A TALK UNDER THE WALNUT TREE
IT was the Sunday afternoon following that eventful Friday. The day
was fair and bright, one of those last sweet days of summer, in which
we rejoice with trembling, knowing that soon rough winds and sweeping
rains will spoil the beauty of leaves and flowers, and the year's
brightest hours be spent.
Under the walnut tree, on the lawn, a happy party was grouped. The
central figure of the group was Percy, who lay at his ease on a low
couch. The doctor still enjoined rest for his injured limb; but Percy
was sufficiently free from pain and discomfort to enjoy fully the
privileges and immunities of an invalid. On the grass, before his
couch, sat the two children, ready, like willing slaves, to obey his
least command. Beryl was even submitting meekly to having her long
brown tresses tossed to and fro by Percy's fingers, and enduring with
good humour the occasional sharp pull by which he tried her patience.
Miss Burton sat on a chair close by, listening, and occasionally
joining in the talk that was going on between the other three.
From the library window, unseen by them, Mr. Hollys was watching the
little group so happily settled on the lawn. The children's bright,
animated faces, and the equally bright and scarcely less childlike
face of their little governess were pleasant to look upon. The sound
of their voices, with an occasional ripple of childish laughter, came
to his ears through the open window; but they were too far off for
him to hear what they said. Mr. Hollys was strongly inclined to join
the party; but the fear that his presence would be felt by them as a
restraint for some time kept him away.
At last, however, when their talk appeared to become more earnest and
absorbing, and the rapt look with which Beryl was regarding Miss Burton
showed that her governess's words were of intense interest to her,
curiosity got the better of other feelings, and he stepped out of the
window and advanced towards the group.
It was as he had feared. His appearance at once put an end to the talk.
Mr. Hollys felt almost vexed that Beryl left the others, and came
running to meet him.
"You should not have disturbed yourself, child," he said, taking her
hand to lead her back to the tree; "you were looking so delightfully
cool and comfortable, resting there in the shade, that I thought I
should like to join you."
"Oh yes, do, papa," cried Beryl, "that will be so pleasant. We have
been having such a nice talk."
"Why, how grave you all look!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys, as he threw
himself down on the grass beside little Coral. "What serious subject
have you been discussing? I believe Miss Burton has been giving you a
sermon."
"No, papa, but she has been telling us about her father, who was very
good," said Beryl softly.
Mr. Hollys glanced quickly at Miss Burton. Her head was bent, and she
was turning over the leaves of a book which lay in her lap, but Mr.
Hollys could see traces of tears on her face. He wished he could recall
his careless words. He tried to think of something kind that he could
say to her about her father, but nothing suitable suggested itself to
him.
There was silence for a few minutes, a silence which Mr. Hollys felt to
be embarrassing.
"Your father was a clergyman, I think, Miss Burton?" he said at length.
"Yes," was all the reply she made.
"Then I suppose you have had some experience of Sunday schools?" he
observed, without knowing in the least what prompted him to make the
remark.
"Yes, I think I may say I have considerable experience of Sunday
schools," said Hettie smiling. "I had to take the management of the
largest class in my father's school, and very much I enjoyed the work."
"Have you ever heard the story of the ambition of these children to
keep a Sunday school, and the dire plight it brought them into?" he
asked, with a laugh.
"Oh, papa, don't bring that up again," exclaimed Beryl impatiently;
"Miss Burton has heard all about that."
"And Beryl has my entire sympathy," said Miss Burton, eager to embrace
this unexpected opportunity of saying what she had long wished to say
to Mr. Hollys, but had lacked the courage; "I am as anxious as she is
to see a Sunday school established at Egloshayle."
"Do you really think that it would be such a good thing?" he asked.
"Oh, I am sure of it," she said earnestly; "I believe Sunday schools
have been an incalculable blessing to the world. It is such hopeful,
blessed work to teach the little ones. We do not know how far any good
we may do them may not reach. Oh, Mr. Hollys, I have been wishing so to
ask you, if you would mind my gathering some of the children here on a
Sunday afternoon, and teaching them for an hour. You saw how well they
behaved on Friday. I will promise to keep my scholars in good order, if
you will grant my request."
"Oh, do, papa. It would be so nice. Please say 'Yes,'" cried Beryl
eagerly, before he could make any reply.
"Of course I can have no objection," he said, looking however, slightly
perplexed; "it is very good of you to wish to teach these children;
but have you thought what it will be? I should have fancied that these
little people gave you enough to do."
"But, papa, we could help, we could teach the little ones," urged
Beryl, with a seriousness which Percy found highly amusing.
"I should not mind the trouble, I am fond of teaching," said Miss
Burton; "and if you will not think me over bold, Mr. Hollys, I will
confess a plan that I have been turning over in my mind."
"Pray tell me; I am sure it is a wise one," he said, smiling at her.
"Well, it has struck me," said Miss Burton, "that the empty barn behind
the house would make a capital schoolroom, if it were furnished with a
few rough benches."
"Upon my word, you are thoroughly in earnest," said Mr. Hollys. "I see
now what you mean. You want me to turn my barn into a meeting-house, in
which you may hold your Sunday school."
"Yes, you may put it in that way," said Hettie laughing; "I fancied the
barn could be well spared. Indeed, I do not know why the building is
called the barn, for nothing seems ever to be stored there."
"I could spare it easily enough, certainly," replied Mr. Hollys; "but I
fear you would find it a rough, uncomfortable place for your class."
"I do not think it would be too rough," said Miss Burton; "fishermen's
children are not likely to be over nice in their notions. We can hang
up some pictures, to make the place look bright and pleasant."
"Oh yes, I have some lovely pictures!" cried Beryl joyfully. "You will
let us have the barn, won't you, papa? I think it is a splendid idea of
Miss Burton's."
"So it is," acquiesced her father; "a very good idea, as all Miss
Burton's ideas seem to be. Let us go and have a look at the barn, and
see what can be made of it. I shall have to give my consent, I suppose."
So they all moved off in the direction of the barn, with the exception
of Percy, who was left helpless on his couch. He remained alone for
some time, greatly to his dissatisfaction, for solitude was very
irksome to him now. After awhile, however, Beryl remembered him, and
came with radiant face to tell him all that had been arranged.
"Is it not good of papa?" she exclaimed, in a tone of delight. "He says
that he will have a wooden floor put to the barn, and some benches
made, and a proper window, and then it will make a charming room for
our Sunday school. I am so glad Miss Burton asked him about it. I knew
he would agree if she asked him."
"What a queer child you are, Beryl!" observed Percy. "You could not
look more pleased if any one had given you a thousand pounds. Are you
and Coral to be teachers in this grand Sunday school?"
"Yes; we shall teach the little ones," said Beryl, with proud dignity;
"Miss Burton will need our help."
"Then you will be 'workers for the kingdom,' I suppose?" remarked
Percy, looking at her with a quizzical expression, as he quoted the
expression he had heard her use.
Beryl's face flushed. She only answered by a nod.
"I wish you would tell me what you mean by 'the kingdom,' Beryl," said
Percy.
"Oh, you know very well!" said Beryl.
"Indeed, I do not," returned he.
"Then you might know," she replied.
"That may be," said Percy; "but as I do not know, I think you ought to
tell me."
Beryl looked down, and fidgeted with her slipper before she spoke again.
"You say the Lord's Prayer sometimes, do you not?" she observed
suddenly.
"Perhaps I do, sometimes, in church," returned Percy, not quite
prepared for such a question.
"Well, you know you say, 'Thy kingdom come,'—that is the kingdom I
mean."
"But now you have not told me what it is," urged Percy.
"If you pray about it, you must know what it is, I should think," said
Beryl.
"I am afraid that doesn't follow," replied Percy, "I really do not know
what is meant by 'the kingdom.' I wish you would explain it to me,
Beryl."
"I can't explain it properly," said Beryl; "but it is the kingdom of
God, and when any one is good and kind, and tries to do what is right,
that is the coming of the kingdom."
"What a queer explanation!" laughed Percy.
But, queer though it was, he understood it, and did not soon forget it.
Often in after days, as he listened to the familiar words of the Lord's
Prayer, Beryl's childish explanation gave them a fuller meaning, and he
remembered how she had said—"When any one is good and kind, and tries
to do what is right, that is the coming of the kingdom."