Left at Home Part 6

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 G.o.d, 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sed, and on which he was just entering; so it was not very long before he was sleeping as soundly in the white curtained 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. G.o.d 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."

CHAPTER VII.

LEFT ALONE.

Arthur had been very tired the night before; so that the spring sun was s.h.i.+ning 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 m.u.f.f 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 gra.s.s. 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-gla.s.ses? 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 country scene 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 gra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ning 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, as he 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 was thinking 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 Sat.u.r.day; 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 one of 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."