Left at Home / or, The Heart's Resting Place

by Mary L. Code

Arthur knew what it was to have put his trust in the Saviour of the world, but hitherto everything had been so bright, and things had come and gone so smoothly, that he had not thought much about Him. He stayed awake a very long time, waiting to see if his mother would come and talk to him, as she very often did when there was anything to say. He did not know what had passed when he had left the library, that his mother’s head had sunk low, and her heart had shed the tears that he had not seen, and that now came flowing from her eyes. And he did not know that she was utterly unfit to speak to any one, so that when she stopped at his door, and seemed to be going in, his father had said—

“No, Louisa, you must not; I will go and tell him that you would come, but that you can’t.”

So that was how it was when Arthur heard his bedroom door open, and looked round with an eager longing in his eye. He sunk back again on his pillow when he saw that it was his father that was coming towards him, and he lay there quite quietly without moving, so that Mr. Vivyan almost thought he was asleep.

“Arthur,” he said, “your mother wished me to tell you that she would have come to see you herself, only she was not able. You know, my dear little boy, she is quite ill with the thought of your trouble; and won’t you try and be cheerful, for I am sure you would not like to make her ill, would you, Arthur?”

“No, father,” said Arthur, in a very quiet voice, without lifting his head or looking up.

“Good night, my child,” said his father, stooping down and kissing him; and then as he took his candle and went away from the room he said to himself, “He is a very strange boy—very strange indeed. After all, I don’t think he takes it so very much to heart as Louisa imagines.”

But he did not know. When Arthur heard his door shut, and when he knew that no one would come in again, the storm began, and it was a storm of passion when sorrow, and anger, and affection all raged together.

Arthur had always been a passionate child, and now the wild tempest that nobody saw showed plainly his uncontrolled feelings. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?” moaned the poor child to himself, tossing on his bed. “And am I making mamma ill too? But how can I help it? How can I help it? I can’t help being most frightfully miserable; yes, and angry too. I am angry. Why did he come back from India to take mother away? I don’t believe she wants to go. Yes, I suppose she does though. Oh, I wish, I wish he had never come back from India! Everything has gone wrong since. I don’t love him one bit. I wish, oh, I wish it was as it used to be once!”

Poor Arthur, he sobbed and moaned until he was tired, and the knowledge that he was very wicked did not certainly make him happier.

He sobbed himself to sleep that night, and when the morning sunbeams stole into the room and lighted on the white curtains of his bed, he awoke with a dull, desolate feeling of a great pain in his heart.