Chapter VI Leaving Meadenham
“Switzerland! O Auntie, that is such a long way off! You don’t mean really that you are going all that way from me,” and Lena as she spoke these words burst into tears, and clung tightly to her Aunt, as if to prevent her leaving her.
“I am not going away to-day, dear,” said Miss Somerville, trying to speak cheerfully and brightly as she fondly stroked the little head that was buried on her shoulder. “And, my child,” she went on more gravely, “this is no new thought to you; we both knew this parting must come.”
“But not so soon, and such a long way.”
“You have Papa and Mama and your sisters, and will be so happy with them, and will often write to me. And I shall hope for such good accounts of my pet.”
“You won’t get them,” said Lena in a most doleful tone; “I shan’t be able to be good without you, I know I shan’t.”
“Lena, dear, that is not a right way to speak. I shall think that I have taught you what is wrong if you say such things.”
“No, no, I did not mean that; but why can’t you always live with us? What do you want to go to that horrid place for?”
“It is not at all a horrid place, but a very nice one. Why I am going is this”——
Lena lifted her head to listen with such an injured expression that her Aunt laughed. “I believe you are glad to go!” (indignantly).
“Yes, dear, I am glad, though very very sorry to leave you. I am glad because Miss Howard has to go, and wants a companion; and you know, dear, it is always pleasant to be able to do anything for your friends.”
“But I want you too.”
“Not now. You have wanted me, but now you have Mama and Papa; and, Lena, you love them both very dearly, I know.”
“Yes, but I want you too.”
“We none of us can have all we want in this world. Ask God, my little one, to make you grateful and thankful for all the blessings He has so liberally bestowed on you, instead of murmuring for what you cannot have.”
Before Lena had time to reply, Mrs. Graham opened the door, asking, as she did so, if she might come in.
“O Mama, why does Auntie want to go away from us? Mayn’t she stay with us?”
“Of course she may, dear; but Aunt Mary thinks Miss Howard requires her. We want her, and she requires her. Now don’t you see why Auntie has decided on going abroad?”
“Yes, because she thinks it right;” adding, “but couldn’t Miss Howard come and live with her here?”
“Why do you wish that, Lena?”
“Because it’s so much nearer, and we could come and see her sometimes.”
“Oh, so you don’t want it for Aunt Mary’s pleasure, but your own,” was the quiet rebuke.
Lena’s face flushed scarlet as she murmured some words in too low a tone for her mother to hear.
“Listen, my child; do you not think that a change would do Auntie good? Think how much more she would miss the little niece she has been so good to, and has learned to love so dearly, if she remained on here, than if she goes abroad, and sees new sights and beautiful scenery.”
“Yes, I see; but, Mama, I can’t help being sorry, and wishing changes would not come—at least not nasty changes.”
“I should be very much astonished and very grieved too, if you were not sorry at parting with Auntie, who has been so good and kind to you and to me too. Changes must come in this world, my child; but we know that if we love our Saviour, every one that comes is sent in love and for some good purpose.”
“I can’t see why Auntie’s going away can do us good.”
“That is what the disciples said when their Divine Master told them of His ascension: they, like you, thought they knew best.” Mama spoke the words so significantly that they at once recalled to her the conversation they had held together some evenings before, and when Lena had expressed herself as so shocked at the idea of any one thinking they knew better than God. Humbled and abashed, Lena promised to try and bear whatever was sent for her, though she was quite sure it would be dreadfully hard to bear parting with Auntie, forgetting that it was harder for Auntie than herself. It was a great comfort to both Colonel and Mrs. Graham, since Aunt Mary had decided not to go and live with them, that she was going abroad with her friend Miss Howard for a few months. It was very easy to let her house for the summer, as West Meadenham was a favourite resort for summer visitors, and Lena was comforted by hearing that before Miss Somerville settled down for the winter, she had promised to pay a visit to her brother and sister at Astbury.
“We shall spend our first Christmas at home altogether,” said Colonel Graham cheerfully, as Aunt Mary’s plans were being discussed one day openly, now that all was arranged.
Lena expected, and Milly also, that the former would be quite heart-broken at the prospect of parting from her Aunt. Milly was of rather a sentimental character, and had secret visions of herself comforting and consoling poor Lena; and felt rather disappointed, to say the least of it, when she saw her sister interested and busy in the preparations for their departure, and talking brightly and hopefully of what was to be done at Astbury. Not that Lena was unkind or unloving. She did love her Aunt very very dearly, and felt really sorry and unhappy at the prospect of losing her; but with the buoyancy and cheerfulness of youth, she soon learned to look on the bright and hopeful side of things. She had never written to Auntie in all her life, and she talked much of the long letters she would write to her, and then how nice it would be to show her the new home when she came to see them at Christmas. So very soon she was the same bright, lively little Lena of old. Occasionally, however, some little thought or action would cause her to sigh, and wish that changes would not come—at least she would add, “I wish people had not to go away from one another. I like going to new places.”
There were other changes in store also, for an invitation came for Milly from her godmother, who lived in London. Mrs. Clifford wanted to see and know her little namesake and godchild. Would Colonel Graham, who was going to Astbury a few days earlier than the rest of the family, bring Milly and leave her with Mrs. Clifford on his way through London? So ran the invitation.
“I wish she had asked me!” exclaimed Lena, when she heard of the letter.
“O Lena, and leave Aunt Mary the last few days!” said Milly reproachfully.
“No, of course not—I did not think of that—but I should like to see London and all the sights.”
Milly was not at all of this opinion. She shrank from the very thought of going away to a strange house without Mama. She had never left her before; and although she was called after Mrs. Clifford, she had only seen her once when they were in town, on first arriving from India. She begged very hard not to go, but her parents thought it was right for her to do so. Lena alternately teased and laughed at her for being shy and stupid for not wanting to go, and envied her for being invited, and wished she was going, for she was quite sure that Mrs. Clifford would take her to see all sorts of things and be ever so kind to her. If this invitation had come to Milly at any other time, I am afraid Lena would have been terribly disappointed at not being invited also; but these last few days at Aunt Mary’s were too full of interest and occupation to allow much time for regrets of any sort. There were so many people and places to take farewell of, and so much to be seen to in the house, that Lena was what she called “deliciously busy.” Hester was to go with them as nurse to Lucy, so she also was very busy, and also went away for a day or two to say good-bye to her parents, who lived in the neighbourhood of Meadenham. During those days Lucy was Lena’s constant companion, and on the whole they got on capitally together. They were very much alike in disposition; and although Lucy was very fond of Lena, she found she was quite a different sort of sister in authority than Millicent.
Time slipped away very fast, as it always does when there is much to be done. It is only with the idle and lazy that time lags and creeps slowly along. How the minutes crawl while one is waiting without anything to do—they seem to lengthen themselves out in the most extraordinary manner. Let one of my little readers remark the length of five minutes when she or he, as the case may be, is busy and interested, and five minutes when they are standing idle, wondering what they shall do next, or perhaps grumbling because they are prevented doing something on which they had set their heart. Once a very small child, who was told to wait ten minutes for some reason, was seen to give the clock a great push and call it “a stupid, tiresome thing”—she was quite sure it had stopped just to tease her. She was too small to be able to tell the time herself, but nurse had shown her where the big hand would point when the ten minutes were up, and, oh dear! they were so long to that impatient little mortal who stood gazing up at it with such interest and anxiety. The last day came, and they all—that is, Mama, Auntie, Lena, Lucy, and Hester—all started for London, at which place they were to meet Milly. Mrs. Clifford was to meet them with her at the station, and there also Aunt Mary was to part from them.
On reaching London, they drove from the station at which they arrived from Meadenham to one on the other side of the town, from which they were to go to the town near which their future home was situated. Aunt Mary was to drive with them and see them off. At first Lena and Lucy were in the wildest of spirits, everything was new and pleasant; but before they reached London they both became tired of the monotony of being shut up in one place; and as the train was a fast one, it whirled along too rapidly for them to get more than a passing glimpse of the different places on the road.
Most children delight in going away, but I never yet met with one that liked being in the train. The Grahams were no exception to this rule. Lucy first became restless and inclined to be cross, then Mama seated her on her knee, to look out, and very soon the rapid motion wearied the little frame, the blue eyes began to blink, then close, the head fell back on Mama’s shoulder, and Lucy was sound asleep, to the relief and comfort of her fellow-passengers. Lena nestled up against Aunt Mary, and as she thus sat with the kind arm round her, the remembrance came to her with startling distinctness, that this would be the last time for many months that she would feel the pressure of that kind hand; and then thought after thought came thronging into her mind of all the love and goodness that Aunt Mary had showered upon her during the last six years. Her whole life, as it seemed to the child, had been passed with Auntie, and now that they were to be separated, she wished, oh so much, that she had been a better and more obedient girl. When she came to them at Christmas she would show her how much she loved her by being so good, and all that she could wish. And she crept closer to her Aunt as she thus thought of the past and of the future. She would have liked to throw her arms round her neck, and tell her how much she loved her, and how sorry she was to part with her; but there were strangers in the compartment with them, and Lena did not like any one but her own people to see her in tears, so she only crept close, and squeezed the hand that clasped hers very tight. Lena’s thoughts were good and loving, but mingled with all the goodness was the one thing that was so seldom wanting from her good resolutions, and was the invariable cause of their failure, self-confidence—she would be good she was determined. How often and often had Auntie shown this to Lena, and now Mama was trying to teach her the same lesson of humility and trust in God. If Lena had said to her own heart, “I will try, by God’s help, to be good and do what I know will please Auntie,” she would certainly have succeeded. But fortunately for Lena, both Mama and Auntie were asking for her what she forgot to ask for herself—the grace of humility.
When the train reached its destination, it was a very sobered, quiet Lena that got out of it; she was so gentle, and waited so quietly, holding Lucy’s hand, while the luggage was being collected and placed on a cab, that Mama said, “Why, Lena, what a capital little traveller you are! I shall tell Papa that he need not be afraid of my travelling without him when I have you.”
Lena blushed with pleasure at her mother’s words, and when they were settling how to divide their party—for they were obliged to have two cabs—and Lucy said she wanted Lena to come with her and Hester, she complied at once, determining that from that very moment she would carry out her good intentions of doing everything that Aunt Mary would approve of; and that both aunt and mother were pleased with her present conduct, she saw at once.
It was a long drive from one station to the other. The streets were so crowded that it took them a much longer time than they expected, not that either Lena or her little sister thought it too long, for they were delighted with all the bustle and noise around them, and especially with the passing glimpse they had at the shops that they drove past. So long had been their drive across London, that there was but little time to spare on arrival at the station, where Millicent and Mrs. Clifford were waiting for them—Milly all smiles and beaming with pleasure at sight of the dear home faces. Though so glad to see them, she had evidently been very happy with Mrs. Clifford, to judge from her friendly attitude towards that lady, and the warm kiss and grateful words of farewell when the time came for saying good-bye.
There was no opportunity for any private last words between Aunt Mary and Lena in all the fuss of starting: a fond kiss and a whispered “God bless you, my darling,” was all Auntie said as she parted from her little niece.
“Good-bye, Auntie, darling; you will come back soon, won’t you? and I will be so good I promise you.”
“Promise me to try, dear,” laying a stress on the word try, as she returned the kisses that the now weeping Lena was pressing on her cheek.
Auntie’s eyes were full of tears also as she stood watching them all take their places in the train.
“You will let Milly come to me again, I hope,” said Mrs. Clifford. “She has been such a good girl, I have quite enjoyed having her. And Lena must come too,” she added, kindly laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder as she spoke, seeing her struggling bravely to check her sobs, “Won’t you, dear?”
A nod was all Lena could manage; speaking was out of the question at that moment; but the nod and grateful look showed Mrs. Clifford that her kindness was appreciated.
“I won’t forget your parcel, Milly,” called out Mrs. Clifford as the train began to move, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker.
Lena stooped forward to take a last loving look at Auntie, who stood waving her hand in farewell. Then the train glided out of the station, and they were fairly on their way to their new home. Mama drew Lena down beside her, and with loving words cheered and consoled the poor girl, who, now that the excitement was all over, broke down utterly, and laying her head on Mama’s shoulder, wept bitterly. The tears came from many mingled sources: first was sorrow from parting with Auntie, and that sorrow was real and deep, but she had the hope of seeing her again very soon, and she was with the dear mother she loved so dearly, and had so often and often longed to be with; fatigue and over-excitement helped to cause the sobs, which were in great part hysterical. Lena had lived such a quiet regular life with her Aunt, that she was now feeling all the excitement and bustle of the last week or two. There had been all the packing and good-byes, and the journey, and now, to crown it all, was the parting from Auntie.
Mrs. Graham let her cry on quietly for some time as she sat encircled by her arm, until the first violence of her tears was over. Then she spoke to her a few caressing words, which helped to soothe the weary child; gradually, as the sobs ceased, the poor tear-swollen eyes closed, from sheer “weariness of grief,” and Lena fell asleep on Mama’s arm, while Milly, with frequent looks of sympathy towards her sister, helped Hester to amuse Lucy at the opposite window.
Thus they journeyed quietly on, until the train stopping roused Lena. “Have we arrived?” she asked in a sleepy voice.
“No, dear, we are not half-way yet. Edgerley is a very small place, which this is certainly not.”
By the time Mama had done speaking Lena was wide awake, and the three girls crowded to the window to look out, and also, as they said, in hopes of preventing any one coming in. Several people peeped into the carriage, but whether it was the sight of the small fellow-travellers, who, however charming they may be, are certainly not appreciated by the travelling public, or from some other reason, they left our party to themselves, so that, when they once more started off, it was in quite a lively tone Lena exclaimed, “Oh, I am glad no one came in, I was in such a fright they would!” Her sleep had done Lena good, although the ready tears sprang to her eyes whenever the thought of Aunt Mary was recalled. She was calmer and happier, and as the time wore on she soon recovered her spirits, and was busy helping her sisters with the buns and sandwiches that were in Mama’s basket, and eagerly talking about what they were to see at their country home, and also listening to Milly’s account of her visit to Mrs. Clifford.
“I am to go next time with you, am I not, Mama?” she asked.
“Perhaps Milly won’t want you to,” said Lucy in a very grave tone.
“O Lucy, of course I shall. It will be ever so much nicer. And there are such lots of things to see and do.” And here she launched into an animated account of all her doings.
“What is the parcel she is going to send?” Mrs. Graham with a smile asked.
“I don’t know, Mama, what it will be—it’s a present. She said she would take me to the Bazaar and buy me something; but we had not time yesterday, so she said she would send it to me.”
“I wonder what it will be!” said Lena, and they all fell to conjecturing what Milly’s present would be, guessing all the probable and improbable things they could think off. Not satisfied with this, they—that is the two who were not included—actually talked themselves into the belief that Mrs. Clifford, now she had seen them, would very likely send them something also: in fact, it was not only a probable thing, but “almost sure to be the case.”
Thus they whiled away the time of their journey, until Mama announced that the next station would be Edgerley.
When the train drew up there, three little heads were out of the window, and three shrill young voices were shouting out words of welcome to Papa, whom they at once caught sight of standing waiting for them.
It was a very small station, as Mrs. Graham had told them. She had been to it before when she had paid a visit, many years ago, to Colonel and Mrs. Freeling, who were now to be their near neighbours. They were the only passengers who alighted, and until their luggage was taken out there was no time to speak with Papa; for, as it appeared to the children, “the train seemed to be in a hurry to rush off again;” and it certainly looked as if they were right, for directly their luggage was taken out of the van and safely deposited on the platform, the guard waved his arm, the engine gave what sounded like a very impatient shriek, and the train rushed off again with its living freight, and left our young people standing gazing after it, in a sort of bewilderment, from which their father’s cheery voice roused them as he exclaimed, “Now, children, come along; while you are being packed into the carriage, I will give orders for the luggage to be sent up in a cart.”
“A carriage!” exclaimed Lena, as she caught sight of a handsome carriage and pair of horses standing outside the station. “Is that ours? how nice! I am glad.” She asked the question of no one in particular, and no one answered it, all being busy and their attention occupied at the moment. Milly did not feel the same feeling of pleasure as her sister at the sight of the carriage, for during their stay in India her parents had kept their carriage, not as a luxury as in this country, and one only to be indulged in by rich people, but as a matter of necessity. So she took her seat next Lena without a word or sign of wonder. “This is nice,” began Lena directly they started, though this was not done for a little while, during which she had been picturing to herself all sorts of wonderful visions of a large house and future drives in this comfortable equipage. It was very strange why Aunt Mary had always been so particular in making her so careful of her things, and teaching her to do so much for herself if her Papa was so rich.
“So you are pleased, little woman,” said her father. “It was very kind of Colonel Freeling to send his carriage and bring you home in state like this,” he added with a laugh.
“Colonel Freeling!” said Lena in a tone of surprise. “Is it not our carriage, Papa?”
“No, dear, of course not. What put such an idea into your head?” At sight of Lena’s crestfallen looks at his answer, Colonel Graham burst out laughing, in which the others joined, much to Lena’s secret annoyance. Then he added gravely, “I thought you knew, dear, that I was not a rich man, only”—this with a laugh—“a poor soldier.”
“But Colonel Freeling was a soldier too; you said so,” she persisted.
“Yes, with a private fortune, which makes all the difference.”
“Riches do not make happiness, darling,” said Mama kindly. “We shall be very happy in our quiet little country home without a grand carriage like this, and we ought all to be very much obliged to Colonel Freeling for having been so kind in lending it to us to-day.”
“Here we are,” said Colonel Graham, as turning the corner they came in sight of a small but very pretty house standing within iron gates which opened into the road.