Chapter IX: On the Hillside

IT was breakfast-time on the morning after Claude went "home."

Mr. and Mrs. Malden were sitting together in the library, with the sea gleaming and flashing in the sun, which shone directly in at the front windows.

The blinds were partly lowered, but more to keep the dazzling rays off, than because of the conventional custom. Mrs. Malden had instantly decided that her loved invalid must not be kept for days in darkness for any such reason.

They sat almost in silence hand in hand. To have no child with them, no child to care for and nurse even, came down on Mrs. Malden's loving heart with a great blank of loneliness—a sense of an empty lap, which somehow made her feel forlorn. She did not cry, for no tears had come since the little spirit had fled, but she went about her usual morning duties to her husband, with a quiet sort of patience which surprised herself.

"Not here—with Jesus," she kept on repeating softly, when the thought of that closed room came over her.

So the husband and wife sat hand in hand, eating but little, but feeling refreshed by the quiet meal.

"How peaceful it is," said Mr. Malden, glancing out on the sparkling sea.

"Yes, very."

"Have you telegraphed to Norwich?"

"Yes, that is all done. Uncle Chantry has been very kind to come over so early to help us."

"Very kind."

"Everyone has been so good to us."

"Yet you seem, my love, as if you were still perplexed."

"So I am," she answered, turning towards him. "I cannot see my way to arrange about the children, and all that must be done when the funeral is over."

"There is no hurry for that, love."

"No, no, but one cannot help thinking."

"'The meek will He guide in judgment,'" he said softly.

"I am sure of that, but I am so afraid of making up plans of my own, and dwelling on them, till I think them the very best that can be done."

"Yes; energetic people are apt to do that. But I often think Moses was energetic enough, and yet God said of him that he was the most teachable man on earth."

"Teachable?"

"Ready to do as he was told, not one who put up the shoulder when a direction was given. And so, being teachable, the Lord could come and speak face to face with him."

Mrs. Malden pondered, resting her chin on her hand, looking out over the sea.

"We must ask to be guided," she said at length. "It all seems very complicated to me. There are the children to be got out of the house while it is fumigated; you and I must go somewhere too."

"One step at a time," he answered, stroking her hand tenderly. "We have not that to do to-day, nor for many days. As all that becomes necessary, we shall be shown how to do it. People often make mistakes by stepping before the time."

"I know it," she answered. "I will wait."

Just as they had finished breakfast, the maid knocked at the door.

When Mrs. Malden opened it, on a dish before her lay a beautiful little wreath of ivy, with one single white hyacinth lying across the middle.

"With Mrs. Chantry's love, ma'am," said the servant.

And Mrs. Malden took it from her hand and brought it to her husband's side.

By the hyacinth was a card, on which was written,—

"It is well with the child."

One glance at the words was enough; the bereaved mother burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. The child that since she was "comforted" last night she had thought of as being with Jesus, triumphant over death and pain, was by these simple words brought back, as it were, to her arms, and now lay in them as the tiny babe, as the tender little child, as the bright boy, as the dying little son.

"It is well with the child! Oh, yes, it is well," she acknowledged, "but—but I have not got him here."

She wept very much for a few minutes, and then again patience and trust reasserted themselves. She began once more to think of the victory gained, the strife over, the goal reached. "It is well with the child."

She dried her eyes, and laid her cheek against her husband's without speaking.

"You will be better now, Ella, my love," he whispered tenderly. "Take this in and lay it at his feet. It was very loving of Greta to think of it."

Thus, the days passed away, till on the Thursday, Claude's small coffin was carried away to its resting-place under the trees by the old church.

There the sea breezes swept over the new turf, and made solemn music between the branches of the spreading fir-trees which hung overhead.

Mrs. Malden had sent in to the cottage an earnest request that no one would come to the house, or follow her darling's funeral carriage.

Mrs. Chantry had answered that she at any rate should be in the churchyard, but would not, for the sake of her children, come near the grave. She would turn homewards, she said, when the service was over.

So when Mrs. Malden stood alone on the breezy hill, by the newly-turned mould, she saw advancing from the other side of the churchyard her sister Greta and Alick. She saw them without looking; for her eyes were resting on the flower-covered casket which had already been lowered, thinking of the precious body within, which was to wait there till the resurrection.

When she raised her eyes again, some one tall had come round and taken his place by her side, and with a start, she looked up at her step-son, Courtenay Malden.

He only whispered:

"Let me, mother. Margaret sent me."

And she felt inexpressibly relieved to think they had got him home again.

The blessed service—blessed when read over those who sleep in Jesus—was over.

Mrs. Chantry and Alick, as agreed, turned homewards, with only one wave of the hand as adieu, and then Courtenay and Mrs. Malden waited in silence till all was completed.

After that, they slowly walked along the path and left the place, which ever after to her seemed as a part of her self.

"Courtenay dear, ought you?" she said gently, as they turned into the lane.

"There could be but little risk in the open air, mother."

"Perhaps not, but I would not have you run any for the world."

"It has been a comfort to me, mother."

"Dear boy," she answered in her old phrase, "we both understand now, as neither of us could six months ago."

"Yes, Margaret wished me particularly to come. She would have been here herself, but that I laid my commands upon her. She is not very strong."

"When did you come home, Courtenay? I had no idea—"

"This morning, an hour ago. I drove straight here."

"How did you hear? My dear boy, my heart is lighter since I saw you."

"Dear mother, I am so thankful I was in time. I had written to Alick to prepare him for our arrival; because a telegram at Gibraltar had informed us about dear little Claude, and I told him what hotel we would call at on our way through. Aunt Greta wrote to us there, to bring us home quickly. We arrived in London last night, and came on by the first train this morning."

"God is very good to me. Oh, Courtenay, I wish you could come in and see your father, but that is impossible!"

"We shall soon arrange that. Mother, as we have so little time to talk, would it distress you to-day to discuss plans?"

"Not in the least, my dear boy."

"I would not, only that we cannot so well meet now, and here we are together."

"It will not cause me a pang. Why should it? I am thanking my heavenly Father at every step that He has brought you back to us."

"Well then, mother, Margaret and I have thought about it all, and we want you all to come at once to The Towers, while Sunnyside is made right."

"But the risk—oh, no, dear Courtenay."

"There is not much to risk now, mother. There are no children—" He stopped, a spasm passing over his face. Then he went on, more softly:

"The little ones, Alick tells me, have never been near the infection, have been out in the air with Martha from morning till night, have never even entered the passages, but have gone up and down by the back staircase."

"Yes, that is all true."

"Then they can come without an instant's thought?"

"But your father and I are different."

"Yes, but not to be left out, mother."

He looked in her face, smiling one of his old smiles. "I do not see how," she said, her eyes filling at that look.

"But we do. We propose that you should put on fresh clothes, or whatever disinfecting is considered necessary nowadays, and go into the children's part of your house for a few days. Then you can migrate over to The Towers for a long visit, while I have Sunnyside done up from top to bottom."

"Oh, Courtenay!"

"We have thought it all over."

"Indeed you have. But, dear boy, supposing either of the children gets it, in spite of all our precautions?"

"Then that's in God's hands. We are only doing our obvious duty, we can trust Him for the rest."

Mrs. Malden walked on, thinking it all over. That her heart was filled with grateful love, she knew, but felt that she must not let her feelings blind her judgment.

"Come, mother," he said at last, "have not you and my dear father asked to be guided about all this?"

"Indeed we have."

"And have you not asked that some way might be found in this difficulty?"

"How did you know?" she asked, surprised.

"Do you not always?"

"Yes, you know we do."

"Then you have not omitted it this time, I expect."

"Courtenay, I was able to leave it with Him. Your father reminded me that it was the meek He would guide in judgment, and the meek He would teach His way. And so I asked Him to make me meek and teachable, so that He might act for me."

"Oh, mother," he answered, "when you tell me that, it makes me more happy than ever in our plan! Do try to be, too."

"Your father and I must think it over, dear boy, but it seems everything that could be wished. Dear Courtenay, you must let me thank you, even if—"

"You can thank me best by coming, mother."

"I will be at the stile at six o'clock this evening if I can. Will you come there to speak to me, dear?"

They had by this time reached the gate at Sunnyside. Courtenay opened it for her to pass through, saying, "I will be there, mother; and tell my dear father that I know how to make him comfortable, do I not? He must not be afraid to come."

"It would not be that—"

"Mother dear, just ask to be guided about this, as you did about the other, and then, if it is His plan, you will see your way to accept it."

She raised her eyes to his face. "I will, Courtenay," she answered.

And then turned homewards to her husband, remembering suddenly, with thankfulness, what a joy to him it would be on this sorrowful day to hear that his beloved son, Courtenay, had returned to them.

"Why was I anxious?" she asked herself. "He has made the meek to inherit the earth to-day.

"'All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's.'"