But he could not eat much breakfast, and after a little while he came nearer to her side, and said, "Just let me stay until papa comes for me. I don't want you to talk. I only want to stay here." For Mr. Vivyan had gone into the town, not intending to come back until just before the time, when he would come to fetch Arthur away to the new home, where his heart certainly was not.

So they did not speak at all during that hour; only Arthur sat with his head pressed very closely on his mother's shoulder, and holding her hands in both his, as if he would never loosen his hold.

By and by there was a brisk step in the hall, and out of doors carriage wheels could be heard on the road; and then Mrs. Vivyan lifted the curly head, that was leaning on her shoulder. Arthur knew what it meant--the bitterest moment that had ever come to him was now at hand--and it was only a few minutes, before the good-bye would begin the five long years of separation.

Everything was ready, and he had only to put on his coat and comforter. He was in a kind of maze, as he felt the warm coat put on him, and as his mother's white hands tied the scarf round his neck. Then her arms were pressed very closely around him, and as he lay there like a helpless little baby, he could just hear her whispered farewell, "Good-bye, my own child; may G.o.d take care of you." Then Arthur felt that his father's hand was holding his, and that he was leading him away. Suddenly he remembered something that he had forgotten. "Oh, father!" he said, "please stop a moment; I must do something I forgot." This was a tiny white paper parcel, which he had been keeping for this last moment, in a hidden corner upstairs. Arthur ran up to the place, and bringing it down he put it in his mother's hands, and said, "That's what I made for you, mother."

She did not open it until he was gone; and perhaps it was well that Arthur did not see the pa.s.sion of tears that were shed over that little parcel.

It was only a piece of ivory carved in the shape of a horseshoe, or rather there was an attempt at carving it in that shape; and on a slip of paper was written, in Arthur's round hand, "For my own dear mother to wear while I am away. This is to be made into a brooch."

CHAPTER VI.

MYRTLE HILL; OR, THE NEW HOME.

When Arthur Vivyan was looking forward, with such feelings of dread, he did not know that his aunt was hardly less anxiously expecting his arrival; and that, much as he feared what living with her would be, her thoughts had been very troubled ones on the same subject. She had lived alone for so many years now, and as she said, she was so little accustomed to children, she was afraid that her young nephew would find her home deary and sad; that she might not understand him herself, or that she might be foolishly indulgent and blind to the faults, which might make him grow useless and miserable. She had spent many anxious hours thinking of all this, and laying plans about the care she would take of him, and all the ways in which she would try to make him happy and contented.

Arthur and his father had left Ashton by an afternoon train, which did not bring them into the town, near Mrs. Estcourt's house, until it was quite dark. It was a very cheerless journey to Arthur. Generally he liked travelling by the railway, and when he took his seat by his father's side, his spirits rose very high as they pa.s.sed quickly along, and the new scenes and sights, that he watched from the carriage window, occupied his attention pretty fully.

But this time it was quite different. His mother's sweet, sad farewell was still sounding in his ears; and as the train rushed along on its way, he knew that it was bearing him farther and farther away from her, and from the home where he had lived so long. He could hardly have explained his own feelings; only a very dreary aching was in his heart; and as he thought of the strange new place, where he was going, and then of the miles and miles of land and sea, that would soon lie between himself and his father and mother, he felt very strange and desolate, and you would hardly have recognized the grave, serious-looking face as Arthur Vivyan's.

Perhaps it was that expression that drew the attention of an old gentleman, who was sitting opposite to him. At any other time, Arthur would have been inclined to be amused at this old gentleman; for he came into the carriage, bringing so many parcels and wraps, that for some little time he was stowing them away, talking all the while to n.o.body in particular, and finishing every sentence with "Eh?"

"Going to school, my boy--eh?" he asked at length, after he had looked at Arthur's mournful face for some little time.

Arthur did not feel much inclined to talk just then, so he only said "No;"

and then remembering that, in fact, he was to go to school while he was living at his aunt's, he was obliged to say, "At least, yes."

"'No' and 'yes' both; not quite sure--eh?" asked the old gentleman.

Then Mr. Vivyan turned round, and explained that his son was going to live with his aunt, and that he would go to school from her house.

"Oh, that's it--eh? Fine times for you then, young man. When I was a boy things were different with me, I can tell you. Hundred boys where I was; and I was one of the little fellows, who had to make it easy for the big ones. Up at six in the morning--coldest winter mornings. Never had a chance of getting near the fire; never went home for the winter holidays.

How would you like that--eh?"

"I don't suppose I should like it at all," said Arthur. But he thought in his own mind, that his case was not much better.

After a few more remarks from his old friend opposite, when he saw him pull his cap over his face and settle himself to sleep, he was more pleased than otherwise.

Poor little Arthur! He thought he was feeling desolate enough; and as he sat by his father's side, and thought that even he would soon be far away, it made him feel inclined to cling more closely to him than he had ever done before; so that, when the jolting of the train made his head knock against his father's shoulder, he let it stay there, and presently he found his father's strong arm was around him, and Arthur felt that he loved him more than he had ever done before.

"Cheer up, Arthur, my boy," he heard him say presently, and his voice had a softer sound, than it sometimes had, he thought. "We may all be very happy yet some day together, and not very long, you know. Five years soon pa.s.s, you know, Arthur."

But five years had a very long, dreary sound to him just then. In fact, he could not bear to think of it at all; and he was afraid that if he thought or spoke on the subject, that he should cry, which he did not wish to do just then; so he gave a very deep, long sigh.

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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s through street after street, and that the bright gas would light the way, and show him the place and the things that they pa.s.sed.

"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 pa.s.sed 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.

Well, she was nice. Yes, he thought he should love her. She had a sweet sound in her voice, and a gentle expression about her mouth, that made him think she could not be unkind. She was not like his own mother in the least; she was not nearly so pretty, Arthur thought. His mother had pink on her cheeks, and a smile on her lips; but _her_ face was very pale and colourless, her eyes were very deep and sad ones, and when she looked at him they seemed so large and dark, and as if they were saying what she did not speak with her lips. He felt he would love his aunt; but he was not quite sure that he would not be a little afraid of her, at first at any rate.

"You must be quite ready for something to eat," said Mrs. Estcourt, as she led the way to the drawing-room. "You dined before you came away, Ronald, of course."

"Yes, I did; but Arthur did not. I don't think he has had much to eat all day, poor boy."

Mrs. Estcourt looked very much surprised as she said, "Why, how could that be, Arthur? I thought boys were always hungry."

"Well, I think I am generally," said Arthur, "only I was not to-day."

"Why not?" said his aunt.

"Don't ask me why, please," said Arthur in a low voice, "or else perhaps I might cry, and I don't want to do that."

She seemed to understand him, for she asked no more questions; only she took his hand as they went into the drawing-room, and as Arthur looked in her face, he thought there was something in her deep eyes, that reminded him of his mother.

If the hall at Myrtle Hill was neat and orderly, the drawing-room surely was equally so. There seemed to be everything in the room, that one could possibly want; and a great many that seemed to Arthur to be of no particular use. He could not help thinking of the difference there would be in that room, if he and Hector were to have a round in it. But it was very bright and comfortable, he thought; and this opinion seemed to be shared by a large white dog that lay in front of the fire. "Great, sleepy thing," thought Arthur; "I would not give old Hector for ten cats like that."

The tea-table itself was a very attractive object to his eyes just then; and he turned his attention to it now. Arthur thought it looked rather in keeping with the rest of the room. The silver teapot and cream-jug were bright and shining, but they were rather small; and he could not help thinking that it would take a great many of those daintily-cut slices of bread and b.u.t.ter, to satisfy his appet.i.te; so he was glad to see a good-sized loaf on a table near, and other more substantial things which had been added for the travellers. Indeed he need not have been afraid of not having enough to eat, for his aunt, in her ignorance of boyish appet.i.tes, would not have been surprised, if he had consumed all that was before him. So that Arthur had to be quite distressed, that he could not please her by eating everything.

"I wonder what she lives on herself," he thought, as he noticed the one tiny slice lying almost undiminished on her plate; "and I wonder how I should feel if I did not eat more than that."

By and by they drew their chairs to the fire, and Mrs. Estcourt gave Arthur a beautifully-ornamented hand-screen to shade the heat from his face; as he sat with his feet on the fender, listening to his father's and aunt's conversation.

"Well, you have a snug little place here," said Mr. Vivyan.

"Yes, I suppose so," Mrs. Estcourt said; but she sighed as she spoke.

"It seems like old times, eh, Daisy?"