The hot days of August oppressed the spirits of the people. The evenings brought little relief. In the city it was stifling; even in the suburbs everyone felt worn out. The doors and windows were all thrown open to catch what breeze there might be off Wandsworth Park. It was particularly hot in the Ferndale house. Poor Mrs. Clarke found the heat almost unbearable. By her bed sat Ethel, for her mother was seldom able to be out of bed. The grief of losing her boy had left its mark deeply on her. Almost two years had passed since her darling boy had wandered away and never returned.
Jessie was a nursery governess, but, as she only worked in the mornings, she had ample leisure to assist her sister in any home duties that required her help. Mrs. Clarke had long since relinquished all such affairs. In fact, one by one, everything that might possibly have occupied her mind and given some relief to her great sorrow, had been discarded. Even visitors were excluded. She had complained that they made her head ache, and her husband, willing to comply with any wish on his wife’s part, raised no objection.
Mrs. Clarke was being consumed by occupation with her own sorrow and had ceased to think of others. Her load of grief would have become lighter if she had gone out into the narrow, squalid streets and courts that surrounded Wandsworth, to see and share the sorrows and joys of others. But Mrs. Clarke made no effort to do anything. Only a day or two before the doctor had called Ethel aside, and, as gently as possible, explained the urgent need for some action to put her mother’s mind and heart on other things. Unless such a change took place soon, he feared for her mother’s life.
Ethel got her father and sister together to tell them what the doctor had said. They understood the problem, but they didn’t know what to do about it. Many ideas were examined and discarded. None showed much promise of arousing their loved one from the lethargy into which she had fallen. There seemed to be no solution to the problem. Then Jessie thought of a plan which both her father and her sister immediately agreed to. They decided to try it in hopes of saving their mother from her self-destructive state of mind.
To Ethel fell the responsibility of telling her mother about their plan. During a long, hot August afternoon she turned many words this way and that in her mind, seeking the best way to reach her mother’s mind and heart with her own thoughts and feelings.
“Mamma,” she began softly, after having sat by her couch some few minutes, “it is nearly two years ago since darling Tan went away. Don’t you think you could give him up to God?”
A spasm of pain crossed the mother’s face. “I have done that, dear, long ago,” she answered.
“Then why keep mourning for him, dear Mamma; he is never out of your thoughts, I believe.”
“My child, you cannot know how utterly impossible it is for me to forget my darling even for a few minutes. No one understands a mother’s love, and everything here constantly reminds me of him.”
Ethel thought of what that loss meant to her, and how much she too had suffered, but said nothing. Her brother had been intensely dear to her, for she had done everything for him, and had been as a mother to him. But Ethel had taken her sorrow and her failure to the God of all comfort, and, though it cost her much to accept the loss of her beloved brother, she had, through grace, achieved it and become a conqueror. Her one aim was to forget self and live for others.
Using her mother’s words, “Everything here reminds me of him,” as the needed opening, Ethel asked, “If we were to go away, dear Mamma, don’t you think you would be better?”
“No, Ethel. It might be better for a little while, as it was when we went to Bournemouth this spring, but after we come back the sorrow is greater than ever.”
“Papa wished me to tell you some arrangements he has been making lately. Do you think you could bear it for me to tell you now?” inquired Ethel.
“Yes, dear, you can tell me,” replied Mrs. Clarke, who lay back with her eyes closed and a look of utter disinterest upon her features. Nothing mattered to her now, her whole being seemed to say.
“Papa has decided to leave his business here in the hands of his assistant, to make him the manager in Papa’s place and to take a house in the country. Papa would be able to run up to the store once or twice a week and be sure all was OK.”
Ethel presented the plan in a gentle yet decided tone, giving her mother the desired impression that it was all settled. As she finished speaking, Mr. Clarke entered.
“Well, little wife, what do you think of our arrangements?” said he, bending affectionately over the invalid’s couch.
“You did not ask my opinion, John dear,” returned his wife, “but if you think it best, I am content. Where is it you intend to live?”
Mrs. Clarke was interested in spite of herself. It had come so suddenly that it had the effect of arousing her, if only for the time being, as her husband and daughters had intended it should.
To her question, Mr. Clarke responded, “In a pretty village, a few miles from Bedford, we have found the sort of house you have always wished for, with a large old-fashioned garden. It’s for rent, so I decided it would be just the thing. Besides, there is another reason why we thought that Stoneton, as it is called, would suit us. Cousin Annie lives within a stone’s throw.”
“Cousin Annie!” exclaimed his wife.
“Yes, dear. I only found out quite accidentally that she returned from Canada with her two children two weeks ago. She intended to write and tell us, but there had been so much to attend to that, before she got the letter written, I heard through Sarah, who called only yesterday and knew about the move. When Ethel mentioned Stoneton, Sarah said she had heard Mrs. Brunton was living in that neighborhood. And now, my dears,” said Mr. Clarke to mother and daughter, “I must run off to attend a meeting I have promised to preside at today.”
“Good-bye, Papa. I will tell Mamma all the details of the move, presently,” whispered Ethel, as her father hurriedly escaped.
“Poor Annie,” said Mrs. Clarke, after a few moments’ silence, as Ethel took up her needlework beside her mother’s couch.
“Yes, Mamma. She has had her troubles. Left a widow in a far country, she will be glad to have us near her.”
Mrs. Clarke did not reply. She was no longer thinking about Sarah’s troubles, but was wondering: How can I bear to tell her of my darling boy’s absence. She will be sure to ask after little Tan. She has two boys now, the youngest will always make me think of my loss of dear Tan, for he is about Tan’s age. O Tan, how I miss you. I cannot bear to be without you.
During her holidays, Jessie had gone down to the new place to see that everything was being put in order. Faithful Mary was already living at the new home, getting it ready for the family. Mr. Clarke was staying at the shop while trying to get the business turned over to the new manager. Mrs. Clarke and Ethel had accepted an invitation to stay at an old friend’s house not far away, after the furniture was removed from Ferndale.
By the middle of September, all was ready for the family to move in. The short journey to their new home in the picturesque part of Bedfordshire was almost too much for Mrs. Clarke. But a few days’ rest in the quiet country home wrought wonders. Everything being so entirely changed had the desired effect of enabling Mrs. Clarke to dwell less on her great sorrow.
The new home stood in the middle of a large old-fashioned flower garden, where pinks, mignonette, sweet williams, and other fragrant blossoms filled the air with perfume during the summer. Behind it were a small orchard and a kitchen garden.
Mrs. Clarke spent much of her time by the open window. The country and quietness never made her feel lonely as it would probably have done to others with more restless spirits.
Jessie had remained in town while her employer looked for another governess to take care of the four little fair-haired girls who had been Jessie’s sole charge for half the day. It was with intense delight that she left London two weeks later and journeyed to the new home. The trees on every hand were turning gold and brown. She thought the country had never looked more beautiful. Ethel met her at the station, which lay two miles from Stoneton, in a neat little horse-drawn carriage which Mr. Clarke had procured for his wife’s benefit.
“How is Mamma?” had been Jessie’s first question, and the answer, “Decidedly better,” was reassuring.
“Cousin Annie has done what I have never been able to do,” said Ethel, “that is, to show Mamma how wrong it is to constantly grieve over any trial God allows to fall upon us. But we cannot forget our darling, though. It is only two years since the little golden head nestled so lovingly on my lap,” pursued Ethel, while the tears filled her eyes. “I do wonder where he is, Jessie. I have often thought, especially lately, that he may be nearer than we think.”
“Do you mean,” queried her sister, “that he is dead and that somehow we feel it in our hearts?”
“No, dear, I do not think he is dead. It has often occurred to me that possibly someone may have found him, and, not having any children of their own, adopted him. Look, Mamma is at the garden gate looking out for us.”
Jessie was filled with thankfulness at the change in her mother’s appearance since arriving at the new home. It was not so much the country air and new surroundings, though, that had helped, as it was the gentle influence of Mrs. Brunton. There was much to talk about, but the girls, in front of their mother, carefully avoided alluding to the topic they had discussed on the way home from the station.
In the evening, Mrs. Brunton called to see Jessie. She thought she had never seen a sweeter face, and fell in love with her at once. Neither Ethel nor Jessie had seen their cousin before, for, previous to her marriage, she had lived in Canada for ten years.
Two little boys came in with their mother to be introduced to Jessie. They were bright little fellows of seven and nine years old. Raymond, the elder, was dark with dark eyes, black hair, and a swarthy complexion, while Vincent was fair, like his mother, but not at all like little Tan. His face was freckled and sunburnt, with closely cropped, sandy hair, so there was no likelihood of Mrs. Clarke seeing her darling in his face, and yet, whenever her eyes rested on either of the lads, she yearned for her boy. They were full of news about all the things they had seen and done since starting to school in Bedford.
“Well, how do you like going to school by train?” said Ethel in the course of the evening, when they had exhausted their account of school life.
“We like it very much,” responded Raymond. “But Vincent said he would rather ride in an old caravan that passed us near the station. There was such a cross old gypsy driving,” continued Raymond, “and his little boy was looking out, but I don’t think he was happy, because there were streak marks all down his dirty face as if he had been crying.”
“But I wouldn’t cry,” interrupted Vincent, “if I had been having such a jolly ride — always on the move, and never having to go to school. Wouldn’t it be fun?”
“I think, boys,” said their mother gently, “you ought to thank God you were not born a gypsy child — to be brought up in ignorance and squalor.”
“Why, there goes the caravan,” said the elder boy, glancing out of the window.
Mrs. Clarke turned her eyes in the direction of the dusty, white road just discernible across the flower-stocked garden. “Poor people,” she said, “but they are used to such a life, and happy in a way in it, not knowing anything better.”
“May we run down and see it pass, mother?” questioned the boys. “We want to see if the little boy’s still looking out.”
“Yes, go ahead, if you like,” returned Mrs. Brunton.
In a few minutes they returned.
“We saw the little boy, and waved to him,” said Vincent.
“Yes, and I called out to him that, if he would tell us his name, I would give him a coin, but the man who was driving pushed him into the cart,” said Raymond.
“You shouldn’t have asked his name. You didn’t need to know it, and you no doubt gave offence to his father, considering his action to the child,” said Mrs. Brunton. Turning to Mrs. Clarke, she added, “My boys always interest themselves in poor children, and I don’t discourage them, but in this case it couldn’t do any good. Gypsies do not like to be interfered with.”
“No, it couldn’t do any good in this case,” said Ethel, who was listening to the conversation. If she had learned, as her young cousins very nearly did, that the gypsy child’s name was Tan, how different would have been her remark and actions.