Produced by Al Haines.
*[Frontispiece: "THE YOUNG CLERGYMAN CLIMBED
CAREFULLY BUT QUICKLY DOWN TO THEM"
(missing from book)]*
MONICA'S CHOICE
BY
FLORA E. BERRY
AUTHOR OF
"NETA LYALL," "IN SMALL CORNERS," ETC.
_WITH SIX ILLUSTRATIONS_
London
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW
1904
*CONTENTS*
CHAP.
I. "I WISH CONRAD HAD NEVER LEFT HER WITH ME"
II. "SUCH A *DEAR* LITTLE MONKEY!"
III. "I'M MOVED UP!"
IV. "I WISH YOU'D BE FRIENDS WITH ME"
V. "I WANT YOU A MINUTE"
VI. "HE WEREN'T CALLED 'SEIZE-'ER,' FOR NOTHIN'"
VII. "THIS IS MONICA BEAUCHAMP, MOTHER"
VIII. "MIND YOU ARE NOT LATE!"
IX. "HAVE A RIDE, MONICA?"
X. "I LIKE FUSSIN' OVER PEOPLE"
XI. "A NICE ENOUGH LITTLE DOG, AS DOGS GO"
XII. "A HUNGRY FEELING IN MY BRAIN"
XIII. "A NICE SCRAPE SHE'LL GET INTO!"
XIV. "SUNDAY AGAIN ALREADY!"
XV. "OH, MONICA, DON'T!"
XVI. "DO BE CAREFUL, GIRLS"
XVII. "DON'T PERSUADE ME NOT TO, ANY MORE"
XVIII. "I EXPECT IT WILL BE RATHER SLOW AND--POKEY!"
XIX. "YOU TELL THEM, LOIS; I COULDN'T"
XX. "KEEP IT UP, IT ANSWERS VERY WELL"
XXI. "I GUESS I'LL JUST WATCH *YOU* A BIT"
XXII. "I CANNOT SPARE YOU, MONICA!"
XXIII. "IT'S ALL SURPRISES, NOWADAYS"
XXIV. "I THINK MY MONICA DESERVES THE V.C."
XXV. "THE CHILD HAS CHOSEN WELL"
*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*
"THE YOUNG CLERGYMAN CLIMBED CAREFULLY BUT QUICKLY DOWN TO THEM"
(missing from book) . . . _Frontispiece_
"'YOU HIT HER EXPRESSION TO A T!'"
"'AH, YOU MAY LAUGH; MEBBE 'TIS NOTHIN' BUT SPORT TO YOUNG LEDDIES LIKE
YOU'"
"'OH, MISS FRANKLYN, I AM SO AWFULLY SORRY!'"
"'OH, ROGER! HOW IS SHE?' WHISPERED OLIVE"
"MONICA GAZED IN UTTER ASTONISHMENT"
*MONICA'S CHOICE.*
*CHAPTER I.*
*"I WISH CONRAD HAD NEVER LEFT HER WITH ME!"*
"Tell Miss Monica I wish her to come to me _at once_, Barnes."
The door closed silently after the retreating maid, and Mrs. Beauchamp
sighed wearily. How often, lately, she had been obliged to send some
such message to her wilful young granddaughter, and, how many more times
would she have the same thing to do? Her aristocratic features wore a
perturbed expression, as her slender fingers toyed mechanically with the
many rings on her left hand; so great a responsibility was her only
grandchild.
"I am sure I wish Conrad had never left her with me," she mused; "and
yet there seemed no other solution of the difficulty when the regiment
was ordered out to Simla. It was impossible, of course, to take her
with him, and poor Helen was so opposed to boarding-schools. But it has
certainly been a mistake having her here. Such an unruly, passionate
nature as Monica's needs very careful handling, and not one of these
governesses has had the tact to manage her. I'm sure I don't know what
to do about her."
Mrs. Beauchamp's ruminations were cut short by the abrupt entrance of a
girl of fifteen, tall, and with a haughty mien, but possessing a face
which denoted much character, albeit it wore an unpleasant scowl at the
present moment. Pushing the door to behind her with no gentle hand, so
that it slammed violently, causing a jingling among the pretty
knick-knacks with which the handsome drawing-room was lavishly
ornamented, Monica Beauchamp stood before her grandmother, like a young
lioness at bay.
"Barnes told me that you had sent for me, grand-mamma."
With a visible shudder at the noise made by the slamming door, Mrs.
Beauchamp sat erect, and spoke with much annoyance, as she gave the
delinquent an aggrieved look over her gold-rimmed pince-nez.
"Really, Monica----" she began, in severe tones, but she was
interrupted.
"Sorry," exclaimed her granddaughter, nonchalantly. "I didn't mean to
hurt your feelings, but doors always seem to slip out of my fingers.
What did you want me for, grandmamma? Would you mind being quick,
because I'm in a great hurry?"
Even insubordinate Monica quailed before the expressions which flitted
across the old lady's features--amazement, anger, and finally scorn.
"I am simply _astounded_ at your rudeness, Monica," she said, sternly.
"How you can possibly allow yourself to speak to me in such a manner, I
cannot imagine. It is very evident that you are no Beauchamp."
The scorn expressed in her grandmother's tones acted in the same way as
a touch of the whip about the ears of a thoroughbred mare. She started,
and tears of wounded pride welled up in her flashing hazel eyes, but
they were quickly forced back.
"I _am_ a Beauchamp!" she cried, her lips quivering with anger, and her
head thrown back. "Every one says I am my father over again."
"So you may be, in looks, Monica, but he would never have dreamed of
addressing me in the manner you did just now."
"Well, perhaps he wasn't aggravated like I am. Miss Thompson is enough
to provoke a saint," she added, _sotto voce_, with a furtive glance at
the old lady's face.
But Mrs. Beauchamp took no notice of it; indeed, it is doubtful if she
heard the remark, so engrossed was she in deciding how best to deliver
the lecture she had undertaken to give Monica. A startled exclamation
from her grandchild, who had been moodily staring out of one of the
French windows, which overlooked a large sweep of the carriage drive,
effectually roused her.
"Oh! now he's gone; I do call it too bad!"
"What do you mean, Monica?" queried the old lady, rising from her chair
and following the direction of Monica's glance.
"Who has gone?"
"Why, Tom. The stable-boy, you know, grand-mamma," she added, as Mrs.
Beauchamp looked incredulous. "I was in the yard when you sent for me,
and he was telling me about the jolliest little wire-haired terrier his
father wants to sell, and I----"
"Monica, how many times have I told you I will not allow you to frequent
the stable-yard? I am sure it is there that you pick up all the vulgar
expressions you are so continually using. I begin to think Miss Thompson
is right in saying you are no lady."
"Bother Miss Thompson!" cried Monica, now thoroughly angry, and losing
all control of her words; "she's a sly old cat, that's what she is,
spying round after me all day long. It's the only bit of fun I get,
when I----"
"Be quiet, Monica, and listen to me," said her grandmother, who was
scarcely less angry, but who held herself in admirable check. "It is
quite time that some one controlled you, and I have sent for you this
afternoon to tell you that I am going to----"
"Send me away to boarding school?" interrupted Monica, her anger
temporarily subsiding, for, of all things, she desired to go away to
school, but it had always been tabooed. "Oh! grandmamma, _do_! I would
really behave well there." And she seized one of the old lady's white
hands impulsively in her warm, and decidedly dirty young fingers, while
the girlish face quivered with excitement, until she looked a totally
different being. But she was doomed to disappointment.
"Nothing of the kind, Monica," replied Mrs. Beauchamp coldly, and
withdrawing her hand. She never responded to her granddaughter's
advances, which probably accounted for the difficulty she had in dealing
with her; for Monica had a warm heart hidden away somewhere, which no
one but her father had ever reached. "I was going to say, when you so
rudely interrupted me again, that as you have had four governesses
within very little more than a year, who, one and all, have declared
that you are unmanageable, and that it is an utter impossibility to
teach you, I shall be obliged to seek some other mode of education for
you."
Monica's face, which had fallen considerably at the beginning of her
grandmother's speech, now brightened visibly.
"There is nothing else but boarding-school left," she said, with
satisfaction. It was to this end that she had made the lives of her
long-suffering instructresses unendurable by her tricks and general
unruliness.
"You know perfectly well, Monica, that you will never go to a
boarding-school," replied Mrs. Beauchamp.
"That was only a fad of mother's," said Monica, disdainfully. "Dad
would never have forbidden it. He thought no end of Harrow, and I'm sure
he would let me go to school if you told him what a bother the old
governesses are."
"He knows what a trouble _you_ are," said her grandmother sententiously,
and her glance fell on a foreign letter lying on her escritoire near by,
which Monica now noticed for the first time.
"Oh! have you heard from dad, grandmamma? Is there a letter for me?" she
cried eagerly.
"Yes. I have heard from your father, and there is a letter for you,"
Mrs. Beauchamp repeated, slowly, but she did not reach out her hand for
it.
Impetuous Monica was about to snatch it up, but her grandmother stayed
her hand.
"Wait, Monica, until I have finished, and then you may take your letter
to the schoolroom to read. For months I did not tell your father a word
about your troublesome ways, but lately you have been so incorrigible
that I was compelled to let him know. And now this letter has come in
reply to mine, and your father is grieved beyond expression. No doubt
he will tell you the same in your letter; and he wishes me to consult
Mr. Bertram, the lawyer, as to which school it will be best to send you
to, immediately. But ... it will be a day-school. Now you may go."
Monica snatched up the letter handed to her without a word, and was
gone. Mrs. Beauchamp breathed a sigh of relief, and rang the bell for
tea; the letter and consequent interview with her unruly grandchild had
tired her out.
Meanwhile Monica had fled to her own room, a perfect little paradise,
containing all the things most dear to a young girl's heart. Everything
in it, from the dainty bed to the little rocking-chair beside the open
window, was blue; carpet, curtains, walls, all took the prevailing tint,
and most girls of Monica's age would have revelled in such surroundings,
and have taken a pride in having everything kept in spick-and-span
order, in so charming a domain. But not so Monica; one of her worst
failings was untidiness. The shoes which she had worn out of doors that
morning, and which had been carelessly tossed in a corner, were making
dirty little puddles on the blue and white linoleum: for she had been
caught in a heavy April shower. Her hat and jacket had been tossed
promiscuously on to the most convenient chair; one glove was lying on
the bed, the other--well, as a matter of fact she had dropped that
half-way home, but had not missed it yet; that would mean a fruitless
hunt through drawers, all more or less in confusion, next time she went
out. The comb and brush she had hastily used, to make herself
sufficiently tidy to pass muster with her grandmother at the luncheon
table, were still lying on the dainty little duchesse table, while the
drawer which should have contained them was half open, disclosing a
medley of all kinds.
These are only samples of "Miss Monica's muddles," as the long-suffering
under-housemaid (whose duty it was to keep the young lady's room in
order) called them. "I can't seem to keep things tidy nohow," she would
confide to the kitchenmaid; "as soon as ever I get it straightened up of
a morning, in she bounces, and begins a-topsy-turvying up of
everything."
But Monica noticed none of these things; if the room had been in
absolute chaos she would have been oblivious of it, while she held a
thin sheet of foreign paper, covered with her father's writing, in her
hand.
Pausing only to slip a tiny brass bolt into its place, in order to
secure privacy, she flung herself into the little blue rocker, and tore
open the envelope with eager fingers.
As she read her letter, a smile of pleasure hovered about her lips, for
her father gave in his own racy style a description of a Hindu _mela_ at
which he had been present the day before; but soon her expression
changed, for his next topic was very different. It was evident that he
was deeply concerned about her behaviour to her grandmother and
governesses, and the thought of her fast growing up into a headstrong,
self-willed young woman grieved him terribly. He spoke of the loving
little girl to whom he had bid farewell only eighteen months before, and
could scarcely imagine that in so short a time she should have become so
changed; what would she be like when he returned to England, if she were
allowed to follow her own way?
Monica's tears were slowly falling as she reached the last page. She
began to realise, for the first time, that she was disappointing her
father's hopes for his only and much-loved child, and although the
knowledge was painful, it was very salutary. With eyes blinded with
tears, so that the writing seemed blurred and indistinct, she read on to
the end, and then as she saw the well-known signature, she bowed her
proud young head on the broad window-ledge, and sobbed as if her heart
would break.
"Oh! dad, my darling dad, if only you needn't have left me, I would have
tried to be just what you wanted; but it's all so stiff and dull here,
and I am so lonely without any friend." For several minutes she wept on
unrestrainedly, and then a few lines in the letter recurred to her, and
she looked at it once again. They ran thus--
"You see, my child, we must always remember that we are all 'under
authority.' Although I am a colonel, I must obey orders just as
unquestioningly as the youngest recruit, and if my Monica would be a
true soldier's daughter, she must learn first of all to be obedient. It
is a hard, a very hard lesson to learn, and neither you nor I can hope
to master it, unless we ask His help who was obedient even unto death.
"It is difficult for me to explain what I mean, for I am naturally very
reserved over religious things; but I am confident of this, my child,
that if you took Jesus Christ as your Example, you would grow day by day
more like Him, and you would soon learn to shun all the faults and
failings which now threaten to spoil your character."
"I wish I could, daddy dear," sighed Monica, as she re-read the lines,
"but there is no one here to help me. I don't believe grandmamma is a
bit religious, for any little excuse is enough to keep her away from
church on Sunday mornings, and she never goes out at night. And all the
time I have been here she has never said a word about it, except to ask
me once or twice if I remember to say my prayers. Neither did any of
the governesses, except Miss Romaine, and grand-mamma was glad when she
went, because she said she had such 'peculiar views.' Well, perhaps
some one at the new school will show me how to be 'good.'" And Monica
tossed her letter into one of the table drawers, and began with
commendable zeal to make herself more tidy than she had been for a long
time. She knew that that was one step in the right direction.
The next day the family lawyer was closeted with Mrs. Beauchamp for over
an hour. She told him of her son's desire that Monica should go daily
to school, and asked his advice as to a suitable one.
"There is not much choice in the neighbourhood of Mydenham," said Mr.
Bertram as he tapped his gold-rimmed spectacles meditatively on his
knee. "We are just beyond the suburban limits here, you see, and
consequently suffer in various ways. Let me see, there is Miss Beach's
on the Osmington Road; she receives a few day-scholars, I believe,
although hers is primarily a boarding school."
"That will not do," replied the old lady decisively. "The late Mrs.
Conrad had a very strong objection to a boarding-school life for
Monica."
"Certainly, certainly," agreed the obsequious man of law, although he by
no means agreed with the late Mrs. Beauchamp's views; "then I do not see
that there is any other resource than the High school at Osmington."
"Oh! that is two miles away, and I have never thought very much of High
Schools; there is no restriction as to the social position of the
scholars. Really, I don't think I----" And Mrs. Beauchamp paused
helplessly.
"If the distance were not an insuperable objection, I think, under the
circumstances, no school could better be calculated to meet with Colonel
Beauchamp's wishes," said the lawyer, with decision. "You say he
expressly desires his daughter to mix with companions of her own age,
and have the opportunity of plenty of open-air exercise, and yet be
under firm, but well-regulated control. As regards its educational
system, I venture to say that in very few respects can the High School
methods be improved upon. Of course, the girls are drawn from varied
ranks, but in a day school it is unnecessary, indeed, it is impossible,
for them to have much opportunity of mixing with more than a few of the
pupils, and naturally your granddaughter would make companions of those
who were in a similar social position to her own."
"Well, I'm sure I don't know," replied Mrs. Beauchamp, while her face
still wore its perturbed look; "Monica is so rash, she would be just as
likely to choose a butcher's or grocer's daughter as any one else."
"I doubt if there are many there," said Mr. Bertram, smiling. "I have
always heard that the Osmington school is one of the best, and Mr. Drury
and Canon Monroe have daughters there, as well as many other leading
families."
"If the Osmington clergy think the school is good enough, I suppose it
is all right," agreed his client, not without some misgivings, still.
"The distance is the difficulty; but Barnes must accompany Monica, and
the regular walks will, no doubt, be good for her."
"The majority of the pupils who live at a distance bicycle there,"
observed the lawyer.
"Most unwomanly!" was Mrs. Beauchamp's horrified reply. "I cannot
imagine what the mothers of the present day are dreaming of. We might
as well have no girls at all; they seem to become boys as soon as they
can toddle. No, Monica shall not have a bicycle. If she must go to the
school, she must; but she will walk when fine, and Richards will have to
drive her in the brougham when it is wet. I suppose--oh, dear me! I do
wish she had been reasonable and got on with her governesses."
With an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, Mr. Bertram bade
his client good-day, having undertaken to make all necessary
arrangements. He was a childless man himself, but he felt sure that had
he possessed a high-spirited daughter like Monica, he could have
improved upon Mrs. Beauchamp's method of up-bringing.
*CHAPTER II.*
*"SUCH A *_*DEAR*_* LITTLE MONKEY!"*
But there were weightier matters in the lawyer's mind than the choice of
a school for incorrigible girls, and he was soon pondering deeply over a
compensation case, as he strode along the stretch of almost countrified
road which connected the residential district of Mydenham with the
parent town of Osmington.
He was nearing the latter, and had just consulted his watch, in view of
an important appointment, when, turning a corner sharply, he collided
with a young lady of nineteen or thereabouts, who, with a small brother
and sister, was coming in the opposite direction.
"I'm _so_ sorry, Mr. Bertram."
"My dear Miss Franklyn, I beg your pardon," the lawyer ejaculated, as he
straightened his hat and readjusted his spectacles, which had nearly
fallen off in the contretemps. "I hope I didn't hurt you?" and he
looked apologetically into the bright smiling eyes of the girl, who
found it difficult to refrain from laughing outright.
"Not a bit, thank you," was Kathleen Franklyn's reply. "It was quite as
much my fault as yours. I am afraid I was not looking where I was going;
these chicks were drawing my attention to an organ-grinder, with a
little monkey, across the road."
As she spoke, she looked round, expecting to find the children close at
hand. But alas! they had seized the opportunity--far too delightful to
lose--of sister Kath's attention being distracted for a moment, and with
wonderful noiselessness and rapidity had crossed the wide road, on which
the traffic was somewhat heavy, and were already some little distance
away, following with a small crowd of children in the wake of the
wonderful monkey.
"Oh! those naughty children," she cried, "they are always up to
mischief. You and Mrs. Bertram are saved no end of anxiety by having
none."
"At any rate, they would have got past the monkey-admiring age by now,"
was Mr. Bertram's reply, albeit there was a gleam of sadness in his
eyes, and a sigh escaped his lips. "But we must go after these young
miscreants speedily."
"Oh! please don't trouble," said Kathleen as she walked on quickly
beside him; "I shall soon pick them up, and I know you are in a hurry."
"Because I tried to knock you down," he replied, with an amused laugh.
"The mischief I have done to-day is accumulating terribly."
"If you have done no one any more harm than you have done me, I think
you need not begin to clothe yourself in sackcloth and ashes on account
of your sins at present," was Kathleen's saucily given reply, as she
shook hands hastily upon reaching Mr. Bertram's office, and hurried
after the children, whom she had kept well in view.
"A charming girl," soliloquised the little lawyer as he entered his
dull-looking office, and felt as if he had left all the brightness
outside. "Franklyn is to be envied having such a troop of young people
about him. But I daresay he looks at it in quite another light:
probably that of _L s. d_. Well, well, the best of us are never
satisfied, but I must say life would be very different for Mary and me
if we had a bright young thing like Kathleen Franklyn about the house."
And then he turned his attention to legal affairs.
Meanwhile, Kathleen had succeeded in catching up to the little truants,
and was giving them a lecture on their misbehaviour, in what was
intended to be a very severe tone.
"It was really _very_ naughty, Joan, very naughty indeed. You are older
than Paddy, and should not have taken him into mischief." And she
looked reproachfully into the dark grey eyes of the little girl, whose
hand she now held tightly. "You might have been knocked down, and run
over, or even lost. All sorts of things might have happened to you," she
added, piling on the agony, for she thought she might as well do it
thoroughly while she was about it.
"Oh, Kathie, we didn't mean to be naughty, truly we didn't," said little
Joan, somewhat awed by the calamities which her big sister was
enumerating so glibly; "did we, Paddy?"
"No, didn't mean to be naughty," repeated five-year-old Paddy solemnly,
a simply seraphic look on his sweet little face, which was surrounded by
a halo of golden curls. "But it was such a _dear_ little monkey!" And
he half turned his head, with a longing look after the object of his
affections, now almost out of sight in the distance.
But Kathleen drew him on. "Well, promise me never to run off like that
alone, again," she said, "or poor mother would be dreadfully upset.
Just fancy if I had gone home without you, what would she have said?"
"Spect she'd have said 'good riddance'!" was Master Pat's saucy
rejoinder, as he looked roguishly up at his tall sister.
"Oh! Pat, you are well called 'The Pickle,'" she cried, as she held the
little chubby hand even more tightly, for this baby brother was the pet
and plaything of the whole family, albeit he kept them continually on
thorns with the endless mischief he managed to get into.
"Must you tell mother we ran away from you, Kathie?" whispered Joan,
beseechingly, as they neared home. She was a very tender-hearted little
maiden, who would seldom have given any trouble but for Paddy's
mischievous suggestions, and the thought of her mother being grieved
troubled her.
"No, dearie, I don't think we will tell her this time; but you won't do
it again, will you?" said kind-hearted Kathleen, as she pushed open the
heavy iron gate, and the trio walked up the somewhat weed-covered path,
leading to a substantial red brick house, well known in Osmington as Dr.
Franklyn's.
As they entered the door, a girl of fourteen or so, a younger edition of
Kathleen, rushed out into the hall.
"What an age you've been, Kath!" she cried impetuously. "Elsa and I
thought you were never coming. Did you get what we wanted?"
"Yes, yes, Olive, I have it all right, but give me time to breathe,"
said Kathleen, as her younger sister began scrimmaging in her pocket.
"Mind you don't upset it!"
"You dear old granny, how can it be upset if it isn't opened yet?" was
the laughing reply, as Olive succeeded in securing a large tin of
enamel. "But, oh! Kath, what shall we do for a brush?" And her face
fell considerably at the thought.
"Well, I may be a 'granny,' but even they can be useful, for I had the
sense to bring not only one, but two brushes!" And Kathleen produced
them with a merry laugh.
"Well, you are a dear old darling"; and Olive hugged her sister
rapturously. "Now Elsa and I can both paint at the same time. Send the
children to Nanny, Kath, and then come up quickly to the 'den.' We've
only half an hour before tea."
She flew up the shabbily carpeted stairs, two steps at a time, and
finally arrived at the top story, breathless. Bursting into one of the
roomy attics, Olive sank down upon the first chair she came to from
sheer want of breath; but she quickly got up again with an exclamation
of dismay, for she remembered now it was too late that that was where
she had hastily stood the saucer of turpentine she had been using when
she rushed off downstairs to meet Kathleen.
"What's the matter, couldn't Kath get the paint?" queried a voice from
the other end of the quaint, odd-shaped room, and her twin-sister came
slowly forward.
Strangers never knew Olive and Elsa Franklyn apart, so much alike were
they in outward appearance, the dark hair and eyes, full rosy lips and
slightly upturned nose of the one being a perfect replica of the other.
But the similarity was only external; in habits and character they were
as widely diverse as the poles. Elsa was as quiet and methodical as
Olive was noisy and impetuous in her actions; indeed their mother
sometimes said she wished they could have been a little less alike
outwardly, and a little more alike inwardly. It would have been better
in every way, she thought; only it was two Elsas, not two Olives, that
she would have chosen.
"Oh, I say, mother will be frantic!" cried Olive, as she vainly
endeavoured to see the extent of the damage done to her light grey
dress. Fortunately, the saucer did not contain much more than the dregs
of the turpentine cook had given them, somewhat gingerly; but alas! the
old bookcase and table that Olive had been seized with a desire to
rejuvenate, had been scarlet during the last phase of their existence,
so that the turpentine they had been cleaning them with had become
decidedly reddish! Consequently the skirt had taken that tone.
"You _have_ made yourself in a mess," was all Elsa could say, as she
stood helplessly looking at the ugly stain which was growing visibly
larger, for the material had soaked up all the mixture.
"If that's all you can do to help, you may just as well go on with your
old hammering," blurted out Olive, her vexation at the mishap fast
turning into anger, for she knew punishment would inevitably follow upon
discovery. "I never did know such a stupid thing as you are, Elsa."
And Olive blinked desperately hard to keep back the tears, which seemed
as if they would choke, as well as blind her.
"I don't see _what_ you can do," said poor Elsa, bravely refraining from
an angry retort. There were those among her acquaintances who were wont
to declare that she had not sufficient spirit to hold her own with her
somewhat tyrannical twin sister. But Elsa Franklyn had lately learnt
that it is "the soft answer that turneth away wrath;" and although she
was often sorely tempted to return evil for evil, she remembered Him who
never answered back, and day by day the quiet, unobtrusive girl was
growing more like the Saviour whom she humbly sought to please.
"Hadn't you better change your dress, Olive," she suggested, as her
sister twisted the skirt, first this way, and then that, to get a better
idea of the extent of the damage.
"Quite a brilliant idea, Miss Elsa," was Olive's sarcastic reply; "just
what I was going to do." And the girl, who knew she had only her own
carelessness to thank for the catastrophe, gave the unoffending chair
such a kick with her foot as she was going out of the door, that the
saucer, which was still upon it, slid off the shiny seat, and falling on
the linoleum-covered floor, was smashed into little bits.
"Oh, Olive!"
"Horrid, aggravating thing!" cried the hot-tempered girl. "Won't old
Cookey be mad, though? She wanted to find an odd one, but she couldn't,
so she gave me one of the kitchen set. I _shall_ catch it, when she
knows. But there's no hurry about that, the frock's the worst."
Meanwhile, Elsa had been carefully collecting all the broken bits of
china into an old box-lid, and was wiping up the floor with some rag
they had been using to clean their woodwork with. For a minute she was
inclined to let Olive bear the brunt of the cook's wrath, as a
punishment for her silly outburst of temper, but the next she said
quietly: "I will take this down to the kitchen, Ollie, and explain to
cook, while you go and change your frock. And if I can find Kathleen
anywhere, I will send her up to you. She will know what had better be
done to it."
With an incomprehensive look at Elsa, as if such conduct were beyond her
ken, Olive burst out, "Well, you are a dear good creature, Elsa; I'm
sorry now I was cross to you," and she looked affectionately into the
quiet face Elsa lifted to hers, as she rose from her stooping posture.
They were never at variance for long, this pair of twins, for if Olive
was careless and hot-tempered she was also generous and affectionate.
"I know you didn't mean it," was all Elsa said, but the smile which
irradiated her face at the words of commendation was good to see.
Elsa soon put matters right with cook (who had been for many years a
faithful servant in the doctor's busy household) and was on her way to
find Kathleen, when she heard her name called.
"Elsa, dear!"
Gently pushing open the door of a room that was half bedroom and half
boudoir, she found the object of her search sitting beside a couch on
which reclined a delicate looking lady, who, from the resemblance her
daughter bore her, was unmistakably their mother.
"Did you want me, mamma?" she said, as she bent over the invalid.
"Yes, darling, I heard a noise like something falling upstairs a little
while ago, and I was afraid one of you was hurt."
Elsa had to stoop quite low to hear the whispered words, for it had been
one of the fragile mother's bad days, and she was very weak.
In a few words Elsa explained the catastrophe, taking care not to make
the worst of Olive's temper; but both the mother and Kathleen read
between the lines.
The latter rose hastily, a look of annoyance on her girlish face.
"Really, Olive is too careless," she said indignantly. "She is always
spoiling something; only last week she tore a long zig-zag slit in her
blue serge dress, and now this grey one will be ruined, and she will
have nothing fit to go back to school in. I must go and see what can be
done, I suppose, but I shall give her a good scolding."
"Don't be too harsh with her, Kathie," pleaded her mother. "It was very
thoughtless of her, I know, but she will soon grow older now and be more
careful. Girls will be girls." And she looked at her tall, handsome
daughter, who had never given her a quarter of the trouble that Olive
had, with admiring and yet wistful eyes. How she wished for the sake of
her eight robust sons and daughters that she had not been compelled,
since Paddy's babyhood, to spend the greater part of her life in her own
room. But yet she could not regret the imprisonment, for it was only
since she had been forced to give up her busy active life in the large
household, where the doctor's income never seemed sufficient to meet the
huge demands made upon it, that she had learnt that bringing up her boys
and girls to be healthy and happy was not all that was necessary. God
had taken the busy mother aside, and had shown her that her children
were only lent to her, to be trained for Him. And she had heard His
loving voice, and was seeking now to do what she could to make amends
for the years of lost opportunities. Her eldest daughter Lois (who, as
far as she could, had taken her mother's place in the household) and
Elsa had already chosen "that good part which shall never be taken
away." But the mother-heart yearned over her two big sons, Roger and
Dick, winsome Kathleen and careless Olive.
She held Elsa's warm young hand in her nerveless grasp, as Kathleen
closed the door behind her, and drew the girlish face, aglow with
health, down to hers, until their lips met in a long, lingering caress;
this quiet, thoughtful little daughter was a great comfort to her
mother.
"I am afraid poor Olive was in a temper again, Elsa, for I do not see
how the saucer could have fallen by itself. But do not tell me, dear; I
will speak to her myself when she comes in to see me later on."
"She doesn't get into a temper _quite_ so often as she used to, mamma,"
said Elsa, eager to defend the absentee. "At least, we don't have so
many quarrels now."
"I can guess why that is," whispered Mrs. Franklyn, tenderly, as she
stroked the dark hair with her soft white fingers; "it takes two to make
a quarrel, I used to be told in my childhood, and my Elsa tries very
hard nowadays not to be one of the two, doesn't she?"
"Yes, mamma, generally, but I don't always succeed," and the girlish
head was half hidden in the rug which covered her mother's slight form,
so that her words were only just audible. "Sometimes I fail; I did
yesterday when we were having a game, but oh! mamma, I was so sorry
afterwards." And she raised her tear-dimmed eyes to her mother's face.
"Did you tell Jesus, darling?"
"Oh! yes, mamma. I always do, directly, and----"
"He has forgiven you, then, Elsa?"
"Yes, mamma, I know He has; but oh! I do wish I could remember quicker,
so as not to let the hasty words slip out. It must grieve Him so!"
"So it does, my childie, but I am sure He is pleased, too, when He sees
how hard you fight against this enemy of yours, and He is only too ready
to help you. Keep looking to Him for strength, Elsa, and go on
persevering, and pray for Olive, dear; her enemy is stronger far than
yours, and she does not try to conquer it."
"I do, mamma, I do," murmured her little daughter.
And then the tea-bell sounded through the house, summoning all the young
folk to the large, plainly furnished dining-room where Lois Franklyn
presided over the tea-tray. "Just her mother over again," was Dr.
Franklyn's description of his eldest daughter, but there seemed little
resemblance, nowadays, between the fragile invalid and this tall,
capable young woman of three-and-twenty. Lois was not so handsome as
Kathleen, but there was a certain indescribable charm about her, a
nameless something which was wont to retain the admiration that
Kathleen's more youthful beauty at first sight attracted.
From furtive glances at Kathleen and Olive, Elsa gathered that no
serious trouble had arisen between the sisters; indeed, Olive seemed on
her best behaviour. So Elsa breathed freely, and concluded that the
turpentine incident had blown over, as no mention was made of it. The
meal passed merrily enough; Kathleen's racy account of her contretemps
with Mr. Bertram amusing them very much. Paddy and Joan were just being
reprimanded by Lois for running away, when Dr. Franklyn appeared on the
scene, tired out after a long round of visits, and his children vied
with each other in making him comfortable.
"How is your mother, Lois?" was his first query, as she poured out a cup
of tea, and begged him to drink it at once, assuring him that the
invalid had rested a little, and felt a trifle better.
He drank it hastily, and then set the cup down, saying: "I will have
some more when I come back: only one of you girls need wait for me."
And Lois, seeing that he was physically worn out, despatched the younger
ones in various directions, as soon as they had finished their tea, and
thus secured a quiet room for her father in which to have his
long-waited-for meal in peace.
*CHAPTER III.*
*"I'M MOVED UP!"*
The Rev. Herbert Drury sat in his study chair deep in thought. His
writing table was strewn with letters answered, and unanswered, for he
had been trying to make up arrears in his correspondence that morning.
At his elbow lay his well-worn Bible, open, for very few of his letters
were written without consulting that; but the case under consideration,
just now, needed personal help rather than clerical advice.
His dark hair, already thickly streaked with grey, although he was less
than forty-five, was crisply cut, and an iron-grey moustache gave him a
decidedly military appearance. His keen, dark eyes could, on occasion,
flash a scrutinising glance, and delinquents felt he must be reading
their very thoughts, but their habitual expression was one of kindly
sympathy. Mr. Drury had only been Vicar of St. Paul's, Osmington, for a
couple of years, but he had won the love and respect of all his clerical
brothers in the neighbourhood, although their doctrinal opinions widely
differed; his was such a singularly attractive personality. His
church-workers felt no work was tedious or uphill, for was not their
vicar interested in every detail, aiding personally every scheme that
was set on foot for the evangelising of the very poverty-stricken part
of the town which comprised his parish. Of money, he had by no means a
superabundance, for the living was a poor one, and he was a younger son;
but, like St. Peter of old, he could say with truth: "Such as I have,
give I thee."
And if the vicar was beloved, his wife was no less so: she was, in every
sense, a true help-meet. He was thinking of her now, as he considered
the sad case which had just been brought to his notice by a note from
one of the district-visitors, and he decided to ask her advice. He
strode across the study, and opening the door, called "Nora" in a
resonant voice, which was calculated, if necessary, to penetrate to the
topmost story of the roomy vicarage.
"One minute, dear," was the brisk reply, from the dim recesses of a
store-cupboard at the extreme end of the hall, and in less than that
time Mrs. Drury appeared upon the scene. She was a plump little woman,
with soft brown eyes and hair which waved a trifle, but otherwise was
combed smoothly back from her broad white brow. Her blue serge dress
was enveloped in a large holland apron, for she was on housekeeping work
intent that morning; indeed, her hands bore traces of some floury
substance which she was emptying when the vicar called her. Her bright
face, still young enough to possess a dimple in the chin, was flushed
with the exercise of trotting back and forth between store-cupboard and
kitchen, and to her husband she made a sweet, homely picture as she
entered his study, ready to help him in whatever way he needed.
"Sit down a minute, Nora," he said, as he pushed an arm-chair forward,
"there is a very sad case here." And the vicar unburdened his mind.
For a few minutes they chatted over the sad details of the case in
point, and as the vicar had expected, Mrs. Drury's woman's wit saw a way
of helping, quicker than he had done.
"Well, I will call there first thing this afternoon," he said, as his
wife returned to her interrupted duties.
As she arranged her stores, she contrasted the sad state of the little
blind girl for whom they had just been planning, with the happy lot of
her own little daughter. "Thank God my precious Amethyst has her
eyesight," she murmured; and then, as a deep-toned clock struck the
hour, she added: "Why, it is striking one! She will be home directly; I
must hurry."
In a few minutes the stores were all put away, the apron removed, and
Mrs. Drury was standing in the large bay window of the dining-room
watching for her little daughter to return from school, while the
housemaid laid the table for dinner. Very soon she descried a trim
little figure, clad in scarlet, hastening along the pavement, swinging
her lesson books by their strap, and waving her hand gaily in response
to her mother's smile, and in a moment more she was in Mrs. Drury's
arms.
"Oh! mumsie darling," she cried, breathlessly, "I'm moved up!"
"Are you, my pet? I'm so glad." And her mother pressed loving kisses
upon the upturned face, all quivering with the excitement of telling her
news. "Then you are in the Upper School now?"
"Yes, mumsie, the Fourth Form. And Olive and Elsa Franklyn, and Gipsy
Monroe and a lot of others have been moved up too. And oh! mumsie,
there's a new----"
Here she paused from sheer want of breath, and Mrs. Drury interposed
saying: "You shall tell me your news presently, darling, but now you
must run and make yourself tidy for dinner, for there is the gong."
A winsome little lassie was Amethyst Drury; at least, so her fond
parents thought. She looked less than her fourteen years, because she
was so very slight, and the pretty fair hair, simply tied back with a
scarlet ribbon, and falling loose about her neck, accentuated the
appearance of fragility. Her scarlet frock was almost hidden by the
white overall pinafore which her mother sensibly insisted upon her
wearing indoors, and which really added to the charm of her appearance.
Amethyst was not specially good-looking, but her soft complexion and
sparkling grey eyes made up for any little defects in her mouth and
nose, the former being a trifle too large, and the latter too
_retrousse_, to be termed strictly pretty.
"Well, girlie," said her father, as grace having been said he began to
carve the joint of roast beef; "how did you get on the first day of
term?"
"Pretty well, I think, thank you, father, although the lessons seem
harder now than they did with Miss Hemming; I've brought home a lot for
to-morrow," and Amethyst looked somewhat ruefully at the lesson books
lying on the table in the window.
"You must expect to pay the penalty of honour," remarked the vicar, who
had, of course, been immediately informed of the change of class. "You
cannot hope to be so high in this form as you were in the other,
Amethyst, because many of these girls will be older than you, I
presume."
"Yes, father, some of them are, but they can't be very sharp or they
would not have been left behind. I am going to try hard to get near the
top of this class by the time the reports come out," said Amethyst, a
ring of determination in her young voice, as she began to attack her
dinner with a school-girl's appetite.
Her parents exchanged glances. "My girlie mustn't be too confident of
her own powers," said Mrs. Drury gently, but firmly; "father and I want
you to do your very best to learn well, and grow up to be a clever
woman, but you must not expect to take all the honours, Amethyst."
"Oh! of course, mumsie, I only meant I was going to do my lessons as
well as I possibly could," and the clear grey eyes met her mother's
unfalteringly. "There are several girls who are really clever, in my
form now, who find it quite easy to learn difficult things. I wish I
did," she added with a little sigh.
"You must remember the hare and the tortoise, girlie," said the vicar,
with a smile. "If you have more trouble to learn than they do, you may
depend upon it you will remember better. Are there any new girls?"
"Only one in our form, father, and she comes from Mydenham. Her name is
Monica Beauchamp. I don't think I like her very much," added Amethyst
meditatively.
"Don't judge hastily, darling," said her mother; "she may be a very nice
girl, when you know her."
"I am sure you wouldn't like her, mumsie," said her little daughter,
positively, "she seems so off-hand; and once or twice she was quite rude
to Miss Churchill. Why, she actually said----"
"Hush! dear, no tale-telling. You know, girlie, I only want to hear
nice things about your school companions. Perhaps it would be wiser not
to make a close friend of this Monica, just at present, but always be
kind and courteous. I daresay she feels strange among you all,
especially if she is not accustomed to school. How old is she?"
"Fifteen; but she is such a big girl, mumsie, quite as tall as some of
the girls in the Fifth. She went in the school door as I did this
morning, and some elderly person was with her. I thought perhaps it was
her mother or aunt, although she didn't look a very kind one; but Monica
said: 'That will do, Barnes, you need not come any farther,' in such a
commanding tone, so I suppose she was a servant."
"I expect the young lady in question is a granddaughter of Mrs.
Beauchamp, of Carson Rise," remarked Mr. Drury. "I have heard she has
one living with her."
"Yes, she is, father," said Amethyst, eager to show off her knowledge.
"Olive and Elsa knew her by sight. They said she had had _four_ daily
governesses, and she wouldn't obey one of them. That's why her
grandmother has sent her to school." Amethyst's face wore an awe-struck
expression; such a terrible state of affairs seemed incredible to her.
"I am surprised at the Franklyns for repeating such a thing. At any
rate _we_ will not discuss this Monica's misdeeds, Amethyst, we have
plenty of faults of our own." Mrs. Drury spoke sternly, and then she
changed the subject.
Her little daughter looked very abashed, and was quite quiet for a few
minutes; her mother seldom spoke in so severe a tone, her rule was
rather one of love. But she had a great aversion to tittle-tattling,
and endeavoured to check every indication of it in Amethyst's
school-girl talk.
The cheerful midday meal concluded, the vicar prepared for an
afternoon's parochial visiting. Mrs. Drury got out her work-basket in
order to finish a garment she was making for a poor old woman, who used
to attend her mothers' meeting. Amethyst amused herself with
alternately talking to the canary, whose cage hung in one of the sunny
windows, and playing with a beautiful black and white cat, who stretched
himself lazily on the hearthrug, and blinked his eyes and purred in
appreciation of his little mistress's fondling.
"Shall I get out my lessons now, mumsie; they will take me a good long
time to-day?" she asked, when she was tired of amusing herself.
"No, dear, I think you shall leave them until after tea," said Mrs.
Drury, as she sewed on the last button, and folded up her work. "I am
going to take this to old Mrs. Robbins, and you may go with me."
"Oh, lovely!" cried Amethyst excitedly, as she jumped up with alacrity.
"I like going to see your dear little old women, mumsie. I don't think
I know Mrs. Robbins."
"I hardly think you do, dear. But come, let us get ready, and go at
once."
Although St. Paul's Vicarage was situated in a by no means grand
locality, a very few minutes brisk walking brought Mrs. Drury and
Amethyst into widely different surroundings. Long rows of tenement
houses looking on to the ugly brick buildings which comprised the iron
foundry where most of the husbands and sons earned their daily bread,
were traversed before they paused at an almost paintless door, bearing
the number 75, but guiltless of a knocker.
Applying the handle of her umbrella briskly, Mrs. Drury waited for some
one to admit her. But instead of the door being opened, a feeble voice
was heard saying: "Please come in." And bidding Amethyst follow her,
she turned the rickety handle and entered the squalid-looking house.
For a moment it was so dark after the bright sunlight outside, that she
could scarcely see her way, but she soon descried another door on her
left, and pushing that open, a certain amount of light illumined the
dark passage.
"Come in, ma'am, do 'ee come in," cried a quavering old voice from the
interior of the room, and Mrs. Drury led Amethyst, who was somewhat shy
of strangers, into the tidy but comfortless apartment, and shut the
door.
"Well, Mrs. Robbins, how are you to-day?" she enquired sympathetically,
as she gently shook the poor old hand, badly crippled with rheumatism.
"Only very middlin', ma'am, very middlin'," said the poor old soul, as
she begged her visitors to be seated. Mrs. Drury drew the only
available chair up to the side of the poor miserable bed, and Amethyst
found a little wooden footstool, upon which she perched herself as best
she could. The old woman's dim eyes lit up as she saw the bright face
and hair of her little visitor.
"La, bless me, ma'am, she's just for all the world like a fairy," she
said, and she struggled to raise her poor old body the better to feast
her eyes on the pretty picture, but a low moan of pain escaped her lips.
"'Tis these screwmatics," she explained, as Mrs. Drury bent over her
tenderly, "my back and legs is awful to-day."
"Have you had any medicine lately, and who looks after you, Mrs.
Robbins?" said the lady, sympathetically.