Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: How intently they gazed at the corner of the rocks round
which Wilmot must come.]
_[The Arundel Family series]_
NELLIE ARUNDEL.
_A Tale of Home Life._
BY
C. S.
[CATHARINE SHAW]
AUTHOR OF "THE GABLED FARM."
Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days,
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.
New Edition.
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
All rights reserved.
DEDICATED
TO
The Memory
OF
My beloved Father.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. FIRELIGHT
II. A PEEP AT CHRISTINA
III. HOME-SICK
IV. A VISIT TO FAIRLEIGH
V. AUNT RUTH
VI. CAUGHT BY THE TIDE
VII. WHERE?
VIII. FLOATING OUT TO SEA
IX. ADA'S FRIEND
X. SISTER AND BROTHER
XI. TEMPTED
XII. SOWING AND REAPING
XIII. CALLED HOME
XIV. REST
XV. SUNRISE
XVI. "THINE EYES SHALL SEE THE KING"
XVII. IN THE NIGHT
XVIII. "THAT WHICH WAS LOST"
XIX. ADA'S STORY
XX. CROSSES
XXI. AN UNEXPECTED ANSWER
XXII. A LETTER
XXIII. GUESSING
XXIV. WAITING
XXV. HASTY
XXVI. CONCLUSION
[Illustration]
NELLIE ARUNDEL.
A Tale of Home Life.
CHAPTER I.
FIRELIGHT.
"ADA, my dear, you will spoil your eyes if you attempt to read by
firelight."
The girl addressed looked up from her book into her mother's face, but
answered absently, without moving:
"This fire gives such a good light, mamma! And it is so comfortable
sitting here."
"It is, dear; but you will find, when you have to rouse yourself at
tea-time, that you are cold and cross, and not at all fit to take your
part in everything cheerfully."
Ada looked incredulous, but yielded to her mother's wish, and drew
nearer the table, where a shaded lamp was casting a bright and pleasant
light.
"It is so much nicer to do as one likes," she said, drawing her
shoulders together and shivering slightly.
"Yes, at the time," answered Mrs. Arundel, quietly.
"People always forget," continued Ada, "that they used to like such
things when they were young."
Her mamma gave her an arch smile, and Ada continued—
"I don't mean you do exactly; but people want us to grow wise all at
once; now don't they, mamma?"
"Yes, dear, I dare say we do. We want to save you a number of vexations
which we had to bear ourselves; but I am afraid you will not let us."
As Mrs. Arundel finished speaking, a bright girl of about twenty
entered, followed by two little maidens of nearly seven and eight years
respectively.
"Here you are!" exclaimed Ada, starting up. "I have been longing for
you so; but this last hour I had forgotten all about you, I have been
so busy reading."
"Yes, here we are," answered Nellie, coming forward and kissing her
step-mamma. "We have had such a nice time; but how are all at home?"
"Oh, pretty well, dear. We missed you sadly though."
Nellie shook her head, and bent down to warm her hands, while the
little girls began to throw off their wraps, and were drawing their
chairs close to the warm blaze, when Nellie interposed—
"We must go up and take off our things, dears. It is of no use to
settle down for a chat till we have got ready for tea. Come along."
Netta and Isabel gathered up their hats and jackets and hastened
after their half-sister, only anxious to get back again as quickly as
possible to their mamma and the fire.
"Now," said Ada, resuming her semi-grumble, "would you not say, mamma,
that that was rather exasperating, if you didn't know that it really
was the best to do?"
"That? What do you mean?"
"Why, Nellie walking those children off, and not saying a word. Don't
you think we should all have enjoyed ourselves infinitely more if we
had settled down to a chat then and there?"
"Perhaps—" said Mrs. Arundel, hesitating. "Only, you see, Ada, I know
so well that it is the right thing, that I am not a fair judge."
"So do I," said Ada, half smiling. "Of course I know it; for instead
of sitting and spoiling their hats, and rumpling their jackets, and
scorching their best boots, and having after all to turn out and go
upstairs, and dreading all the time that you would tell them to go,
they will now come down warm and tidy and fresh, and they will sit here
for ever so long, and be quite happy, and tell you all their doings
without a break, and will feel besides that they had done right; and
yet, mamma, I'd have sat here all the same, if I had been allowed, and
faced the disagreeable for the sake of the luxury!"
Mrs. Arundel looked rather pained, and Ada leant over and gave her a
warm kiss.
"You're a dear, good, sweet mother. And now I've done grumbling, and
will be a good girl."
She closed her tempting book precipitately, drew from her pocket some
tatting, and pushing her chair a little to one side to make room for
the others when they came down, she commenced working.
Some readers are already acquainted with the Arundels; but to those
who do not yet know them, it may be explained that they were a large
family, living in a square in the middle of London, round which their
father's practice as a physician lay among both rich and poor.
There were many who knew Dr. Arundel, not only as the clever and
successful doctor, but as the friend who in dark hours of anxiety truly
sympathized, while reminding them of One above, ruling and watching,
waiting to be gracious, and to bless those who would call upon Him in
their sorrow.
There were nine children—Walter and Nellie by the first wife, and seven
since, the two youngest of whom, a baby boy of two years, and a little
pet girl of four, were happily at tea in the nursery on this cold day
in January.
Very soon the three sisters came down looking, as Ada had said, warm
and tidy and fresh, or if they were not warm, they soon would be.
"Now tell us all your doings," exclaimed Ada.
"How did you leave Christina?" asked Mrs. Arundel.
"She was very well, and very happy; and we really had so much to do,
and were so busy over the Christmas tree, that the time flew by in an
extraordinary way," answered Nellie.
"Did they have a Christmas tree?" said Ada rather regretfully.
"Yes, last night; just a very simple one. We did so want you, Ada!
But papa had said so distinctly that you were needed at home, that
Christina did not like to write."
Ada's colour came fast, and she went on with her tatting in silence,
her eyes filling in spite of all her efforts when she remembered the
delights she had missed, and pictured to herself how intensely she
would have enjoyed it all. She knew, however, that it had not been "her
turn" to go, and acquiesced in its being right; but still "how she
would have enjoyed it!"
Nellie knew this well enough, and had offered to come home and send
Ada instead; but Christina Arbuthnot, at whose house at Hampstead they
had been staying, understood Dr. and Mrs. Arundel's wise decision, and
would not allow Nellie to write and make the proposal.
"And did it go off well?" asked Mrs. Arundel.
"Oh, lovely!" said Isabel. "It was so pretty; and such a lot of
candles; you could not have counted them, mamma, if you had tried ever
so, not when they were all alight."
Ada stealthily brushed away her gathered tears, and said, without
looking up, "Did they have presents on the tree?"
"Yes, lots," replied Netta emphatically; "little toys, bags of
sweetmeats, pincushions, boxes, and fruit."
"Who made the things?" said Ada.
"We did, a great many," answered Isabel; "but of course the toys were
bought. We made little bags of net, and the sweetmeats looked so
pretty, showing through them."
"Then we made some net into the shape of sailor boys, and pushed pink
and white lozenges into their legs and arms, and, oh, they did look so
funny hanging by cottons dangling about!"
Netta and Isabel laughed gleefully, and Ada smiled too at the thought.
"The little ones did stare so," said Nellie, "when they were introduced
into the room; and the baby gave quite a crow of delight."
"What did you give the baby?" asked Ada.
"A soft dog," answered Netta, "that would squeak."
"And what did Alfy have?"
"A little horse and cart for his very own."
"Was he pleased?"
"Oh, yes; he walked away with it, and began playing at once; and every
time anyone came near, he hugged it tight, and said, 'This is for my
own, own self now.'"
"Poor little man," said Mrs. Arundel.
"Mamma always is full of pity," said Ada; "but I do not see why Alfy is
poor at all."
Mrs. Arundel did not answer, but stroked Netta's head thoughtfully.
"Dear mamma," said she, looking up and appreciating the soft touch;
then turning to Ada, "I know why mamma thinks Alfy 'poor;' and so he
is, because he has no mother."
"But Christina makes him as happy as can be in her Orphanage," said Ada.
"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel; "and it is infinitely better than his running
wild at the farm; and yet, Ada—"
Ada's eyes turned round the room, and a thought flashed across her; but
she put it away hastily and almost angrily. "Another time," she said to
herself; "not now on any account."
Just at this moment, the door was opened to admit the entrance of an
invalid boy, who lay at full length on a light frame, so arranged that
it could be carried up and down stairs easily, and placed upon an
ordinary sofa without disturbing him.
Mrs. Arundel sometimes wondered what they would do when the now slender
form should be too heavy to be carried, but she checked the thought;
for, after all, did it not belong to the cares of to-morrow? And are we
not told over and over that these are not to harass us?
Carrying one end of the couch was Simmons, the housemaid, and the
other, little Tom's brother Arthur, a well-grown boy of fifteen. Mrs.
Arundel rose, and made way for them to place him on the sofa, and then,
when he was comfortable, the little girls greeted him, while Nellie sat
down by him and took his hand.
"I have missed you so, Nellie," he said, looking up in her face.
"I have brought something for you off the Christmas tree," answered
Nellie.
"Have you really? How kind of you."
"It is from Christina. It was her tree, you know."
"What is it?" asked Tom, looking curiously at Nellie's hand, which was
disappearing into her pocket.
"It is a very wonderful knife," answered she, producing it; and while
his thin little fingers explored its mysteries, all the others drew
near to watch, Arthur holding the lamp above Netta's head that they
might all see as well as possible.
There was a large blade and a small blade; there was a little saw, a
gimlet, a bradawl, a tiny screwdriver, and a little pair of pincers.
Tom's eyes sparkled, and even Arthur would not have disdained the
pretty present.
"Shall I ever be able to use any of them?" asked Tom.
"Yes, we think you will. Christina has sent you some light wood, and
directions how to make various little things; and she thought, Tom, you
might perhaps like to do something for the missionaries."
"I should very much, if I could."
"We will see then some morning when you are extra well."
"All right," answered Tom, shutting up the different parts of his knife
with great pride, and then it lay in his hand, while he turned a little
to refresh himself with a sight of his sisters and his dear Nellie. He
thought how nice they all looked in their plain, warm winter dresses,
and then his eyes wandered to his mother.
She was the very light of Tom's eyes. How he loved to see her come in
and out. There were times, seeming long ago now to little Tom, but not
much more than a year really, when he had been fretful and impatient
to this loved mother, adding greatly to her cares by repining at his
helpless state, and grumbling at his deprivations. He had perhaps loved
her then as much as he did now; but how different was the whole of his
life!
The children sometimes said, "We think Tom is getting better;" but Tom
knew it was not so.
No, there was just this difference: before, he had tried to bear his
affliction as well as he knew how, while secretly chafing against the
accident which had deprived him of every pleasure in life, and unable
to help venting his misery on his tender mother.
Now he had learnt a different lesson. He found one beautiful summer
day, that there was another life beyond this one, that these short
years are but as a drop in the ocean of eternity. He found that God had
allowed him to be a sufferer; and the same God who had sent him such
pain and weariness had given him also an assurance that He loved him.
Loved him! Was it possible this could be love? Could the bitterest
trial that could enter little Tom's imagination be sent in love?
He found out that it was, it must be. He who had sent this blow to Tom
had also given up His own Son to die for him. Greater love could not
be; and he believed that love, and rested in it, and found peace.
So from that time, little Tom had been a different boy. If ever the old
repining feeling came over him, he would remember words which had often
comforted him, and would again repeat them over to himself.
One day he gave Nellie a shilling, and asked her in a whisper to buy
him a little set of scales. She did so, wondering what he could want
them for. He did not explain; but a few days afterwards, she found him
busy covering two match-boxes with white paper, and painting them to
imitate corded packages.
She examined one, and saw painted on the side "L. A."; and turning to
the other, took it up, and found to her surprise, it was quite heavy.
"What are you making, Tom dear?" she asked.
He smiled slightly, and leaning over to a little box on his table,
produced the scales, and placing one package in one side, and the other
package in the other side, asked her to hang them up for him somewhere
where he could see them.
"But what for, Tom dear?" she said, rising to get a nail. "What is the
meaning of the letters on the parcels?"
"'L. A.' is my luggage now," said Tom, "and 'W. G.' is my luggage
by-and-by."
Nellie looked at him enquiringly, and Tom said, though his lips
quivered a little, "They are to remind me—Light Affliction now, Weight
of Glory afterwards."
Nellie buried her head on his pillow, and clasped her arms round him.
"Oh, Tom! Poor little Tom! Dear little Tom!"
And then he whispered tenderly, though with a sob in his voice—
"'These light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work for us a
far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' For, Nellie darling,
the things that we see are but for a time, but the things we do not see
are for ever."
* * * * * * *
On this evening of their return from Hampstead, Tom lay looking at
them all, and when Dr. Arundel came in, they all gathered round the
tea-table.
Then they told their little histories over again, with some new ones in
addition; and the evening flew away so fast that Netta and Isabel were
astonished when their mamma said, "It is eight o'clock, my dears; and
you must go to bed."
Tom generally was glad to retire soon after tea; the days were long
enough for him; but on rare occasions, when his mother saw he was
interested, she did not break in on his happiness, but let him enjoy as
much as he could.
When Ada laid her head on her pillow that night, after she had
said good-night to Nellie, the thought which she had banished so
peremptorily would force itself unbidden upon her.
This was the thought, and it made her shiver, "What would home be
without mamma?"
Her mind went round and round the corners of the house—the
sitting-rooms, the bedrooms, the nursery; and for once in her life, Ada
Arundel was thoroughly frightened at the desolation her imagination had
conjured up.
A soft footstep entered the dark room, a footstep she knew and loved.
"Is either of you awake, dears?" said a gentle voice.
"I am, mamma," answered Ada, starting up with such an overpowering
sense of relief that she burst into tears.
"I was only afraid of frightening you," answered Mrs. Arundel. "I came
up for the glycerine."
"Oh, mamma, do kiss me!" said Ada in a broken voice.
Mrs. Arundel made her way to the side of the bed, and, feeling for her
eldest daughter, folded her in her arms.
"Oh, mamma," said Ada again, "I did not know I loved you so much!"
"My dear," questioned Mrs. Arundel, while she kissed the wet face
fondly.
"Oh, don't leave us, mamma!" sobbed Ada.
"Not if it is God's will," gently answered her mother. "It would be
hard to think of you without me; but, Ada, my child, do not cry about
it now; tell it all to God. He knows best, my dear."
Kissing her again, Mrs. Arundel tucked her up smoothed her hair, wiped
away her tears, and turned to the dressing-table.
Ada jumped out of bed, and gave her the glycerine, and with one more
kiss jumped in again, and buried her head far beneath the clothes.
If she fought a hard battle there with her anxious fears, there was
One knew it; and if she came off victorious and at rest, there was One
who proved Himself, as He has so often done before, "a refuge from the
storm; a shadow from the heat, when the blast of the terrible ones is
as a storm against the wall."
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