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

by Mary L. Code

By and by he went to sleep. Perhaps it was because he had spent several waking hours the night before, and that this day had been a dinnerless one for him; but so it was, and when he awoke it was to a scene of confusion and bustle, for they had arrived at their journey’s end, and the guard was calling aloud, “Oldbridge.”

Arthur rubbed his sleepy eyes, as the station lights flashed brightly, and the train came to a sudden stop. “Come, Arthur, my boy, here we are. Make haste and open your eyes. We have a drive before us, so you will have time to wake up on the way to your aunt’s,” said Mr. Vivyan, as they threaded their way along the crowded platform.

It was a very dark night; there was no moon, and thick clouds shut out the starlight. Oldbridge station stood at the extreme end of the town, and in order to reach Myrtle Hill, they must drive along a country road of two or three miles. In summer time this was a very pleasant way, for the trees sheltered it on one side, while the other was bordered with a hedgerow and wide-spreading fields; but now on this dark night, nothing of all this was seen, and Arthur wondered what kind of a place they were passing through. When he had made little pictures in his mind of their arrival at Oldbridge, they had not been at all what the reality was. He had imagined a drive through a busy town, where they would pass through street after street, and that the bright gas would light the way, and show him the place and the things that they passed.

“What kind of a place are we in, father?” asked Arthur. “There seem to be no houses—I hope the man knows the way—and they have no light at all.”

“Well, I think certainly a little light would be desirable; but the people here don’t seem to think so. Well, never mind, we shall have light enough by and by. It will be pleasant to see aunt’s snug, warm house, won’t it, Arthur?”

“Yes,” said Arthur; but his answer was a very faint one; for he thought of another warm, bright home that he knew very well; and that there was some one there, sitting in the old chair, and that the rug at her feet was empty, and he had to smother a bitter sob that arose, and hold himself very still, as a shivering feeling passed over him.

But presently Arthur’s quick eye caught a bright gleam, shining through the darkness, and soon he found that it was a lamp over a gateway, and that they were nearing their destination. The lamp showed just enough for him to see, that inside the gateway a broad gravel walk led up to the house between thick laurel bushes; and soon the sound of the wheels grating over the gravel, told him that they were driving up the avenue, and would soon be there. His father began to collect their rugs and packages, and seemed to be very contented that they had arrived. As for Arthur himself he hardly knew what he felt; not particularly glad, certainly; for there was far too dreary and heavy a feeling at his heart just then, to leave room for much gladness; still, he was very tired and cold, and perhaps even hungry, so that it was with some feeling of satisfaction that he felt the carriage stop, and looking out he saw the warm firelight from within, dancing on the curtained windows, and shining through the windows in the hall.

It was not very long before they were standing inside the hall door; and Arthur had just one minute to look about him while his father was taking off his great coat. Any one who took notice of things could see that no children belonged to Myrtle Hill. Everything was in the most perfect order. The hair mats were white and unruffled, the chairs were placed in an orderly manner against the wall, and no dust lay upon them. Just as Arthur was looking round with an admiring eye, one of the doors opened; and a lady appeared, that he knew was his aunt. It was almost like a new introduction to him, for he had not seen her for a very long time, and then only for a day or two. She greeted her brother very warmly, and then she turned to him. “And so this is Arthur,” she said; and it was almost timidly that she spoke, for she was almost as much afraid of her little nephew, as he was of her. “Ronald, he is a great deal more like Louisa than you. His eyes are like hers.”

“Yes, I believe he is generally considered to be so,” said Mr. Vivyan, smiling. “A great compliment; don’t you think so yourself, Arthur?”

Arthur always had a very peculiar feeling when people looked at him, and said who he was like. He did not very much approve of it on the whole; and once he had confidentially asked his mother why the ladies and gentlemen who came to Ashton Grange did not make remarks about her face, and say who they thought she was like. At present he was making use of his blue eyes in taking an accurate account of his aunt.