HAPPY DAYS
IT was a beautiful afternoon in May. The lilac and laburnum trees were
in full bloom in the Mill House garden. And fritillaries—snakes' heads,
as some people call them—were plentiful in the meadows surrounding W—,
lifting their purple and white speckled heads above the buttercups and
daisies in the fresh-springing green grass.
"I think they are such funny flowers," said Mavis, who with Rose, had
been for a walk by the towpath towards Oxford, along which they were
now returning. She looked at the big bunch of fritillaries she had
gathered, as she spoke. "And though they are really like snakes' heads,
I call them very pretty," she added.
"Yes," agreed Rose. "Look, Mavis, there's Mr. Moseley in front of us.
He's been sending Max into the water. I expect we shall catch up to
him."
"And then I shall be able to tell him my news!" Mavis cried
delightedly. "Oh, Rosie, I don't think I was ever so happy in my life
before as I am to-day!"
A few minutes later, the two little girls had overtaken the Vicar. And,
after they had exchanged greetings with him, Mavis told him her news,
which she had only heard that morning, that her mother and Miss Dawson
were returning to England, and were expected to arrive before midsummer.
"No wonder you look so radiant," he said, kindly.
Then, as Rose ran on ahead with Max, who was inciting her to throw
something for him to fetch out of the river, he continued: "I remember
so well the day I made your acquaintance, my dear. You were in sore
trouble, and you told me you did not think you could be happy anywhere
without your mother. Do you recollect that?"
"Oh yes," Mavis replied. "And you said if there were no partings there
would be no happy meetings, and that we must trust those we love to our
Father in heaven. And you asked me my name, and, when I had told it,
you said I ought to be as happy as a bird. I felt much better after
that talk with you, and I have been very happy at the Mill House—much
happier lately, too. I don't know how it is, but Aunt Lizzie and I get
on much better now."
"You have grown to understand each other?" suggested the Vicar.
"Yes—since her illness," Mavis replied.
The Vicar was silent. He had visited Mrs. John during her sickness,
and knew how very near she had been to death's door. And he thought
very likely her experience of weakness and dependence upon others had
softened her, and taught her much which she had failed to learn during
her years of health and strength.
"Mother says Miss Dawson is quite well now," Mavis proceeded. "I am
looking forward to meeting her again; I do wonder when that will be!"
She glanced at her companion as she spoke, and saw he was looking grave
and, she thought, a little sad.
"Is anything amiss, Mr. Moseley?" she asked, impulsively.
"No, my dear," he replied. "I was merely thinking of two delicate young
girls who were very dear to me. They died many years ago; but their
lives might have been saved, if they could have had a long sea voyage
and a few months' sojourn in a warmer climate. However, that was not to
be."
"They did not go?"
"No. Their father was a poor man, with no rich friends to help him, and
so—they died."
"Oh, how very sad!" exclaimed Mavis, with quick comprehension. "A trip
to Australia and back costs a lot of money, I know. Oh, Mr. Moseley,
how dreadful to see any one die for want of money, when some people
have so much! How hard it must be! Didn't their poor father almost
break his heart with grief? I should think he never could have been
happy again."
"You are wrong, my dear. He is an old man now, with few earthly ties,
but he is happy. Wife and children are gone, but he knows they are safe
with God, and he looks forward to meeting them again when his life's
work is over."
He changed the conversation then. But Mavis knew he had been speaking
of himself, and that the young girls he had mentioned had been his own
children, and her heart was too full of sympathy for words. Silently,
she walked along by his side, till they overtook Rose. When Max created
a diversion by coming close to her and shaking the water from his
shaggy coat, thus treating her to an unexpected shower-bath.
"Oh, Max, you need not have done that!" cried Rose, laughing merrily,
whilst the Vicar admonished his favourite too.
But Max was far too excited to heed reproof. He kept Rose employed in
flinging sticks and stones for him to fetch, until the back entrance
to the mill was reached, where the little girls said good-bye to the
Vicar, and the dog followed his master home.
The next few weeks dragged somewhat for Mavis. But she went about with
a radiant light in her eyes and joy in her heart. Would her mother come
to her immediately on landing? she wondered. Oh, she would come as soon
as she possibly could, of that she was sure.
"I expect she wants me just as badly as I want her," she reflected,
"for we have been parted for nine months, and that's a long, long
time—though, of course, it might have been longer still."
So the May days slipped by, and it was mid-June when, one afternoon, on
returning from school, the little girls were met at the front door by
Mrs. John, who looked at Mavis with the kindest of smiles on her face.
"You have heard from mother!" cried Mavis, before her aunt had time to
speak. "Has the vessel arrived? Have you had a telegram or a letter?"
"Neither," Mrs. John answered; "but the vessel has arrived, and there's
some one in the parlour waiting for you, Mavis. Go to her, my dear."
Mavis needed no second bidding. She darted across the hall and rushed
into the parlour, where, the next moment, she found herself in her
mother's arms, and clasped to her mother's breast.
"Mother—mother, at last—at last!" was all she could say.
"Yes, at last, my darling," responded the dearly loved voice.
Then they kissed each other again and again, and Mavis saw that her
mother was looking remarkably well. And Mrs. Grey remarked that her
little daughter had grown, and was the plumper and rosier for her
sojourn in the country. It was a long while before Mavis could think
of any one but themselves. But at last, she inquired for Miss Dawson,
and heard that her mother had left her in her own home in London that
morning.
"I expect she's glad to be back again, isn't she, mother?" Mavis asked.
"Very glad, dear. You can imagine the joyful meeting between her and
her father. I shall never forget the thankfulness of his face when
he saw how bright and well she was looking. Poor man, I believe he
had made up his mind that he would never see her again. She does not
require a nurse now, but I have promised to stay with her for a few
months longer, and during that time, Mavis, I want you to remain at the
Mill House. Shall you mind?"
"No," Mavis answered, truthfully. "But you are not going right back to
London, mother, are you?" she asked, looking somewhat dismayed.
"No, dear. I have arranged to stay a few days with you."
What a happy few days those were to Mavis! She was allowed a holiday
from school, and showed her mother her favourite walks, and spent a
long afternoon with her in Oxford, where they visited T— College and
the haunts her father had loved. And oh how Mavis talked! There seemed
to be no end to all she had to tell about the household at the Mill
House, and the Vicar, and Richard Butt and his wife and baby, and
kind Mrs. Long, to all of which her mother listened with the greatest
interest and attention.
"Why, how many friends you have made!" Mrs. Grey said, on one occasion
when Mavis had been mentioning some of her schoolfellows. "You will be
sorry to have to say good-bye to them; but I do not know when that will
be, for I have not decided upon my future plans. I hope we shall never
be parted for such a long time again."
"Indeed I hope not," Mavis answered, fervently. "Shall we go back to
live at Miss Tompkins'?" she inquired.
"I don't know, dear," was the reply. "Perhaps we may—for a time."
Every one at the Mill House was very sorry when Mrs. Grey left and
returned to town. Her former visit had naturally been overshadowed
by the prospect of separation from her little daughter. But this had
indeed been a visit of unalloyed happiness, with no cloud of impending
sorrow to mar its joy.
After her mother's departure, Mavis went back to school with a very
contented heart, and in another month came the summer holidays. Her
feelings were very mixed when she learnt that it had been arranged
for her to stay at W— until the end of another term, for Mr. Dawson
had earnestly requested Mrs. Grey to remain with his daughter till
Christmas, and she had consented to do so. And she expressed her
sentiments to her aunt in the following words—
"I'm glad, and I'm sorry, Aunt Lizzie. Glad, because I can't bear the
thought of saying good-bye to you all, and sorry, because I do want
mother so much sometimes. Still, London's quite near; it isn't as
though mother was at the other end of the world, and time passes so
quickly. Christmas will soon be here."
* * * * *
"I feel as though I must be dreaming," said Mavis, "but I suppose it's
really, really true. I can hardly believe it."
It was Christmas Eve, and a few days before the little girl had
been brought up to town by her uncle, who had delivered her to her
mother's care. To her surprise, however, she had not been taken to Miss
Tompkins' dingy lodging-house, but to Mr. Dawson's house in Camden
Square, where she had received a hearty welcome from Mr. Dawson and his
daughter.
She was with her mother and Miss Dawson now, in the pretty sitting-room
where, fifteen months previously, she had made the latter's
acquaintance. But there was nothing of the invalid about Miss Dawson
to-day; she looked in good health and spirits, and laughed heartily at
the sight of Mavis' bewildered countenance.
"What is it you can hardly believe, eh?" asked Mr. Dawson, as he
entered the room.
"I have been telling her that you mean to build and endow a
convalescent home in the country for girls, as a thanks-offering to God
for my recovery, father," Miss Dawson said, answering for Mavis, "and
that her mother is to be the matron, and she can scarcely credit it.
Still, I think she approves of our plan."
"Oh yes, yes!" cried Mavis. "It's just what I should wish to do if I
were you," she proceeded frankly, looking at Mr. Dawson with approval
in her glance, and then turning her soft hazel eyes meaningly upon his
daughter, "and you couldn't have a better matron than mother—"
"Mavis! My dear!" interrupted Mrs. Grey.
"It's quite true," declared Miss Dawson. Then she went on to explain to
Mavis that the home was to be within easy reach of London, and it was
to be a home of rest for sick working-girls, where they would have good
nursing.
"I think it's a beautiful plan," said Mavis, earnestly. She realized
that it meant permanent work for her mother, too; and turning to her
she inquired, "Shall I be able to live with you, mother?"
"Yes, dear, I hope so," Mrs. Grey answered, with a reassuring smile.
"Oh yes, of course," said Miss Dawson.
And the little girl's heart beat with joy.
She remained silent for a while after that, listening to the
conversation of her elders, and meditating on what wonderful news this
would be for them all at the Mill House. Then her mind travelled to Mr.
Moseley, and her face grew grave, as she thought of those two delicate
girls so dear to him, who had faded and died. But it brightened, as she
reflected how nice it must be to be rich, like Mr. Dawson, to be able
to help those not so well off as himself.
She was aroused from her reverie by Miss Dawson, who asked her to sing
a carol to them, and she willingly complied, singing the same she had
sung at the village concert at W— nearly a year before. Afterwards, she
gave them an account of the concert, and expressed the hope that she
would be a great singer some day.
"Why, Mavis, I never knew such an idea had entered your head!"
exclaimed her mother, greatly surprised.
"It never did, mother, until Mr. Moseley told me I had a great gift,
and that God expected me to use it for the benefit of others," the
little girl replied, seriously.
"Surely he was right!" said Miss Dawson.
And with that Mrs. Grey agreed.
Later in the evening, when Mavis went to the window and peeped out
to see what the weather was like, she felt an arm steal around her
shoulders, and Miss Dawson asked—
"What of the night? Are we going to have a fine Christmas?"
"I believe we are," Mavis answered. "The sky is clear and the stars are
very bright. Look!"
Miss Dawson did so, pressing her face close to the window-pane. Then
she suddenly kissed Mavis, and whispered—
"God bless you, dear, for all you've done for me. I carried the
remembrance of your sweet voice singing, 'The Lord is only my support,'
to Australia and back again, and it cheered and strengthened me
more than you will ever know. I wish you a happy Christmas, little
song-bird, and many, many more in the years to come."
THE END
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WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.