Left at Home Part 4

"Who do you think?" she asked, smiling.

"Well, I suppose for me," said Arthur; "but, mother, is all that really for me? It will last until you come back."

"Do you think so?" said Mrs. Vivyan. "Well, I hope you will use it well, and show that you can be trusted with so much."

"Is it to buy new clothes with, when I want any?" asked Arthur.

"No; I don't think you could quite manage that," said his mother, laughing; "besides, look at all the new clothes you have; don't you think they will last until I come back?"

"I don't know; I do use a great many clothes, certainly," said Arthur thoughtfully, as he remembered various rents in more than one of his little coats; "and boots, oh, yes, my boots must cost a great deal."

The next day Arthur devoted to taking a farewell ramble through the grounds; and in roaming through all the places in the country around, that he knew so well. He visited every little hiding-place, to which he and his companion had given names of their own, and then he sat down on the top of a high mound near the house, where on one of his birthdays a flagstaff had been planted. The gay-coloured flag was floating in the breeze now, and Arthur wondered whether if any one else came to live at Ashton Grange they would take down the flagstaff; "at any rate," he thought, "I will take down the flag. I think it is nicer that it should be folded up while we are all away. Oh, yes, and then it will be all ready to put up again, when we all come back, if we ever do come back again to this place. Let me see, I shall be almost a man then. Fancy me a man. I wonder what kind of a man I shall be. Like papa, I daresay; and yet they say I am like mother. I should think a man like mother would be very queer."

And Arthur began painting fancy pictures of the time when his father's term in India should be over; and though it was very pleasant to do it, and the things that he intended to happen then, were very much to his fancy, yet it was with a little sigh of regret that he said to himself, "But any way, I shall never be mother's little boy any more."

Then Arthur took out his new pocket knife and carved his name upon the flagstaff. "How odd if anybody sees it while we are away," he thought; "they will wonder whose name it is. Shall I put Arthur T. Vivyan? No, I think not, that might be Thomas. I should not like any one to think my name was Thomas."

So, after an hour's diligent labour, the name appeared, "Arthur Trevor Vivyan."

And then he sat down to take a last long look at everything. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was s.h.i.+ning with its soft spring gilding, sparkling through the ivy, and making the shadows of the woods look deeper. It was s.h.i.+ning with a ruddy glow on the windows of the house, every window that he knew so well. There was his mother's room. Arthur always thought hers was the nicest window, and he used to be very glad that the roses climbed up there, and cl.u.s.tered lovingly around it. There was the little window on the landing over the hall door; where he remembered, on more than one occasion, he had made nurse very angry, by wis.h.i.+ng to try if he could not climb out there, and plant himself on the top of the porch, so as to look like a statue. Then there was the drawing-room window, with the green Venetian blinds half drawn up, and the bright colours appearing from inside. Lastly, he looked to the nursery, where, oh, so often! he had watched for little Mildred's white-robed figure to appear. How pleased she used to be, when he stood where he was now! It was a sad, sad sever to Arthur's heart; only everything seemed so dark and sad just now, that he had not thought much about Mildred lately; but his eyes followed the sunlight on, far away, until they rested on one fair green spot amongst the trees, where he knew that a little green mound was covering his baby sister's form; and as all the sad things that had happened so lately came into Arthur's mind, and he thought of how different it had been a little while ago, he covered his face with his hands, and the sobs came thick and fast.

So that when after a little while he came indoors, and wandered into the room where he expected to find his mother, she saw that his eyes were red with crying, and she knew that his heart was as sad as her own. But she said brightly, "Arthur, I want you to help me. See, here are piles of your things, and I want you to help me to count them over, and to put down how many there are of each; that is what we call an inventory, and you must have an inventory, of course." Arthur was quite pleased with this idea, and presently he was very busy helping his mother. When it was all done, when the last little garment was laid neatly in the box, and the nice presents that had been given to him were stored away underneath, and Arthur's mother was resting in her armchair in the firelight, he drew his stool to her feet, and laid his head lovingly on her lap; and his mother felt the hot tears fall on her hands, and she saw that the brown curls were trembling with his crying, and she knew that the same thought was in his mind that had just been aching in hers--"For the last time!"

But Arthur did not cry long, for he was trying hard not to make her more unhappy than she was, and presently he stopped, and became very still, and after a little while he said softly--

"Talk to me, mamma."

"What shall I say, dear?"

"Oh, you know, mother! you always know the right things to say."

"And yet, Arthur," said his mother, after a very long pause, and speaking in a soft, low voice, as if she was afraid to speak louder, "I do not know what to say now, dear; for I never could say all that is in my heart. I can only say it to G.o.d about you, my own child."

"Do you often pray for me, mother? I don't think I ever miss praying for you any day."

"You are always in my heart, Arthur; and so when my heart rises to G.o.d, it bears you with it."

"How nice it is to have a mother," said Arthur in a restful voice, "even although--" and then he stopped; for he thought it was better to say no more.

"After all, it is not so very, very far to India," said Arthur. "How long would a telegram take getting there?"

"About two or three hours."

"Oh, dear, I wish I could be turned into a telegram!" sighed Arthur.

"Oh, but," said Mrs. Vivyan, laughing, "that would be only doing one little bit of good, and I want my Arthur to be of some use all the day long."

"How can I," asked Arthur, "without you?"

"Do you know who you belong to before me?" said his mother. "You know, Arthur, you have told me, and I believe it is true, that you have put your trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, and that His blood has washed all your sins away. Then, if that is true of you, you are your own no longer. You belong to Him; for He has bought you with a price. Is it not sweet, my darling, to feel that He says to you now, while you are being left at home, 'Thou art mine'? You know I love to take care of you, because you are mine; and don't you think He does much more? You know the Bible says that a mother may forget, but G.o.d _never_."

"Oh, mother, it is so nice to hear you talk," said Arthur. "Go on, please."

"Well, I was going to say, the Lord Jesus is always the best Friend; and now that you are going to leave me, perhaps you will think of Him, and look to Him, more than you have ever done before. Oh, Arthur, my child, get to know Him better; talk to Him as you have talked to me; tell Him about your little troubles, and joys, and sorrows; tell Him when you feel lonely and weary, and sit at His feet, just as you are now sitting at mine. Do you think He would turn you away? Just pour out your heart before Him, whatever is in it, because He loves you as only He can love."

"But, mamma, I can't see Him as I see you."

"No, my child; but that is where faith comes in. You must believe when you do not see; and remember that He said, 'Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.'"

"Mother, I think you were going to say something else," said Arthur, after a little while.

"Yes; I was talking about the first half of the text I had in my mind, and that I give you to keep from me--'Whose I am, and whom I serve,' I want you to know the sweetness of the first, my darling, and then I think you will want the last to be true of you, and He will show you the way."

"Yes, I know," said Arthur meditatively, "I ought to be patient, and gentle, and thoughtful; and, you know, mamma, it is just my nature to be the opposite, and I don't know how on earth I can be all that to that aunt."

"Oh, hush, dear! Of course you could not be expected to love her much at first; but that ought not to make any difference; for it is to please the Lord Jesus that you are to be all this, and the harder it is for you the more He will know that you really do try to please Him. Then, are there not other ways? I mean things that you could do to bring honour to Him.

Think of your being the means of bringing G.o.d's salvation to anybody, or of making the heart of any of His people glad."

"Yes," Arthur said, "and I think I could try. I could give away tracts, or I could visit sick old women."

"Yes, and you might speak for Him."

"If He will help me," said Arthur reverently; "but that is a great deal more difficult, mother."

They did not talk much more that night, for it was getting late, and Arthur sat looking at the lights and shadows in the burning coals. Out of doors the fair spring evening had darkened into a gusty night; and the wind was sighing in the trees, and blowing the rose-bushes against the windows. It was very comfortable sitting there on the hearth-rug with his head on his mother's lap. Arthur felt so very safe, and it seemed to him that he could not be very unhappy, whatever happened to him, so long as he could be there. And he did not dare think of what it would be, when miles and miles of land and sea would stretch between him and this sweet, well-known resting-place. He would enjoy it for this last time without thinking of the dark, dreary to-morrow that was coming.

CHAPTER V.

THE PARTING.

It 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 good breakfast 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 s.p.a.ce 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."