LEFT ALONE.

RTHUR had been very tired the night before; so that the spring sun was shining quite brightly, when he found himself lying awake in his new room. Indeed, he did not know whether he would have awaked even then, if he had not heard a knocking at his door, and then a voice saying—

“If you please shall I light your fire?”

“No, thank you,” said Arthur; and then to himself he added, “I’m not quite such a muff as that!” Then he began to examine his room. “I wonder is this going to be my room always!” thought Arthur. “’Tis much nicer than my room at home, only I don’t like it half so well; indeed, I don’t.”

It was a very pretty room certainly. The paper on the wall was bright and soft-looking, with a pattern of bunches of spring flowers, tied with silver ribbon. The carpet was something of the same sort, and it reminded him of primroses hidden in the grass. The window-curtains were spotlessly white, with green cords, and the chair-coverings were a soft green.

“Yes; it certainly is a very nice room,” said Arthur to himself, after looking round and examining everything; “but I think it is a great deal more like a girl’s room than a boy’s. What can she think I want with such a lot of looking-glasses? And I suppose she thinks I like reading and writing very much;” for he saw that the book-shelves were well filled, and that in the corner of the room there was a small table, where a writing-case and inkstand stood. “Well, she may think so. I expect she will soon find out her mistake.”

Arthur was more cheerful this morning, than he had been the evening before. It was natural to him to feel hopeful in the morning. He liked the feeling of awaking in a strange place. At least he had always liked it hitherto; though with the pleasant feeling of excitement and interest it brought, there came a dreamy heart-sinking too; for he could not forget, that this was to be no visit, but that he was to live on here for years and years without his mother.

But the sun was shining very brightly into his room, and as he stood waiting for some call downstairs; he thought he would like to see what kind of surroundings belonged to his new home.

Very different was the view he now saw from the country that lay around Ashton Grange. From the highest window there, the view extended over only a few miles, and the green wooded hills that arose, not so very far off, marked the horizon to the pretty country scene that Arthur knew so well; but here a wide stretch of country lay beneath him, undulating here and there, but spreading far on, covered with fields and trees, and dotted with hamlets, until it faded away into grey distance. The sun had risen not long before, and the rosy beams were falling on the country, lighting with a ruddy radiance the windows of the cottages, and sparkling on the little river that was winding peacefully through the pasture land. It was a very sweet scene, and Arthur felt its beauty. He could not see the town, where they arrived the night before; for a stretch of woodland near by shut it out from his sight.

Having looked at the distant hills, he now turned his attention to the objects nearer home. How very neatly the gravel walks were rolled. The grass was smooth and evenly cut; not even the little daisies were allowed to peep their modest heads from the lawn. “Well, I wonder aunt cuts off all the heads of her namesakes,” said Arthur to himself. His window was at the side of the house, and he could see that the garden surrounded it on all sides, and that the low trees that led down to the arbour gave their name to Myrtle Hill. It was early spring-time yet, and not very many flowers were blooming; only here and there bright-coloured tufts of crocuses and primroses were shining on the brown earth, and the snowdrops were shaking their bended heads, in the morning breeze. Arthur looked at it all, and wondered whether he should ever be as familiar with this place, as he was with the home far away. This thought led him into a reverie, and he began to wonder what every one was doing at this time there—who was feeding Hector; and would the gardener’s boy remember to water the seeds; though he remembered with a deep sigh that it did not matter very much, as long before they would be in bloom, Ashton Grange would be empty and deserted; and this thought was a very dreary one. Arthur was beginning to feel very dismal again. The changing spring sky, too, had become overclouded; the morning sun was hidden, and it seemed as if a shower was going to fall. There was a prospect of a shower indoors, too; for Arthur dashed the tear-drops from his eyes, and said, “I won’t cry; no, I won’t; I’m always crying now. I wonder how mother can keep from it so well. Well, perhaps when I am as old as she is I shall be able; or, perhaps I shall be like papa, and not want to cry. I wonder if he does ever; it would be queer to see father cry. Perhaps he did when he was in India by himself.”

And Arthur almost laughed to himself at the idea. Presently a bell sounded through the house. “I suppose,” thought Arthur, “that is the breakfast-bell; it ought to be by this time. But then, suppose it should not be; suppose it should be some bell that I have nothing to do with; it would not be at all pleasant to go down. I think I will wait for a little, and see; but then, if it should be the breakfast-bell, aunt will think I am a lazy thing. So what shall I do? I will go.”

And so saying, Arthur opened his door in a determined manner, walking along the corridor; where some canaries were hung in a cage, making his ears quite aware of their presence. Notwithstanding the courage with which he had left his room, it was with a cautious step he came near the dining-room, and opening the door very gently he was quite relieved to see that his father and his aunt were both there.

As he came into the room Mrs. Estcourt was talking to his father, and she seemed in rather an anxious state of mind, as he listened to her with an amused expression on his face. “You know, Ronald, you—you really must begin breakfast, the carriage will be coming round in no time. And you are not nearly ready, dear Arthur,” she said, giving him a hurried kiss. “Where are the railway rugs and the shawls? Your father will want them; for it is a cold morning.”

“Now, my dear sister,” said Arthur’s father, putting his hand on her shoulder, “don’t be putting yourself into a fuss about nothing; I always take my time, and I think I generally manage to come in all right in the end. I want some breakfast, please, when you are ready, Daisy. Good morning, my darling little boy,” and Mr. Vivyan put his arm very tightly round Arthur’s neck, and gave him such a kiss, as he had never remembered having had from him before. “Now, don’t cry, Arthur,” he said; for this loving embrace from his father was bringing the tears into his eyes again. “Do you know what I was thinking about, when I was looking out of my window this morning? I was thinking of you; and I came to the conclusion that you ought to think yourself very well off. Here you are with an aunt who is going to make ever so much of you, I can see; going to live in a most beautiful country, with a school near, where, of course, the boys will be pleasant companions if you are pleasant to them; a half-holiday every Saturday; a father and mother gone away for a little while, thinking of you all the day; and a letter from India—I won’t say how often. Ah, it was very different when you and I were young! Eh, Daisy?”

“No. I think I was very happy then,” said Mrs. Estcourt. “I am sure our grandfather and grandmother were just as good as any one could be.”

“Yes; for you, my dear, I daresay they were; but I was not you, you know. Well, I’m very glad some times have not to come over again. I suppose Arthur is feeling that just now.”

Mr. Vivyan himself seemed very well contented with his present position, and Arthur thought so.

“Father,” he said presently, “as I have to stay in England, of course I would rather be with Aunt Daisy than with any one else, and I think this is a very pretty place indeed. But you don’t know how frightfully I wish I was going to India with you. Don’t you wish you could take me, father?” asked Arthur a little wistfully.

“My dear little boy, I wish it so much, that it is one of the things it is better not to think about. And then, you know, you must always look on the bright side of things, and there are plenty of bright sides for you. Just think of all the bright sides I have been showing you. Now, let us have some breakfast, or really, auntie, I shall be late.”

But before Mrs. Estcourt moved, she said in a very low voice, and as if she did not think any one else heard her—

“There is not always a bright side to look at.” For she was thinking that all the brightness had been taken away from her life’s story. Would not Arthur’s mother have said, “If there is none anywhere else, look to where the Lord Jesus waits to bless you, saying, ‘Your heart shall rejoice;’ and then the light of His love would make the shadiest life shine with a summer gleaming?”

Arthur’s appetite seemed really gone this morning, and his aunt’s attention was too much occupied with anxiety about his father’s comfort for the journey, to notice that he was eating hardly anything; and in the midst of his trouble the thought came across Arthur’s mind that it was a very good thing he was not hungry, as he felt a great deal too shy to help himself.

Presently there was the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel outside. “Now,” said Mrs. Estcourt, starting up, “there is the carriage, Ronald; I knew it would be here before you were ready.”

“Well,” said Mr. Vivyan quietly, “you know one of us would have to be ready first, and I would rather the carriage waited for me than I for it. Besides, I am quite ready. Now, my dear sister, expend your energies in seeing if my luggage is all right.”

Then Arthur and his father were left alone.

“Now, my darling boy,” Mr. Vivyan said, “come here. I want to speak to you, and to say good-bye.”

So Arthur came closer to his chair, and his father put his arms around him, and took his hand in his.

“Arthur,” he said, “perhaps you don’t know how much I love you, and how deeply anxious I am about you, that you should grow up to be a man that your mother need not be ashamed of. You know, Arthur, I cannot talk to you as she does; but I pray for you every day, and now especially that I am leaving you. But we shall have another home on earth some day, I trust; and, better than that, you know about the home where the Lord Jesus is waiting for those who are washed in His blood. You are going to that home, my precious boy?”

“Yes, father,” said Arthur in a low voice.

“Well, then, you know you always have that to think about; and now I will give you this text to keep from me while I am away, ‘Goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’ And won’t it be nice to get a letter from India!”

“Yes, oh yes, father,” said Arthur, bursting into a flood of tears; “but it would be so much nicer to be going.”

“Hush, hush,” said Mr. Vivyan kindly; “you know there are some things that God has forbidden, and it is wrong to think of how nice they would be. I suppose you cannot think of how pleasant a great many things you have are just now, but by and by you will find it out.”

This was just what Arthur was thinking. It was very strange to him to hear his father talking in this way to him; he had never done so before; and it made him love him as he did not know he ever could. It was quite true that everything was looking black and gloomy, and that to try and see brightness in his life at Myrtle Hill seemed to make the dreary feeling more intense at his heart. But still he could lie down at the feet of the Master who is so kind, and rest there while earthly things were so dark, and trust Him, waiting while the violence of the storm was passing. Arthur had answered the Shepherd’s call—“Follow thou me,” and the one who has said that “He gathers the lambs in His arms, and carries them in His bosom.”

“And now, my boy,” said Mr. Vivyan, “God bless you and keep you; good-bye, my own dear little boy.” Then he put his arm around Arthur’s neck, and kissed him. A minute after, Arthur was standing by himself before the drawing-room fire; and when presently he heard the carriage roll away, and the sounds became gradually fainter and fainter in the distance, he felt that he was all alone.

Indeed, he hardy knew what he felt. There seemed to be a sudden quiet hush within him, and as he looked outside the window where the carriage had just stood, and the bustle of going away had just ceased, the quiet of every thing seemed very still and deep. Only the little birds were just the same, singing gaily as if nothing had happened, and the morning breeze was brushing the myrtle trees as they did every spring morning when the sun was making the country look glad.

Presently he heard steps outside the door, and as they came nearer and nearer, Arthur felt as if he would like to run away; for he was afraid his aunt might talk about his father and mother, and he felt as if he could not talk of anything just then. But he need not have been afraid, Mrs. Estcourt was wiser than that, and she only said kindly—

“Would you like to go out and look about you a little, Arthur dear? It will not rain just yet, I think; and you may go where you like; at least, that is, if you are accustomed to go by yourself.”

“I should think I am, indeed,” said Arthur; “why I have done that ever since I was eight.”

“You won’t lose your way?” asked his aunt anxiously.

“If I do, I shall have to find it again, you know, aunt,” said Arthur.

“You are a funny little fellow,” said Mrs. Estcourt. “Well, if you get hungry before luncheon-time, you must come and tell me.”

Arthur thought of Hector, and how pleasant it would be if his old friend would come bounding in answer to his whistle; then he looked at the sleepy white-haired creature lying on the hearth-rug.

“Aunt Daisy,” he said, “would you like me to take out that white fellow?”

“What, dear?” said Mrs. Estcourt. “Oh, I don’t know, Arthur; I think, perhaps, not just yet; not until you are more accustomed to it.”

“Very well,” said Arthur, as he went away; and he said to himself, “I would quite as soon not.”

Arthur felt, as he stood outside the hall door, as if all the world was before him, to choose where he would go. He thought he would first examine the garden, which encircled the house on all sides. A gap in the myrtle bushes led him down a narrow path into a large space, which the fruit trees and vegetables showed was the kitchen garden. He walked round, and noticed how neatly the beds were kept, and that the walks even here were stripped of weeds. Two boys who were working there, rather older than himself, eyed him curiously. Arthur wondered whether they knew who he was; but he felt inclined to be where there was no one else just then. So he left the garden, and passing out through the iron gate, he found himself on the high road, turning to walk down in the direction which they had come the night before. Presently a sign-post stood before him, one hand pointing to Stratton, and the other to Harford. Arthur followed the last name along a green, flowery lane, where the wild roses were mantling their green, and here and there an early bud was making its appearance. He walked on for some distance, until the high road was hidden by a bend in the lane, and the green trees began to arch overhead; and on each side, the road was bordered with grass and green, velvety moss; the birds were warbling soft songs in the branches, and from the wood hard by the sweet cooing of the pigeons could be heard. It was a very pleasant spot, so much so, that when Arthur threw himself down on the grass to rest, he said with a deep sigh, “Well, it might be worse; and Aunt Daisy is certainly very kind.”

“Yes, it might be worse,” he continued to himself; “and it is nice to think of by and by, when they come back. Suppose they were dead!” He shuddered at the thought. “I can quite fancy what mother will look like when she sees me again. No; I don’t believe I can, though. How will she feel, and how shall I feel? I suppose very different from what I do now; for I shall be really a man then. Oh, dear! I had better not think of that time yet. I must try and think about all the things God gives. Father said something like that. Father was very kind to me to-day. I did not know he could be so kind.”

Arthur did not know then much about the true, deep, persistent tenderness of a father’s love; but we know that when God spoke a word that expresses His heart to His people, He called Himself His children’s Father.

“Let me see!” continued Arthur. “Five years, and in every year three hundred and sixty-five days. If I multiply three hundred and sixty-five by five, I shall know how many days I have to wait, and then I could mark off one every day; but, oh, dear! that makes a great, great many.”

So he sprang up from the grass, and walked briskly on the shady road, where the sunlight was falling softly; for Arthur meant never to cry, unless he could not possibly help it, and certainly not out of doors. He wandered over a good distance—for it was pleasant exploring in the new country—until he suddenly remembered his aunt at home, and that she would be thinking he had lost his way. “And I must not begin by frightening her,” said Arthur to himself.

Up till this time Arthur’s first day had passed more brightly than he had expected. It would be hard for him to be very unhappy on that spring day, with everything rejoicing around him, and the free country breathing in soft breezes. But it was different when he came in. The house seemed very dark and gloomy after the cheerful sunlight, and it seemed to him as if there was no sound of any sort indoors, except now and then a faint noise from the servants’ regions far away; for even the canary-birds were silent, and the fat dog was sleeping its life away upon the hearth-rug. Indeed, Arthur thought he could almost imagine, that the hairy creature and the soft hearth-rug were one and the same. There seemed to be nothing at all to do within doors, and he could not be out always. Besides, the bright morning was fast changing, and grey, gloomy clouds were gathering over the country. The myrtle trees were beginning to shake with a rainy wind, and he could see that the fine weather was gone for that day.

Altogether, Arthur felt very dismal as he stood at the drawing-room window, near to where his aunt was sitting at her writing-table.

“Have you had a nice walk?” she asked presently.

“Yes, aunt,” said Arthur, tapping very forcibly on the window.

“And what did you see?”

“Oh, nothing particular!” said Arthur.

Mrs. Estcourt saw that she must try some other subject to talk about.

“Have you anything you would like to do, dear, until dinner-time?”

“No, I don’t think so, aunt.”

“What do you generally do at home when you are not walking?”

“I don’t know, really aunt,” Arthur answered. “I suppose I do lessons.”

“Oh, but I don’t want you to begin lessons just yet. Well, then, what do you do when it is neither lessons nor walking?”

“Sometimes I go for messages, and sometimes I make things with my tools.”

“Make things! How do you mean, dear?”

“Oh, I make boats and things! and I used to make wedges for a window in mamma’s room that rattled with the wind. Have you any windows that don’t shut quite tightly, aunt?” asked Arthur. “I could make you some by and by, if you have.”

Mrs. Estcourt smiled; but she was not able to remember any window that needed Arthur’s arrangements. So he was left to himself and the rain again; for the drops were falling thickly against the window now. At first he employed himself in tracing their course down the glass, but very soon he was tired of that, and presently Mrs. Estcourt heard a heavy sigh.

“That was a very deep sigh,” she said cheerily. “What did it mean?”

“Well,” said Arthur, “partly, I think, it meant that I wish I had something to do.”

His aunt thought that boys were very curious things, and wondered what they could do. She felt almost inclined to echo Arthur’s sigh; but she thought a moment, and then she said—

“Would you like to have a skein of wool to wind into a ball?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. He was quite glad to have even this to do. At home it was not the occupation he generally chose; but now, as he stood with the blue wool encircling two chairs, steadily unwinding it into a ball, it seemed quite pleasant work. Mrs. Estcourt had quite made up her mind, that the skein would be spoiled, and so when her little nephew brought it to her, wound and unbroken, it was an agreeable surprise, and she began to have a higher opinion of boys in general.

The day seemed to wear very slowly on, and with the waning light Arthur’s heart seemed to sink very low. So quiet was he, that his aunt could hardly understand him, and any one who had seen the boisterous, lively boy at Ashton Grange, would hardly have known him as the same one who was sitting so quietly before the drawing-room fire in the lamplight. He was sitting there in dreamy fashion with a very sad, heavy heart, when his aunt asked him what was his bedtime. A fortnight ago, if this question had been put to Arthur, he would not have given the same answer that he did now. Then he had considered it one of the greatest hardships of his life, that a quarter before nine was the time when he was expected to disappear. But now he said, “Oh, I don’t much mind, aunt; I think I should like to go now!” for the weary, lonely feeling was making his heart so sick, that he wanted to be all alone for a while.

“Well, good night, darling,” said his aunt, and she put her arms very tenderly round his neck; for she knew that his poor little heart must be aching, and that his thoughts must be seeing things that were very far away.

She kissed him so lovingly that it was just too much for him. The tears came into his eyes, and Arthur went sobbing up the stairs, not noticing that he was holding the candle on one side, and that his way could be traced along the carpet by large white spots. Somebody else noticed it the next morning; and the housemaid thought that her mistress had done a very foolish thing when she brought that young gentleman into her orderly household.

Arthur’s little room looked very snug as he opened the door and went in. The firelight was dancing on the white curtains and on all the pretty things around. But Arthur did not see any of it for the blinding tears that were in his eyes, and fast falling down. His whole heart was longing with one deep aching to be back again at home, and all the more that he had been trying all the evening to keep back the tears. It seemed as if he would cry his heart out, as he lay on the rug, sobbing so bitterly all alone. “Oh, mamma, mamma,” he sobbed “come, come!” And this was all he said, this was what he repeated again and again; and it was very dreary that there was no answer—it seemed as if no one heard him.

But One could hear him. Jesus wept when He was on the earth, and He does not despise a child’s first bitter grief. He knows what trouble is, and He knows just how much each particular trouble is to each one; for He Himself has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.

By and by Arthur remembered the text, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” He knew that when the Lord Jesus Christ said “all” that He meant all, so he lifted up his heart to the One who alone can read hearts; and this is what he said, with the sobs coming thick and fast—what he prayed; for real prayer is a heart speaking to God, and calling to Him in need—

“Oh, Lord Jesus Christ, I do come to Thee! for I remember the text that says ‘Come,’ and I don’t know what to say except that Thou knowest, Lord Jesus, how lonely and miserable I am. My mother is far away, and papa too, and I do so want to feel her arms round me now; but I can’t, oh, I can’t! Lord Jesus, if thou wert here on the earth, and in this room, I would come to Thee, and sit at Thy feet; and Thou wouldst put Thine arms round me. Oh, do it now, Lord Jesus! for I feel as if I must have somebody taking care of me. The Bible says that Thou healest the broken-hearted, and I feel broken-hearted to-night, Lord Jesus, so heal me. Lord Jesus Christ, I belong to Thee, I am Thy lamb; gather me in Thine arms, and carry me in Thy bosom.”

It was in this way that little, lonely Arthur Vivyan poured his heart out before the Lord. He went and told Him exactly what was in it, and then he lay at His feet; and he felt as he had not felt before, what it was to be in His keeping, and to hear His voice saying, “Thou art mine,” to feel the everlasting arms enfolding him, and to know that One so strong, and kind, and true, loved him with an everlasting love. The Lord Jesus Christ was a real person to Arthur Vivyan. He had known Him before as his Saviour; he was knowing Him now as the lover of his soul.

And that night, as he lay in his white-curtained bed, he felt the sweet rest that the Lord gives when “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

The stars shone in their melting blue depths, and their trembling light fell on two who loved each other, and who were both loved by the blessed God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps; and though such time and space were separating them, they were both in His hand who “measures the water in the hollow of His hand.”

Is it not a happy thing to belong to the Lord Jesus Christ?