Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "YOU ARE NOT AFRAID OF MY DOG?"]
A SONG-BIRD
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
Author of "Angel's Brother," "Little Maid Marigold,"
"The Bottom of the Bread Pan," etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALFRED PEARSE
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD E.C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. MAVIS AND HER MOTHER
II. CONCERNING MISS DAWSON
III. THE ARRIVAL AT THE MILL HOUSE
IV. MRS. GREY'S DEPARTURE
V. PETTY JEALOUSY
VI. ROSE IN TROUBLE
VII. A GREAT GIFT
VIII. LOOKING FORWARD TO CHRISTMAS
IX. CHRISTMAS TIME
X. SICKNESS AT THE MILL HOUSE
XI. HAPPY DAYS
A SONG-BIRD
CHAPTER I
MAVIS AND HER MOTHER
"THERE, I've finished. How the days are drawing in, to be sure! I
declare it's getting dark already, though it's only six o'clock."
The scene was an upstairs sitting-room in a dingy London lodging-house,
on a September evening. And the speaker—Mrs. Grey—rose from her seat at
the table as she spoke, and laid aside her writing materials with an
air of relief, afterwards placing the letter, over the composition of
which she had spent fully half an hour, on the mantelpiece. She then
took an easy-chair by the window, whilst the other occupant of the
room—her little daughter, Mavis, who had been watching the passers-by
in the street—settled herself on a stool at her feet.
"Now we can have a nice chat, mother," Mavis said. "I've been longing
to talk, but I haven't liked to disturb you. You've been writing a very
particular letter, haven't you?"
"Yes, dear; but how did you guess that?"
"You looked so grave, and, I thought, sad. There's nothing very much
amiss, is there, mother? Are you worrying because you haven't had any
nursing to do lately? We've money left to go on with, haven't we?"
Mavis was a pretty little girl of ten years, with beautiful hazel eyes,
and a quantity of soft brown hair which curled naturally and could
never be kept tidy. Her expression was one of great anxiety, as she
looked up into her mother's face and waited for her response.
Mrs. Grey did not answer immediately. She was a tall, handsome woman,
with a self-reliant manner, and a countenance which inspired trust. She
had been left a widow several years previously, since when she had had
a hard battle to fight. For her husband, who had held a curacy in the
East End of London, had had no private means, and at his death she had
found herself nearly penniless.
Before her marriage, however, she had been fully qualified as a nurse,
so she had taken up her old profession again, and had earned sufficient
by private nursing to support herself and her child. Of late, she had
been out of work, and things had looked dark altogether; but she owned
a brave heart and was not easily cast down. So that it had been with
awe as well as with surprise, that Mavis had observed her shedding
tears over the letter she had been writing.
"As a matter of fact, we've very little money left," Mrs. Grey
admitted, at length. "But I'm not troubled about that now, for I
have been asked and have engaged to nurse a rich young lady who
is threatened with consumption, and—and it is likely to be a long
engagement."
"Oh, mother! You said you felt sure God would provide for us, and you
were right. Who is the young lady? Does she live near here? Will you be
away at night? How shall you manage?"
On previous occasions, when Mrs. Grey had been absent, Mavis had
boarded with the lodging-house keeper, Miss Tompkins. And she thought
very likely it would be arranged for her to do so again. She would have
no objection to raise to the plan, for Miss Tompkins, a kind-hearted,
elderly spinster, who had seen better days, was a great favourite of
hers.
"I-I hardly know," Mrs. Grey answered, somewhat hesitatingly. "I don't
like the idea of being separated from you, child, but I feel it must
be."
"Oh, I shall be all right, mother!" Mavis declared, reassuringly.
"You don't understand, dear; I must explain. Miss Dawson—the young lady
I have engaged to nurse—is the only child of a very rich man, and I do
not think my duties will be arduous, but—but I shall have to go abroad
with her—to Australia."
"To Australia!" echoed Mavis, aghast, the colour fading from her
'cheeks, a look of dismay in her hazel eyes. "Why, Australia's ever so
far away—right at the other side of the world!"
"Yes. I shall be gone months, perhaps even a year or longer, it will
depend upon the patient."
"Oh, mother," gasped Mavis, "you don't mean it! Say you don't."
"But I do mean it, my dear. I am to have a splendid salary, and shall
be able to provide for you well during my absence. It would have been
madness to have refused this post. Suppose nothing else offered? Then
we should be face to face with want, and with the winter coming on,
too. Don't look at me so reproachfully, Mavis."
"Mother, how can you leave me?" cried the little girl. "I don't mind
living with Miss Tompkins for a few weeks, but for months, perhaps
years—" She completed the sentence with a sob.
"It is not my intention to leave you with Miss Tompkins, my dear. I
am thinking of sending you to your father's relations, if they will
have you, and I expect they will. You know you've an uncle and aunt
living at W—, near Oxford, and they have children about your age, a
girl and a boy. Wouldn't you like to know them? I've written to your
uncle to-night. You remember him, don't you? He came to your father's
funeral, and once afterwards, he called to see us, when he was in town
on business."
"Yes," replied Mavis, dolefully. She had a somewhat hazy remembrance of
a tall, stout man, with stooping shoulders, who had presented her with
a big box of chocolates. She had the box still, it was one of her few
treasures.
"He is a miller at W—, and is a very prosperous man, I believe. I have
written to ask him to take you into his home, and I am sure he will.
Come, my dear, don't cry. We ought to be very, very thankful that I
have succeeded in obtaining such a good post."
In spite of her brave words, there were tears in Mrs. Grey's own eyes
as she spoke. Her little daughter leaned against her knees and wept
heart-brokenly, and she smoothed her tangled brown locks with a gentle,
caressing hand.
Mavis knew by experience, that when her mother had quite made up her
mind that a certain course of action was right, she would certainly
pursue it. So by-and-by, she dried her eyes and tried to compose
herself, but her heart was dreadfully sore. Mrs. Grey went on to
explain that Miss Dawson was very young—only seventeen—and that the
doctors hoped the long voyage and a few months' sojourn in Australia
might do much for her health.
"I am very, very sorry for her, for she is terribly delicate," she
said, pityingly. "She is motherless, too, poor girl! Her father has
business engagements to keep him in England, or he would make the trip
to Australia with her, himself. She will be completely in my charge,
so mine will be a responsible position. It is very sad to see one so
young, so weak and ill. Don't you feel sorry for her, Mavis?"
"Yes, of course I do," Mavis answered.
Then she added, with a touch of jealousy in her tone, "She will have
you all to herself; but you won't forget your own little girl, will
you?"
"Do you think that is likely?" Mrs. Grey asked, seriously.
"No, mother, indeed I don't," Mavis replied, feeling rather ashamed of
herself; "but it is so very hard that we should be parted."
"It does appear so, dear; but, depend upon it, God knows best. You
don't realize how worried I've been lately, wondering how we should
manage, if I didn't get an engagement soon. Of course, I ought not to
have felt like that. I ought to have remembered that 'sufficient unto
the day is the evil thereof.' And now it seems to me, that this work is
the answer to my prayers, and that therefore it is the work God wishes
me to do. It has come like light in darkness, and I want you to rejoice
with me. Come, little song-bird, it grieves me to look at your gloomy
face; let me see you smile."
Mavis tried to obey, but it was a sorry attempt. Her dead father
had chosen her somewhat fanciful name, and it suited her well. For
she was the possessor of a voice as sweet and clear as the bird—the
song-thrush—after which she had been named. She was a healthy, bright,
happy child who had never had a real trouble in her life till now. She
remembered her father quite well, but he had died when she had been too
young to realize her loss. She had certainly cried when, on inquiring
for him, she had been told he had gone a long journey to a far country.
But she had soon dried her eyes, and been consoled by the assurance
that if she was a good girl, she would go to him some day.
Mavis had never thought much about her relatives. She knew her mother
was an orphan who had been brought up at a charitable institution. And
she had frequently heard her remark that she did not think she had any
one near akin to her in the world, and that, but for her husband's
brother, who wrote to her very kindly from time to time, there was no
one to whom she could go for assistance or advice.
Now, as she sat at her mother's feet and tried to reconcile herself to
the parting which seemed inevitable, the little girl reflected that it
would be rather nice to have companions of her own age, and that it
would be pleasant to live in the country. By-and-by, she looked up with
a smile, and her mother saw that she meant to make the best of things.
"That's right, my dear," Mrs. Grey said cordially, "you're my sensible
little daughter again, I see. We shall not be separated quite yet—"
"When will it be, mother?" Mavis broke in.
"In about a fortnight, I think. Mr. Dawson asked me if I could be
ready by then, and I told him I could. Of course, if your uncle and
aunt decline to have you at W—, I must arrange for you to remain with
Miss Tompkins, but I would rather leave you with relatives. I've
never been to W—, but I believe it's a very pretty place; the nearest
railway-station is Oxford. Perhaps I may take you to W— myself."
"Oh, mother, I hope you will."
"We shall see."
Mrs. Grey rose as she spoke, lit the gas, and pulled down the blind.
Then she took up the letter she had written, and remarked, "It may as
well go to-night. I will put on my bonnet and cloak and post it. You
may come with me, if you like, Mavis, and we will have a look at the
shops."
"Oh yes," Mavis agreed, readily.
Accordingly, mother and daughter went out together. Mrs. Grey posted
her letter at the first pillar-box they passed. And a few minutes
later, they turned from the dingy street in which their home was
situated, into a wider thoroughfare lined on either side with fine
shops, brilliantly illuminated with electric light.
Mavis amused herself, for a while, by pointing out to her mother the
various articles she would like to buy, and it did not trouble her that
she could not purchase any of them, for she was a contented little soul
who had never fretted at poverty. But by-and-by, she grew silent, and
her interest in her surroundings commenced to flag.
"Shall we go home, now?" suggested Mrs. Grey, thinking the child was
getting tired.
"Yes, if you like, mother," Mavis answered, in a dispirited tone.
She did not explain that she had become suddenly depressed by the
thought that she and her mother might never thus gaze into the shop
windows together again. Who could tell what might happen in the months
to come? Her mother might be shipwrecked and drowned. Oh, there were
scores of accidents which might happen to prevent her return. A panic
of fear, such as she had never experienced before, had taken possession
of her. But she kept her self-control until she went to bed and her
mother came to kiss her good night. Then, as she felt the clasp of her
mother's loving arms, she broke into tears and wailed piteously.
"Oh, don't, don't leave me! Don't go to Australia! What shall I
do without you? Oh, mother, I've only you—only you! Oh, I feel so
frightened!"
"Hush, hush, dear," Mrs. Grey whispered tenderly, as she pressed the
little quivering form to her breast. "You must not be frightened. You
must trust in God, and never forget that if I am far away from you, He
will be always near—caring for you, protecting you, and loving you all
the time. Jesus said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it
be afraid.' Often we can't help being troubled and fearful, but if we
had more faith in our Saviour, we should never be either. The thought
of separation is as distressing to me as it is to you, Mavis, but I
believe God has willed it for the good of both of us. Won't you try to
believe it, too?"
"Indeed I will try," Mavis returned, checking her sobs. "I want to be
brave, for I know it hurts you to see me like this, mother. But, oh, I
never once dreamed you would go away from me—so far, far away, right to
the other side of the world!"