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LEFT AT HOME;
Or, The Heart's Resting-place.
by
MARY L. CODE,
Author of
"Wandering May;" "Clarie's Little Charge;"
"Lonely Lily;" Etc.
[Illustration: "They walked on for some distance without saying
much."--_Page 92._]
Kilmarnock:
John Ritchie,
Publisher of Christian Literature.
And Through All Booksellers.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Page
LITTLE MILDRED 7
CHAPTER II.
GOING TO INDIA 16
CHAPTER III.
ARTHUR'S MOTHER 26
CHAPTER IV.
LAST DAYS AT ASHTON GRANGE 30
CHAPTER V.
THE PARTING 44
CHAPTER VI.
MYRTLE HILL 47
CHAPTER VII.
LEFT ALONE 60
CHAPTER VIII.
EDGAR NORTH 79
CHAPTER IX.
MIDSUMMER HOLIDAYS AMONG THE MOUNTAINS 108
CHAPTER X.
AT REST NOW 114
CHAPTER XI.
CONCLUSION 140
[Illustration: ASHTON GRANGE.]
LEFT AT HOME.
CHAPTER I.
LITTLE MILDRED, OR THE GATHERED LAMB.
"Stop, 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.