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

by Mary L. Code

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.