for me; they live at No. 68, just below. No, ma'am, I haven't had any
medicine for a good bit now, it don't seem much use like. But there,
ma'am, the Almighty is wonderful good to me. I have never been without
a bite or a sup yet, and there's a many can't say as much as that, poor
things of 'em."
"Perhaps they don't look to Him for succour as you do," was Mrs. Drury's
gentle reply, as she stroked the poor knotted fingers.
"Ah, ma'am, that's true, more's the pity of it. I mind when I was young,
like little missy there, my father used to say to me: 'Now, Jemima, my
gal, never you do nothing as'll make you shamed for God Almighty to see,
and you may depend upon it, He'll look to it that you never want.'
Sometimes, when I was young and foolish, I used ter think as there was a
many things I wanted, and never got, but now I'm growing old, and the
Golden City is very near, I seem quite content-like."
"Shall I just read a few words to you?" said Mrs. Drury, as she opened
her little pocket Bible at the book of the Revelation.
"Aye, please do, ma'am," and the dear old soul lay placidly listening to
the beautiful description given by St. John of the New Jerusalem, where
there shall be no more pain, hunger, or tears, for those who have been
washed in the blood of the Lamb.
"Beautiful, beautiful words," murmured old Mrs. Robbins, as she drank in
the comforting promises; "we'll not remember the trials and troubles of
this life when we are up yonder."
"Now, Amethyst, dear, before we go, just sing a nice hymn for Mrs.
Robbins," said Mrs. Drury, to her little daughter, who had been a silent
spectator so far.
"What might little missy's name be, ma'am?" enquired the old woman, with
some curiosity.
"Amethyst," replied Mrs. Drury, with a smile. "An unusual one, isn't it?
but her father and I chose it for a special reason."
"'Tis one of the precious stones in the Bible, surely," said Mrs.
Robbins; "one of all they long-named things as is going to be in the
walls of the golden city."
"Yes, it is a Bible name, and has a special meaning, signifying an
abhorrence of the drink which is such a curse to our land. We want our
little daughter to grow up to be a true Amethyst. Now, dearie, sing
your hymn."
"Shall it be 'There is a city bright,' mumsie? Would Mrs. Robbins like
that?"
"Yes, dear, I am sure she would. Come and stand close by me, and sing
very clearly, girlie," and Mrs. Drury took one of the white-gloved hands
in her own, and held it lovingly while her little daughter's clear,
childish treble filled the bare room.
"There is a city bright
Closed are its gates to sin,
Naught that defileth,
Naught that defileth,
Can ever enter in.
"Saviour, I come to Thee!
Oh, Lamb of God, I pray,--
Cleanse me and save me,
Cleanse me and save me,
Wash all my sins away.
"Lord, make me, from this hour,
Thy loving child to be,
Kept by Thy power,
Kept by Thy power,
From all that grieveth Thee.
"Till in the snowy dress
Of Thy redeemed I stand;
Faultless and stainless,
Faultless and stainless,
Safe in that happy land."
"Thank you, my dearie, thank you," said the old woman gratefully, as the
last word died away. "And thank you kindly, ma'am, for coming to cheer
an old body up."
"I will come again when I can, Mrs. Robbins; meanwhile here is a
comfortable loose gown for you to use, either when you sit up again, or
in bed, just as you like, and a trifle to buy a few little extras with."
The poor old cripple's dim eyes filled with tears as she saw the nice
grey woollen wrapper, and felt the half-crown pressed into her wrinkled
palm.
"God bless you, dear lady! God Almighty bless and reward you!" was all
she could say.
And, quite understanding, Mrs. Drury gently bade Amethyst open the door,
and in a moment more their footsteps resounded along the uneven
pavement.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*"I WISH YOU'D BE FRIENDS WITH ME."*
Mrs. Drury and Amethyst walked along silently for a few minutes, each
apparently busy with her own thoughts. The former was thinking how best
she could aid the poor old cripple she had just left, while her little
daughter was pondering over the history of her name. They had reached a
more open thoroughfare when Amethyst broke the silence.
"Amethyst is _rather_ a funny name for a girl, don't you think, mumsie?"
Suddenly recalled from a mental calculation in which blankets and
beef-tea played a prominent part, Mrs. Drury smiled down at her little
daughter. "Do you think so, girlie?" was all she said.
"Well, yes, I do," confessed Amethyst, slowly. "Although the girls at
the High School have nicknamed me 'Thistle,' they tease me about my
proper name sometimes, and say I might as well have been called Sapphire
or Topaz, or one of those long names which begin with a 'C.' I can't
pronounce them properly, but you know the ones I mean, mumsie."
"Yes, dear, I know. You mean chrysolite and chalcedony and
chrysoprasus," said her mother, with a smile; "but they are very
different. Your father and I chose your name because of its meaning,
for a special reason, as we have often told you, Amethyst. When we used
to live in the East-end of London, where you were born, there was so
much sin and sorrow all round us everywhere, caused by strong drink,
that we resolved to call you Amethyst, so that you might always be a
reminder to us of our promise not to have anything to do with it. And
there was another reason, girlie," Mrs. Drury dropped her voice, and
spoke softly. "Your father and I have always hoped and prayed, from
your very babyhood, that when you were grown up you might become a
worker in the noble army of men and women who are fighting, in God's
strength, against this dreadful enemy of our beloved England."
"How could I, mother?" Amethyst asked wonderingly; she had never been
told so much as this before.
"There are many ways, dear," replied her mother, "in which people can
influence those around them in the cause of total abstinence. Some are
wanted who can write books and articles; others who can speak in favour
of it. But it is early days for us to plan your future, girlie; when
you have left school far behind and are quite grown up, it will be
easier to see how you can best live up to your name."
"I think I should like to be a speaker," said Amethyst meditatively.
"You are one now, I think, girlie," said Mrs. Drury, with a little
laugh. "You know father says you are a regular chatterbox. Now, let us
go into Wilson's and get some of those nice scones for tea, and then we
must hurry home."
They had just emerged from the confectioner's, and were crossing the
road, when Amethyst espied the two Franklyn girls coming towards them.
"There are Olive and Elsa," she said, delightedly; and then she added,
persuasively, "Oh! mumsie, do you think they might come to tea with us
to-day?"
"Not to-day, darling, I think, because you have all your lessons to do,
and there is scarcely time for them to go home and get permission, now.
But they might come on Saturday," she added, as Amethyst looked very
doleful. "Let us speak to them."
"How do you do, dears?" was Mrs. Drury's bright greeting, as she shook
hands with the twins. "How is your mother to-day?"
"Father thinks she is a little better, thank you, Mrs. Drury." It was
Elsa who spoke; Olive always deputed her sister to give the latest
bulletins of her mother's health.
"I am glad to hear that," said Mrs. Drury warmly; "will you give her my
love, and tell her I hope to come and see her very soon? Meanwhile,
Amethyst and I are wondering whether she would allow you both to come to
tea next Saturday."
"Oh! thank you very much, Mrs. Drury, we shall be delighted to come,"
said Olive, a ring of pleasure in her tones; they always enjoyed
themselves at St. Paul's Vicarage.
"I think we had better just ask first," ventured Elsa, "although I feel
sure mother will be very pleased."
"Quite right, dear," said Mrs. Drury, looking approvingly at Elsa, so
that she did not see Olive shrug her shoulders disdainfully. "Come
early in the afternoon, if you may, so that you and Amethyst can have
some fun together in the garden. I hear you have all been moved up,"
she added, as they began to separate.
"Yes, an awful nuisance, I call it," said Olive; "we shall have no end
of home-work to do now. That algebra we did this morning is stupid
stuff, isn't it, Thistle? All silly little letters and numbers that
don't seem to mean anything. I couldn't make head or tail of it."
"I rather liked it," said Amethyst.
"So did I," admitted Elsa.
"Well, you all ought to grow up very clever women," said Mrs. Drury,
with a smile. "I hope you will all do something great some day."
"No fear of that for me," was Olive's nonchalant reply, as Amethyst and
her mother hurried on.
"I hope mother will let us go on Saturday," said Elsa, as the twins
walked in the direction of home.
"Why, of course she will, you stupid; how often does she refuse us?"
cried her sister, snappishly. She had an uncomfortable sense of having
lowered herself somehow in Mrs. Drury's estimation, and was not best
pleased with Elsa for appearing to correct her before that lady.
"No, she is always so pleased for us to go to the vicarage," said Elsa,
wisely refraining from adding fuel to the fire by saying what she might
have said; namely, that she had seen Mrs. Drury's look of astonishment
when Olive calmly accepted the invitation without any reference to their
mother. "We must be quick, now, Olive, or we shall be late for tea; it
is just upon five by the post-office clock."
The three girls met again next morning in the Fourth Form cloakroom,
where the pupils took off their outdoor garments, and changed their
shoes. They had the narrow, partitioned-off room, with its rows of
clothes-hooks and pigeon-holes for boots, to themselves, for a moment.
But as they were rather late, Elsa, whose division was nearest to
Amethyst's, could only just whisper, "We may come on Saturday," before
the bell, which summoned them all to their places in the large hall,
warned them to lose no time.
Scrambling into their slippers, and hanging hats and coats on their
respective pegs, the trio hastened into the hall, and were each in their
own particular place by the time the bell ceased clanging: much to
Elsa's and Amethyst's delight, as they had no wish to begin so early in
the term with a late mark. Olive was one of the happy-go-lucky sort who
did not mind a few marks one way or the other.
Indeed, she ran the risk of losing a conduct mark by nudging Elsa, and
whispering: "Monica Beauchamp is----" just as Miss Buckingham, the
head-mistress, who conducted prayers from a raised platform at one end
of the hall, announced the number of the hymn.
But Elsa only smiled, and resolutely turned her head away from Olive, so
that the sentence remained unfinished.
Prayers over, and the various notices relative to the new term having
been given out, the classes filed into their classrooms, which all
opened off the spacious hall, with the exception of the First and Sixth
Forms, whose rooms were on the first floor, where were also the studio,
music-rooms and others used for various purposes.
There was a friendly rivalry among the girls with respect to the
appearance of their own particular classrooms, and they had inaugurated
a fund among themselves for decorative purposes, by means of which
plants and pictures, etc., were purchased for the adornment of the
rooms.
The Fourth Form, by reason of its position, had the best view of all the
classrooms, for it overlooked the prettily laid out garden of Miss
Buckingham's private house, so that the girls of that form always tried
to outdo the others in their decoration of the room itself. And indeed,
as the twenty or more girls filed into it that bright May morning, and
took their places, each at her own desk, it looked a charming room.
Half a dozen pretty engravings, well-framed, and a couple of coloured
maps, on rollers, adorned the walls which were painted a pale green; on
the dark oak mantelpiece, which matched the door and wainscoting, stood
some "Liberty" vases, which the "Decoration Committee" undertook to keep
supplied with flowers. Miss Churchill (the Fourth Form governess) had a
large desk on a raised platform, from which she could command a good
view of all her pupils at once; behind her hung the baize-covered notice
board, and at her right hand stood the black-board on its easel. The
windows, of which there were three, were, much to the girls' disgust,
guiltless of curtains, as such commodities as carpets and
window-hangings were not allowed in the classrooms, a large Oriental rug
before the tiled hearth being the only covering on the inlaid floor.
But the upper parts of the casement windows were filled in with coloured
glass, and on each of the deep window ledges stood a palm, or some hardy
fern, in artistic pots, so that the appearance was all that could be
desired.
There is just one more thing to be mentioned, and that is, that each
class had its own motto, framed, and hung over the mantelpiece, where it
could not fail to be seen; that of the Fourth Form being _Suaviter in
modo, fortiter in re_ (Gentle in manner, resolute in deed).
The mottoes had been Miss Buckingham's gift some few months before, when
the girls, for the time being, in each class had chosen their own, by
vote, and the idea was still sufficiently fresh to cause a good deal of
interest.
"Now, girls," said Miss Churchill brightly, as she seated herself at her
desk, "let us get to work at once. We did really nothing yesterday,
what with giving out stationery, and drawing up the timetable, etc.; so
this morning we must begin in earnest. Divinity is our first lesson."
She was a plain little person, dressed in a blue serge skirt, and blouse
of blue and white striped flannel. Her age might have been anything
under forty, but as a matter of fact, Mary Churchill had not yet passed
her twenty-eighth birthday. Her soft brown hair, guiltless of fringe or
wave, was simply arranged, and her broad forehead was suggestive of
talent, while her lips spoke of a resolute will. But beneath the
commonplace exterior, there beat a warm loving heart, which took a real
vital interest in the character of each of her pupils; and it was
because of her love for them that, for the most part, the girls of the
Fourth Form were devoted to their teacher.
There was an opening of desks, a rustling of Bibles and notebooks, and
then the work of the morning began. The period in Scripture that had
been chosen for that term's study was the book of Exodus, and the girls
grew quite interested as Miss Churchill graphically described the
position of the Israelites in bondage.
Elsa and Amethyst, who shared a double desk between them, listened
intently, for they thoroughly enjoyed the Divinity lesson always; but
Olive paid scant attention. It was far too dry, she thought, to trouble
about listening properly, and so her thoughts wandered, first to one
thing, and then to another, until she had quite lost the thread of the
lesson, and gave up trying to follow it. So she looked about her, to
see what the others were thinking, and found Monica Beauchamp's eyes
were fixed on her. She was too far away from her to whisper, as she
would undoubtedly have done if she could, so she contented herself with
smiling and making various grimaces, to show her feelings, when Miss
Churchill was engaged with the blackboard.
Monica, who had felt terribly "out of it" the day before, was only too
ready to make advances towards this girl who seemed to have plenty of
fun in her, and was not a goody-goody like her sister; so she returned
the gesticulations with interest.
For a few minutes Miss Churchill noticed nothing wrong, but presently as
she looked round from the blackboard she heard a decided titter, and
turning in the direction from which the sound came, she saw that one of
the girls, Hetty Warner, a quiet, inoffensive child, was endeavouring to
conceal her merriment by means of her handkerchief.
"What are you laughing at, Hetty?" she said, somewhat sternly.
"Nothing, Miss Churchill," muttered the girl, as best she could.
"There must have been some reason, and I insist upon knowing it," and
Miss Churchill came a few steps nearer to the culprit's desk. A hasty
movement between two of the girls did not escape her, and quick as
thought she intercepted a small piece of paper which Olive Franklyn was
frantically trying to put out of sight.
The girls held their breath as their teacher opened and smoothed out the
paper, which Olive had screwed up into a ball rather than hand it up as
it was. Those who had been in the form before remembered a similar
occasion when Miss Churchill had confiscated a little scribbled note
which was being passed along, and the punishment that had been inflicted
for such an underhand trick. But that was as nothing to the present
scene, for Miss Churchill held aloft, so that all could see it, the
paper on which was an unmistakable caricature of herself, in the
attitude she assumed when delivering a lesson.
"What a shame!" cried several of the girls simultaneously, but she
stopped them with a motion of her hand.
"Who drew this?" she enquired, in a well-controlled voice; but her eyes
flashed, and it was evident that she was very, very angry.
For a moment no one answered, and she put the question again, while the
girls waited breathlessly; those who were innocent were eager to know
who the culprit was. Only two of them looked at all guilty, and those
were the Franklyns. Miss Churchill, looking round at all the faces
before her, noticed the frightened look of one, and the off-hand,
nonchalant air of the other. As yet she scarcely knew them apart, so
she enquired of the one nearest to her, who happened to be Elsa: "Did
you draw this ... thing?"
A scarcely audible "No" came from Elsa's trembling lips, and Miss
Churchill was about to tell her to speak louder, when Olive stood up,
and said, in a bold, defiant tone: "Elsa knows nothing about it, I did
it," and then she sat down again calmly, to await her punishment.
"You will apologise to me for your rudeness before you go home, and you
will copy out a hundred lines of French translation and bring it to me,
to-morrow, without a fault, or else I shall show this drawing to Miss
Buckingham," was all the teacher said, in very quiet tones; but for once
Olive was subdued, and behaved tolerably well for the rest of the
morning.
She was greeted with various remarks during the ten minutes' recreation
the girls had in the playground. Some of them looked askance at her,
and she felt she had made a bad beginning in the new form. But two or
three of the troublesome, fun-loving ones complimented her upon the
cleverness of her drawing.
"You hither expression to a T!" said Lily Howell, a somewhat
vulgar-looking girl, whose slangy expression jarred upon her superiors,
but whose well-filled purse made her a desirable acquaintance.
[Illustration: "'YOU HIT HER EXPRESSION TO A T!'"]
"It wasn't bad," admitted Olive, "but I could have done it a great deal
better if I had had time."
"I'm afraid you've done for yourself," said Gipsy Monroe, a dark-eyed
girl, with short, curly black hair, as she and Amethyst Drury sauntered
by arm in arm.
But, beyond a shrug of her shoulders, Olive took no notice, for all her
interest was centred in Monica, who was just coming towards her.
"I say, wasn't it a lark?" was Monica's greeting, as she came near; "but
it's hard lines that you should have all the punishment, because I was
nearly as bad."
"Oh! I don't care a fig about the copying," said Olive carelessly. "It
goes against the grain rather to beg her pardon, but, of course, I shall
have to, or there'll be no end of a row, and I only did it for fun."
"Well, you _are_ a jolly girl!" was Monica's admiring reply. "I wish
you'd be friends with me."
"So I will," agreed Olive, with alacrity. "I haven't got a real chum,
and I should think you and I would get on A1."
"I've never had a girl-friend in all my life," said Monica; "to tell the
truth I always thought them rather dull and stupid. I am awfully keen
on dogs; do you like them?"
And Olive assenting, a lively conversation ensued, which was abruptly
terminated by the sound of the bell recalling them to lessons.
Olive's equanimity appeared to be quite restored as she entered the
school door with her new-made friend, but a pitiful little look from
Elsa, and a whispered, "How _could_ you, Ollie?" made her feel most
uncomfortable, and she seized an early opportunity of going up to Miss
Churchill and expressing the contrition that, at the moment, she really
felt, for Olive Franklyn was a good-hearted girl, although she was full
of fun, and she began to realise that perhaps Miss Churchill had
"feelings" the same as herself, and she knew she wouldn't have liked
such a trick played upon her.
Something in the honest brown eyes which looked unflinchingly into her
own touched Miss Churchill, who had somewhat recovered from the
indignation which Olive's treatment of her had roused, and she spoke
gently to the pupil who would doubtless prove a "handful" as time went
on.
"Very well, dear, I quite forgive you; let us say no more about it. I
don't think you will do such a thing again. You have evidently some
talent for sketching quickly and boldly; see that you do not misuse your
gift."
And Olive, glad to be at peace with her teacher again, made a mental vow
that she would be an exemplary scholar from that day forward. But alas!
Olive Franklyn's promises were, like the proverbial pie-crust, made to
be broken!
*CHAPTER V.*
*"I WANT YOU A MINUTE."*
Monica Beauchamp returned home from her second day at school in high
spirits. At last, she believed, she had found a friend, a girl of about
her own age, who apparently had tastes somewhat similar to her own, to
whom she could talk without restraint, and to whom she could confide all
the hundred and one grievances of her everyday life at her
grandmother's.
She felt so light-hearted about it that she even condescended to make an
affable remark now and again, during the walk home, to the
long-suffering Barnes, whom Mrs. Beauchamp insisted should accompany
Miss Monica both to and from school, and who had had a sorry time so
far. For Monica was so indignant at the idea of requiring a nurse-maid
(as one or two of the girls had not hesitated to call the person whom
they saw with Monica) that she had vented her spite on Barnes by
marching sullenly along without saying a single word.
Barnes, who was accustomed to all sorts of treatment from "that Miss
Monica," as she was wont to call her, confided to the other maids over
their dinner that school was working wonders in their young lady
already, and she wished she'd gone a good bit before.
"Not as I enjoys the constitootional twice a day," she added, "for I
can't abear it, and it takes a sight of time. But still, if the missis
will have it so----"
"I'm sure I'd just as lief go out a-walking, as tidy up all the rubbidge
in her bedroom," sniffed Mary Ann, the under-housemaid, who privately
thought herself far more suited to go than Barnes.
"You never need be expecting to, then," replied the maid, with
conviction. "You're far too giddy."
"Dear, dear," was the mocking answer, "old maids isn't always the ones
preferred!"
"There, that'll do, Mary Ann!" interposed cook good-temperedly; "don't
be rude to Miss Barnes." And she adroitly changed the subject.
Meanwhile, Monica was having a _tete-a-tete_ meal with her grandmother
in the dining-room upstairs. The old lady had been out the previous
afternoon and evening, and so had not had an opportunity of questioning
Monica about her first experiences of school life. She proceeded to do
so when the parlourmaid left them alone together.
Monica, still happy in the thought of her new-made friend, looked bright
and lovable as she sat opposite her grandmother at the lavishly
appointed luncheon table; even Mrs. Beauchamp, austere and
undemonstrative as she was, felt for the moment a thrill of satisfaction
in possessing so handsome a grandchild. But neither her words nor tones
gave any indication of such a state of feeling.
"Now give me some account of your school-work, Monica," she said
stiffly, as she toyed with a minute helping of orange jelly.