshoe, or rather there was an attempt at carving it in that shape; and on a slip of paper was written, in Arthur’s round hand, “For my own dear mother to wear while I am away. This is to be made into a brooch.”
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MYRTLE HILL; OR, THE NEW HOME.
W
HEN Arthur Vivyan was looking forward, with such feelings of dread, he did not know that his aunt was hardly less anxiously expecting his arrival; and that, much as he feared what living with her would be, her thoughts had been very troubled ones on the same subject. She had lived alone for so many years now, and as she said, she was so little accustomed to children, she was afraid that her young nephew would find her home deary and sad; that she might not understand him herself, or that she might be foolishly indulgent and blind to the faults, which might make him grow useless and miserable. She had spent many anxious hours thinking of all this, and laying plans about the care she would take of him, and all the ways in which she would try to make him happy and contented.
Arthur and his father had left Ashton by an afternoon train, which did not bring them into the town, near Mrs. Estcourt’s house, until it was quite dark. It was a very cheerless journey to Arthur. Generally he liked travelling by the railway, and when he took his seat by his father’s side, his spirits rose very high as they passedquickly along, and the new scenes and sights, that he watched from the carriage window, occupied his attention pretty fully.
But this time it was quite different. His mother’s sweet, sad farewell was still sounding in his ears; and as the train rushed along on its way, he knew that it was bearing him farther and farther away from her, and from the home where he had lived so long. He could hardly have explained his own feelings; only a very dreary aching was in his heart; and as he thought of the strange new place, where he was going, and then of the miles and miles of land and sea, that would soon lie between himself and his father and mother, he felt very strange and desolate, and you would hardly have recognized the grave, serious-looking face as Arthur Vivyan’s.
Perhaps it was that expression that drew the attention of an old gentleman, who was sitting opposite to him. At any other time, Arthur would have been inclined to be amused at this old gentleman; for he came into the carriage, bringing so many parcels and wraps, that for some little time he was stowing them away, talking all the while to nobody in particular, and finishing every sentence with “Eh?”
“Going to school, my boy—eh?” he asked at length, after he had looked at Arthur’s mournful face for some little time.
Arthur did not feel much inclined to talk just then, so he only said “No;” and then remembering that, infact, he was to go to school while he was living at his aunt’s, he was obliged to say, “At least, yes.”
“‘No’ and ‘yes’ both; not quite sure—eh?” asked the old gentleman.
Then Mr. Vivyan turned round, and explained that his son was going to live with his aunt, and that he would go to school from her house.
“Oh, that’s it—eh? Fine times for you then, young man. When I was a boy things were different with me, I can tell you. Hundred boys where I was; and I was one of the little fellows, who had to make it easy for the big ones. Up at six in the morning—coldest winter mornings. Never had a chance of getting near the fire; never went home for the winter holidays. How would you like that—eh?”
“I don’t suppose I should like it at all,” said Arthur. But he thought in his own mind, that his case was not much better.
After a few more remarks from his old friend opposite, when he saw him pull his cap over his face and settle himself to sleep, he was more pleased than otherwise.
Poor little Arthur! He thought he was feeling desolate enough; and as he sat by his father’s side, and thought that even he would soon be far away, it made him feel inclined to cling more closely to him than he had ever done before; so that, when the jolting of the train made his head knock against his father’s shoulder, he let it stay there, and presently he found his father’s strongarm was around him, and Arthur felt that he loved him more than he had ever done before.
“Cheer up, Arthur, my boy,” he heard him say presently, and his voice had a softer sound, than it sometimes had, he thought. “We may all be very happy yet some day together, and not very long, you know. Five years soon pass, you know, Arthur.”
But five years had a very long, dreary sound to him just then. In fact, he could not bear to think of it at all; and he was afraid that if he thought or spoke on the subject, that he should cry, which he did not wish to do just then; so he gave a very deep, long sigh.
By and by he went to sleep. Perhaps it was because he had spent several waking hours the night before, and that this day had been a dinnerless one for him; but so it was, and when he awoke it was to a scene of confusion and bustle, for they had arrived at their journey’s end, and the guard was calling aloud, “Oldbridge.”
Arthur rubbed his sleepy eyes, as the station lights flashed brightly, and the train came to a sudden stop. “Come, Arthur, my boy, here we are. Make haste and open your eyes. We have a drive before us, so you will have time to wake up on the way to your aunt’s,” said Mr. Vivyan, as they threaded their way along the crowded platform.
It was a very dark night; there was no moon, and thick clouds shut out the starlight. Oldbridge station stood at the extreme end of the town, and in order toreach Myrtle Hill, they must drive along a country road of two or three miles. In summer time this was a very pleasant way, for the trees sheltered it on one side, while the other was bordered with a hedgerow and wide-spreading fields; but now on this dark night, nothing of all this was seen, and Arthur wondered what kind of a place they were passing through. When he had made little pictures in his mind of their arrival at Oldbridge, they had not been at all what the reality was. He had imagined a drive through a busy town, where they would pass through street after street, and that the bright gas would light the way, and show him the place and the things that they passed.
“What kind of a place are we in, father?” asked Arthur. “There seem to be no houses—I hope the man knows the way—and they have no light at all.”
“Well, I think certainly a little light would be desirable; but the people here don’t seem to think so. Well, never mind, we shall have light enough by and by. It will be pleasant to see aunt’s snug, warm house, won’t it, Arthur?”
“Yes,” said Arthur; but his answer was a very faint one; for he thought of another warm, bright home that he knew very well; and that there was some one there, sitting in the old chair, and that the rug at her feet was empty, and he had to smother a bitter sob that arose, and hold himself very still, as a shivering feeling passed over him.
But presently Arthur’s quick eye caught a bright gleam, shining through the darkness, and soon he found that it was a lamp over a gateway, and that they were nearing their destination. The lamp showed just enough for him to see, that inside the gateway a broad gravel walk led up to the house between thick laurel bushes; and soon the sound of the wheels grating over the gravel, told him that they were driving up the avenue, and would soon be there. His father began to collect their rugs and packages, and seemed to be very contented that they had arrived. As for Arthur himself he hardly knew what he felt; not particularly glad, certainly; for there was far too dreary and heavy a feeling at his heart just then, to leave room for much gladness; still, he was very tired and cold, and perhaps even hungry, so that it was with some feeling of satisfaction that he felt the carriage stop, and looking out he saw the warm firelight from within, dancing on the curtained windows, and shining through the windows in the hall.
It was not very long before they were standing inside the hall door; and Arthur had just one minute to look about him while his father was taking off his great coat. Any one who took notice of things could see that no children belonged to Myrtle Hill. Everything was in the most perfect order. The hair mats were white and unruffled, the chairs were placed in an orderly manner against the wall, and no dust lay upon them. Just as Arthur was looking round with an admiring eye, one ofthe doors opened; and a lady appeared, that he knew was his aunt. It was almost like a new introduction to him, for he had not seen her for a very long time, and then only for a day or two. She greeted her brother very warmly, and then she turned to him. “And so this is Arthur,” she said; and it was almost timidly that she spoke, for she was almost as much afraid of her little nephew, as he was of her. “Ronald, he is a great deal more like Louisa than you. His eyes are like hers.”
“Yes, I believe he is generally considered to be so,” said Mr. Vivyan, smiling. “A great compliment; don’t you think so yourself, Arthur?”
Arthur always had a very peculiar feeling when people looked at him, and said who he was like. He did not very much approve of it on the whole; and once he had confidentially asked his mother why the ladies and gentlemen who came to Ashton Grange did not make remarks about her face, and say who they thought she was like. At present he was making use of his blue eyes in taking an accurate account of his aunt.
Well, she was nice. Yes, he thought he should love her. She had a sweet sound in her voice, and a gentle expression about her mouth, that made him think she could not be unkind. She was not like his own mother in the least; she was not nearly so pretty, Arthur thought. His mother had pink on her cheeks, and a smile on her lips; butherface was very pale and colourless, her eyes were very deep and sad ones, and when she looked athim they seemed so large and dark, and as if they were saying what she did not speak with her lips. He felt he would love his aunt; but he was not quite sure that he would not be a little afraid of her, at first at any rate.
“You must be quite ready for something to eat,” said Mrs. Estcourt, as she led the way to the drawing-room. “You dined before you came away, Ronald, of course.”
“Yes, I did; but Arthur did not. I don’t think he has had much to eat all day, poor boy.”
Mrs. Estcourt looked very much surprised as she said, “Why, how could that be, Arthur? I thought boys were always hungry.”
“Well, I think I am generally,” said Arthur, “only I was not to-day.”
“Why not?” said his aunt.
“Don’t ask me why, please,” said Arthur in a low voice, “or else perhaps I might cry, and I don’t want to do that.”
She seemed to understand him, for she asked no more questions; only she took his hand as they went into the drawing-room, and as Arthur looked in her face, he thought there was something in her deep eyes, that reminded him of his mother.
If the hall at Myrtle Hill was neat and orderly, the drawing-room surely was equally so. There seemed to be everything in the room, that one could possibly want; and a great many that seemed to Arthur to be of no particular use. He could not help thinking of the difference there would be in that room, if he and Hector wereto have a round in it. But it was very bright and comfortable, he thought; and this opinion seemed to be shared by a large white dog that lay in front of the fire. “Great, sleepy thing,” thought Arthur; “I would not give old Hector for ten cats like that.”
The tea-table itself was a very attractive object to his eyes just then; and he turned his attention to it now. Arthur thought it looked rather in keeping with the rest of the room. The silver teapot and cream-jug were bright and shining, but they were rather small; and he could not help thinking that it would take a great many of those daintily-cut slices of bread and butter, to satisfy his appetite; so he was glad to see a good-sized loaf on a table near, and other more substantial things which had been added for the travellers. Indeed he need not have been afraid of not having enough to eat, for his aunt, in her ignorance of boyish appetites, would not have been surprised, if he had consumed all that was before him. So that Arthur had to be quite distressed, that he could not please her by eating everything.
“I wonder what she lives on herself,” he thought, as he noticed the one tiny slice lying almost undiminished on her plate; “and I wonder how I should feel if I did not eat more than that.”
By and by they drew their chairs to the fire, and Mrs. Estcourt gave Arthur a beautifully-ornamented hand-screen to shade the heat from his face; as he sat with his feet on the fender, listening to his father’s and aunt’s conversation.
“Well, you have a snug little place here,” said Mr. Vivyan.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Mrs. Estcourt said; but she sighed as she spoke.
“It seems like old times, eh, Daisy?”
A light shone on her face for a minute and then was gone, as she said, “’Tis very odd to hear any one call me that, Ronald. I have not heard it since——,” and then that deep look of pain came again. But as she looked at Arthur almost a merry smile curled the corners of her mouth, and she said, “Arthur thinks so too, I know.”
This was true; for he had just been thinking that if his aunt was like a flower at all, she was more like a lily or a snowdrop, or a very white violet. But he only said, “Is that what I shall have to call you, then? Aunt Daisy! that sounds rather funny, I think.”
Mrs. Estcourt laughed and said, “Well, I think perhaps it does; so if you like you can say Aunt Margaret.”
“Oh, I don’t like that at all!” said Arthur in a very decided tone. “No, please; I would rather say the other; and I think perhaps you are like a daisy when you can’t see the red.”
“Well, you are a funny little boy,” Mrs. Estcourt said; and she laughed quite merrily.
“Arthur,” said his father, “you are forgetting your good manners, I am afraid;” but he seemed rather amused himself.
“Do you often say those funny things, Arthur?” asked his aunt.
“I believe he is rather given to speaking his mind freely,” said Mr. Vivyan.
“Did I say anything rude?” asked Arthur, looking up earnestly into his aunt’s face.
“No, dear, nothing at all; only, you know, I am not accustomed to little boys; and so perhaps that is why the things they say sound odd to me.”
“Well, aunt,” said Arthur, “mind, if I seem to say rude things I don’t mean them; I don’t really; and I should be very sorry to say rude things to you, because I think I like you.”
“You don’t say so,” said Mr. Vivyan, laughing.
But Mrs. Estcourt did not laugh; she stooped down and kissed Arthur; and then she held his hand in hers for a little while, so that it almost felt to him as if it was some one else’s hand, and, though it was very pleasant to have such a kind aunt, that he felt he would love, it brought a strange, choking feeling into his throat, and his eyes felt as if they would like to cry; so he suddenly jumped up, and said—
“I think I should like to go to bed.”
Mrs. Estcourt took him up herself into the room that was to be his own. It was a pretty, pleasant room, and a bright fire was burning in the grate. There seemed to have been a great deal of thought, spent on the comfort of the person who was to sleep there; and Arthur almost smiled, if he could have smiled at anything then, as his aunt hoped he would not want anything, and said she would send him a night-light presently.
“No, thank you,” he said; “I always sleep in the dark.”
“You are a brave boy, I suppose,” said Mrs. Estcourt.
“I don’t know,” Arthur said; “but mother always says it is wrong to be afraid.”
“Wrong?” asked his aunt.
“Yes; because don’t you know, aunt, we ought to trust in God, mother says.”
“Then are you never afraid, dear Arthur?” his aunt was just going to say; but as she looked at him she saw that his lips were trembling, and that the tears were filling his eyes; for the mention of his mother’s name was bringing memories to Arthur, and he was thinking of the times in the old nursery at Ashton Grange, when he used to be frightened sometimes in the dark; and she had sat with him then, and told him about the angels of the Lord encamping round about them that fear Him, and about the kind, tender Lord Jesus, who takes care of all who put their trust in Him.
So she only put her arms around him, and kissed him very tenderly; and then she went away. It was only just in time; for as Arthur heard the door shut behind her, and knew that nobody would see or hear him, the tears that had been burning under his eyes all the evening came at last, and Arthur threw himself sobbing upon his bed. But his grief did not last long that night, for he was very tired and sleepy. He was excited too with the strange scenes and places, through which he had passed, and on which he was just entering; so it was not very long before he was sleeping as soundly in the whitecurtained bed, that his aunt had taken such pains to prepare for him, as he had ever done in the old room at Ashton Grange. That room was empty now. The little bed was there with the coverlet undisturbed, but no curly head lay on the pillow; and as Arthur’s mother stood there thinking of her little boy, and of the miles that lay between them, and that soon the broad ocean sweep would separate her from her child, her heart sank very low, and she thought that she was like Rachael, weeping for her children. But she was comforted, for she knew the comfort of having a Friend, who had borne her griefs and carried her sorrows; and when her heart was overwhelmed within her she said, “Lead me to the Rock that is higher than I;” and He said to her, “None of them that trust in Him shall be desolate.” She listened to His word that says, “Trust in Him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before Him. God is a refuge for us.”
Is it not a happy thing, when a heart is full and bursting—so full that it cannot contain—to know that there is One, whose name is Love, before whom that heart can be poured out? Is it not the place where the Master would have His disciples, sitting at His feet, hearing His word? And is not that the cure for being careful and troubled about many things? And if our hearts have chosen that good part, we know that He has promised that it shall not be taken away. And as Arthur’s mother thought of this, she said, “Hide me under the shadow of thy wings.”
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LEFT ALONE.
A
RTHUR had been very tired the night before; so that the spring sun was shining quite brightly, when he found himself lying awake in his new room. Indeed, he did not know whether he would have awaked even then, if he had not heard a knocking at his door, and then a voice saying—
“If you please shall I light your fire?”
“No, thank you,” said Arthur; and then to himself he added, “I’m not quite such a muff as that!” Then he began to examine his room. “I wonder is this going to be my room always!” thought Arthur. “’Tis much nicer than my room at home, only I don’t like it half so well; indeed, I don’t.”
It was a very pretty room certainly. The paper on the wall was bright and soft-looking, with a pattern of bunches of spring flowers, tied with silver ribbon. The carpet was something of the same sort, and it reminded him of primroses hidden in the grass. The window-curtains were spotlessly white, with green cords, and the chair-coverings were a soft green.
“Yes; it certainly is a very nice room,” said Arthur to himself, after looking round and examining everything; “but I think it is a great deal more like a girl’s room than a boy’s. What can she think I want with such a lot of looking-glasses? And I suppose she thinks I like reading and writing very much;” for he saw that the book-shelves were well filled, and that in the corner of the room there was a small table, where a writing-case and inkstand stood. “Well, she may think so. I expect she will soon find out her mistake.”
Arthur was more cheerful this morning, than he had been the evening before. It was natural to him to feel hopeful in the morning. He liked the feeling of awaking in a strange place. At least he had always liked it hitherto; though with the pleasant feeling of excitement and interest it brought, there came a dreamy heart-sinking too; for he could not forget, that this was to be no visit, but that he was to live on here for years and years without his mother.
But the sun was shining very brightly into his room, and as he stood waiting for some call downstairs; he thought he would like to see what kind of surroundings belonged to his new home.
Very different was the view he now saw from the country that lay around Ashton Grange. From the highest window there, the view extended over only a few miles, and the green wooded hills that arose, not so very far off, marked the horizon to the pretty countryscene that Arthur knew so well; but here a wide stretch of country lay beneath him, undulating here and there, but spreading far on, covered with fields and trees, and dotted with hamlets, until it faded away into grey distance. The sun had risen not long before, and the rosy beams were falling on the country, lighting with a ruddy radiance the windows of the cottages, and sparkling on the little river that was winding peacefully through the pasture land. It was a very sweet scene, and Arthur felt its beauty. He could not see the town, where they arrived the night before; for a stretch of woodland near by shut it out from his sight.
Having looked at the distant hills, he now turned his attention to the objects nearer home. How very neatly the gravel walks were rolled. The grass was smooth and evenly cut; not even the little daisies were allowed to peep their modest heads from the lawn. “Well, I wonder aunt cuts off all the heads of her namesakes,” said Arthur to himself. His window was at the side of the house, and he could see that the garden surrounded it on all sides, and that the low trees that led down to the arbour gave their name to Myrtle Hill. It was early spring-time yet, and not very many flowers were blooming; only here and there bright-coloured tufts of crocuses and primroses were shining on the brown earth, and the snowdrops were shaking their bended heads, in the morning breeze. Arthur looked at it all, and wondered whether he should ever be as familiar with this place, ashe was with the home far away. This thought led him into a reverie, and he began to wonder what every one was doing at this time there—who was feeding Hector; and would the gardener’s boy remember to water the seeds; though he remembered with a deep sigh that it did not matter very much, as long before they would be in bloom, Ashton Grange would be empty and deserted; and this thought was a very dreary one. Arthur was beginning to feel very dismal again. The changing spring sky, too, had become overclouded; the morning sun was hidden, and it seemed as if a shower was going to fall. There was a prospect of a shower indoors, too; for Arthur dashed the tear-drops from his eyes, and said, “I won’t cry; no, I won’t; I’m always crying now. I wonder how mother can keep from it so well. Well, perhaps when I am as old as she is I shall be able; or, perhaps I shall be like papa, and not want to cry. I wonder if he does ever; it would be queer to see father cry. Perhaps he did when he was in India by himself.”
And Arthur almost laughed to himself at the idea. Presently a bell sounded through the house. “I suppose,” thought Arthur, “that is the breakfast-bell; it ought to be by this time. But then, suppose it should not be; suppose it should be some bell that I have nothing to do with; it would not be at all pleasant to go down. I think I will wait for a little, and see; but then, if it should be the breakfast-bell, aunt will think I am a lazy thing. So what shall I do? I will go.”
And so saying, Arthur opened his door in a determined manner, walking along the corridor; where some canaries were hung in a cage, making his ears quite aware of their presence. Notwithstanding the courage with which he had left his room, it was with a cautious step he came near the dining-room, and opening the door very gently he was quite relieved to see that his father and his aunt were both there.
As he came into the room Mrs. Estcourt was talking to his father, and she seemed in rather an anxious state of mind, as he listened to her with an amused expression on his face. “You know, Ronald, you—you really must begin breakfast, the carriage will be coming round in no time. And you are not nearly ready, dear Arthur,” she said, giving him a hurried kiss. “Where are the railway rugs and the shawls? Your father will want them; for it is a cold morning.”
“Now, my dear sister,” said Arthur’s father, putting his hand on her shoulder, “don’t be putting yourself into a fuss about nothing; I always take my time, and I think I generally manage to come in all right in the end. I want some breakfast, please, when you are ready, Daisy. Good morning, my darling little boy,” and Mr. Vivyan put his arm very tightly round Arthur’s neck, and gave him such a kiss, as he had never remembered having had from him before. “Now, don’t cry, Arthur,” he said; for this loving embrace from his father was bringing the tears into his eyes again. “Do you know what I wasthinking about, when I was looking out of my window this morning? I was thinking of you; and I came to the conclusion that you ought to think yourself very well off. Here you are with an aunt who is going to make ever so much of you, I can see; going to live in a most beautiful country, with a school near, where, of course, the boys will be pleasant companions if you are pleasant to them; a half-holiday every Saturday; a father and mother gone away for a little while, thinking of you all the day; and a letter from India—I won’t say how often. Ah, it was very different when you and I were young! Eh, Daisy?”
“No. I think I was very happy then,” said Mrs. Estcourt. “I am sure our grandfather and grandmother were just as good as any one could be.”
“Yes; for you, my dear, I daresay they were; but I was not you, you know. Well, I’m very glad some times have not to come over again. I suppose Arthur is feeling that just now.”
Mr. Vivyan himself seemed very well contented with his present position, and Arthur thought so.
“Father,” he said presently, “as I have to stay in England, of course I would rather be with Aunt Daisy than with any one else, and I think this is a very pretty place indeed. But you don’t know how frightfully I wish I was going to India with you. Don’t you wish you could take me, father?” asked Arthur a little wistfully.
“My dear little boy, I wish it so much, that it is oneof the things it is better not to think about. And then, you know, you must always look on the bright side of things, and there are plenty of bright sides for you. Just think of all the bright sides I have been showing you. Now, let us have some breakfast, or really, auntie, I shall be late.”
But before Mrs. Estcourt moved, she said in a very low voice, and as if she did not think any one else heard her—
“There is not always a bright side to look at.” For she was thinking that all the brightness had been taken away from her life’s story. Would not Arthur’s mother have said, “If there is none anywhere else, look to where the Lord Jesus waits to bless you, saying, ‘Your heart shall rejoice;’ and then the light of His love would make the shadiest life shine with a summer gleaming?”
Arthur’s appetite seemed really gone this morning, and his aunt’s attention was too much occupied with anxiety about his father’s comfort for the journey, to notice that he was eating hardly anything; and in the midst of his trouble the thought came across Arthur’s mind that it was a very good thing he was not hungry, as he felt a great deal too shy to help himself.
Presently there was the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel outside. “Now,” said Mrs. Estcourt, starting up, “there is the carriage, Ronald; I knew it would be here before you were ready.”
“Well,” said Mr. Vivyan quietly, “you know one ofus would have to be ready first, and I would rather the carriage waited for me than I for it. Besides, I am quite ready. Now, my dear sister, expend your energies in seeing if my luggage is all right.”
Then Arthur and his father were left alone.
“Now, my darling boy,” Mr. Vivyan said, “come here. I want to speak to you, and to say good-bye.”
So Arthur came closer to his chair, and his father put his arms around him, and took his hand in his.
“Arthur,” he said, “perhaps you don’t know how much I love you, and how deeply anxious I am about you, that you should grow up to be a man that your mother need not be ashamed of. You know, Arthur, I cannot talk to you as she does; but I pray for you every day, and now especially that I am leaving you. But we shall have another home on earth some day, I trust; and, better than that, you know about the home where the Lord Jesus is waiting for those who are washed in His blood. You are going to that home, my precious boy?”
“Yes, father,” said Arthur in a low voice.
“Well, then, you know you always have that to think about; and now I will give you this text to keep from me while I am away, ‘Goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’ And won’t it be nice to get a letter from India!”
“Yes, oh yes, father,” said Arthur, bursting into a flood of tears; “but it would be so much nicer to be going.”
“Hush, hush,” said Mr. Vivyan kindly; “you know there are some things that God has forbidden, and it is wrong to think of how nice they would be. I suppose you cannot think of how pleasant a great many things you have are just now, but by and by you will find it out.”
This was just what Arthur was thinking. It was very strange to him to hear his father talking in this way to him; he had never done so before; and it made him love him as he did not know he ever could. It was quite true that everything was looking black and gloomy, and that to try and see brightness in his life at Myrtle Hill seemed to make the dreary feeling more intense at his heart. But still he could lie down at the feet of the Master who is so kind, and rest there while earthly things were so dark, and trust Him, waiting while the violence of the storm was passing. Arthur had answered the Shepherd’s call—“Follow thou me,” and the one who has said that “He gathers the lambs in His arms, and carries them in His bosom.”
“And now, my boy,” said Mr. Vivyan, “God bless you and keep you; good-bye, my own dear little boy.” Then he put his arm around Arthur’s neck, and kissed him. A minute after, Arthur was standing by himself before the drawing-room fire; and when presently he heard the carriage roll away, and the sounds became gradually fainter and fainter in the distance, he felt that he was all alone.
Indeed, he hardy knew what he felt. There seemed to be a sudden quiet hush within him, and as he looked outside the window where the carriage had just stood, and the bustle of going away had just ceased, the quiet of every thing seemed very still and deep. Only the little birds were just the same, singing gaily as if nothing had happened, and the morning breeze was brushing the myrtle trees as they did every spring morning when the sun was making the country look glad.
Presently he heard steps outside the door, and as they came nearer and nearer, Arthur felt as if he would like to run away; for he was afraid his aunt might talk about his father and mother, and he felt as if he could not talk of anything just then. But he need not have been afraid, Mrs. Estcourt was wiser than that, and she only said kindly—
“Would you like to go out and look about you a little, Arthur dear? It will not rain just yet, I think; and you may go where you like; at least, that is, if you are accustomed to go by yourself.”
“I should think I am, indeed,” said Arthur; “why I have done that ever since I was eight.”
“You won’t lose your way?” asked his aunt anxiously.
“If I do, I shall have to find it again, you know, aunt,” said Arthur.
“You are a funny little fellow,” said Mrs. Estcourt. “Well, if you get hungry before luncheon-time, you must come and tell me.”
Arthur thought of Hector, and how pleasant it would be if his old friend would come bounding in answer to his whistle; then he looked at the sleepy white-haired creature lying on the hearth-rug.
“Aunt Daisy,” he said, “would you like me to take out that white fellow?”
“What, dear?” said Mrs. Estcourt. “Oh, I don’t know, Arthur; I think, perhaps, not just yet; not until you are more accustomed to it.”
“Very well,” said Arthur, as he went away; and he said to himself, “I would quite as soon not.”
Arthur felt, as he stood outside the hall door, as if all the world was before him, to choose where he would go. He thought he would first examine the garden, which encircled the house on all sides. A gap in the myrtle bushes led him down a narrow path into a large space, which the fruit trees and vegetables showed was the kitchen garden. He walked round, and noticed how neatly the beds were kept, and that the walks even here were stripped of weeds. Two boys who were working there, rather older than himself, eyed him curiously. Arthur wondered whether they knew who he was; but he felt inclined to be where there was no one else just then. So he left the garden, and passing out through the iron gate, he found himself on the high road, turning to walk down in the direction which they had come the night before. Presently a sign-post stood before him, one hand pointing to Stratton, and the other to Harford. Arthurfollowed the last name along a green, flowery lane, where the wild roses were mantling their green, and here and there an early bud was making its appearance. He walked on for some distance, until the high road was hidden by a bend in the lane, and the green trees began to arch overhead; and on each side, the road was bordered with grass and green, velvety moss; the birds were warbling soft songs in the branches, and from the wood hard by the sweet cooing of the pigeons could be heard. It was a very pleasant spot, so much so, that when Arthur threw himself down on the grass to rest, he said with a deep sigh, “Well, it might be worse; and Aunt Daisy is certainly very kind.”
“Yes, it might be worse,” he continued to himself; “and it is nice to think of by and by, when they come back. Suppose they were dead!” He shuddered at the thought. “I can quite fancy what mother will look like when she sees me again. No; I don’t believe I can, though. How will she feel, and how shall I feel? I suppose very different from what I do now; for I shall be really a man then. Oh, dear! I had better not think of that time yet. I must try and think about all the things God gives. Father said something like that. Father was very kind to me to-day. I did not know he could be so kind.”
Arthur did not know then much about the true, deep, persistent tenderness of a father’s love; but we know that when God spoke a word that expresses His heartto His people, He called Himself His children’s Father.
“Let me see!” continued Arthur. “Five years, and in every year three hundred and sixty-five days. If I multiply three hundred and sixty-five by five, I shall know how many days I have to wait, and then I could mark off one every day; but, oh, dear! that makes a great, great many.”
So he sprang up from the grass, and walked briskly on the shady road, where the sunlight was falling softly; for Arthur meant never to cry, unless he could not possibly help it, and certainly not out of doors. He wandered over a good distance—for it was pleasant exploring in the new country—until he suddenly remembered his aunt at home, and that she would be thinking he had lost his way. “And I must not begin by frightening her,” said Arthur to himself.
Up till this time Arthur’s first day had passed more brightly than he had expected. It would be hard for him to be very unhappy on that spring day, with everything rejoicing around him, and the free country breathing in soft breezes. But it was different when he came in. The house seemed very dark and gloomy after the cheerful sunlight, and it seemed to him as if there was no sound of any sort indoors, except now and then a faint noise from the servants’ regions far away; for even the canary-birds were silent, and the fat dog was sleeping its life away upon the hearth-rug. Indeed, Arthurthought he could almost imagine, that the hairy creature and the soft hearth-rug were one and the same. There seemed to be nothing at all to do within doors, and he could not be out always. Besides, the bright morning was fast changing, and grey, gloomy clouds were gathering over the country. The myrtle trees were beginning to shake with a rainy wind, and he could see that the fine weather was gone for that day.
Altogether, Arthur felt very dismal as he stood at the drawing-room window, near to where his aunt was sitting at her writing-table.
“Have you had a nice walk?” she asked presently.
“Yes, aunt,” said Arthur, tapping very forcibly on the window.
“And what did you see?”
“Oh, nothing particular!” said Arthur.
Mrs. Estcourt saw that she must try some other subject to talk about.
“Have you anything you would like to do, dear, until dinner-time?”
“No, I don’t think so, aunt.”
“What do you generally do at home when you are not walking?”
“I don’t know, really aunt,” Arthur answered. “I suppose I do lessons.”
“Oh, but I don’t want you to begin lessons just yet. Well, then, what do you do when it is neither lessons nor walking?”
“Sometimes I go for messages, and sometimes I make things with my tools.”
“Make things! How do you mean, dear?”
“Oh, I make boats and things! and I used to make wedges for a window in mamma’s room that rattled with the wind. Have you any windows that don’t shut quite tightly, aunt?” asked Arthur. “I could make you some by and by, if you have.”
Mrs. Estcourt smiled; but she was not able to remember any window that needed Arthur’s arrangements. So he was left to himself and the rain again; for the drops were falling thickly against the window now. At first he employed himself in tracing their course down the glass, but very soon he was tired of that, and presently Mrs. Estcourt heard a heavy sigh.
“That was a very deep sigh,” she said cheerily. “What did it mean?”
“Well,” said Arthur, “partly, I think, it meant that I wish I had something to do.”
His aunt thought that boys were very curious things, and wondered what they could do. She felt almost inclined to echo Arthur’s sigh; but she thought a moment, and then she said—
“Would you like to have a skein of wool to wind into a ball?”
“Yes,” said Arthur. He was quite glad to have even this to do. At home it was not the occupation he generally chose; but now, as he stood with the bluewool encircling two chairs, steadily unwinding it into a ball, it seemed quite pleasant work. Mrs. Estcourt had quite made up her mind, that the skein would be spoiled, and so when her little nephew brought it to her, wound and unbroken, it was an agreeable surprise, and she began to have a higher opinion of boys in general.
The day seemed to wear very slowly on, and with the waning light Arthur’s heart seemed to sink very low. So quiet was he, that his aunt could hardly understand him, and any one who had seen the boisterous, lively boy at Ashton Grange, would hardly have known him as the same one who was sitting so quietly before the drawing-room fire in the lamplight. He was sitting there in dreamy fashion with a very sad, heavy heart, when his aunt asked him what was his bedtime. A fortnight ago, if this question had been put to Arthur, he would not have given the same answer that he did now. Then he had considered it one of the greatest hardships of his life, that a quarter before nine was the time when he was expected to disappear. But now he said, “Oh, I don’t much mind, aunt; I think I should like to go now!” for the weary, lonely feeling was making his heart so sick, that he wanted to be all alone for a while.
“Well, good night, darling,” said his aunt, and she put her arms very tenderly round his neck; for she knew that his poor little heart must be aching, and that his thoughts must be seeing things that were very far away.
She kissed him so lovingly that it was just too muchfor him. The tears came into his eyes, and Arthur went sobbing up the stairs, not noticing that he was holding the candle on one side, and that his way could be traced along the carpet by large white spots. Somebody else noticed it the next morning; and the housemaid thought that her mistress had done a very foolish thing when she brought that young gentleman into her orderly household.
Arthur’s little room looked very snug as he opened the door and went in. The firelight was dancing on the white curtains and on all the pretty things around. But Arthur did not see any of it for the blinding tears that were in his eyes, and fast falling down. His whole heart was longing with one deep aching to be back again at home, and all the more that he had been trying all the evening to keep back the tears. It seemed as if he would cry his heart out, as he lay on the rug, sobbing so bitterly all alone. “Oh, mamma, mamma,” he sobbed “come, come!” And this was all he said, this was what he repeated again and again; and it was very dreary that there was no answer—it seemed as if no one heard him.
But One could hear him. Jesus wept when He was on the earth, and He does not despise a child’s first bitter grief. He knows what trouble is, and He knows just how much each particular trouble is to each one; for He Himself has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.
By and by Arthur remembered the text, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I willgive you rest.” He knew that when the Lord Jesus Christ said “all” that He meant all, so he lifted up his heart to the One who alone can read hearts; and this is what he said, with the sobs coming thick and fast—what he prayed; for real prayer is a heart speaking to God, and calling to Him in need—
“Oh, Lord Jesus Christ, I do come to Thee! for I remember the text that says ‘Come,’ and I don’t know what to say except that Thou knowest, Lord Jesus, how lonely and miserable I am. My mother is far away, and papa too, and I do so want to feel her arms round me now; but I can’t, oh, I can’t! Lord Jesus, if thou wert here on the earth, and in this room, I would come to Thee, and sit at Thy feet; and Thou wouldst put Thine arms round me. Oh, do it now, Lord Jesus! for I feel as if I must have somebody taking care of me. The Bible says that Thou healest the broken-hearted, and I feel broken-hearted to-night, Lord Jesus, so heal me. Lord Jesus Christ, I belong to Thee, I am Thy lamb; gather me in Thine arms, and carry me in Thy bosom.”
It was in this way that little, lonely Arthur Vivyan poured his heart out before the Lord. He went and told Him exactly what was in it, and then he lay at His feet; and he felt as he had not felt before, what it was to be in His keeping, and to hear His voice saying, “Thou art mine,” to feel the everlasting arms enfolding him, and to know that One so strong, and kind, and true, loved him with an everlasting love. The Lord Jesus Christ was areal person to Arthur Vivyan. He had known Him before as his Saviour; he was knowing Him now as the lover of his soul.
And that night, as he lay in his white-curtained bed, he felt the sweet rest that the Lord gives when “He giveth His beloved sleep.”
The stars shone in their melting blue depths, and their trembling light fell on two who loved each other, and who were both loved by the blessed God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps; and though such time and space were separating them, they were both in His hand who “measures the water in the hollow of His hand.”
Is it not a happy thing to belong to the Lord Jesus Christ?