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

by Mary L. Code

“I don’t know; I do use a great many clothes, certainly,” said Arthur thoughtfully, as he remembered various rents in more than one of his little coats; “and boots, oh, yes, my boots must cost a great deal.”

The next day Arthur devoted to taking a farewell ramble through the grounds; and in roaming through all the places in the country around, that he knew so well. He visited every little hiding-place, to which he and his companion had given names of their own, and then he sat down on the top of a high mound near the house, where on one of his birthdays a flagstaff had been planted. The gay-coloured flag was floating in the breeze now, and Arthur wondered whether if any one else came to live at Ashton Grange they would take down the flagstaff; “at any rate,” he thought, “I will take down the flag. I think it is nicer that it should be folded up while we are all away. Oh, yes, and then it will be all ready to put up again, when we all come back, if we ever do come back again to this place. Let me see, I shall be almost a man then. Fancy me a man. I wonder what kind of a man I shall be. Like papa, I daresay; and yet they say I am like mother. I should think a man like mother would be very queer.”

And Arthur began painting fancy pictures of the time when his father’s term in India should be over; and though it was very pleasant to do it, and the things that he intended to happen then, were very much to his fancy, yet it was with a little sigh of regret that he said to himself, “But any way, I shall never be mother’s little boy any more.”

Then Arthur took out his new pocket knife and carved his name upon the flagstaff. “How odd if anybody sees it while we are away,” he thought; “they will wonder whose name it is. Shall I put Arthur T. Vivyan? No, I think not, that might be Thomas. I should not like any one to think my name was Thomas.”

So, after an hour’s diligent labour, the name appeared, “Arthur Trevor Vivyan.”

And then he sat down to take a last long look at everything. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was shining with its soft spring gilding, sparkling through the ivy, and making the shadows of the woods look deeper. It was shining with a ruddy glow on the windows of the house, every window that he knew so well. There was his mother’s room. Arthur always thought hers was the nicest window, and he used to be very glad that the roses climbed up there, and clustered lovingly around it. There was the little window on the landing over the hall door; where he remembered, on more than one occasion, he had made nurse very angry, by wishing to try if he could not climb out there, and plant himself on the top of the porch, so as to look like a statue. Then there was the drawing-room window, with the green Venetian blinds half drawn up, and the bright colours appearing from inside. Lastly, he looked to the nursery, where, oh, so often! he had watched for little Mildred’s white-robed figure to appear. How pleased she used to be, when he stood where he was now! It was a sad, sad sever to Arthur’s heart; only everything seemed so dark and sad just now, that he had not thought much about Mildred lately; but his eyes followed the sunlight on, far away, until they rested on one fair green spot amongst the trees, where he knew that a little green mound was covering his baby sister’s form; and as all the sad things that had happened so lately came into Arthur’s mind, and he thought of how different it had been a little while ago, he covered his face with his hands, and the sobs came thick and fast.

So that when after a little while he came indoors, and wandered into the room where he expected to find his mother, she saw that his eyes were red with crying, and she knew that his heart was as sad as her own. But she said brightly, “Arthur, I want you to help me. See, here are piles of your things, and I want you to help me to count them over, and to put down how many there are of each; that is what we call an inventory, and you must have an inventory, of course.” Arthur was quite pleased with this idea, and presently he was very busy helping his mother. When it was all done, when the last little garment was laid neatly in the box, and the nice presents that had been given to him were stored away underneath, and Arthur’s mother was resting in her armchair in the firelight, he drew his stool to her feet, and laid his head lovingly on her lap; and his mother felt the hot tears fall on her hands, and she saw that the brown curls were trembling with his crying, and she knew that the same thought was in his mind that had just been aching in hers—“For the last time!”

But Arthur did not cry long, for he was trying hard not to make her more unhappy than she was, and presently he stopped, and became very still, and after a little while he said softly—

“Talk to me, mamma.”

“What shall I say, dear?”