'SHE HAS LEFT US!'
Of course Lady Isobel's letter had to be answered, and the wonderful
news told of Bobby's change of home. His letter took him a long time
to write, and True helped him a great deal. Mrs. Allonby sent it as it
was, with all the imperfections of spelling and many a blot and
erasure; but she added a little note herself, as Bobby's left much to
be explained.
'MY DEAR LADY FREND--
'Me and Nobbles is kite wel, so is True. Father came at last. He
tuked me in a motor home. I have a knew mother. She is very nice. We
saw sum reel wite gates, but they was loked. We mene to find sum more.
Me and Nobbles runned away and hid under the sete. We did not go back
no more. Plese come and see me in this house, and giv Master Mort'mer
my best luv. I warnt to see him agen. I went in the rode to mete my
father and he comed, but I did not no him. Thank you verry much for
the piksher. I shall like it wen it comes and so will True. She
spells my leter for me.
Your loving boy,
BOBBY.'
And when the letter was sent, Bobby set himself to watch for his
picture.
It came very soon, and to his eyes was a miracle of beauty.
Mrs. Allonby had it framed for him and hung up over his bed in the
dressing-room. He was never tired of looking at it, and what pleased
him most was a little boy about his own age just being let inside the
gates by a kind faced angel.
'Look at his white dress; not one tiny spot, Nobbles,' he would
exclaim. 'That's me going in, and I shall walk right up the street to
God like that.'
There was a dark corner in the picture, and two weeping people being
turned away. In fact it was as nearly like the original as it could
be, only it was much bigger, and the gates were lovely in their gold
and white paint.
True admired it as much as he did, and would often come and stand and
look at it with delight and awe.
'I wonder if I have a right to go inside,' she said. 'I love having a
right to do things, then no one can stop me.'
'It's wearing a white robe gives you right,' said Bobby.
'Yes, and doing the Commandments,' responded True quickly; 'that's the
differcult part. But I mean to be inside, not outside, I tell you
that!'
Many delightful excursions did the children have with their father, but
the summer days began to shorten and the sun appeared less often, and
Mrs. Allonby kept them more at home. She herself did not get stronger.
Her appetite failed. Gradually she came downstairs less, and kept in
bed more. Mr. Allonby grew careworn and anxious, the doctor appeared
very often, and still Bobby and True played together gleefully, with
little idea of the black shadow that was going to fall upon their happy
home.
Then one bright sunny morning True asked Mr. Allonby if he would give
them a ride in his car.
He looked at her for an instant in silence, then said slowly:
'No, we must do without motor drives now; I am going to sell it.'
'Sell it! Oh, dad, you mustn't!'
'I must,' he said; 'I want to give your mother all the comfort and ease
I can, and we are poor people. Besides, I shall have no heart for
anything now.'
'Why?' questioned True.
'Don't ask so many questions,' Mr. Allonby said sharply, and he was so
seldom vexed with them that the children looked at each other with
dismayed faces.
Later that morning Mr. Allonby was wandering moodily up and down his
strip of garden smoking his pipe; his head was bent, his hands loosely
clasped behind him. Suddenly he felt a soft little hand take hold of
one of his.
'Father, dear, do tell me about your sad finks. I know they're sad
from your face.'
It was Bobby. His father looked down upon him for a minute, then
without a word led him into a field which ran up at the back of their
garden. He paced the whole length of the field with his little son
before he spoke again, and then, leaning against a five-barred gate, he
said heavily:
'I can't hold up against it, sonny! I was a worthless creature till
she took me in hand, and now, when she is making something of me, when
we are going to peg away together at the book which is going to make
our fortune, she is going to leave me. I can't live without her! I
shall go to the dogs!'
'Is it mother you mean? Oh, father, we won't let her leave us! Why
does she want to go?'
'She doesn't; it is cruel fate. Bobby, my boy, life is an utter
failure. Oh! I don't know what I am saying, or why I am talking like
this. Your mother is dying fast, can't you see it? I hoped she was
getting stronger, but the doctor says it has only been her strong will
that has got her downstairs at all. Oh, Helen, you're too young, too
full of life and spirit to be taken! I will not believe it!'
He folded his arms on the top bar of the gate and dropped his head upon
them with a groan. Bobby stood perfectly still; the news was so
astounding, so bewildering, that he could hardly take it in.
'Is mother going through the golden gate now?' he asked.
There was no answer. Then Bobby climbed up on the gate with a longing
desire to comfort his father. He had never seen a grown-up person in
trouble before, and it was with the greatest effort he prevented
himself from bursting into tears.
'Father, dear, don't cry! It's a lovely thing when God calls people.
Mother tolded us herself last Sunday it was. And p'raps God will take
her for a visit, and then send her back again. Is she reely going into
heaven soon? Oh, wouldn't it be nice if we could all go with her! May
I run and tell True; and may we just ask mother about it a little?'
'Leave me, child! Run away!' And when his pattering footsteps had
died away Bobby's father said in bitterness of spirit: 'Heartless
little scamp! He is enjoying the sensation of it!'
But he misunderstood Bobby. The child had never seen death, and did
not understand it in the least; his vision was steadfastly fixed on the
life hereafter. What wonder that the glories of it eclipsed the
present shadow!
True received his news first incredulously, then stamped and stormed in
helpless passion.
'Mother shan't die! She shan't be put in the ground! Bobby, we'll
keep her from going. Oh, mother, mother! we couldn't live without you!'
A burst of tears followed, in which Bobby joined her from very
sympathy. Then softly they stole up the steep narrow stairs to their
mother's room. They met Margot at the door.
'Oh dear!' she sighed, as she saw their faces, 'I s'ppose your father
has been and told you. The missis is quite nicely this morning, and
wants to see you. Now if you go in, no tears, mind--nothing to make
her sad. You must make believe you're glad she's going, same as I do.'
A husky sob broke in the faithful servant's voice. She signed to the
children to go in, and turned away abruptly herself.
Hand in hand, on tiptoe, they stole to their mother's bedside.
Surely she was better with such a pink colour in her cheeks! She
smiled brightly at them, but her voice was weak and low.
'I haven't seen you for two days, darlings! Tell me what you've been
doing.'
'I've been in the field with father,' said Bobby, taking one of Mrs.
Allonby's hands in his, and very gently raising it to his lips to kiss.
'We've comed to tell you that we are very glad you're going through the
gates, but we would like you to ask God to let you come back to us very
soon.'
Sudden tears came to Mrs. Allonby's eyes.
'I think you must come to me,' she said almost in a whisper.
'We should like to do that very much, said Bobby bravely. 'True and me
are ready, we fink.'
'But, darlings,' went on Mrs. Allonby, 'you must not feel impatient if
God does not send for you just yet. I want my little daughter to grow
up to be a comfort to her father, to keep the house tidy, do his
mending, have comfortable little meals for him, and let him always feel
he has a home and a little daughter waiting for him.'
'And me?' questioned Bobby eagerly. 'What must I do for him? I
belongs to him besides True.'
'You belong to him more than True does. I want you to be his little
companion. Go out with him, talk to him, tell him about your lovely
picture, let him feel he cannot get on without you. Oh, Bobby, dear,
you love your father with all your heart and soul! Show it to him by
your life. I want you two to be inseparable. I shall pray you may be.'
A glorious light dawned in Bobby's eyes. He caught Mrs. Allonby's
meaning.
'I'll die for him if I can,' he said fervently; and deep down in his
heart he meant what he said.
True stood looking at her mother with sadly pathetic eyes.
'When are you going, mother? Oh, I think God might do without you a
little longer. I won't pretend I want you to go; I won't.'
'My little girl, I know you don't want me to leave you; and at first I
felt just like you do. But I have been lying here talking to God, and
He has been talking to me, and now I know that He makes no mistakes,
and is doing the very best for all of us by taking me now. I shall
look for you and father, and one day we shall be all together again, I
hope, in that beautiful country that now seems so far away.'
There was a little silence in the room; then Mrs. Allonby turned to
Bobby.
'Bobby, dear, will you say me that verse in that old Italian Bible of
your grandmother's? Somehow, now I am so near the gates, it seems to
bring me more comfort than our English version. I have so often broken
God's commandments. But the other--is so simple--so comforting!'
Bobby repeated his favourite verse with glad assurance.
'"Blessed are they that wash their robes in the blood of the Lamb, that
they may have right to the tree of life, and enter in through the gates
into the City."'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Allonby when he had finished, 'when we come near the
gates, Bobby, and all our life rises before us with all our sins, it is
the thought of the Lamb's precious blood that brings us peace and
courage. I like the verse about doing His commandments for life; but
for death your verse is far and away the best.'
The children could hardly follow this. True climbed upon the bed and
sat close to her mother.
'Is it a very nice thing to die, mother?' she asked.
'My darling, it is nice to feel that our dear Saviour is holding me
tight. "Lo, I am with you alway," He says to me. And so I am content.'
'Oh,' said Bobby, 'I should like to see the gates open and let you in.
Will you walk up the street by those lovely trees? And will you come
to the gates to meet us when it's our time?'
Mrs. Allonby smiled her answer, and Margot now crept softly in and told
the children they must go.
'I must have a kiss from each of them,' Mrs. Allonby said feebly. 'I
don't think--I never know, Margot, whether I shall get through another
night.'
So they kissed her, and reluctantly left the room. That was a strange,
long day to them. Mr. Allonby came in and spent the rest of the day in
his wife's room. The children had to go to bed without wishing him
good-night. Bobby unhung his picture and placed it on the
dressing-table opposite his bed, where he could look at it. In the
early morning he lay gazing at it with fascinated eyes. He followed in
thought his mother's arrival there, her entrance through the gates, and
her triumphal march up to the shining, golden throne in the distance.
He seemed to hear the blast of trumpets, the rapt singing of the angels
attending her, and he was completely lost in his vision when he was
suddenly roused by his father's entrance. He looked strangely untidy
and wretched, his little boy thought. Bobby was peculiarly susceptible
to outside appearances. His father was dressed in his ordinary tweed
suit, but his eyes were haggard, his hair rough, his white collar
crumpled, and his face heated and tear-stained.
He came in impulsively and threw himself on his knees by his child's
bed.
'Oh, Bobby, little chap, she has gone, she has left me, and I've
promised to meet her again! We must help each other. May God Himself
teach me, for I'm not fit to teach you. I don't know how I shall get
through life without her. I always felt that since her accident she
has been too good to live. She never made one murmur.'
Bobby opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, and tears crowded into
his eyes.
'Is she really gone, father? Oh, how could God take her so quick? I
did want to say a proper good-bye. Look, father, dear, at my picsher.
Is she inside by this time, do you think? How long does it take to go
to heaven?'
Mr. Allonby took up his little son's picture and gazed at it with keen
interest, then he put it down with a heavy sigh.
'Yes, she's there right enough, sonny. I don't doubt that. Shall we
say a little prayer together--you and I--for I feel quite unable for
what is before me.'
So the grown-up man knelt by the small bed, and Bobby jumped up and
knelt by his side, and in very broken, faltering accents he prayed:
'Merciful God, have pity on me and my children; be with us now she has
left us. Help me to do my duty; forgive my selfish life. I want to be
different; change me; set me right; make me what she wanted me to be.
Bless this boy here, make him a better man than his father. And the
little motherless girl--how can I take care of her? Have pity and help
us all for Christ's sake. Amen.'
It was a prayer that Bobby never forgot all his life, and he never
spoke of it to anyone. Childlike, he kept it wrapped up in his heart.
He was puzzled at his father's distress; he thought no grown-up person
ever cried; but his whole being quivered afresh with loving devotion to
the father who now had only himself and True to comfort him.