NELLIE ARUNDEL.

A Tale of Home Life.

BY

C. S. [CATHARINE SHAW]

AUTHOR OF "THE GABLED FARM."

Not thankful when it pleaseth me, As if Thy blessings had spare days, But such a heart, whose pulse may be Thy praise.

New Edition.

LONDON:

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. All rights reserved.

DEDICATED

TO

The Memory

OF

My beloved Father.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. FIRELIGHT

II. A PEEP AT CHRISTINA

III. HOME-SICK

IV. A VISIT TO FAIRLEIGH

V. AUNT RUTH

VI. CAUGHT BY THE TIDE

VII. WHERE?

VIII. FLOATING OUT TO SEA

IX. ADA'S FRIEND

X. SISTER AND BROTHER

XI. TEMPTED

XII. SOWING AND REAPING

XIII. CALLED HOME

XIV. REST

XV. SUNRISE

XVI. "THINE EYES SHALL SEE THE KING"

XVII. IN THE NIGHT

XVIII. "THAT WHICH WAS LOST"

XIX. ADA'S STORY

XX. CROSSES

XXI. AN UNEXPECTED ANSWER

XXII. A LETTER

XXIII. GUESSING

XXIV. WAITING

XXV. HASTY

XXVI. CONCLUSION

NELLIE ARUNDEL.

A Tale of Home Life.

CHAPTER I.

FIRELIGHT.

"ADA, my dear, you will spoil your eyes if you attempt to read by firelight."

The girl addressed looked up from her book into her mother's face, but answered absently, without moving:

"This fire gives such a good light, mamma! And it is so comfortable sitting here."

"It is, dear; but you will find, when you have to rouse yourself at tea-time, that you are cold and cross, and not at all fit to take your part in everything cheerfully."

Ada looked incredulous, but yielded to her mother's wish, and drew nearer the table, where a shaded lamp was casting a bright and pleasant light.

"It is so much nicer to do as one likes," she said, drawing her shoulders together and shivering slightly.

"Yes, at the time," answered Mrs. Arundel, quietly.

"People always forget," continued Ada, "that they used to like such things when they were young."

Her mamma gave her an arch smile, and Ada continued—

"I don't mean you do exactly; but people want us to grow wise all at once; now don't they, mamma?"

"Yes, dear, I dare say we do. We want to save you a number of vexations which we had to bear ourselves; but I am afraid you will not let us."

As Mrs. Arundel finished speaking, a bright girl of about twenty entered, followed by two little maidens of nearly seven and eight years respectively.

"Here you are!" exclaimed Ada, starting up. "I have been longing for you so; but this last hour I had forgotten all about you, I have been so busy reading."

"Yes, here we are," answered Nellie, coming forward and kissing her step-mamma. "We have had such a nice time; but how are all at home?"

"Oh, pretty well, dear. We missed you sadly though."

Nellie shook her head, and bent down to warm her hands, while the little girls began to throw off their wraps, and were drawing their chairs close to the warm blaze, when Nellie interposed—

"We must go up and take off our things, dears. It is of no use to settle down for a chat till we have got ready for tea. Come along."

Netta and Isabel gathered up their hats and jackets and hastened after their half-sister, only anxious to get back again as quickly as possible to their mamma and the fire.

"Now," said Ada, resuming her semi-grumble, "would you not say, mamma, that that was rather exasperating, if you didn't know that it really was the best to do?"

"That? What do you mean?"

"Why, Nellie walking those children off, and not saying a word. Don't you think we should all have enjoyed ourselves infinitely more if we had settled down to a chat then and there?"

"Perhaps—" said Mrs. Arundel, hesitating. "Only, you see, Ada, I know so well that it is the right thing, that I am not a fair judge."

"So do I," said Ada, half smiling. "Of course I know it; for instead of sitting and spoiling their hats, and rumpling their jackets, and scorching their best boots, and having after all to turn out and go upstairs, and dreading all the time that you would tell them to go, they will now come down warm and tidy and fresh, and they will sit here for ever so long, and be quite happy, and tell you all their doings without a break, and will feel besides that they had done right; and yet, mamma, I'd have sat here all the same, if I had been allowed, and faced the disagreeable for the sake of the luxury!"

Mrs. Arundel looked rather pained, and Ada leant over and gave her a warm kiss.

"You're a dear, good, sweet mother. And now I've done grumbling, and will be a good girl."

She closed her tempting book precipitately, drew from her pocket some tatting, and pushing her chair a little to one side to make room for the others when they came down, she commenced working.

Some readers are already acquainted with the Arundels; but to those who do not yet know them, it may be explained that they were a large family, living in a square in the middle of London, round which their father's practice as a physician lay among both rich and poor.

There were many who knew Dr. Arundel, not only as the clever and successful doctor, but as the friend who in dark hours of anxiety truly sympathized, while reminding them of One above, ruling and watching, waiting to be gracious, and to bless those who would call upon Him in their sorrow.

There were nine children—Walter and Nellie by the first wife, and seven since, the two youngest of whom, a baby boy of two years, and a little pet girl of four, were happily at tea in the nursery on this cold day in January.

Very soon the three sisters came down looking, as Ada had said, warm and tidy and fresh, or if they were not warm, they soon would be.

"Now tell us all your doings," exclaimed Ada.

"How did you leave Christina?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"She was very well, and very happy; and we really had so much to do, and were so busy over the Christmas tree, that the time flew by in an extraordinary way," answered Nellie.

"Did they have a Christmas tree?" said Ada rather regretfully.

"Yes, last night; just a very simple one. We did so want you, Ada! But papa had said so distinctly that you were needed at home, that Christina did not like to write."

Ada's colour came fast, and she went on with her tatting in silence, her eyes filling in spite of all her efforts when she remembered the delights she had missed, and pictured to herself how intensely she would have enjoyed it all. She knew, however, that it had not been "her turn" to go, and acquiesced in its being right; but still "how she would have enjoyed it!"

Nellie knew this well enough, and had offered to come home and send Ada instead; but Christina Arbuthnot, at whose house at Hampstead they had been staying, understood Dr. and Mrs. Arundel's wise decision, and would not allow Nellie to write and make the proposal.

"And did it go off well?" asked Mrs. Arundel.

"Oh, lovely!" said Isabel. "It was so pretty; and such a lot of candles; you could not have counted them, mamma, if you had tried ever so, not when they were all alight."

Ada stealthily brushed away her gathered tears, and said, without looking up, "Did they have presents on the tree?"

"Yes, lots," replied Netta emphatically; "little toys, bags of sweetmeats, pincushions, boxes, and fruit."

"Who made the things?" said Ada.

"We did, a great many," answered Isabel; "but of course the toys were bought. We made little bags of net, and the sweetmeats looked so pretty, showing through them."

"Then we made some net into the shape of sailor boys, and pushed pink and white lozenges into their legs and arms, and, oh, they did look so funny hanging by cottons dangling about!"

Netta and Isabel laughed gleefully, and Ada smiled too at the thought.

"The little ones did stare so," said Nellie, "when they were introduced into the room; and the baby gave quite a crow of delight."

"What did you give the baby?" asked Ada.

"A soft dog," answered Netta, "that would squeak."

"And what did Alfy have?"

"A little horse and cart for his very own."

"Was he pleased?"

"Oh, yes; he walked away with it, and began playing at once; and every time anyone came near, he hugged it tight, and said, 'This is for my own, own self now.'"

"Poor little man," said Mrs. Arundel.

"Mamma always is full of pity," said Ada; "but I do not see why Alfy is poor at all."

Mrs. Arundel did not answer, but stroked Netta's head thoughtfully.

"Dear mamma," said she, looking up and appreciating the soft touch; then turning to Ada, "I know why mamma thinks Alfy 'poor;' and so he is, because he has no mother."

"But Christina makes him as happy as can be in her Orphanage," said Ada.

"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel; "and it is infinitely better than his running wild at the farm; and yet, Ada—"

Ada's eyes turned round the room, and a thought flashed across her; but she put it away hastily and almost angrily. "Another time," she said to herself; "not now on any account."

Just at this moment, the door was opened to admit the entrance of an invalid boy, who lay at full length on a light frame, so arranged that it could be carried up and down stairs easily, and placed upon an ordinary sofa without disturbing him.

Mrs. Arundel sometimes wondered what they would do when the now slender form should be too heavy to be carried, but she checked the thought; for, after all, did it not belong to the cares of to-morrow? And are we not told over and over that these are not to harass us?

Carrying one end of the couch was Simmons, the housemaid, and the other, little Tom's brother Arthur, a well-grown boy of fifteen. Mrs. Arundel rose, and made way for them to place him on the sofa, and then, when he was comfortable, the little girls greeted him, while Nellie sat down by him and took his hand.

"I have missed you so, Nellie," he said, looking up in her face.

"I have brought something for you off the Christmas tree," answered Nellie.

"Have you really? How kind of you."

"It is from Christina. It was her tree, you know."

"What is it?" asked Tom, looking curiously at Nellie's hand, which was disappearing into her pocket.

"It is a very wonderful knife," answered she, producing it; and while his thin little fingers explored its mysteries, all the others drew near to watch, Arthur holding the lamp above Netta's head that they might all see as well as possible.

There was a large blade and a small blade; there was a little saw, a gimlet, a bradawl, a tiny screwdriver, and a little pair of pincers.

Tom's eyes sparkled, and even Arthur would not have disdained the pretty present.

"Shall I ever be able to use any of them?" asked Tom.

"Yes, we think you will. Christina has sent you some light wood, and directions how to make various little things; and she thought, Tom, you might perhaps like to do something for the missionaries."

"I should very much, if I could."

"We will see then some morning when you are extra well."

"All right," answered Tom, shutting up the different parts of his knife with great pride, and then it lay in his hand, while he turned a little to refresh himself with a sight of his sisters and his dear Nellie. He thought how nice they all looked in their plain, warm winter dresses, and then his eyes wandered to his mother.

She was the very light of Tom's eyes. How he loved to see her come in and out. There were times, seeming long ago now to little Tom, but not much more than a year really, when he had been fretful and impatient to this loved mother, adding greatly to her cares by repining at his helpless state, and grumbling at his deprivations. He had perhaps loved her then as much as he did now; but how different was the whole of his life!

The children sometimes said, "We think Tom is getting better;" but Tom knew it was not so.

No, there was just this difference: before, he had tried to bear his affliction as well as he knew how, while secretly chafing against the accident which had deprived him of every pleasure in life, and unable to help venting his misery on his tender mother.

Now he had learnt a different lesson. He found one beautiful summer day, that there was another life beyond this one, that these short years are but as a drop in the ocean of eternity. He found that God had allowed him to be a sufferer; and the same God who had sent him such pain and weariness had given him also an assurance that He loved him.

Loved him! Was it possible this could be love? Could the bitterest trial that could enter little Tom's imagination be sent in love?

He found out that it was, it must be. He who had sent this blow to Tom had also given up His own Son to die for him. Greater love could not be; and he believed that love, and rested in it, and found peace.

So from that time, little Tom had been a different boy. If ever the old repining feeling came over him, he would remember words which had often comforted him, and would again repeat them over to himself.

One day he gave Nellie a shilling, and asked her in a whisper to buy him a little set of scales. She did so, wondering what he could want them for. He did not explain; but a few days afterwards, she found him busy covering two match-boxes with white paper, and painting them to imitate corded packages.

She examined one, and saw painted on the side "L. A."; and turning to the other, took it up, and found to her surprise, it was quite heavy.

"What are you making, Tom dear?" she asked.

He smiled slightly, and leaning over to a little box on his table, produced the scales, and placing one package in one side, and the other package in the other side, asked her to hang them up for him somewhere where he could see them.

"But what for, Tom dear?" she said, rising to get a nail. "What is the meaning of the letters on the parcels?"

"'L. A.' is my luggage now," said Tom, "and 'W. G.' is my luggage by-and-by."

Nellie looked at him enquiringly, and Tom said, though his lips quivered a little, "They are to remind me—Light Affliction now, Weight of Glory afterwards."

Nellie buried her head on his pillow, and clasped her arms round him. "Oh, Tom! Poor little Tom! Dear little Tom!"

And then he whispered tenderly, though with a sob in his voice—

"'These light afflictions, which are but for a moment, work for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' For, Nellie darling, the things that we see are but for a time, but the things we do not see are for ever."

* * * * * *

On this evening of their return from Hampstead, Tom lay looking at them all, and when Dr. Arundel came in, they all gathered round the tea-table.

Then they told their little histories over again, with some new ones in addition; and the evening flew away so fast that Netta and Isabel were astonished when their mamma said, "It is eight o'clock, my dears; and you must go to bed."

Tom generally was glad to retire soon after tea; the days were long enough for him; but on rare occasions, when his mother saw he was interested, she did not break in on his happiness, but let him enjoy as much as he could.

When Ada laid her head on her pillow that night, after she had said good-night to Nellie, the thought which she had banished so peremptorily would force itself unbidden upon her.

This was the thought, and it made her shiver, "What would home be without mamma?"

Her mind went round and round the corners of the house—the sitting-rooms, the bedrooms, the nursery; and for once in her life, Ada Arundel was thoroughly frightened at the desolation her imagination had conjured up.

A soft footstep entered the dark room, a footstep she knew and loved.

"Is either of you awake, dears?" said a gentle voice.

"I am, mamma," answered Ada, starting up with such an overpowering sense of relief that she burst into tears.

"I was only afraid of frightening you," answered Mrs. Arundel. "I came up for the glycerine."

"Oh, mamma, do kiss me!" said Ada in a broken voice.

Mrs. Arundel made her way to the side of the bed, and, feeling for her eldest daughter, folded her in her arms.

"Oh, mamma," said Ada again, "I did not know I loved you so much!"

"My dear," questioned Mrs. Arundel, while she kissed the wet face fondly.

"Oh, don't leave us, mamma!" sobbed Ada.

"Not if it is God's will," gently answered her mother. "It would be hard to think of you without me; but, Ada, my child, do not cry about it now; tell it all to God. He knows best, my dear."

Kissing her again, Mrs. Arundel tucked her up smoothed her hair, wiped away her tears, and turned to the dressing-table.

Ada jumped out of bed, and gave her the glycerine, and with one more kiss jumped in again, and buried her head far beneath the clothes.

If she fought a hard battle there with her anxious fears, there was One knew it; and if she came off victorious and at rest, there was One who proved Himself, as He has so often done before, "a refuge from the storm; a shadow from the heat, when the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall."

CHAPTER II.

A PEEP AT CHRISTINA.

IT may be remembered that Christina Arbuthnot was an orphan. She had met the Arundels rather more than a year before this at the sea-side, and had become very intimate with them; and eventually she had accepted Dr. Arundel's eldest son, who was now in India.

She had been left by her father in comfortable circumstances, and had intended to devote her life to bringing up little friendless orphans to usefulness and happiness.

Then Walter Arundel had come upon the scene, and had fixed all his life's hopes on winning her.

Christina had hesitated; at first she had felt it to be impossible to yield to his wishes; for there was a grave far away where a great part of her heart lay buried. But after a time, thinking more of Walter than of herself, she had consented, and had settled down at Hampstead with her orphan children quietly content, full more of the present, perhaps, than of the future.

Her house, with its large garden, pleasant rooms, and glorious sunshine, was a home in which any one far less cheerfully constituted might have been happy; and Christina was happy. She loved her aunt, who lived with her; she loved her little orphan children; and the days passed away in her care for both.

There was one little child, "the baby," who had grown very dear to Christina; for her story had been a sad one, and she had been sent to Hampstead under peculiar circumstances. She was at this time a toddling little mite of eighteen months old, with fair hair and white cheeks, in which a tender little colour was beginning to be visible, which was watched by all the inmates of Sunnyside with great interest.

Whether Margaret Fenton, the nurse, or Margaret's own little daughter, Maggie, or Christina herself, loved baby Alice best, was a problem that little Maggie often tried to solve, and she generally ended it satisfactorily by saying in an assured little tone to her mother, "At any rate, God loves her best of all!"

There was, however, no doubt as to which of her devoted admirers baby loved best. Dearly as she liked nurse Margaret, happily as she played with Maggie, her smile of sweetest welcome was reserved for Christina, and it was to her she would go in preference to anyone else.

It was generally understood in the household that, when the young mistress was married, little Alice Forbes was not to be parted from her.

One morning early in January, the nursery door opened, after a slight tap, and Ada Arundel, dressed in hat and jacket, walked into the room.

"Miss Ada, you quite startled me!" said Margaret, looking up pleasantly in the bright young face. "It seems a long time since you were here."

"Yes, I've been dutiful at home, and so I couldn't come. Where's Miss Arbuthnot?"

"She has gone out into the town to get a few things, I believe, miss."

"Is she alone?" asked Ada, glancing round the nearly empty nursery.

"Oh, no! Alfy and Maggie are with her."

"I think I shall wander down the town too, presently, when I am warm, and see if I can find her. I wonder I did not meet her as I came."

"She might be in a shop," suggested Margaret.

"Yes, I daresay she was. And how is 'baby Alice,' Margaret?"

Their eyes turned towards the hearthrug where the little maid was seated. Her warm winter frock was covered by a snowy pinafore, and her flaxen hair was neatly parted, with an attempt at two or three soft little curls.

"She looks pretty well?" said Ada, half questioningly.