BERYL MAKES A REQUEST
TWO days later, the body of Louis Despard was committed to the earth.
Little Coral had been told that the sea had robbed her of her father,
and she cried heartily at the thought that she should see him no more.
But she was too young to realise the greatness of her loss, and her
tears, like most tears of childhood, were quickly dried. Every one was
so kind to her, and petted her so freely, Beryl was such a delightful
companion, and there were so many strange and pretty things to be seen
in the new place in which she found herself, that the child's mind
refused to dwell long on its grief.
But both the children shed tears as they stood by Mr. Hollys' side in
the churchyard, and saw the coffin lowered into the cold, dark grave.
It was a new, mysterious experience for Beryl.
She had heard and known of Death, but it had never come thus near to
her before. It was as if a grim shadow had fallen across the sunshine
of her life, and it seemed to her that now the coming days could not be
so joyous as the past had been. Strange thoughts were working in the
child's mind as she stood beside that open grave.
She listened with a dull, aching wonder to the words which the rector
was reading, and wished that some one would explain them to her.
Soon the last words were uttered, and as the little crowd turned away,
Mr. Hollys drew the children nearer to the grave, that they might drop
into it the flowers they carried.
Guy Hollys' spirit was moved within him, for he was reminded of that
day of sorrow many years ago, when he had seen his young love laid to
rest in the bosom of the earth. Not many yards from where they stood,
rose the marble cross which marked the place where she slept. He led
the children to the spot ere they left the churchyard.
Beryl knew it well, for Lucy had thought it right, when she was but
a tiny child, to bring her frequently to see her mother's grave. She
could have repeated without looking the words inscribed on the marble
cross:—
Sacred to the Memory of
MARGARETTA HOLLYS,
the beloved wife of Guy Hollys, Esq.,
of Egloshayle House,
who died June 14, 18—, in the 20th year of her age.
"I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting."
Often as Beryl had read these last words, she had never before desired
to know their meaning; but now, as she glanced at them, there came an
eager, almost painful longing to understand what they signified.
"Papa," she startled him by asking, "what is the resurrection; what
does it mean?"
The question seemed to embarrass him. His eyes fell beneath his child's
open glance; he coloured, and his foot uneasily tapped the gravel.
"I can hardly explain it to you, child," he said. "When you are older
you will understand."
"But I want to know now," said Beryl.
Her father made no reply, but turned to lead the way home. Yet he
inwardly reproached himself for having thus evaded his child's
question. Could it be that Beryl knew nothing of the truths of
religion? Surely his sister might have seen that the child learned her
Catechism, and had some religious instruction.
Had her mother lived, he was certain that long ere this, Beryl would
have known something of the mysteries of life and death, as far as it
was possible that they could be explained to a child. He could fancy in
what simple, tender language Margaretta would have talked to the child,
of the Lord in whom she so surely believed.
Ah! It was a great loss for poor little Beryl, the loss of a mother's
love and training.
He felt himself quite unable to answer her question in a way that would
be comprehensible to her. The doctrines of Christianity, if grasped by
his intellect, were not loved by his heart. He scarcely knew how the
words which had suggested her question came to be upon the tombstone.
Perhaps the rector had thought it proper that they should be added as a
fitting expression of the faith of the deceased.
"The resurrection of the body and the life everlasting." Were they
verities to him? He supposed so; he repeated the words as part of his
creed whenever he went to church, which was not every Sunday, however.
But he could give no precise form to his belief. Beryl's question had
made him uncomfortably aware that he too was ignorant, and needed
teaching.
Well, he must see to it that the child had a teacher; he would enquire
about a governess when he next went to town. He blamed himself now
that he had not done so before, for was he not wronging the memory
of his gentle wife, if he allowed her child to grow up ignorant and
irreligious? Had not some one said that women without religious faith
were angels who had lost their wings?
It was a true saying. Not for the world would he have his little Beryl
grow up a soulless, selfish woman, like many whom he knew. He would
like her to be such a gentle, loving, trustful woman as his dear young
wife had been.
Ah, had she been spared to him, he might have been a different sort of
man this day.
Beryl made no further attempt to get her question answered. She took
little Coral's hand with a protecting tenderness that was almost
motherly, as they turned away from the grave, and sadly and quietly
walked home together. When they reached the house, the children
lingered for a while in the garden, for this was the first spring day,
with a glorious warmth in the sunshine and a balmy softness in the air.
Primroses and crocuses decked the garden borders; violets nestling in
the shade gave their exquisite perfume to the breeze; a few of the
hardier ferns were unfurling their delicate fronds, and the fruit-trees
against the walls were bursting into blossom. The garden looked a
symbol of the joyful resurrection about which Beryl was wondering.
"Shall we go to the end of the garden," said Beryl, "and gather some
violets for your mother?"
Coral assented readily, and they were soon busy plucking the fragrant
flowers.
When they had gathered all they could find, they went into the
garden-house, and Beryl showed Coral the exact spot where she had stood
to watch the vessel drifting on to Sheldon Point. So much had happened
since that night that it seemed to Beryl a long way off now, and she
felt herself a much older and wiser being than the Beryl who had
awaited her father's return home with such impatient eagerness.
Presently Lucy joined them in the garden.
"Your mother is better, and would like to see you, little missy," said
she to Coral; "and you too, Miss Beryl, she would like to see," she
added, looking at Beryl.
Beryl was pleased to hear this, for she had a great wish to see little
Coral's mother.
They hastened back to the house, and the children would have gone at
once to the sick-room, had Lucy not checked them, and insisted on the
necessity of their removing their outdoor clothes and changing their
shoes before they saw the invalid.
As they went downstairs together, hand in hand, Beryl was conscious of
a strange tremor. She had never before seen any one who was very, very
ill, and she was half afraid lest there should be anything dreadful in
the sight. She stood still for a few moments at the door of the room,
and almost wished that she could go back.
But Coral opened the door, and led her in, and as they drew near the
bed, Beryl's fear vanished, for the white, worn face she saw upon the
pillow had once been beautiful, and was still pleasant to see, and
the large, dark eyes, so like Coral's save for the deep sorrow they
mirrored forth, looked upon her with a tender motherly glance.
"You are my little Coral's friend," she murmured. "I have heard how
good you are to her. I thank you, my dear child, a thousand times."
Beryl could not speak; for once her usual self-possession failed her.
Tears came into her eyes at the sight of that pale, sad face; she
looked down, and said nothing.
"Mamma," cried Coral, pressing forward with her flowers, "look what
lovely violets we have picked for you! Just smell how sweet they are!
They all grew in the garden, every one of them."
"My little Coral, my poor, poor Coral!" said her mother, clasping her
close, and looking on her with the glance of hungering love. "You have
no father to care for you now, and I too must soon leave you. Oh, how
can I? But I must, I must."
"Oh, mamma! What do you mean! You must not go away and leave me. I
cannot let you go!" cried Coral, in great distress. "Oh, mamma! You
will not go; say you will not leave me."
"Alas, my child! I cannot help it," said her mother, in agitated tones.
"The doctor has told me he cannot save me. I am dying, I feel it. And
oh, I do not want to die yet! Sad and lonely as my life is, I would
like to live a little longer for your sake, my sweet child. Besides,
death is so dark and terrible, I am afraid of it."
Here Lucy interposed, and drew the children away. "You must not
distress yourself so, madam. You must not, indeed; you will make
yourself worse," she said.
As Beryl kissed Coral, and tried to soothe her grief, she felt as if
she too must mourn a mother; for with the sight of that pale, loving
face, there had dawned on her mind a sudden revelation of all that she
had lost in losing her mother.
Presently Mrs. Despard asked to speak with Beryl again, and Beryl went
back to the bedside.
"What is your name, dear?" asked the invalid, looking with admiration
at the tall, strong girl.
"Beryl," she answered.
"Beryl," repeated Mrs. Despard, "a pretty name. Coral and Beryl, how
well they go together! How old are you, Beryl?"
"Ten," answered Beryl; "but I shall be eleven in June."
"Not eleven yet, and so tall and strong," said Mrs. Despard, in
surprise. "Why, you are scarcely two years older than my Coralie. And
you too have lost your mother, they tell me, my dear?"
"Yes," said Beryl, sadly; "she died when I was a baby; I never saw her."
"It was a great loss for you!" said Mrs. Despard, with a sigh, as her
thoughts reverted to her own child. "And my poor little Coral too! She
must soon lose her mother. Ah, who will care for her when I am gone?"
"I will take care of her," said Beryl boldly, for she seldom doubted
her power to perform anything that she willed. "I mean to ask papa to
let her live with us, and be my little sister. She is a dear little
thing; I will always be good to her."
The pale, wasted face of the invalid flushed as she heard these words,
which brought her a sudden gleam of hope.
"Would you indeed wish that?" she asked eagerly. "But no, it could not
be; your father could not think of it."
"He would if I asked him," persisted Beryl, heedless of the fact that
Lucy was frowning and putting her finger to her lips, as a sign that
she considered Miss Beryl to be talking too fast. "At least, I am
almost sure that he would; he generally does whatever I ask him."
Mrs. Despard said no more; but she seemed to be thinking of Beryl's
words, for the flush lingered on her cheeks, and her eyes had a more
hopeful look as she watched the two children.
When Lucy at last sent them from the room, Beryl left Coral to her own
devices for a time, and went in search of her father.
Greatly to her satisfaction, she found him sitting alone in the library.
"Well, Beryl, what do you want?" he said as she entered. "Where is your
little playfellow? Have you grown tired of her already?"
"Oh no, papa; she is the dearest little thing; but I am so glad to find
you here alone, for I want to have a very particular talk with you."
"What is it now, I wonder?" said her father, as he lifted her on to his
knee, and began to play with her hair.
"Papa, I have just been seeing Coral's mamma," said Beryl.
"Ah, have you?" said her father. "And how does she seem now, poor
woman?"
"She looks very ill, so white and thin," said Beryl; "but I like her so
much, and she spoke to me very kindly. Do you think she is so very ill?
She spoke as if she were going to die. Do you think that can be true,
papa?"
"I am afraid so," he answered. "The doctor thinks she had disease of
the lungs before, and her being so long in the water, and the fright
and all her trouble, have made it develop rapidly."
"But will it really come to that? Oh, I hope not," said Beryl, large
tears gathering in her eyes; "but if it should, papa, how sad it would
be for little Coral! Her mamma cried when she spoke of it, and so did
Coral. It was so sad."
"Yes, it is very sad, my darling, very sad," said Mr. Hollys, in a low
voice.
"Papa, if it should be, what would become of poor little Coral, without
father or mother to take care of her?" asked Beryl, looking straight
into her father's eyes.
"I scarcely know, my dear," he answered. "I suppose we should have to
send her to some orphan asylum."
"But would she be happy there, papa?" asked Beryl.
"I suppose so," he said. "I believe the children are well cared for in
those places."
"I don't believe they are happy! I should think they must feel as
if they were at school," said Beryl, to whom school-life seemed an
experience to be dreaded. "Oh, papa, cannot you guess what I want you
to do? I want you to promise that Coral shall never go away, unless her
mother should get better, and wish to take her away. I want you to say
that she may live with us always, and be my little sister."
"Well, upon my word, a slight request, truly," said Mr. Hollys. "Do you
think I am such a rich man, Beryl, that I can afford to adopt daughters
upon a moment's notice?"
"You are rich, are you not, papa? And it would not cost much, I should
think," said Beryl. "Oh, papa, do not say no! I never wished for
anything so much as I do for this."
"That was what you said, Beryl, when you asked me to give you a pony.
You always know how to get round me. But this is a serious matter, and
I must take time to think it over. I will do the best I can for poor
little Coral, but I cannot at once promise to adopt the child."
And Beryl could get no more from her father that night. She was not
without good hope of getting her wish, however, for when her father
promised to "think over" any request of hers, he usually ended by
complying with it.