CHARITY and Edwin had very few relatives. Their father had lost all
his brothers and sisters in early life. There was only their mother's
sister, who had for many years been married and settled in a distant
part of England. She was written to at once about Mr. Mitchel's sad
and unexpected death. And her husband, Mr. Hawke, at once travelled to
London, to be present at the funeral, and to take his little niece and
nephew home with him. Ill-health prevented Mrs. Hawke from coming with
her husband.
Poor Charity! How she dreaded the first sight of her strange uncle! How
she shrank from the first sound of his voice!
Nor was the first sight of him such as to cheer her. He was a tall,
stout man, with a somewhat harsh face and sharp manner. He was not
wanting in kindly feelings towards the little orphans, and he really
wished to set them at their ease, but his quick loud voice terrified
Edwin, and made Charity long for her father's gentle tones. Mr. Hawke
had not intended to alarm them, but he did not know how to speak to
shy, timid children. And they soon crept away from him to nurse, where
they sobbed out their sorrows together.
"Oh, nurse, he isn't the very least like dear papa," said poor Charity.
"I wish, oh, I wish he had never come!"
"My dear, that isn't right," said nurse, tenderly. "He'll give you a
home, and you ought to be very thankful for that. You'll be well taken
care of—please God," she added, reverently.
"I don't like him—I can't go with him," said Edwin, clinging to her arm
with fast-falling tears. "He speaks so loud;—oh, nursie, let us stay
with you."
"So I would with all my heart, if I had a home to offer you," said
nurse, fondly. "My poor little ones!" she added, sadly. "It's a bitter
grief for you both. But there now, Miss Charity, don't you cry so.
You'll be very happy in a little while with your cousins and your aunt.
Why, she's your own mamma's sister."
"I shan't be happy—I can't without papa," sobbed Charity. "I shall
never be happy again."
"That isn't what your dear papa would have liked you to say, Miss
Charity. Don't you think he would wish you to be happy?" She stroked
back the damp disordered hair from Charity's brow as she spoke. "I know
it's very hard; I've gone through it all myself. But you mustn't forget
that your dear papa is in heaven, with the Lord Jesus Christ. And you
must try now to do the things that he would like, if he were still
here."
Charity's head dropped sadly on nurse's knee.
"Ah, if I could!" she murmured. "But I will try—I will try."
"And may be, dear Miss Charity, you will find many things in your new
home not like what we have here. Things won't go so smoothly, perhaps,
and then you'll find it trying to the temper."
"My birthday text!" Charity interrupted with a sob. "Papa said I should
want it more some day. Oh, I will try—I will try, nursie. But I do want
papa so very, very much. Oh, if I had only known that morning that I
should never see him again! Oh, papa—dear papa!" And throwing herself
into nurse's arms, the poor child wept long and bitterly,—wept, till
from very weariness her tears ceased to flow, and she fell asleep.
Two days after this the funeral took place, and the following day Mr.
Hawke desired that speedy arrangements should be made for the return
journey. Parting with nurse and leaving their old home was a great
trial to both the children.
They paid a farewell visit to every spot in the garden, and every
corner in the house. But Charity's pale cheeks, when it was over, made
nurse doubt her own wisdom in allowing such a tour.
The last moment came, and patting kisses were somewhat roughly cut
short by Mr. Hawke, who was in great fear of being late for the train,
and also much dreaded tears. He did not take the best means to check
them. Edwin looked only bewildered and distressed, but Charity sobbed
all the way to the station, and long after she was seated in the
quickly-moving train.
It was a melancholy journey to them both, of many hours' duration.
Mr. Hawke spoke to them every now and then, and handed them plentiful
supplies of buns and sandwiches, but otherwise he left them very much
to themselves. At length the train stopped at a small country station,
and Mr. Hawke started up, hurried them out on the platform, and secured
their luggage. Then they went to the back of the station, where a
small chaise was waiting. The two children were helped into the little
back seat, Mr. Hawke took his place in front beside the driver, and in
another moment they were trotting down a narrow green lane.
"How pretty!" Edwin whispered; and Charity nodded.
The fresh evening breeze, the bright rays of the setting sun, and the
fair beauty of the country around, all combined to give her a feeling
of quiet enjoyment, despite the weight of sorrow at her heart. Mr.
Hawke looked back at them after awhile.
"So you like this, little ones?" he said in his blunt tones, which
Charity was beginning to think less rough than she had at first
imagined. "Worth a hundred of London streets!"
"It's prettier," said Charity, her throat swelling at any allusion to
the old home.
"And you will like it better in every way before long, or I am much
mistaken. Have you ever been in the country before?"
"Not country like this," said Edwin. "We've been often to the parks.
And once we went to the sea-side."
"That's a different thing," said Mr. Hawke.
He turned away again as he spoke, and left them to themselves during
the remainder of the drive.
Presently they drew near a small country house, and at the gate Charity
could see a girl and two boys—the former seeming to be about her own
age, and the latter, one older, one younger. They stood looking on as
the chaise stopped, and the children were lifted down, till Mr. Hawke
called out:—
"Here, Lottie, come and see after your cousins. Boys, you had better
take Edwin under your care."
Lottie, a pretty, lively, but somewhat untidy little girl, stepped
forward and kissed them both. George, a tall lad of twelve or thirteen,
shook hands carelessly; and Wilfred, a stout boy about nine years old,
followed his example. They both looked, half in surprise and half
with disdain, upon Edwin's small slight figure and pale timid face.
His little cold hand was clasping Charity's, and she held it tightly,
despite George's audible whisper,—
"What a baby! He looks fit for nothing but to be tied to his nurse's
apron-strings."
"Mamma told me to bring you into the house," said Lottie. "She can't
walk easily, you know."
Charity knew, though she had just then forgotten, that her aunt was
lame, and much confined to the sofa. She followed Lottie in silence,
still pressing her little brother's hand. But the first glimpse of the
sweet face that awaited them in the drawing-room swept a load from
Charity's heart. She felt from that they had found a friend, and she
sobbed aloud with the very relief, as she found herself clasped in her
aunt's arms.
"Poor child!" Mrs. Hawke said softly once or twice, while with her
disengaged hand she patted and caressed Edwin's cheeks. "Come, don't
cry so, Charity. You must both be very happy here. It is to be your
home, you know."
"I wouldn't let papa come in and find you crying, if I were you," said
Lottie, in the quick, almost sharp tone that was so like her father's.
"He doesn't like tears, does he, mamma?"
"He generally thinks little girls have something better to do than to
cry," said Mrs. Hawke, smoothing down Charity's hair. "Suppose you run
upstairs with Lottie, and take off your things, and bathe your eyes,
while I make friends with Edwin. When you come down again we will have
tea."
"I hear your box being taken up now," remarked Lottie. "You are going
to sleep in my room, Charity. Come along," and seizing her cousin's
hand she ran quickly upstairs.
The bedroom that they entered was airy and light, with a bunch of
flowers on the table, the very sight of which had a soothing effect
upon Charity. Lottie ran away for a few minutes, and she was not sorry
for a little quiet time, in which to collect her thoughts.
She leaned out of the window, looking up into the wide expanse of clear
blue sky, with the soft breeze blowing her hair away from her forehead.
And gradually the sorrowful feeling and the tendency to cry gave way
to a quiet, peaceful trust. Lonely, orphaned, sad, she still was. And
she felt even more than she had hitherto done that she might have
many trials to undergo in her new home, much to try her pride and her
temper, much that might tend to draw her away from her dear Saviour.
Yet Charity remembered the promise of that loving Saviour,—
"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."
And it was a great comfort to her. "I must not forget it," she thought.
"I will pray that I may not. Nurse told me I must never forget to pray;
and dear, dear papa always said that was the first thing that we were
inclined to be careless about. And I must try not to seem dull and
unhappy, for darling Edwin's sake. I do think dear Aunt Lottie will
love me. I ought to be very thankful for such a kind, sweet aunt. I
never expected to like her so much. I'm afraid the boys are not so
nice. But I must try not to be angry with them, even if they do say
unkind things. I must try hard to 'suffer long and be kind.' And the
only way is to pray for help. I will not forget that."
With these and many more such thoughts, Charity stood by the window for
nearly ten minutes, unaware how time was going. She was roused by a
touch, and found Lottie standing by her side.
"Are you dreaming, Charity? I thought I should find you ready for tea."
"Oh, I am sorry!" exclaimed Charity, looking distressed. "I was
thinking, and I quite forgot. But I have only to take off my boots and
smooth my hair."
"Never mind; there's no hurry," said Lottie. Something in her cousin's
face touched her, for she came close to her, and said in a manner quite
different from her usual abrupt quickness, "Charity, I hope you will be
happy here. I really am glad to see you, only it isn't my way to say
much."
Charity's arms were round Lottie's neck in an instant. "Are you really
glad? Oh, Lottie, will you love me, and be my sister? I never had a
sister."
"I'll try," Lottie replied, gravely. "I never had one either. Only I
know I shall be cross to you sometimes, because I can't help it. You
mustn't mind when I am, because it is my way when I am provoked."
"I hope I shall not provoke you," said Charity, gently. "I want to be
kind—and to bear things."
"There are some things that one can't bear," said Lottie, decidedly.
"You don't know what it is to have brothers like George and
Wilfred—noisy, romping, teasing fellows. I expect you will hate the
sight of them before you have been here a week."
"Oh, I hope not," said Charity, surprised and shocked that Lottie could
speak in such a way of her brothers.
"You don't know them," repeated Lottie. "Nobody can manage them except
papa,—and mamma always keeps them good when they are with her, but not
when they are away from her. But I mean to try and defend you from
them."
"Thank you," said the little girl, slowly and thoughtfully. "But
perhaps—perhaps the best way would be—" she hesitated a moment, and
then added, in a lower tone,—"'Charity suffereth long, and is kind.'"
"That's a text," remarked Lottie. "Mamma sometimes talks like that, but
it really is of no use to be kind to the boys. The more you bear, the
more they provoke you."
Charity did not argue the point, though she was not convinced. Lottie
now took her downstairs, where Edwin was still seated by his aunt's
side, chatting more freely than Charity could have expected so soon
after his arrival among those who really were strangers to him. The
boys were very quiet and subdued in their father's presence, and
altogether the little orphans' first evening in their new home was a
peaceful one.
Mr. Hawke did not pay them much attention, but when he noticed them,
it was done kindly. Mrs. Hawke's gentle ways won both their hearts at
once, and Lottie's manner was warmth itself.
Both children were too tired that night for any walking out of doors,
and they went to bed early. Charity did not forget, when she knelt
by her bed, to thank her heavenly Father for guiding them to a home,
where, if they could not quite expect the peace and happiness to which
they had been accustomed, they would not be without care and affection.
Earnestly too did she pray for grace and strength to continue in
the right way, and for a spirit of love to bear with all trials and
vexations that might cross her path.
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