AN ENGLISH HOME.
"I tremble when I think how much
I love him; but I turn away
From thinking of it, just to love him more,—
Indeed, I fear too much."
"ONE, two, three, and over!" called a bright-faced little fellow of
some eight years, as he jumped again and again over a low iron fence
which separated the shrubbery at one part from the shady lawn of the
old English castle of which he was the youthful heir.
A pretty curly Skye-terrier puppy shared his sport, and jumped every
time his young master did so. Those two were plainly having "a good
time" (as the Americans say), judging by the sparkle in their eyes.
They were alone, apparently; and the stately old trees, and even the
gray, venerable castle itself, seemed to keep ward over the young
creatures in their play.
Not that they were the only young things about just then: for young
leaves were quivering on the branches of the old trees, and young
birds were chirping in the pretty little nests in the shrubs and
hedges; young flowers were peeping up through the tender grass, and the
very sweetest of violets and primroses were dotting the banks of the
sparkling river that intersected the lawn; and, more than all, young,
woolly, curly lambs were frolicking about, enjoying themselves as much
as the merry boy, the owner of them all, and his frisky companion.
The old trees had looked down for many years on groups of merry
children playing beneath them, children whose shouts echoed all around,
but who had long since passed away, their work in life done, and a new
generation had taken their place—to pass away, too, in their appointed
time. Yet still the old trees grew on.
But there was only one child playing there now. Brothers and sisters he
had none. A fatherless child, too, but a merry one withal. The large
brown eyes were almost always dancing with fun, save when they rested
on the face of his widowed mother. Then there came a look of tenderness
and a depth of love into them, which quieted the fun, it may be, but
increased the happiness of the young spirit: for what were all the
riches to which the boy was heir in comparison with the mother whom he
adored?
Bold, reckless, and even disobedient to others, one word from her, one
look of her soft gray eyes, brought him in his most rebellious humour a
penitent to her knee.
In the midst of his play, in the noontide glory of that spring day, a
voice called, "Sir James! Sir James! Come in; a gentleman wishes to see
you."
Unheeded fell the servant's voice.
"Come in, indeed!" said the child, addressing the dog beside him. "Go
indoors in such a glorious day as this! Not likely, Snap, is it, for
all the gentlemen in the world?"
Then, as the call was repeated, and the butler walked up to his young
master, the boy turned: "You can say I'm busy, Walter. If the gentleman
wishes me, let him come here. It's a shame to be indoors in such a day!"
"It is her ladyship's desire you should come, sir; she said to tell you
so," said the butler.
"Mamma wishes me? Oh, then, I must go! Here, Snap, come along! She
won't wish to keep us long indoors."
On a sofa in the castle drawing-room lay a gentle-looking lady, dressed
as a widow; a tall gentleman, not unlike herself, stood near her. They
were engrossed in conversation; the subject a painful one to the lady
apparently, for her eyes were full of tears, and her voice trembled as
she said—
"So soon, Edward? Must it really be? How can I bear it? And he is so
good—and well advanced too; might it not be deferred for another year?"
But the answer came in a firm, manly tone, yet gentle withal: "No,
Charlotte, it cannot be put off. James is now eight years old: and
though I grant he is obedient to you, still he is under no control to
any one else; and, as his uncle and guardian, I must advise, nay, urge
his being sent away from home, and allowed to mix with other boys.
Think of the property and the riches to which he is heir; and remember,
dear sister, what a responsibility will fall on him. With the control
of so many and so much, he doubly needs to learn to control himself. I
know what a trial it will be to both of you; but in the end, it will be
best. The school I have selected is a good one; the master kind, though
strict; and his wife a ladylike, motherly person. Be brave, Charlotte,
and let him go. You know—" and here he stooped over the sofa, and
kissed his sister's brow—"that the 'Father of the fatherless' will not
forsake your child."
She looked up—a true woman, with a mother's unselfish heart shining out
in her eyes through the tears: "So be it, then, Edward; he shall go,
and I will trust and pray."
Just then the door opened, and the beautiful boy bounded in.
"Oh, Uncle Edward, are you the gentleman who wished to see me, and
brought me away from such a game of fun with Snap?"
Then, shaking hands with him, he ran to his mother, and stood beside
her.
"But, mother dear, it was because Walter said you wished me, that I
have come. What is it, mother?"
The question was asked in a troubled tone, for his quick eye had
detected the tears that still glistened on the dark lashes.
"What is wrong, mother darling?" And, the boyish wildness all laid
aside, he bent, with a gentle look, over her.
"Uncle Edward and I have been talking about you," was the reply, as she
gently put back the brown curls off his large open forehead.
"Well, and what then? I've been doing no harm, mother—only jumping with
Snap. I could not have sat still to-day. Why, out-of-doors everything
seems dancing and jumping—the leaves on the trees, the little river
over the stones, and the lambs, mother—oh, if you only saw them! They
are just wild with fun. I do believe, if you had been out, you would
have run yourself, mother. I could not have stayed shut up in the
school-room to-day for even one hour. I met Mr. Dale coming, and told
him so, and that he need not go on, for I could not learn a lesson on
such a day."
"James," said his uncle, in a stern tone, "are you the proper person to
tell your tutor when you are to learn lessons and when not? It is high
time such a state of affairs should come to an end." Then, in a kinder
tone, he said, "Tell me, James, do you think you are put into this
world only to please yourself?"
The brown eyes fell for an instant; but the saucy look shone in them
again as he answered, "I suppose not, uncle; but I can't sit still when
the sun shines like this, and everything calls me to come out and play."
At these words Lady Dudley looked anxiously at her brother. How could
she tell this boy that ere long he must leave his happy country
home, and spend, not one, but many hours of each day pent up in a
school-room? But the expression in her brother's eyes left her no
alternative.
Drawing her son close to her, she said, "James, can you be a brave boy
for mother's sake, and help her to be brave too?"
He started up—"Ay, mother, that I can; how can I help you?"
Calmly then she told him all.
At first, he hardly took in all that her words implied.
"Go to school, mother? Leave you, and Winder Castle, and Snap? Oh,
mother, uncle, I could not! Don't send me away—oh, please don't! I'll
do anything, Uncle Edward—anything I'm bid. I'll send and ask Mr. Dale
to come back this very day; and I'll sit hard at lessons for hours, if
only I need not go away."
"James—" it was his uncle who spoke—"I thought at least you would try
to save your mother pain. Look there!"
For Lady Dudley, who was in delicate health, turned deadly pale, and
lay half fainting.
In a moment the boy was himself again, and, with a bottle of aromatic
vinegar in his hand, bent over his mother—making her smell it, using
all the while every endearing term he could think of; and when she
was restored, he said bravely, "Mother, dear mother, don't look like
that again, and I'll do whatever is best. I'll go, and show you, and
uncle too, that I'm not selfish. I will be brave for your sake; see if
I don't. Only, I may come back soon, mayn't I? And you'll not send me
far-off; say you'll not send me far!"
"No, my boy, my own darling boy, you will be only a few hours' distance
by train. And you will come often home to see us all; mother could not
live long without her boy. God bless and keep him!"
No more words passed on the subject, that day in Sir James's presence;
but more than one inmate of the castle noticed that the boy played no
more, but sat silently under the shade of the old trees, or else at his
mother's couch. Poor child! He could not remember his father's death,
so this was his first sorrow. But true to his promise, he kept bravely
up, and the tears which he shed were shed alone, where no eye but that
of his Father in heaven saw them. Not for worlds would he increase the
sorrow which he saw his mother was feeling at parting with him.
"By the way, Charlotte," her brother remarked, on the day of his
return from leaving his nephew at the much-dreaded school, "Dr. Bowles
mentioned to me that he would put James under the special care of one
of the steadiest boys in his school—Ronald Macintosh, an orphan lad
from Scotland. I wonder if he can be a son of the Elenora Macintosh
whose husband fell in the Afghan War, and of whom our brother Willie
used to speak as the sweetest Christian lady he ever met. I should not
wonder if it is the same; for now I remember Dr. Bowles said his uncle
had a property in the north called Benvourd, and I know Willie used to
speak of Elenora's home by a name something like that."
Lady Dudley's face brightened for the first time since she had parted
from her child. "Oh," she said, "if he be a son of Captain Macintosh,
of the 14th Indian Cavalry, he will be well brought up, for both father
and mother were Christians; though, to be sure, they have been dead
some time. O Edward, will they be kind to my boy, my little son? How
will he bear it? And how shall I?"
These last words were to herself. And then she went with her heavy
heart to the very best place she could go with it—even to the throne
of grace; there to seek again help for her loved child, and strength
for herself to bear up bravely for his sake. She did not fail to ask
for this child so richly gifted with the world's wealth, that he might
learn to use it aright, and to estimate it at its true value; and in
the spirit if not the very words of Elenora Macintosh's dying prayer,
she asked that her loved boy might have the true riches, even those
heavenly ones which are "better than gold."
If any parent thinks that her grief at parting from her boy for so
short a time is exaggerated, let such bear in mind all that he had been
to her from his birth, and that he was her "only son," and she was "a
widow."