FOREST LODGE
THERE was great excitement in the small hamlet near Oaklands when one
day some passers-by observed that bricks and mortar lay in heaps close
beside Jonathan's cottage, and that workmen had already begun building
just behind it.
"The old man's home was going to be pulled down," they said. "It was
too bad, after he had lived in it so many years."
Jonathan smiled at the gossip, and patted the children's heads as
they stopped to stare or climbed upon the railings; yet no amount of
questioning could make him give the information so eagerly sought.
"Those who live longest will see the most," was his conclusive answer;
and nothing further could be got out of him, though everybody tried by
turns.
Day by day the walls of the dwelling-house grew higher and higher,
until it was ready for its roof and chimneys. Not much could be seen of
it from the road, as it was partially hidden by Jonathan's cottage, and
faced the forest trees he loved to muse among. The setting sun would
glide over their waving tops and fill the rooms with a happy evening
glow, and the wood-pigeons would coo their dreamy song close by, all
the summer day.
So thought the old man, for it was spring-time again before the last
workman departed. But though the new house stood ready for use, who was
to occupy it still remained a secret. Neither had any orders been given
to pull down the old lodge,—that was the strangest part of all, people
thought.
And Robin was as much in the dark as anyone else, though every evening,
he recounted in his own home what was going on at Oaklands.
The mystery was solved a little sooner than was intended, through the
following circumstance.
Mrs. Campbell, hard at work as usual, was one morning interrupted in
her occupation by the entrance of the rent collector, who with his
cross red face and inevitable book was seldom a welcome visitor among
the poor.
"Called for the rent," said he gruffly.
"It is quite ready," replied the widow, reaching down a cracked teacup,
into which she had put the required sum the night before, to be at hand
when wanted.
"All right, missus! I've come to tell you the rent is to be raised five
pounds a year."
"Oh no surely not," replied the poor woman, aghast. "I cannot pay more,
and you promised it should not be raised for three years."
"Then you must be off; property is rising in this part of the town,"
was the only answer as he tore off the receipt; "plenty of room in the
workhouse, failing other lodgings."
This parting piece of insolence went to the poor woman's heart like
a sharp arrow, though she concealed her feelings till the man had
departed. How dared he say such a thing, when she had always paid her
rent like an honest woman! For the moment she forgot to lift her heart
above, and her tears fell fast.
But Corrie's arms were soon about her neck, and the child's touch
recalled her to herself.
"I will go to Oaklands this evening when Robin comes home, and ask to
see the master; he will help me, I am sure, if he can, and will tell me
what I had better do."
Thus setting aside her care, and asking her Father in heaven to give
her strength and guidance, the widow went briskly to work again, and by
the time Robin returned, was quite ready to set forth on her errand.
"'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,'" was
the reassuring whisper she seemed to hear as she walked along, though
fears innumerable would crowd into her heart. "He has never failed me
yet; and I will not distrust Him now, for He has promised to help me."
Meeting her kind old friend Jonathan at the gate, she told her tale to
him first.
"The master is just gone up the avenue," he said. "Follow him at once,
and you will be able to speak to him."
Mrs. Campbell obeyed, and ten minutes after found herself sitting
waiting in the business room, where the gentleman did not keep her long
in suspense.
"Well," said he cheerily, "good-evening, Mrs. Campbell. Nothing wrong,
I hope? But it is unusual to see you so far from town at this hour."
The poor woman then told her story without interruption; and as soon as
she had finished, her patient listener looked at her with a kind smile,
saying—
"I do not think you need distress yourself. I was coming to-morrow to
tell you something that I think you will be glad to hear, and which
will quite set your heart at rest about the landlord. The new cottage
has been built for you and your children. You are to live there rent
free as our laundress."
"Beg pardon, sir?" said Mrs. Campbell, in her sudden joy believing she
could not have heard aright.
Robin's kind master repeated his speech, adding, "We want you to move
into your new quarters next week."
"Oh, sir!" she faltered, in an unsteady voice, and feeling completely
overcome. "I have done nothing to deserve such kindness. Robin has
often told me about the new cottage; but I never paid much heed to what
he was saying, not thinking I should have anything to do with it."
"Neither did he, my good woman. Jonathan and I have kept it a secret;
and in concluding my bargain, I shall ask you to be a good neighbour
to the dear old man, and look after him in his old age. He is failing
sadly; and I much fear we shall not have him with us many years longer.
Now go home and tell Robin about it. It will be convenient for him to
be near his work; and Corrie will, I hope, get some colour into her
pale cheeks in this fresh country air."
Oh, what a light heart did the glad mother carry back with her that
evening to the smoky town! The distance seemed as nothing to her eager
feet. Could it be really true? It must surely be a dream. But no; the
sight of the two joyful faces at home when the news was told made her
begin to realise the fact. Neither Robin nor his mother could sleep
till late that night for thinking it over. The stern landlord might do
what he pleased now; they would soon be out of his power.
The evening before the departure to the new home, Robin sat with Corrie
in the old window-seat. His arms were round her, and she was looking up
into the sky, watching the twinkling stars.
"Do you remember that Christmas Eve, Robin, when you told me what the
bells sang about?"
"Yes, Corrie; that was a happy time for us all. God has sent us good
things ever since, and now the best of all is coming. Mother need not
work so hard; and you will be always in the beautiful country, instead
of coming back from the green fields into this dark street. Perhaps you
will get well."
Corrie looked at her helpless feet, and shook her head.
"I don't think so, Robin," she said in a grave sad tone, far beyond
her years. "The doctor told mother I should never run about like other
girls."
Her brother kissed her, and could make no answer. He knew it was true.
Presently the child looked up again and said, "Will going to heaven be
like that, Robin?"
The boy did not catch her meaning at first.
"Like what, Corrie?" he asked.
"Like going to Oaklands," she replied, watching his lips for the answer.
"Yes, something like it, because the Lord Jesus will take us to a
brighter, fairer home than we have lived in before. But heaven is more
beautiful, little sister, than anything we can think of on earth."
And with this explanation, Corrie was content.
The day of the flitting was quite a festival, the children coming down
from the big house to give their willing help and hearty welcome to
the new occupants of Forest Lodge, for so Clarice had named the house.
There were bright pictures to be nailed up on the spotless white walls
for Corrie to look at, and pots of flowers to arrange, that Jonathan
had brought in for the window-sills.
A comfortable old couch had been found and placed in one corner, for
the invalid child to lie on. It was drawn close to the window that
looked towards the wood, so that she might watch the green trees
waving, and see the gay flowers in the pretty garden, that Jonathan and
Robin had put into such neat order. It was indeed as perfect a home
as anyone could desire; and Mrs. Campbell thought so again and again,
after taking joyful possession of it. Old Jonathan was there also to
give her the word of welcome.
"So glad to see you back again at Oaklands! I remember when you first
came here as under-nursemaid; you were quite a young girl then. It is
not many that can look back as far as we can into the history of the
dear old house. Every stick on the place is dear to me."
"Yes," answered Mrs. Campbell; "I little thought to return to such rest
and peace after all my troubles. 'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me,' I
can truly say."
"'The Lord is thy keeper,'" responded her aged friend, "'the Lord is
thy shade upon thy right hand. The Lord shall preserve thy going out
and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore.'"
The fresh country air soon told favourably upon poor little Corrie, and
it was indeed a new life for her. She revelled in the rural sights and
sounds around her, and flowers were her perpetual delight. The fretted
wistful expression that pain and weakness had stamped so early on her
face began to wear away, and a bright contented look to come instead.
In summer she liked to lie among the fragrant swaths of hay, while
Clarice and Milly played beside her; and when the days were very hot
they would take her to the shady wood, to gather wild strawberries or
fill her basket with flowers. The sick child was a source of continual
interest to the little ladies of Oaklands, and scarcely a day passed
without their paying a visit to Forest Lodge. They taught her by
degrees and with much patience how to read and write, and sew and knit,
that she might, as well as the stronger ones, enter into the life of
busy occupation, and know how to work for others.
And whenever there was any special treat or pleasure, the crippled
child was always remembered. So, although she never got quite well,
Corrie's childhood grew brighter and brighter; and in her happy home,
those earlier years in the dark street faded away into a dim and
uncertain remembrance.
And when Robin's work was done, and he would sit beside her of an
evening to tell the favourite stories, he often said, "Ah, Corrie, our
happy days all began that winter when you had your first Christmas
tree. Do you remember it?"