The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
to-morrow, even: I was so impatient to see you and to take you home.”
How she dwelt and lingered on the word and repeated it, as though it
gave her as much happiness to listen to as it did me.
“Will _you_ be there?” I asked, presently.
“Of course, I shall--always! What would be the use of a mother,
Charlie, if she didn’t live in the house close to you, always ready to
heal your troubles and supply your wants to the utmost of her power?”
“Oh! let us go at once!” I exclaimed, slipping my hand into hers. All
dread of my father seemed to have deserted me. The new mother was a
guardian angel, under whose protection I felt no fear. She was
delighted with my readiness.
“So we will, Charlie! We need not even wait for your box to be packed.
Mrs. Murray can send on everything to-morrow. And papa will be anxious
until he sees us home again!”
My father anxious about me! That was a new thing to be wondered at. I
was too much of a baby still to perceive that his anxiety would be for
_her_--not for me! I had not yet been able to grasp the idea that she
was his wife. I only regarded her as my new mother.
As we passed out of the house, I asked leave to say good-bye to my
friend Jemmy.
“His mother is dead, like mine,” I said, in explanation. “He will be
so pleased to hear that I have got a new one.”
“Poor boy!” she sighed; “we will ask him to spend the summer holidays
with you, Charlie. A great happiness like ours should make us anxious
to make others happier.”
And when Jemmy came forward on his crutches, and smiled his
congratulations on the wonderful piece of news I had to give him, she
stooped down and kissed his forehead. Then we passed out of the
playground together, I clinging to her hand, and proud already to hear
the flattering comments passed upon her appearance by the other boys,
and to remember that from that time forward she was to be called _my
mother_.
* * * * * * * * *
Lilyfields, as my father’s house was designated, was not more than ten
or twelve miles from the school; but we had to make a little railway
journey to reach it, and I thought I had never travelled so pleasantly
before. My new mother laughed so often and chatted so continuously to
me, that I caught the infection of her mirthful loquacity, and, long
before we got home, had revealed so much of my past life and feelings,
that more than once I brought a shadow over her sunny face, and closed
her smiling lips with a sigh. But as we left the train and commenced
to walk towards Lilyfields, my old fears showed symptoms of returning,
and my sudden silence, with the tightening clasp of my hand, did not
pass unobserved by my companion.
“What is the matter, Charlie? Of what are you afraid?”
“Won’t papa be angry with me for coming back before the holidays
begin?” I whispered.
Her clear laugh rang over the peaceful meadows we were traversing.
“If he is angry with any one, he must be so with me, as I fetched you
home, Charlie.”
“And you are not afraid of him?”
“_Afraid!_” The sweet serious eyes she turned upon me as she
ejaculated the word were just about to deprecate so monstrous an idea,
when they caught sight of an approaching figure, and danced with a
thousand little joys instead.
“There he is!” she exclaimed excitedly. She ran up to him, dragging me
with her.
He took her in his arms (there was not another living soul within
sight of us) and embraced her fervently, whilst I stood by,
open-mouthed with astonishment.
“My angel,” he murmured, as she lay there, with her face pressed close
to his; “life has been insupportable without you.”
“Ah, Harold! it does me good to hear you say so; and I am so glad to
get back to you again. See! here is Charlie waiting for his father to
welcome him home.”
She lifted me up in her arms--big boy as I was--and held me towards
him for a kiss. How strange it was to feel my father kiss me; but he
did so, though I think his eyes never left her face the while. Then he
took her hand, and held it close against his heart, and they walked
through the silent, balmy-breathed fields together. As I entered the
house I could hardly help exclaiming aloud at the marvellous changes
that had taken place there. Not an article of furniture had been
changed, not a picture moved from its place, yet everything looked
bright as the glorious spring. The rooms had been thoroughly cleaned,
and lace curtains, snowy table-cloths, and vases of flowers, with here
and there a bright bit of colour in the shape of a rug, or a piece of
china, had transformed the house--not into a paradise--but into _a
home_. Even my father was changed like his surroundings. He looked ten
years younger, as with nicely kept hair, and a becoming velveteen
lounging coat, he sunk down into an easy-chair, and deprecated, whilst
he viewed with delight, the alacrity with which my new mother insisted
upon removing his boots and fetching his slippers. It was such a
novelty to both of us to be attended to in any way, that I was as much
surprised as he to find that the next thing she did was to take me
upstairs, and tidy me for tea herself, showering kisses and love words
upon me all the while. Oh! the happy meal that followed. How unlike
any we had taken in that house before! I, sitting up at table, with my
plate well provided; my father in his arm-chair, looking up with
loving eyes at each fresh proof of her solicitude for him, and my new
mother seated at the tea-tray, full of smiles and innocent jests,
watching us both with the utmost affection; but apparently too excited
to eat much herself. Once my father noticed her want of appetite and
reproached her with it.
“I am too happy to eat, Harold!” was her reply.
“Too happy,” he repeated in a low voice, “_really_ too happy! No
regrets, my Mary, no fears! Your future does not terrify you. You
would not undo the past if it were in your power!”
“Not one moment of it, Harold! If I ever think of it, with even a
semblance of regret, it is that it did not begin ten years sooner.”
“God bless you!” was all he answered.
If I had not been such a child I should have echoed the words; for
before many days were over my head, the whole of my joyous young life
was an unuttered blessing upon her. The darkness of fear and
despondency--the most unnatural feelings a young child can
entertain--had all passed away. I no longer dreaded my father’s
presence; on the contrary, it was my greatest treat to bear him
company as he worked in the garden, or whistled over his carpentering,
or accompanied my mother in strolls about the country.
He never shut himself up in his room now, unless she was shut in too;
and although his new-born love was for _her_, and not for me, the
glory of it was reflected in his treatment of me.
So I was very happy, and so was he, and so most people would have
thought my mother to be. But though she never appeared before my
father without a bright face, she was not always so careful in my
presence, thinking me, perhaps, too young to observe the changes in
her countenance; and sometimes when she and I were alone together, I
marked the same look steal over her which I had observed on the
occasion of our first meeting--an undercurrent of thoughtful
sadness--the look of one who had suffered, who still suffered, from a
pain which she kept to herself.
Once I surprised her in tears--a violent storm of tears, which she was
powerless for some time to control; and I eagerly inquired the reason
of them.
“Mamma, mamma, what is it, mamma? Have you hurt your foot? Did Prince
bite you? Have you got a pain anywhere?”
My childish mind could not comprehend that her tears should flow for
any other than a physical reason. Did not papa and I love her dearly?
and she was afraid of no one, and she never went to school. What
possible cause could she have for tears?
My mother composed herself as soon as she was able, and laid her
burning face against my cheek.
“Will my little boy love me always?” she
asked--“always--always--whatever happens?”
“Always, dear mamma. Papa and I would die if we hadn’t you. Oh, you
don’t know what it was like before you came here!”
“Then mamma will never again be so silly as to cry,” said my mother,
as she busied herself over some occupation to divert her thoughts.
But although this was the only time she betrayed herself so openly
before me, I often detected the trace of weeping on her face, which
she would try to disguise by excessive mirth.
So the years went on, until one bright summer’s day a little sister
was born in our house. I hailed the advent of this infant with the
greatest possible delight. It was such a new wonderful experience to
have a playmate so dependant on me, and yet so entirely my own. I
positively worshipped my little sister, although her birth was the
signal for my being sent back to school, but this time only as a
weekly boarder.
Hitherto my mother had taught me herself, and very sorry I was to give
up those delightful lessons, which were rendered so easy by the
trouble she took to explain them to me; but her time was too much
taken up with her baby to allow her to devote sufficient to me.
Besides, I was now eleven years old, growing a great lad, and able to
take every advantage of the education afforded me at Mr. Murray’s
school.
My old friend, Lame Jemmy, who had spent many a pleasant week at
Lilyfields meanwhile, was still there to welcome me back and make me
feel less of a stranger; and my father took away the last sting of the
new arrangement by buying me a sturdy pony on which to ride backwards
and forwards every week to see my mother and him.
But the greatest pang which I experienced was parting, even for a few
days, with baby Violet. I cried over her so much, indeed, that I made
my mother cry too, as she asked God to bless the boy who had been a
true son to her. I was very glad to think she loved me so much, for I
loved her dearly in return; but as I galloped back to Lilyfields every
Saturday afternoon, my thoughts were all for the dimpled baby sister
whom I would carry about in my arms, or roll with amongst the
newly-mown grass, rather than with those who had proved themselves to
be real parents to me,--she from the commencement of her knowledge of
me, and he from the date of his knowing her. It was my mother alone I
had to bless for it all. But I had grown accustomed to happiness by
this time, and took it as my due.
My parents were very proud of their little daughter, who grew into a
lovely child, but she did not seem to afford them as much pleasure as
pride. Sometimes I detected my mother looking at her as we romped
together, with more pain in the expression of her face than anything
else. Once she caught her suddenly to her bosom, and kissed her golden
curls with passion, exclaiming,--
“Oh, my heart, if I were to go, what would become of you?--what
_would_ become of you?”
I was still too young to grasp the full meaning of her words, but I
knew my mother meant that if she died, no one would take such good
care of Violet as she had done. So I marched up to her confidently,
with the assurance that _I_ would take that responsibility upon my own
shoulders.
“Don’t be afraid, mamma! As soon as I am a man, I mean to get a house
all to myself, and the best rooms in it shall be for Violet.”
She looked at me with her sweet, earnest, searching gaze for a moment,
and then folded me in one embrace with her own child.
“Father’s boy!” she murmured, caressingly over me--“father’s brave,
loving boy! No, Charlie, I will not be afraid! If it be God’s will
that I should go, I will trust Violet to father and to you.”
* * * * * * *
Meanwhile my father was a very contented man. He had undergone much
the same change as myself, and forgotten, in the sunshine that now