作者：Code, Mary L.
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Left at Home or, The Heart's Resting Place试读：
CHAPTER I.
LITTLE MILDRED, OR THE GATHERED LAMB.
TOP, Mr. Arthur, if you please. You are not to go upstairs. Mistress left orders for you to stay in the library until she came down.”
So spoke the younger servant at Ashton Grange, as Arthur rushed upstairs three steps at a time.
“Why, what’s the matter? Why shouldn’t I go upstairs? Is anything the matter?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Arthur, whether there is much the matter; but I am afraid Miss Mildred is ill. The doctor is upstairs, and mistress said there is not to be a sound of noise.”
These words quite sobered Arthur, as he turned from the stairs and went into the library. It was a pleasant room at all times, but especially so on a winter’s evening, when the frosty night was shining clear and cold without. A bright fire was blazing, lighting up the crimson carpet and curtains, and sparkling on the snowy table-cover, where preparations for such a tea were made as Arthur was usually at this time prepared to appreciate. But as he sat down on the rug, and, holding his face in his two hands, gazed earnestly into the fire, he was not thinking of his hunger. A very grave expression was on his boyish face. He was thinking of what the housemaid had told him, and wishing very much to know more.
“Why, what can be the matter with baby?” he thought. “She was all right when I went out. She can’t be so very bad, I should think, all in a minute. No; I don’t believe she is. I’m hungry.”
And Arthur started up, and came nearer the table, intending to help himself to something. But then he stopped, and thought again—
“I suppose she is though, or else the doctor wouldn’t be here, and every one wouldn’t have to be so quiet. Oh, dear, I wish mother would come. I wish she would come. I do wish very much she would come.”
Then he thought of creeping quietly upstairs, and listening outside the nursery door; and the temptation to do so was very strong; but he remembered his mother’s injunction, and sat down again on the rug. But it was very hard to wait. It would have been a great deal easier to Arthur to do almost anything else just then. One half hour and then another passed, and no sound came to break the stillness which was in the house, till Arthur’s head dropped on his hand for weariness, and in a few minutes he was fast asleep. How long he remained so he hardly knew; but he did not wake until a gentle step came on the stairs. The door was softly opened, and Arthur’s mother entered the room. She was very pale, and had a sad, sad look on her face, and just sank wearily down in an easy-chair, on the opposite side of the fireplace to her little boy, who was wide awake now.
“Oh, mother, is it true what Anna says about Mildred, that she is so very ill?” asked Arthur breathlessly. He had come nearer to his mother, and, leaning his chin on her knee, he looked eagerly up in her face.
“Yes, Arthur;” and the hand that was pressed on his forehead to stroke back his brown hair was hot and trembling.
“Very ill?” asked Arthur again. “Why, she was a right just after dinner. She will get better, won’t she, mamma?”
“Mildred is very, very ill, dear Arthur,” his mother said gently. “I came to tell you myself, darling, because I knew you would be wanting to know. She has been attacked with croup very violently indeed, and the doctor does not give me any hope that she will live. I cannot stay with you, my darling boy.”
She did not say any more, and before Arthur had scarcely understood what he had heard, his mother was gone. There was only one thought in his mind now. Mildred dying! his darling baby sister, who a little while ago had laughed, and crowed, and kicked her pretty feet as he played with her. How could it all have happened? And how soon a dark cloud had fallen over everything that had seemed so bright! And then a little picture of her fresh baby face came before him, and he could see the little rosy mouth, and bright blue eyes, and the soft cheek that he had so often kissed. Would her sweet face never laugh again? And would he never hear her clear, soft voice calling “Artie, Artie”? Arthur did not know he had loved his baby sister so deeply until now that the dark, sad news had come that perhaps she was going to be taken away from them all for ever. So he sat in the pleasant firelight on the hearth-rug; but there was no brightness on his face now. A very grave cloud had fallen on it, as the words were in his heart that his mother had told him. And then, as he thought about what they really meant, his lip quivered, and the tears fell on the floor, till at length his head bowed down on the armchair where his mother had been sitting, and Arthur sobbed bitterly all alone. It was a very hopeless, heart-sick feeling, as he wept with the vehemence of his strong, loving nature; and he had never felt in this way before; for all his life hitherto he had known what it was to be loved and to love, and had never had cause to mourn over the loss of what his heart had wound itself around.
“I wish some one would come and tell me how Mildred is,” said Arthur presently to himself, after half an hour had passed when he had been crying on the rug. “I wonder is the doctor going to stay there all night?”
Poor little Arthur! it was very hard work waiting there all alone with no one to speak to, not even Hector the house-dog, his friend and confidant; for a servant had gone into the town and taken him with him. Presently the door opened, and he started up eagerly. It was the housemaid, and the candle that she held in her hand showed a grave, tear-stained face.
“Mr. Arthur, will you come upstairs?” she said. “Mistress sent me to tell you. Will you come up to the nursery?”
“Why—what—may I really? What, is she better then?” asked Arthur joyfully, and yet with a certain trembling at his heart, as he saw the expression on Anna’s face.
“Oh, no, Mr. Arthur,” she said, bursting into tears. “Poor, dear little darling, she can’t scarce breathe; its dreadful to hear her, and she such a sweet little pet. Oh, dear, dear, dear, and whatever will mistress do, and master?”
But Arthur was not crying now as he went slowly up the stairs, feeling as if it was all a dream, and not at all as if these were the same stairs that he generally mounted, or that this was the nursery door where he had generally bounded in with a laughing shout to the bright little sister who now lay very near the shore of the other land. She was a very little girl; not two years ago she had first come; and Arthur, who had been half-afraid of the tiny baby that lay in the nurse’s arms so still and quiet, had by degrees learnt to love her with all his heart. He knew just the best ways to please her, and to make her voice ring out the merry crow he so liked to hear; and always, when she saw her brother coming up the avenue that led to the house, she would stretch out her tiny arms, and try to jump from her nurse’s arms to meet him.
It was only a few hours ago that Arthur had waved his hand to her, and made Hector jump and roll along the ground, that she might see him. She had looked so bright and rosy then, and now it was all so different!
The room felt warm as he entered, and there seemed to be a great many people around the little white bed where Mildred lay. Arthur never, never forgot that scene; it lay on his heart like a strange, sad picture all his life. He could not see his little sister’s face, only a stray golden curl was peeping from the white sheet, and lay on the pillow; he could hear her breathing, and it made his heart quiver to listen to the sounds. The nurse was standing a little aside; for there was nothing more for her to do. She had been placing hot flannels, and trying favourite remedies; but these were all of no avail. The doctor was standing at the post of the bed; for he knew that Mildred’s little life was ebbing fast. And then Arthur looked at his father and mother. His mother was sitting by the pillow, and she almost lay upon the bed as she leant over her little dying child. His father was standing close by, and Arthur looked again at the expression that was on his face. He was in general a little afraid of his father; in fact, for the last two or three years he had not seen him at all, and it was only by the kind letters and messages from India, that he had known him of late, and he had thought him rather grave and stern, he was so different from his sweet, gentle mother; and though Arthur loved him at a distance, he had quite different feelings for her.
But now, as he looked again, he saw that a softness was on his father’s face, and that the hand that was laid on his wife’s shoulder was trembling; and the thought that was in Arthur’s mind just then was, “Father really looks as if he was going to cry.”
Presently his mother went a little closer to her baby, and Arthur just heard her whisper, “Let her die in my arms.” His father looked as if he thought it would be better not. But she looked up again: “Give her, I must.” So very gently she took the covering from the child, and drew her to her arms.
Little Mildred did not lie there very long. It was terrible to see her, and Arthur could hardly bear to look; but he did look as the convulsions made her struggle and gasp for breath.
At length he heard his father’s voice in a low whisper say, “She’s gone; thank God.” And then he saw him take a little helpless form from his mother’s arms and lay it back on the white bed, and Arthur saw that his tiny sister was dead. She was lying still, her breath was gone for ever; her eyes were closed, and her curls lay soft and golden on the pillow. She would never open her blue eyes again, and her voice would never more call “Artie, Artie.”
He just saw that his mother sunk down on the floor by the bedside. He could not see her face, but he heard a deep, deep groan, and then she said, “My baby, my darling.” She did not cry, she only knelt there still and silent; and then suddenly a great rush of feeling came over Arthur’s heart as the thought of sweet little Mildred lying dead came over his mind, and he threw himself by his mother’s side, burying his face on her shoulder, and burst into a passion of crying. “Oh, mamma, mamma!” was all he said. “Don’t, Arthur; you had better go down stairs, my boy,” said his father gently. But his mother whispered, “Let him stay;” and she threw her arms round him, and clasped him so tightly that he could hardly breathe.
Perhaps it was good for her to hear her child’s sobs; they seemed to enter into her heart and melt it, for it was icy in its mourning before.
“God has taken our little Mildred,” said Arthur’s father presently, in a very choked, quivering voice. “He has taken her to be very happy with Himself. He will take care of her for ever.”
“I know it,” said Arthur’s mother; “better than we could.”
Presently Arthur got up, and before he went away from the room he threw his arms once more around his little dead sister, and the tears fell over her golden curls and her round fair cheeks, which were still round and red.
He cried himself to sleep that night, and when he awoke in the morning it was with a dreary feeling that a great deal was gone. He was the only child now, and as he stood by the little open grave where Mildred’s tiny coffin had been lowered, and as he felt the soft, tight clasp of his mother’s hand in his, Arthur felt he would be a loving boy to her.
CHAPTER II.
GOING TO INDIA.
HE home seemed very sad and silent indeed without the little child who had been laid in the low green-covered grave, and a sadness seemed to have fallen upon it. At first Arthur went about the house silently and slowly, and it was some time before his boyish spirits came back to him; but he was only a boy after all, and a very young boy, and by and by, when the green leaves came budding on the trees and the spring voice was waking in the valleys and the fields, when the young lambs answered with their bleating and the young birds sung a chorus of bursting joy, Arthur’s face brightened, and his step was bounding again. And his mother was glad to see him with the weary cloud gone, only her heart ached with a deep throb as she thought of the new care that was hanging over him, and of which he knew nothing as yet.
One day, when Arthur was passing the door of his mother’s morning-room, he heard his father’s voice within, saying, “I think you had better tell him, Louisa.” The door was partly open, and if he listened he would easily be able to hear what they were saying. The temptation was very strong, and Arthur yielded to it. It was very wrong, and he knew it.
“Oh, no!” he heard his mother say, “I could not tell him; I don’t think I could. It almost breaks my heart to think of it myself.”
“Louisa,” said his father—and Arthur thought his voice sounded rather sad—“you know it is your own choice, and even now you can change if you like.”
“Oh, no, no, dear Ronald!” said his mother—and he could hear that her voice was quivering and trembling—“you know very well I could not. Forgive me, I ought to be very thankful I have you still; and so I am. But tell him yourself, Ronald; you know I am so foolish.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Vivyan, rising and stirring the fire with great energy, as if he were then acting what he had made up his mind to do.
And then Arthur stole away, feeling very strange with various mingled feelings. Something seemed to say that the conversation concerned him, but what it was all about he could not imagine. Something terrible seemed to be going to happen; something that his mother could not make up her mind to tell. And then he remembered how very wrong it had been for him to listen to this conversation. He had always been taught never to do such a thing, and the consciousness of his fault weighed heavily on his mind. He wished very much that he had not waited at the door, when he had seen it stand so temptingly open. Indeed, so much did he think about what he had done, that the strange things he had heard hardly troubled him.
But by and by, when he was walking through the lanes, where the primroses were dotting the hedgerows with green and yellow tufts, he began to think again of what he had heard, and his step was slow and steady as he thought. He was not the same Arthur who generally bounded along, startling the little lambs who were feeding on the other side of the hedge; and Hector seemed puzzled by the unusual quiet as he ran on first, inviting his master to follow. Altogether it was a very grave and thoughtful walk, and when Arthur came in, the quiet look was on his face still, and a very troubled expression could be seen there.
“Arthur dear, is anything the matter?” asked his mother in the evening, as he sat on his low stool before the fire doing nothing, and thinking again of what he had heard and what he had done.
Arthur started, and blushed a very deep red.
“Why should you think there was anything the matter, mother?”
“Because I see there is,” she said quietly.
He did not answer, and Mr. Vivyan looked out keenly at him, from behind the book he was reading. But still Arthur had nothing to say, and the troubled look came deeper on his face. He came nearer to his mother’s chair, and presently when he found himself there he laid his head on her lap.
“What is it, my darling?” she asked, laying her hand on his brown hair. Then the tears came into his eyes, and it was not directly that he was able to say, “Mother, I know it was very wrong of me; but I heard what you and papa were saying this morning when you were in the boudoir.”
“It was very wrong indeed,” said Mr. Vivyan; “I did not think you would have done such a thing, Arthur.”
“Oh, Arthur, Arthur!” said his mother very gently and sadly, “why did you, why did you not remember?”
He was crying now, and he did not need to be told that he had done very wrong.
“Well, then, you know all about it, I suppose?” said Arthur’s father.
“No, I don’t, papa. I only heard that something dreadful was going to happen; and you told mother to tell some one, and she said she couldn’t; and then you said you would, and I don’t remember the rest.”
Mr. Vivyan smiled rather sadly, and Arthur felt his mother’s arm more closely clasped around him.
“Was it about me?” asked Arthur presently.
Mr. Vivyan looked up at his wife, and then he said, “Arthur, my boy, when I was in India before, why did your mother stay in England?”
“I don’t know,” said Arthur, somewhat surprised at the question. “To take care of me, I suppose. Oh no, it wasn’t, though; it was because she was ill, and she couldn’t live in India, the doctor said.”
“Yes; and now, is she as ill as she was then?”
“Oh no, I should think not!” said Arthur brightly. “She is ever so much better, aren’t you, mother?”
“Yes, dear,” she said gently.
“Well,” said Mr. Vivyan, speaking very slowly, and laying his hand kindly on Arthur’s curls, “did you know, Arthur, that my time for being in England is very nearly over? there are only six weeks more left.”
“Yes, father,” said Arthur, and feeling his father’s hand laid so tenderly on his head, he felt more sorry at the thought that he was going than he had ever done before. “I’m very sorry.”
“But then, don’t you see, my boy,” Mr. Vivyan said, looking anxious and as if he had great difficulty in expressing himself, “your mother need not stay at home this time?”
“No,” said Arthur, after a pause, “I suppose not. And am I going to India too?”
“Why no, my dear child. You know how glad we should be to take you with us; and very likely you do not know, Arthur, what it costs us to leave you at home. But you know you could not go; children of your age would very likely not live.”
Arthur turned quickly round, and gazed with an incredulous, questioning look at his father and mother. He could not see his mother’s face, for it was hidden by her hand; but if he had looked closely he might have seen that her whole form was trembling, though she did not speak a word.
“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.”
“But I am sure it would do me no harm, father; you don’t know how much heat I can bear. I believe I am better sometimes in hot weather. And oh! I don’t believe I could live in England by myself.”
He gave a very weary sigh, and leant his head heavily on his mother. Presently he felt a tear on his forehead, and he knew that she must be crying.
“My own darling little mamma,” said Arthur, “I love you with my whole heart. Oh, you don’t know how very much I love you!” and he gave a deep, weary sigh.
She put her arm round him, and pressed him very closely to her heart; and he felt as if he were a tired little baby, and that it was very nice to have his mother’s arm around him. By and by he began crying; not with a hard, passionate feeling, but in a weak, weary way, the tears flowing down one after another over his mother’s hands.
“My dear child,” said Mr. Vivyan, as the time came nearer for Arthur to go to bed, “you don’t know what it is to your mother and to me to leave you; but we hope you will be happy by and by, for your
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