Chapter IV: Mrs. Grey's Departure

MRS. GREY was to leave the Mill House soon after breakfast on Monday morning. Accordingly, she arose at daybreak, and was fully dressed and had packed her travelling-bag before Mavis awoke. She was standing by the window looking out, when the little girl opened her eyes, and, seeing her there, addressed her.

"Good morning, mother. Have I overslept myself?"

"No, dear," Mrs. Grey answered. She crossed to the bedside and kissed Mavis as she spoke. "Get up now, though," she proceeded. "I want to have a talk with you before breakfast. We shall have no time together afterwards."

Mavis jumped out of bed at once. And, whilst she was dressing, her mother told her that it had been arranged for her to accompany Rose to school, and that she was to go to-morrow.

"To-morrow!" Mavis echoed. "Oh, I am sorry for that! It is such lovely weather, and the country looks so beautiful, and it's so nice in the garden, and—"

"And, in short, you consider you ought to have a holiday before you commence work," said Mrs. Grey, smiling.

She did not agree with her little daughter, for she knew it would be better for her mind to be fully occupied during the first days of their separation.

"You will have a whole holiday every Saturday," she went on to explain. "And your school hours are not long—from half-past nine to twelve o'clock in the morning, and from two to four o'clock in the afternoon. I am sure Rose does not look overworked."

"No," agreed Mavis. "I think I shall like Rose, mother."

"I am glad of that. She and her brother seem nice children. Your aunt has promised to write to me frequently, Mavis; I believe she will be very kind to you. And your uncle—"

"Oh, I love Uncle John already!" Mavis broke in. "He has promised to take me for some drives, and Rose says he's certain to, for he always keeps his word. What is that noise I hear, mother?"

"The mill wheel. You will soon grow accustomed to the sound. Do you know that this used to be your father's bedroom? Yes, so your uncle said. Think how often your father must have looked across those meadows to Oxford! Ah, I shall picture this view when I am far away, and be glad that I was able to leave you in your father's home."

Mavis had finished dressing by this time, and was standing by her mother's side, her mother's arm around her shoulder.

"You will be a good girl during my absence, I know," Mrs. Grey remarked by-and-by. "Do your best at school, and always obey your aunt, will you not?"

"Of course, mother," Mavis replied. "I hope you will not be gone very long, though. Perhaps Miss Dawson will got well quickly."

"I trust she will."

"I wish I had something to give her in return for the locket and chain she gave me, mother, or that there was something I could do to show her how grateful I am."

"You can pray for her, my dear, as she asked you. If you and I, who are well and strong, dread separation, what must she, who is weak and ill, feel about leaving her father? She knows it is not unlikely that she will never see him again in this world. It is very sad for her."

"She will have you, mother," Mavis said, with a little sob.

"Yes; but I am merely a stranger to her. You will miss me dreadfully, I know, darling, but your sense of loneliness will not equal Miss Dawson's."

"I am glad, yes, I am really glad you are going with her—glad for her sake, you know."

"It pleases me to hear you say that. Come, dear, let us kneel down and say our prayers together, and ask God's blessing."

Accordingly, mother and daughter knelt side by side and poured out their hearts to God. The tears rose to Mavis' eyes, but she resolutely blinked them away and would not let them overflow, for she was most anxious not to distress her mother more than she could help.

Shortly after they had arisen from their knees, the breakfast-bell rang, and they went downstairs. Mavis perceived that every one was looking at her very sympathetically, and no remarks were made when her appetite failed her and she left her breakfast almost untasted on her plate.

As soon as the meal was over, Rose and Bob said good-bye to their aunt, and betook themselves to school. And not long afterwards, Mr. Grey strolled out into the yard to order the horse to be put in the gig to convoy his sister-in-law to Oxford.

It had been previously arranged that Mavis was to say good-bye to her mother at the Mill House. She would have liked to accompany her to the railway-station, but Mrs. Grey herself had negatived that idea.

We will not linger over the moments of farewell when the mother and daughter clung to each other in grief too deep for words. The last good-bye kisses were exchanged, and Mrs. Grey took her place in the gig by her brother-in-law's side, whilst Mavis, between her aunt and Jane, stood outside the wicket-gate, struggling to keep calm.

"Good-bye," Mrs. John said. "We shall hear from you before you sail."

"Good-bye, ma'am," said Jane. "God bless you!"

"Good-bye, mother, dear, dear mother!" cried Mavis, trying to smile.

Then, as the gig moved off, she waved her hand, and continued to do so till it was out of sight. After that, she found it impossible to keep her composure any longer, and burst into a flood of tears. Her aunt and Jane were both very kind and sympathetic, but she begged them to let her be by herself. And, running into the house, she sought refuge in her own room, where she sobbed out her grief undisturbed for some time. By-and-by, however, Jane arrived, duster in hand. And Mavis, who had now passed the first keen pangs of sorrow, bathed her tear-stained face, and inquired where she would find her aunt.

"She's downstairs, miss; you'll find her either in the kitchen or the back garden. Monday's always a busy day with us, for it's washing-day. A woman from the village, Mrs. Long, comes to wash. She's worked for Mrs. John for years."

"You mean Aunt Lizzie when you speak of Mrs. John, don't you, Jane?"

"Yes; most folks call her Mrs. John, for master's mother was living when he married. Your mother is Mrs. Grey now, you know, for your father was the elder son. He might have had the mill, if he had liked, but he preferred to be a clergyman. I knew both your father and your uncle when they were boys. I lived here as servant when they were growing up, so you see I've been with the family a great many years."

Mavis went downstairs and found her way to the kitchen, beyond which was a big scullery, and outside that a wash-house, where a stout, rosy-cheeked woman was hard at work at a wash-tub, up to elbows in soapsuds, and enveloped in a cloud of steam.

"Good morning, missie," she said to Mavis, smiling at her good-temperedly, and with sympathy in her glance; for she knew the little girl's mother had left that morning, and guessed that was the cause of her sorrowful face.

"Good morning," Mavis replied, returning her smile.

She went out into the kitchen-garden, where she found her aunt hanging various garments on the clothes lines, which extended the whole length of the garden.

"Do let me help you, Aunt Lizzie," she said. "Isn't there something I can do?"

"You might spread these handkerchiefs on the hedge to bleach, they're Bob's. See what a dreadful colour they are, and no wonder, for I caught him dusting his boots with one of them and cleaning his slate with another! Boys make no end of work."

Mavis did as she was desired.

But her aunt had nothing more for her to do, so she found her way out of the garden by a gate in the hedge into the meadow beyond, and strolled along the bank of the river.

She was still within sight of the house, when she was startled by a big, black, formidable-looking dog, which came up and sniffed at her more out of curiosity—as she was quick enough to discern—than with any idea of intimidating her. Mavis was unaccustomed to dogs, but she was no coward, so she extended her hand to the great animal and spoke to him, whereupon he was so overcome with her condescension that he quite lost his head, and circled around her in delight, whilst she laughed heartily.

"Well, little maiden!"

Mavis turned at the sound of an amused voice addressing her, and found herself face to face with the Vicar. She recognized his elderly, clean-shaven countenance, with its sweet-tempered mouth and clear grey eyes, immediately.

"You are not afraid of my dog, I perceive," he proceeded, with a smile. "You need not be, for he is very quiet. His name is Max. I do not know you, do I?" he asked doubtfully, as he saw recognition in her glance.

"Oh no!" she responded, quickly.

"I think you must be the miller's little niece," he said, after a minute's reflection, during which he had noticed the traces of recent tears on her face. "Mr. Grey told me he expected you, and explained the circumstances under which you were to be left with him. Is your mother gone?"

"She went this morning, not long ago," Mavis replied, with quivering lips. "But she does not sail till Thursday. She is going ever so far away—to Australia—and I shan't see her for months and months," she added, mournfully.

"Meanwhile, I hope you will be very happy at the Mill House with your relatives. Come here, Max."

The dog obeyed his master's call, and allowed Mavis to pat his great head, after which, he licked her hand, and she felt she had made a friend.

"He is a Newfoundland," Mr. Moseley said, "and he will fetch anything out of the water. See!"

He picked up a stone, showed it to the dog, and flung it into the river. Max dived after it immediately, and presently, reappearing, swam ashore and laid the same stone at his master's feet. Mavis was delighted, and the performance was repeated several times for her benefit.

"What a clever dog he is!" she cried, enthusiastically. "Aren't you very fond of him?"

"Yes," the Vicar replied, "Max and I are great friends; we understand each other. How do you think you will like life in the country?" he inquired.

"I should like it, if mother was here, but I don't think I can be happy anywhere without her," was the doleful response.

"Oh yes, you can," he said decidedly; "you must try to be happy; that is the duty of every one. Life is hard for most of us at some time or other; it brings pain and separation. But we ought not to become gloomy and sad. If there were no partings, there would be no happy meetings. What is your name, my dear?"

"Mavis Grey."

"Mavis is a very pretty name. A little girl with that name should be as happy as a bird!"

Mavis smiled. She thought she would like to tell him how much she had enjoyed his sermon last night. And, after a brief hesitation, she did so.

He appeared greatly pleased.

"It was just as though you knew how lonely I was feeling," she said eagerly, "just as though you were preaching to me. I shall remember all you said—always, I hope. I'm not going to let my heart be troubled—not more than I can help. And I'm going to try not to be afraid, though there are so many things which might happen to mother!"

"There are many things which might happen to all of us. But we must trust ourselves and those we love to our Father in Heaven." Mr. Moseley paused for a minute, then proceeded, "I did not know my sermon last night was appropriate to any one in particular, but God knew, we may be sure of that."

"Did He tell you what to say?" Mavis inquired. "Oh," she cried, as her companion assented, "I was certain He did."

Mavis lingered a short while longer in conversation with her new acquaintance. Then she remembered that her aunt might be wondering where she was, and, having said good-bye to Mr. Moseley and bestowed a farewell pat on Max, she retraced her footsteps the way she had come. Her drooping spirits were reviving, for her talk with the Vicar had done her good. She looked up into the clear, blue sky overhead, and a glow of happiness crept into her heart. Then she glanced across the sweep of meadow-lands, and began to sing in a soft undertone—

"The Lord is only my support, and He that doth me feed;
How can I then lack anything whereof I stand in need?
In pastures green He feedeth me, where I do safely lie;
And after leads me to the streams which run most pleasantly."

Meanwhile, Mr. Grey had returned from Oxford, and was in the kitchen-garden talking to his wife, who had brought out another basket of clothes. He was telling her, that he had seen his sister-in-law off from the railway-station, and was inquiring what had become of Mavis, when the little girl appeared at the garden gate.

"Why, she's singing!" he exclaimed, in surprise.

"I don't understand her," his wife replied, looking puzzled. "She seemed very cut up after her mother had gone, and wept most bitterly, but I think her feelings must be all on the surface—they can't go very deep."

At that moment Mavis caught sight of them. Her voice suddenly ceased, and she ran up to her uncle, to learn that her mother had really gone.

"What was that you were singing, Mavis?" he inquired, curiously.

"The twenty-third psalm, Uncle John," she answered; "seeing the green meadows put me in mind of it."

Then, observing he looked bewildered, she continued eagerly, "Don't you understand? 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.'"

"Oh, now I follow your train of thought," he replied, with a smile, glancing at his wife. "Fancy a child like you thinking of that!"