CHAPTER IV

Little Ivy

MISS STOREY'S cousin, Mr. Frederick Croft, read her letter silently, his young wife leaning against his shoulder and reading it also. They were alone together.

"Kind creature!" he said at length. "I didn't really expect it of her."

"I did, Fred. She is so dear—so really good."

"Anne would be ready enough. Anne loves children. But Millicent—"

"She would do anything she felt to be right."

"Yes; that's it. She writes sweetly; but it's because she thinks she ought. Not because she wants Ivy. And the question is—Were we right to ask it of her?"

"I don't see that there was anything else to be done."

"What I mean is—Am I right to let you come with me? That is the real question."

"I knew you meant that. But you can't help it, dear, because I am coming." Mary Croft spoke firmly.

"If I forbade it—you would not come."

"You are not going to forbid it."

"What if the climate should make you ill?"

"What if it should make you ill?" she asked.

"Then, of course—But it is my plain duty to go."

"And it is my duty, Fred, to go with you."

"It is not necessary for you, as it is for me."

"Fred, don't argue any more. My mind is made up. And you know you couldn't get on without me. You would be wretched, miserable. You know you would," repeated Mary Croft. "As for the climate, I am twice as strong as you are, and much less likely to be ill. And if you should be ill, I must be there to nurse you."

Neither said any more for two or three minutes. Perhaps Mr. Croft felt too strongly to reply. His next words were with a husky laugh, which sounded as if tears might not be very far distant.

"I wonder how poor little 'Why-because' will take it?"

"She will say—that," Mary answered, trying to conquer the shake in her voice. For, though she was quite determined not to stay behind when her husband went to Africa, it nearly broke her heart to think of leaving her darling Ivy.

"We must tell her."

"She is so sweet, so reasonable," murmured Mrs. Croft. "She will understand—that it has to be."

"I'll tell her. You must leave it to me."

"No, no, Fred. Not you. You have enough to think about. I shall do it!"

Mary Croft always tried to spare other people.

"I don't believe you can."

"Yes, I can. And I know you can't. I shall explain how it is. Somehow, one always talks to Ivy as one would to a grown-up person. Dear, you will write at once to Miss Storey. Tell her how grateful we are; how I love her for it; how sweet our pet is. I'll write too, but not to-day."

"Sh—sh!" murmured Mr. Croft, as the door opened, and a child came softly in.

Then, in a moment, he knew that he could not possibly make up his mind to tell little Ivy of the coming separation. He could not do it. He was a brave man, but that was beyond his powers.

"Yes, I'll go and write to the cousins," he said hurriedly, standing up.

And Mary Croft smiled faintly to herself, for she understood. He went out of the room, pausing by the way to bend over the child for one vehement kiss. After which he fled.

Ivy came forward, and stood beside the table, looking at her mother. She was such a dear little girl! No wonder her father and mother could hardly bear the thought of being parted from her. She held her head well up, like a small queen, and she had pretty plump fair arms, and soft velvety cheeks; and great billows of pale brown hair, which was shot with gold when the sun shone on it, rose over her forehead and fell curling all down her back; and her big thoughtful brown eyes were fixed wonderingly on Mrs. Croft's face.

When anything puzzled Ivy, she had a funny way of saying: "Why-because?"—pronouncing the two words in a soft, slow, questioning manner. Mr. Croft liked so much the way in which she did this, that he would not have her taught to speak differently. And that was how he had fallen into the habit of calling her, "Little Why-because."

Besides being so sweet to look at, Ivy was very sweet in character—a loving-hearted, gentle child—and indeed it was this which made her so sweet in face and manner. If she had been spoilt and ill-tempered and disagreeable and selfish, she might have been just as nice-looking a little girl in outward form, but everybody would not have loved her nearly so much. She would not have looked half so sweet and attractive. Nothing spoils the prettiest face like ill-temper.

As she stood by the table, she inquired—"Mummie, why-because is daddy crying?"

"Was daddy crying, darling?"

"I saw real live tears in his eyes, mummie." She meant that he was not merely pretending to cry, to amuse her, as sometimes he had done.

"He is sorry, pet, and so am I. We have to do something that we don't like to do, and it makes us sorry. And yet it has to be. Sometimes, you know, God tells us to do things that we would much rather not do."

"Why-because?"

"Always because He loves us, darling. We may be quite sure of that."

Ivy waited for more; quietly standing and waiting, as a grown-up person might have done; not fidgeting about, as Hecla would have done in her place. All her short life she had been much with her elders, and often she had a manner beyond her years. Yet she was a most happy little girl, full of enjoyment.

Mrs. Croft came round the table to where Ivy was, and sat down, putting her arm round the child.

"Sweet, do you remember last summer, when we were at the seaside, that daddy had to make you wear big blue spectacles when you were down on the shore? You didn't like them because they kept you from seeing the beautiful sea and waves properly. And you wanted to take them off; and mummie had to say 'No.' And then you asked, 'Why-because must you wear them?' And daddy explained that it was because Ivy's eyes were weak; and if she didn't wear the spectacles, the hot sun would make them worse, and then they might be weak always; but if she did as she was told, they would soon be stronger. And it was just because daddy and mummie do so love their little girl that they made her keep on wearing those tiresome ugly big spectacles. Don't you see? Not because we wanted to trouble our pet, but only because we loved her so."

Ivy smiled.

"And it is the same thing with our kind loving Father in Heaven, Ivy. Sometimes He sees that we need a trouble—something like wearing those spectacles—something that tries us and makes us sad—and yet He sees that if we don't have it, we shall not be strong and well in our spirits by-and-by. And so—because He so tenderly cares for us—He sends the trouble, and tells us to bear it patiently. Does my pet understand?"

A little nod came in reply. "But daddy did have real tears, mummie."

"I don't think that was wrong of daddy. When God has to send us trouble, He doesn't tell us not to mind, only to try to be patient, and always to be sure that He loves us. When our dear Lord was on earth, and had great troubles to bear, He shed tears, and He was very, very sad; but still He always said, 'Thy will be done!' And we must say the same."

Ivy gave a sigh, and leant her pretty head against her mother's shoulder. Mrs. Croft's other arm came round her tightly. Oh, how she wished that she could shield her darling from every sorrow! She would gladly have borne anything herself, if only Ivy might be perfectly happy.

"Sweet, how would you like to pay a visit to kind Cousin Millicent and Cousin Anne? You know what a beautiful present they sent you at Christmas."

"My big doll, mummie."

"Yes; with a lot of fine clothes that come off and on, and a cradle for dolly to sleep in. Wasn't it good of them? And now I hope Ivy is going to stay with them."

"Mummie and daddy too!"

"Mummie will take you there, darling. And then mummie and daddy have to go on somewhere else for a time."

"Where?"

"A good way off. Daddy has to go; and mummie can't let him go alone."

"Why-because must daddy go?"

"I'm afraid you can't understand that, Ivy. You are too little. By-and-by, when you are older, you will see why it had to be. You must believe now that daddy wouldn't go if it was not right. There are many things that we can't understand till we are older—things that daddy and mummie can't understand now, and never will till—by-and-by! And this is a thing that little Ivy can't understand yet. But you can trust daddy and mummie, darling. You know we wouldn't go if we could help it, if it wasn't for little Ivy's good in some way."

Perhaps poor Mrs. Croft was saying all this as much for her own comfort as for Ivy's; yet Ivy seemed in a way to understand.

And then Mrs. Croft added, "We should love to take our darling with us; but we must not."

"Why-because?" came promptly, as a matter of course.

"It is a place where little children cannot live. If we took you, you would soon fall ill. You would suffer terribly, and you could not run or play. Think how cruel that would be for us. You are healthy and strong now; and we want you to keep well. And so we are going to leave you for a while with those dear kind cousins, and they will take such care of our pet, till we come back."

"Why-because should I be ill, mummie?" Ivy spoke in a rather smothered voice.

"It is such a hot place, burning hot, and not fresh and cool like this. All little English children fall ill there; so their fathers and mothers dare not take them. Yet daddy has to go; and I know my little Ivy will be brave and good, and will wish mummie to go with daddy and to take care of him. And only think—" as she felt a heaving sob—"only think, sweet, what fun it will be for you to have Cousin Hecla to play with! She is only three or four years older than Ivy. You have never yet had another little girl belonging to you, in the same house. Won't that be delightful? You must take your new dolly, and you and Hecla can play with it together."

Though Ivy cried a little, as she nestled in her mother's arms, it was wonderful how bravely she took all this.

Of course she did not know what it really meant. She had no idea how far away her parents were going, or how long they might have to stay. She had never yet been parted from them; and she could not picture to her little self what it would be not to have them always at hand. She was so small.

But also she was, as her mother had said, "such a reasonable little girl." Though only five years old, she was remarkably sensible and full of thought. When once she knew that there were good reasons for what had to be, she would submit.

In this case she understood at least that "daddy" was obliged to go, and that "mummie" could not let him go alone; and that she might not go with them. And she submitted, not indeed without tears, but without resisting and fretting.

It seemed, too, as if the little child already knew something—already grasped just a beginning—of that which many people do not even begin to see till late in life—a full belief that God always knows what is best, and that whatever comes from Him comes in love.