MYRTLE HILL; OR, THE NEW HOME.
When Arthur Vivyan was looking forward, with such feelings of dread, he
did not know that his aunt was hardly less anxiously expecting his
arrival; and that, much as he feared what living with her would be, her
thoughts had been very troubled ones on the same subject. She had lived
alone for so many years now, and as she said, she was so little accustomed
to children, she was afraid that her young nephew would find her home
deary and sad; that she might not understand him herself, or that she
might be foolishly indulgent and blind to the faults, which might make him
grow useless and miserable. She had spent many anxious hours thinking of
all this, and laying plans about the care she would take of him, and all
the ways in which she would try to make him happy and contented.
Arthur and his father had left Ashton by an afternoon train, which did not
bring them into the town, near Mrs. Estcourt's house, until it was quite
dark. It was a very cheerless journey to Arthur. Generally he liked
travelling by the railway, and when he took his seat by his father's side,
his spirits rose very high as they passed quickly along, and the new
scenes and sights, that he watched from the carriage window, occupied his
attention pretty fully.
But this time it was quite different. His mother's sweet, sad farewell was
still sounding in his ears; and as the train rushed along on its way, he
knew that it was bearing him farther and farther away from her, and from
the home where he had lived so long. He could hardly have explained his
own feelings; only a very dreary aching was in his heart; and as he
thought of the strange new place, where he was going, and then of the
miles and miles of land and sea, that would soon lie between himself and
his father and mother, he felt very strange and desolate, and you would
hardly have recognized the grave, serious-looking face as Arthur Vivyan's.
Perhaps it was that expression that drew the attention of an old
gentleman, who was sitting opposite to him. At any other time, Arthur
would have been inclined to be amused at this old gentleman; for he came
into the carriage, bringing so many parcels and wraps, that for some
little time he was stowing them away, talking all the while to nobody in
particular, and finishing every sentence with "Eh?"
"Going to school, my boy--eh?" he asked at length, after he had looked at
Arthur's mournful face for some little time.
Arthur did not feel much inclined to talk just then, so he only said "No;"
and then remembering that, in fact, he was to go to school while he was
living at his aunt's, he was obliged to say, "At least, yes."
"'No' and 'yes' both; not quite sure--eh?" asked the old gentleman.
Then Mr. Vivyan turned round, and explained that his son was going to live
with his aunt, and that he would go to school from her house.
"Oh, that's it--eh? Fine times for you then, young man. When I was a boy
things were different with me, I can tell you. Hundred boys where I was;
and I was one of the little fellows, who had to make it easy for the big
ones. Up at six in the morning--coldest winter mornings. Never had a
chance of getting near the fire; never went home for the winter holidays.
How would you like that--eh?"
"I don't suppose I should like it at all," said Arthur. But he thought in
his own mind, that his case was not much better.
After a few more remarks from his old friend opposite, when he saw him
pull his cap over his face and settle himself to sleep, he was more
pleased than otherwise.
Poor little Arthur! He thought he was feeling desolate enough; and as he
sat by his father's side, and thought that even he would soon be far away,
it made him feel inclined to cling more closely to him than he had ever
done before; so that, when the jolting of the train made his head knock
against his father's shoulder, he let it stay there, and presently he
found his father's strong arm was around him, and Arthur felt that he
loved him more than he had ever done before.
"Cheer up, Arthur, my boy," he heard him say presently, and his voice had
a softer sound, than it sometimes had, he thought. "We may all be very
happy yet some day together, and not very long, you know. Five years soon
pass, you know, Arthur."
But five years had a very long, dreary sound to him just then. In fact, he
could not bear to think of it at all; and he was afraid that if he thought
or spoke on the subject, that he should cry, which he did not wish to do
just then; so he gave a very deep, long sigh.
By and by he went to sleep. Perhaps it was because he had spent several
waking hours the night before, and that this day had been a dinnerless one
for him; but so it was, and when he awoke it was to a scene of confusion
and bustle, for they had arrived at their journey's end, and the guard was
calling aloud, "Oldbridge."
Arthur rubbed his sleepy eyes, as the station lights flashed brightly, and
the train came to a sudden stop. "Come, Arthur, my boy, here we are. Make
haste and open your eyes. We have a drive before us, so you will have time
to wake up on the way to your aunt's," said Mr. Vivyan, as they threaded
their way along the crowded platform.
It was a very dark night; there was no moon, and thick clouds shut out the
starlight. Oldbridge station stood at the extreme end of the town, and in
order to reach Myrtle Hill, they must drive along a country road of two
or three miles. In summer time this was a very pleasant way, for the trees
sheltered it on one side, while the other was bordered with a hedgerow and
wide-spreading fields; but now on this dark night, nothing of all this was
seen, and Arthur wondered what kind of a place they were passing through.
When he had made little pictures in his mind of their arrival at
Oldbridge, they had not been at all what the reality was. He had imagined
a drive through a busy town, where they would pass through street after
street, and that the bright gas would light the way, and show him the
place and the things that they passed.
"What kind of a place are we in, father?" asked Arthur. "There seem to be
no houses--I hope the man knows the way--and they have no light at all."
"Well, I think certainly a little light would be desirable; but the people
here don't seem to think so. Well, never mind, we shall have light enough
by and by. It will be pleasant to see aunt's snug, warm house, won't it,
Arthur?"
"Yes," said Arthur; but his answer was a very faint one; for he thought of
another warm, bright home that he knew very well; and that there was some
one there, sitting in the old chair, and that the rug at her feet was
empty, and he had to smother a bitter sob that arose, and hold himself
very still, as a shivering feeling passed over him.
But presently Arthur's quick eye caught a bright gleam, shining through
the darkness, and soon he found that it was a lamp over a gateway, and
that they were nearing their destination. The lamp showed just enough for
him to see, that inside the gateway a broad gravel walk led up to the
house between thick laurel bushes; and soon the sound of the wheels
grating over the gravel, told him that they were driving up the avenue,
and would soon be there. His father began to collect their rugs and
packages, and seemed to be very contented that they had arrived. As for
Arthur himself he hardly knew what he felt; not particularly glad,
certainly; for there was far too dreary and heavy a feeling at his heart
just then, to leave room for much gladness; still, he was very tired and
cold, and perhaps even hungry, so that it was with some feeling of
satisfaction that he felt the carriage stop, and looking out he saw the
warm firelight from within, dancing on the curtained windows, and shining
through the windows in the hall.
It was not very long before they were standing inside the hall door; and
Arthur had just one minute to look about him while his father was taking
off his great coat. Any one who took notice of things could see that no
children belonged to Myrtle Hill. Everything was in the most perfect
order. The hair mats were white and unruffled, the chairs were placed in
an orderly manner against the wall, and no dust lay upon them. Just as
Arthur was looking round with an admiring eye, one of the doors opened;
and a lady appeared, that he knew was his aunt. It was almost like a new
introduction to him, for he had not seen her for a very long time, and
then only for a day or two. She greeted her brother very warmly, and then
she turned to him. "And so this is Arthur," she said; and it was almost
timidly that she spoke, for she was almost as much afraid of her little
nephew, as he was of her. "Ronald, he is a great deal more like Louisa
than you. His eyes are like hers."
"Yes, I believe he is generally considered to be so," said Mr. Vivyan,
smiling. "A great compliment; don't you think so yourself, Arthur?"
Arthur always had a very peculiar feeling when people looked at him, and
said who he was like. He did not very much approve of it on the whole; and
once he had confidentially asked his mother why the ladies and gentlemen
who came to Ashton Grange did not make remarks about her face, and say who
they thought she was like. At present he was making use of his blue eyes
in taking an accurate account of his aunt.
Well, she was nice. Yes, he thought he should love her. She had a sweet
sound in her voice, and a gentle expression about her mouth, that made him
think she could not be unkind. She was not like his own mother in the
least; she was not nearly so pretty, Arthur thought. His mother had pink
on her cheeks, and a smile on her lips; but _her_ face was very pale and
colourless, her eyes were very deep and sad ones, and when she looked at
him they seemed so large and dark, and as if they were saying what she did
not speak with her lips. He felt he would love his aunt; but he was not
quite sure that he would not be a little afraid of her, at first at any
rate.
"You must be quite ready for something to eat," said Mrs. Estcourt, as she
led the way to the drawing-room. "You dined before you came away, Ronald,
of course."
"Yes, I did; but Arthur did not. I don't think he has had much to eat all
day, poor boy."
Mrs. Estcourt looked very much surprised as she said, "Why, how could that
be, Arthur? I thought boys were always hungry."
"Well, I think I am generally," said Arthur, "only I was not to-day."
"Why not?" said his aunt.
"Don't ask me why, please," said Arthur in a low voice, "or else perhaps I
might cry, and I don't want to do that."
She seemed to understand him, for she asked no more questions; only she
took his hand as they went into the drawing-room, and as Arthur looked in
her face, he thought there was something in her deep eyes, that reminded
him of his mother.
If the hall at Myrtle Hill was neat and orderly, the drawing-room surely
was equally so. There seemed to be everything in the room, that one could
possibly want; and a great many that seemed to Arthur to be of no
particular use. He could not help thinking of the difference there would
be in that room, if he and Hector were to have a round in it. But it was
very bright and comfortable, he thought; and this opinion seemed to be
shared by a large white dog that lay in front of the fire. "Great, sleepy
thing," thought Arthur; "I would not give old Hector for ten cats like
that."
The tea-table itself was a very attractive object to his eyes just then;
and he turned his attention to it now. Arthur thought it looked rather in
keeping with the rest of the room. The silver teapot and cream-jug were
bright and shining, but they were rather small; and he could not help
thinking that it would take a great many of those daintily-cut slices of
bread and butter, to satisfy his appetite; so he was glad to see a
good-sized loaf on a table near, and other more substantial things which
had been added for the travellers. Indeed he need not have been afraid of
not having enough to eat, for his aunt, in her ignorance of boyish
appetites, would not have been surprised, if he had consumed all that was
before him. So that Arthur had to be quite distressed, that he could not
please her by eating everything.
"I wonder what she lives on herself," he thought, as he noticed the one
tiny slice lying almost undiminished on her plate; "and I wonder how I
should feel if I did not eat more than that."
By and by they drew their chairs to the fire, and Mrs. Estcourt gave
Arthur a beautifully-ornamented hand-screen to shade the heat from his
face; as he sat with his feet on the fender, listening to his father's and
aunt's conversation.
"Well, you have a snug little place here," said Mr. Vivyan.
"Yes, I suppose so," Mrs. Estcourt said; but she sighed as she spoke.
"It seems like old times, eh, Daisy?"
A light shone on her face for a minute and then was gone, as she said,
"'Tis very odd to hear any one call me that, Ronald. I have not heard it
since----," and then that deep look of pain came again. But as she looked
at Arthur almost a merry smile curled the corners of her mouth, and she
said, "Arthur thinks so too, I know."
This was true; for he had just been thinking that if his aunt was like a
flower at all, she was more like a lily or a snowdrop, or a very white
violet. But he only said, "Is that what I shall have to call you, then?
Aunt Daisy! that sounds rather funny, I think."
Mrs. Estcourt laughed and said, "Well, I think perhaps it does; so if you
like you can say Aunt Margaret."
"Oh, I don't like that at all!" said Arthur in a very decided tone. "No,
please; I would rather say the other; and I think perhaps you are like a
daisy when you can't see the red."
"Well, you are a funny little boy," Mrs. Estcourt said; and she laughed
quite merrily.
"Arthur," said his father, "you are forgetting your good manners, I am
afraid;" but he seemed rather amused himself.
"Do you often say those funny things, Arthur?" asked his aunt.
"I believe he is rather given to speaking his mind freely," said Mr.
Vivyan.
"Did I say anything rude?" asked Arthur, looking up earnestly into his
aunt's face.
"No, dear, nothing at all; only, you know, I am not accustomed to little
boys; and so perhaps that is why the things they say sound odd to me."
"Well, aunt," said Arthur, "mind, if I seem to say rude things I don't
mean them; I don't really; and I should be very sorry to say rude things
to you, because I think I like you."
"You don't say so," said Mr. Vivyan, laughing.
But Mrs. Estcourt did not laugh; she stooped down and kissed Arthur; and
then she held his hand in hers for a little while, so that it almost felt
to him as if it was some one else's hand, and, though it was very pleasant
to have such a kind aunt, that he felt he would love, it brought a
strange, choking feeling into his throat, and his eyes felt as if they
would like to cry; so he suddenly jumped up, and said--
"I think I should like to go to bed."
Mrs. Estcourt took him up herself into the room that was to be his own. It
was a pretty, pleasant room, and a bright fire was burning in the grate.
There seemed to have been a great deal of thought, spent on the comfort of
the person who was to sleep there; and Arthur almost smiled, if he could
have smiled at anything then, as his aunt hoped he would not want
anything, and said she would send him a night-light presently.
"No, thank you," he said; "I always sleep in the dark."
"You are a brave boy, I suppose," said Mrs. Estcourt.
"I don't know," Arthur said; "but mother always says it is wrong to be
afraid."
"Wrong?" asked his aunt.
"Yes; because don't you know, aunt, we ought to trust in God, mother
says."
"Then are you never afraid, dear Arthur?" his aunt was just going to say;
but as she looked at him she saw that his lips were trembling, and that
the tears were filling his eyes; for the mention of his mother's name was
bringing memories to Arthur, and he was thinking of the times in the old
nursery at Ashton Grange, when he used to be frightened sometimes in the
dark; and she had sat with him then, and told him about the angels of the
Lord encamping round about them that fear Him, and about the kind, tender
Lord Jesus, who takes care of all who put their trust in Him.
So she only put her arms around him, and kissed him very tenderly; and
then she went away. It was only just in time; for as Arthur heard the door
shut behind her, and knew that nobody would see or hear him, the tears
that had been burning under his eyes all the evening came at last, and
Arthur threw himself sobbing upon his bed. But his grief did not last long
that night, for he was very tired and sleepy. He was excited too with the
strange scenes and places, through which he had passed, and on which he
was just entering; so it was not very long before he was sleeping as
soundly in the white curtained bed, that his aunt had taken such pains to
prepare for him, as he had ever done in the old room at Ashton Grange.
That room was empty now. The little bed was there with the coverlet
undisturbed, but no curly head lay on the pillow; and as Arthur's mother
stood there thinking of her little boy, and of the miles that lay between
them, and that soon the broad ocean sweep would separate her from her
child, her heart sank very low, and she thought that she was like Rachael,
weeping for her children. But she was comforted, for she knew the comfort
of having a Friend, who had borne her griefs and carried her sorrows; and
when her heart was overwhelmed within her she said, "Lead me to the Rock
that is higher than I;" and He said to her, "None of them that trust in
Him shall be desolate." She listened to His word that says, "Trust in Him
at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before Him. God is a refuge
for us."
Is it not a happy thing, when a heart is full and bursting--so full that
it cannot contain--to know that there is One, whose name is Love, before
whom that heart can be poured out? Is it not the place where the Master
would have His disciples, sitting at His feet, hearing His word? And is
not that the cure for being careful and troubled about many things? And if
our hearts have chosen that good part, we know that He has promised that
it shall not be taken away. And as Arthur's mother thought of this, she
said, "Hide me under the shadow of thy wings."