CHAPTER XIV.

THE WORLD BECOMES BRIGHT AGAIN.

'Gone away altogether!'

I echoed the words, but the news was so sudden and unexpected that for a few moments I did not quite understand their meaning. I had never, until the last fortnight, had a friend so nearly of my own age as Jessie; and the companionship had been to me so sweet and delightful, and so altogether new, that to lose it now seemed like losing the best part of my life. I released myself from my mother's embrace, and ran upstairs to her bedroom, to look for Jessie's box. It was gone, and the room was in all respects the same as it had been before Jessie's arrival. Until that time it had always worn a cheerful aspect in my eyes, but now it looked cold and desolate; the happy experiences of the last two weeks seemed to me like a dream--but a dream which, now that it had passed away, filled my heart with pain.

'Her box is gone,' I said, with quivering lips, when I rejoined my mother.

'It was taken away this morning, my dear.'

'That shows that she is not coming back; and I shall never, never see her again!'

My mother did not reply. The feeling that now stole upon me was one of resentment towards uncle Bryan. Who was to blame but he? From the first he had behaved harshly towards her. He saw that we were fond of her, and he was jealous of her. He was always cold and unsympathetic and unkind. Every unreasonable suggestion that presented itself to me with reference to him, I welcomed and accepted as an argument against him; and to this effect I spoke hotly and intemperately.

'Chris, Chris, my dear!' remonstrated my mother; 'you should not have hard thoughts towards your uncle.'

'I can't help it; he almost asks for them. He won't let us like him--he won't! I don't care if he hears me say so.'

'He can't hear you, my dear; he went away with Jessie this morning.'

'Where to?'

'I have no idea, Chris; he did not tell me.'

'And wouldn't, if you had asked,' I said bitterly.

My mother sighed, but said, with gentle firmness, 'I had no right to ask, my dear.'

'Then we are alone in the house, mother.'

'Yes, my dear, for a little while. Sit down, and I will tell you all about it.'

I sat down, and my mother sat beside me, and took my hand in hers.

'It came upon me as suddenly as it has come upon you, my dear, and I am almost as sorry as you are. But life is full of such changes, my dear child.'

'Go on, mother.' In my rebellious mood her gentle words brought no comfort to me.

'When I said last night that I would come for you this evening, I had no idea that anything would have prevented me. I intended to bring Jessie, and I looked forward with pleasure to the walk we intended to take. I did not tell your uncle that Jessie would come with me; I thought I would wait till teatime. Lately I have considered it more than ever my duty to study him, because of the change that has taken place in him--you have noticed it yourself, my dear--since Jessie came so strangely among us. For it was strange, was it not, my dear?--almost as strange as her going away so suddenly, and as unexpected too; for I am certain your uncle did not expect her, and that he was as much surprised as we were. He is not to blame, therefore, for what has occurred now. It is not for us, dear child, to find fault with him because he is silent and reserved with us; the only feeling we ought to have towards him is one of deep gratitude for his great kindness to us. You don't forget our sad condition, my darling, on the morning we received your uncle's letter.'

'No, mother, I don't forget,' I said, somewhat softened towards uncle Bryan.

'He did not deceive us; he spoke plainly and honestly, and the brightest expectations we could have entertained from his offer, and the manner in which it was made, have been more than realised. Is it not so, dear child?'

In common honesty I was compelled to admit that it was so.

'I shudder when I think what might have become of my dear boy if it had not been for this one friend--this one only friend, my darling, in all the wide, wide world!--who stepped forward so unselfishly to save us. And we have been so happy here, my darling, so very, very happy, all these years! If a cloud has come, have we not still a little sunshine left? There, there, my dear!' returning my kisses, and wiping her eyes; 'as I was saying'--(although she had said nothing of the kind; but she was flurried and nervous)--'and as I told you once before, I think Jessie gave your uncle a letter, and that I saw him, the day after she came, writing, with this letter before him. Every morning since then I have observed him watch for the arrival of the postman in the neighbourhood, and every time the postman passed without giving him the letter which I saw he expected, he grew more anxious. This morning he reminded me that I had some errands to make; I was away for nearly two hours, and when I came home he and Jessie were in the shop, dressed for walking. What passed after that was so quick and rapid that I was quite bewildered. Your uncle, beckoning me into the parlour, said that he and Jessie were going away, and that I was to take care of the shop while he was absent. "I want you not to ask any questions," he said, seeing, I suppose, that I was about to ask some. "I shall be away for two or three days, perhaps longer. Do the best you can. You had better wish Jessie good-bye now." I could not help asking, "Is she coming back with you?" And he said, "No." I was so grieved, Chris, that when I went into the shop, where Jessie was waiting, I was crying. "You are sorry I am going, then," she said. "Indeed, indeed, I am, my dear," I replied, as I kissed her. She kissed me quite affectionately, and said she was glad I was sorry, and that I was to give her love to you----'

'Did she say that, mother? Did she?'

'Yes, my dear. "Give my love to Chris," she said, "and say how sorry I am to go away without seeing him." And the next minute she was gone. I thought of her box then, and I ran upstairs, as you did just now, and found that it had been taken away while I was out. And that is all I know, my dear.'

'It is very strange,' I said, after a long pause. Mother, what do you think of it, eh?'

'My dear, I don't know what to think. The more I think, the more I am confused. And now, my dear----'

'Yes, mother.'

'We must make ourselves happy in our old way, and we must attend to the business properly until your uncle returns.'

Make ourselves happy in our old way! How was that possible? The light had gone out of the house. The very room in which we three--uncle Bryan, my mother, and I--had spent so many pleasant days before Jessie came, looked cold and comfortless now. Even the figure of my dear mother, bustling cheerfully about, and the sweet considerate manner in which she strove, in many tender ways, to soften my sorrow, were not a recompense for the loss of Jessie. I opened my book and pretended to be occupied with it, and my mother, with that rare wisdom which springs from perfect unselfish love, did not disturb my musings. The evening passed very quietly, and directly the shop was shut, I went to bed. I was in a very unhappy mood, and it was past midnight before I fell asleep. I did not think of my mother, or of the pain she was suffering through me. My grief was intensely selfish; I had not the strength which often comes from suffering, nor was I blessed with such a nature as my mother's--a nature which does not colour surrounding circumstances with the melancholy hue of its own sorrows. Unhappily, it falls to the lot of few to be brought within the sweet influence of one whose mission on earth seems to be to shed the light of peace and love upon those among whom her lot is cast, and to whom, unless we are ungratefully forgetful, as I was on this night, we look instinctively for comfort and consolation when trouble comes to us. In the middle of the night, I awoke suddenly, and found my mother sitting by my bed; she was in her nightdress, and there was a light in the room.

'Why, mother!' I exclaimed, confused for a moment.

'Don't be alarmed, dear child,' she said; 'there's nothing the matter; but I could not sleep, knowing that you were unhappy. You too, my dear, were a long time before you went to sleep.'

Then I knew that she must have watched and waited at my bedroom door until I had blown out my candle.

'What time is it, mother?'

'It must be three o'clock, my dear.'

'O, mother! And you awake at this time of the night for me!'

She smiled softly. Something of worship for that pure nature stole into my heart as I looked into her dear eyes. But there was grief in them, too, and I asked her the reason.

'Do you know, my darling,' she said, with a wistful yearning look, and with a sigh which she vainly strove to check, that you went to bed to-night without kissing me? For the first time in your life, dear child; for the first time in your life!'

In a passion of remorse I threw my arms around her neck, and kissed her again and again, and asked her forgiveness, and said, 'How could I--how could I be so unloving and unkind?' But she stopped my self-reproaches with her lips on my lips, and with broken words of joy and thankfulness. She folded me in her arms, and there was silence between us for many minutes--silence made sacred by love as pure and faithful as ever dwelt in woman's breast. Then I drew the clothes around her, and she lay by my side, saying that she would wait until I was asleep.

'This is like the old time, mother,' I whispered, 'when there was no one else but you and me. But I love you more than I did then, mother.'

'My darling child!' she whispered, in return; 'how you comfort me! But I won't have my dear boy speak another word, except good-night.'

We looked out on the following day for a letter from uncle Bryan, but none came, nor any news of him. It was the same on the second day, and the third. My mother began to grow uneasy.

'If he had only left word where he was going to!' she said. 'I am afraid he must be ill.'

The business went on very well without him, thanks to my mother's care and attention, except that on Saturday night the supply of 'uncle Bryan's pills,' as they had got to be called in the neighbourhood, ran short, which occasioned my mother much concern. Sunday and Monday passed, and still no tidings of him. On the Tuesday--I remember the day well: we were very busy where I was employed, and I did not come home until past ten o'clock--the shop was shut--a most unusual thing. I knocked at the door hurriedly, and my mother, with happiness in her face, opened it for me.

'Uncle Bryan has come home!' I cried, in a hearty tone.

She nodded gladly, and I ran in, and threw my arms about him. I think he was pleased with this spontaneous mark of affection; but he looked at me curiously too, I thought. We sat down--the three of us--and a dead silence ensued. We all looked at each other, and spoke not a word.

'What's the matter, mother?' I asked, for certainly so strange a silence needed explanation.

A sweet laugh answered me, and my heart almost leaped into my throat. I darted behind the door, and there stood Jessie Trim, bending forward, with eager face, and sparkling eyes, and hand uplifted to her ear. But when she saw that she was discovered, her manner changed instantly. She came forward, quite demurely.

'Are you glad?' she asked gravely, with her hand in mine.

My looks were a sufficient answer.

'And now,' she said, sitting down on the stool, and resting her hands on her lap, we are going to live happily together for ever afterwards.'