Osmington High School was left in the charge of caretakers, for
governesses and pupils alike had scattered in every direction to enjoy
the long, summer vacation.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*"SUNDAY AGAIN ALREADY!"*
"Oh, isn't it simply glorious?"
"How beautiful the sea looks!"
Sundry exclamations such as these escaped the lips of most of the
passengers in the heavily laden train bound for Sandyshore, as it
emerged from a tunnel with a shrill whistle, and rounded the last corner
prior to slowing down. A beautiful panorama stretched out before them;
in the foreground lay the quaint old town, beyond that an expanse of
deep, blue sea, and in the distance the white, rocky peaks of some
promontory seemed almost dazzling in the brilliance of an August sun.
Two out of three young people in a reserved second-class compartment
were in ecstasies of delight; and the third was contemplating a month at
Sandyshore, with very different feelings from those she had expressed a
couple of months ago. For Monica had obtained her wish, and she would
have Olive as her companion and friend during all that holiday month.
It had not been quite easy to gain Mrs. Franklyn's consent to let Olive
accompany the Beauchamp party; especially after the trouble about the
novel-reading, but eventually she had consented, upon both Monica and
Olive promising her faithfully not to cause her distress in that way
again. And when Mrs. Beauchamp insisted upon Elsa going with them too,
she and the doctor very gladly availed themselves of the kindness and
generosity which would enable their twin-daughters to have such a
thorough holiday and change, free of expense.
Monica had, at first, demurred a little over having Elsa, saying "two's
company, and three's none," but her grandmother was firm. For one
thing, Mrs. Beauchamp thought it would be just as well to have Elsa, on
account of her trustworthiness, and the old lady was a trifle afraid of
Olive getting into mischief without her more sensible sister being near
by. Also she had a desire to know more of the gentle-mannered girl, and
quite looked forward to enjoying her bright young society, when the
other two girls were bent on following their own devices. So Monica
had, perforce, to fall in with her grandmother's wishes, and when it was
known that Mr. Drury was acting as locum-tenens of the quaint old church
of St. Mary, Sandyshore, everything seemed to fit in splendidly.
As it happened, the Drurys preceded their friends by a couple of days.
So Amethyst was at the station to meet the girls when they arrived. She
had never been to Sandyshore before, and was captivated with the dear
little old-fashioned town, as all its summer visitors were. Her merry
tongue rattled away about all its charms and wonders while Barnes
counted up the huge dress-baskets, trunks, and other articles of luggage
belonging to the party, and engaged a couple of cabs to convey them to
their destination.
At length, all was satisfactorily accomplished, and, with arrangements
for an early meeting, Amethyst saw them drive off into the town, and
then ran home to the quaint, rambling old vicarage, next to the church,
which the Drurys were occupying.
Meanwhile, after a few minutes' drive through the narrow-streeted town,
and up a very steep hill, "Mrs. Beauchamp and party" (according to the
"Sandyshore Visitors' List") arrived at "Rocklands," a large house,
standing in its own grounds, overlooking the entire bay.
Mrs. Beauchamp always engaged rooms at that particular house, owing to
the magnificent view which she could enjoy, simply by sitting
comfortably ensconced in one or other of the bay windows; for, in one
direction, Rocklands overlooked the pier, to and from which pleasure
steamers were continually passing; and when one tired of these, the
sands, thickly sprinkled with bathing machines and private tents, amused
and interested the onlooker with their varied phases of holiday life.
Comfort being of more importance than expense to Mrs. Beauchamp, she had
made every arrangement for convenience during their month's stay at
Rocklands by engaging a whole suite of rooms. Thus Elsa and Olive were
charmed to find themselves the proud possessors of a delightful bedroom,
while Monica occupied the one next to theirs. Seldom were their doors
shut; it was such a new experience for Monica to have young companions
to live with. Then the dining-room in which they had all their meals was
entirely at the girls' disposal, between times, when they could do just
as they pleased, and "need not be so much on their best behaviour," as
Monica termed it, as in the drawing-room. But the weather was so
delightful, and so seldom did it rain, that the trio were not often to
be found indoors except in the evenings.
The next morning, the whole party were early on the small strip of
shore, which extended for fully half a mile round the bay, and on which
the visitors made themselves thoroughly at home. The short season was
at its height, and at first sight there seemed no chance of securing a
comfortable position; but as they walked along the Shore Road, looking
down upon the gay throng of holiday-makers, Elsa descried a well-known
figure, and saw Amethyst frantically signalling to them.
"There seems room there, Mrs. Beauchamp," she suggested, "where the
Drurys are. Shall we go down?"
And in a few minutes, after mutual greetings, Mrs. Beauchamp was
comfortably settled in her deck chair, while the girls, spreading a rug
on the sand, threw themselves down upon it in careless attitudes.
That first morning was but a sample of most of those which followed.
Mrs. Beauchamp read, or chatted with Mr. and Mrs. Drury, while the young
people enjoyed themselves in every way. A tent, next to the one used by
the Drurys, was hired, and the girls had great fun over bathing. Mrs.
Beauchamp wished Monica to learn to swim, so an old bathing-machine
proprietor, one of the chief features of Sandyshore, used to give her
and Olive a lesson every morning. Elsa was too timid to really enjoy
more of the sea than could be had where the water was comparatively
shallow, and Amethyst and she were quite content to look on at the more
daring exploits of the other two girls.
Such fun and merriment did they all have that first week at Sandyshore,
that it did not seem possible that they _could_ enjoy themselves more,
although Amethyst's one cry was: "Won't it be just too perfectly lovely
when Marcus comes?"
Marcus Drury, Amethyst's brother and senior by four or five years, had
only recently gone up to Cambridge upon leaving Trent College. He had
been spending a few weeks of the Long Vacation with another
undergraduate at the latter's home in Scotland, but now he was expected
to arrive at Sandyshore any day, and his devoted and admiring little
sister was on the tiptoe of excitement about his coming. Of course, he
was well known to the Franklyn girls, with whose brothers he had been
friendly since the Drurys had lived at Osmington, but Monica felt a good
deal of interest in the young fellow of whom she had heard so much.
Therefore, one morning, some ten days after their arrival at Sandyshore,
when Amethyst came flying along the Shore Road to meet them with the
words, "Marcus has come, and you'll never guess who is with him!" all
three girls were quite as mystified as she wished them to be.
"No one I know," said Monica, with decision.
"No, you don't; but the others do." And Amethyst bubbled over with
excitement. "Do be quick and guess: I can't keep it much longer."
"Not Dick?" hazarded Elsa, more to please her friend than because she
expected to be right.
"No, not Dick," said Amethyst merrily. "Try again."
"Roger, then," said Olive.
"Yes, yes, yes! Isn't it splendid? He wanted to surprise you, and he's
got a week's holiday from St. Adrian's, and Marcus met him in the
Strand, or somewhere, and persuaded him to pack up and come down here
with him."
"Oh, how lovely!" cried the twins simultaneously; "do let us see him.
Where is he?"
"There," and Amethyst triumphantly pointed out a couple of young fellows
not very far away, who had evidently been enjoying, from a distance, the
surprise the news had caused.
Monica, feeling somewhat out of it, followed the others rather more
slowly, and thus secured a good look at the newcomers while they were
engaged in greeting Olive and Elsa.
There was no doubt as to which was which: the elder, of medium height,
slightly built, dark, with brown eyes, was a Franklyn all over; while
his companion, a tall, broad-shouldered youth, with merry blue eyes and
curly hair, although he was not in the least like his sister, bore an
unmistakable resemblance to Mr. Drury.
Raising his panama hat, round which his college colours were twisted, he
came forward with outstretched hand, and Monica thought she had never
liked any one so well, at first sight, as this debonair undergraduate.
She had previously somewhat sneered at Amethyst's praises of her paragon
brother, but she could understand her feelings now that she had met
Marcus Drury.
She almost forgot his companion, until a quiet, manly voice, so
different from the other's boyish tones, said, "How do you do, Miss
Beauchamp? I am very glad to meet my sister's friend." And she found
herself shaking hands with Olive's eldest brother.
A very short time sufficed to put them all at their ease, and then, as
the tide was fast going out, they went in different directions for their
bathe. But an hour later found the young people all together again, and
the girls were charmed with the proposal that they should go for a row,
there being just an hour left before dinner.
Mr. and Mrs. Drury, who had undertaken to keep Mrs. Beauchamp company
until their return, watched the boatful with interest, until Roger's and
Marcus' even strokes had rowed it so far as to be scarcely more than a
speck.
"Dear boy," murmured Mrs. Drury, as she took up the knitting she had
neglected; and her husband smiled as he said, quizzically: "Do you mean
Roger?"
"I meant Marcus, of course," replied his wife, with a smile, "but Roger
is a dear boy, too. I only wish----"
"What do you wish, Nora?" queried her husband, in a lower tone, as he
tilted his black straw hat over his eyes, to protect them from the glare
of the midday sun.
"Why, the same as I know you wish, Herbert," was the reply, "that in
choosing the medical profession Roger had been actuated by the one
desire to follow in the steps of the Good Physician."
"Yes, I would that he had, but I fear it was not so. But, Nora, motives
and hearts, too, can be changed. Why should not Roger Franklyn go back
to St. Adrian's 'transformed'?"
"Ah! why not?" And little Mrs. Drury's eyes grew earnest, as she looked
out at the tiny black speck dancing on the ocean in the distance, and
she prayed that God would answer that other mother's prayers, and give
to Roger a new purpose, a new ideal in life.
The days flew swiftly by, what with picnics, tennis, bathing, boating,
and many other amusements and enjoyments, and Sunday dawned.
Monica and Olive, it must be confessed, did not appreciate that one day
in the week as much as they should, inasmuch as they were compelled, of
necessity, to forego during its sacred hours all the secular amusements
with which they filled up every moment of the week, from Monday morning
until Saturday evening. They awoke that brilliant August morning to the
unwelcome remembrance that it was "Sunday again already!"
But Elsa, whose happiest hours were spent in God's house, with a tender
little smile hovering round her lips, drew up the blinds, and looked out
upon the calm blue sea, and lifted her heart in thanksgiving to her
Heavenly Father for making such a beautiful world. Even Olive's
ceaseless chatter, as they dressed, did not disturb her; and when her
sister had gone into Monica's room, as she invariably did, Elsa gently
shut the door, and taking her little Bible, she knelt by the open window
and prayed long and earnestly. She did not know how to pray properly,
she only knew how to talk to her dearest Friend, and she was accustomed
to tell Him everything, and ask with the simplicity and directness of a
little child for what she needed.
That morning, after praying for help and strength for herself, to enable
her to be a faithful follower of her Master, she remembered her darling
mother (whom it had been a very real sorrow to leave) and all those at
home; and then her heart seemed overwhelmed with the thought of those
about her, who, as yet, did not know and serve her Saviour. "Oh! Lord,"
she prayed, "do speak to-day, _somehow_, to Monica and Olive. I can't
bear to think of them going on living without Thee. And kind Mrs.
Beauchamp wants something to satisfy her. O Lord, she wants _Thee_! and
Roger needs Thee, too. Lord, show Thyself to them all to-day, and show
them they will never be happy until they have come to Thee."
Thus, in all earnestness, but with childish simplicity, Elsa poured out
her heart unto the Lord, and "the Lord hearkened and heard."
The dear old-fashioned church, taxed to its utmost to provide
accommodation for the throngs of fashionably attired people who poured
ceaselessly up the aisles, as the five-minute bell gave warning that
service would soon commence, was eventually crammed with a huge
congregation, made up of many types. Perhaps it would be safe to say
that the majority of the people assembled within the sacred edifice had
gone there because "it was the proper thing to do"; they neither
expected nor desired any spiritual help.
Among this class were several of our acquaintances. In one pew, a
prominent one, because the verger had an eye to a substantial sum for
the offertory from such an imposing looking personage as Mrs. Beauchamp,
in her trailing gown of black satin, and a Parisian bonnet, were seated
the two Franklyn girls, Monica and her grandmother; Elsa being next to
the old lady.
At a little distance, and at right angles to them, at the end of the
vicarage pew in the south transept, Marcus' tall form towered above
those in the vicinity, and made his neighbour, Roger Franklyn, look
quite insignificant; also Mrs. Drury and Amethyst. It is to be feared
that some of the occupants of the two pews were a trifle disposed to
look at each other, at first; but a glance from her mother subdued
Amethyst, and she soon forgot the others in paying attention to the
service.
Marcus, who had a tenor voice, which promised to be of unusual quality,
sang all the chants and hymns; but Roger, a slightly cynical expression
disfiguring his clear-cut features, took no part in the service. With
arms folded, and head erect, he stood looking straight before him, his
eyes wandering, occasionally, to the pew in which his sisters sat; but
he did not look at them so much as at their friend.
Monica, her softly rounded cheeks already tanned by exposure to sun and
sea, was looking really handsome that morning. Her hair, arranged in a
new and becoming fashion, was tied back with a large cream bow, which
matched her flop hat and daintily made dress. The only scrap of colour
about her was a couple of dark crimson roses, tucked carelessly into her
waistband; and altogether she made a very pretty picture, standing, as
she did, erect and tall, between the twins, who wore simple delaine
frocks of a pale greenish hue.
Mr. Drury conducted the service, and a young clergyman, apparently a
curate, read the lessons. Elsa, with a sinking heart, saw the latter
ascend the pulpit stairs; for it must be confessed she had hoped her
favourite, Mr. Drury, would be the preacher. But she need not have
feared; God had given Leslie Herschel a message to deliver to the
congregation assembled at St. Mary's Church that August Sunday morning,
and as the young man looked down upon the throbbing mass of never-dying
souls, his heart went up to God that many there that morning might be
led to make the one great choice.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*"OH, MONICA, DON'T!"*
"My text you will find in the First Book of Chronicles, the twenty-ninth
chapter and the fifth verse. 'Who then is willing to consecrate his
service this day unto the Lord'?"
The young preacher, for he had been barely two years in orders, read the
verse once, and yet again, feelingly, and as if he would impress every
word of it upon his hearers, and then he closed his Bible, and began his
sermon.
It was not a very long one; indeed there were a few who wished it had
been half as long again. It was not by any means a brilliant peroration,
but yet there were points about it which made it the most remarkable
sermon to which many of his hearers had ever listened. And that last
word gives the key to the whole thing; they _had_ to listen! Whether
they liked it or not (and many, very many, did not at all appreciate the
home-truths which they heard), some unseen and uncontrollable impulse
forced them to listen, even against their will. The earnest, ringing
tones of the young preacher, his dark eyes, which seemed to penetrate
their very motives and thoughts, stirred the apathetic indifference of
that nominally Christian congregation; and they realised, some of them
for the first time, that the service of God was a very real and tangible
thing, and that they had, so far, had no part or lot in the matter.
Leslie Herschel dwelt first upon the Master, then upon the service
itself, and finally upon those who were called to serve, and when and
how that service should be rendered.
"My friends," he said, in conclusion, "I claim your service,
whole-hearted, faithful, loyal service, to-day, for my Master. He will
force none, coerce no one into rendering unloving obedience, but He
pleads with you to-day to come with willing hearts and offer Him your
best. And what does He promise in return? Peace, joy, hope,
satisfaction in this life, and eternal life in the world to come. I ask
you, are you content to do without Him? Is this world, pleasant and
attractive though it be, so satisfying that you need nothing more than
the gaiety, the success, the honour, aye, and the gold which it offers
to some, but by no means all of its devotees? But supposing you _are_
satisfied now (and I very much doubt if there exists a single individual
who is absolutely satisfied), will you be satisfied, think you, when you
come to stand, all unprepared, in the presence of your Judge? Will this
world stand you in good stead _then_?" And the preacher leaned over the
pulpit, while with searching glance his eyes seemed to scan every one of
the disturbed faces before him. "The Bible tells me that 'this world
passeth away.' What will it advantage you, _then_, whether you have
moved in a select circle, or not? Whether you have acquired fame and
distinction, or not? Whether you have been known among men as almost a
millionaire, or not? Oh! my friends, I beseech you, with all
earnestness, that you will _this day_ choose the Lord Christ for your
Master.
"It is an old, but true, saying, that 'To-morrow never comes'; we are
only sure of to-day, therefore 'Choose ye this day whom ye will serve,'
and say: 'Behold, Thy servants are ready to do whatsoever my Lord the
King shall appoint.'
"I do not, I dare not, promise you a path of ease and luxury, but I
_can_ say, for I have proved it, that the life which has Christ as its
Alpha and Omega is the only truly happy one, the only life worth living.
And that word 'whatsoever,' if you really mean what you say, may entail
the giving up of many a cherished plan, many a life-long project. It may
mean going to China or Africa as a medical missionary for one; to face
the misery and horrors of life among the denizens of the East End for
another; to live a Christlike life in a worldly and uncongenial
atmosphere for a third.
"But in it all, and through it all, Christ's never-failing arm will
guide and uphold you, and His voice will be heard, saying: 'Behold, I
come quickly, and My reward is with Me, to give every man according as
his work shall be.' '_Who_, then, is willing to consecrate his service
_this day_ unto the Lord?' May God in His mercy grant that from many a
heart in this church this morning the cry may go up to Him, 'O Lord ...
_I_ am willing.'"
The strains of the organ, on which the opening bars of that beautiful
consecration hymn:
Take my life, and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee,
were being exquisitely played by the organist, accentuated rather than
disturbed the hush of solemnity which had fallen upon the congregation,
as the young preacher concluded his earnest appeal for personal
dedication; and there were undoubtedly several that morning who,
realising the claim which Christ had upon them, willingly surrendered
all to Him.
The Beauchamp and Drury parties met in the quaint old churchyard, and
the two elder ladies walked slowly on, while the young people waited
about for Mr. Drury.
"A wonderful sermon, was it not?" said Mrs. Drury.
"Ye--es; but rather too dictatorial in style for such a young preacher."
Mrs. Beauchamp's tones expressed dissatisfaction.
"Did you think it dictatorial?" enquired the vicar's wife pleasantly;
"it did not strike me in that way. I thought it was a grand
opportunity, splendidly seized. With such a varied congregation, coming
as we do from all parts of England, no one but God can foresee the
results that may accrue, with His blessing, from the faithful message
this morning."
"Perhaps so," was Mrs. Beauchamp's somewhat absent reply; and she turned
back as if to wait for the girls.
Amethyst and Elsa were close at hand, and quickly joined them, but
Monica and Olive were some distance behind, walking slowly, and
apparently deep in conversation. Mrs. Drury, who had not been
unobservant of the effect of the sermon upon Monica, as she sat
listening, listlessly at first, and then was roused into paying startled
attention to the (to her) unusual discourse, tactfully drew her own
child and Elsa into conversation, as they walked on. For she was sure,
from the expressions on the faces of the girls behind, that they were
discussing what they had been hearing.
As a matter of fact, after a few commonplaces with Marcus and Roger, the
girls left them, and slowly following the others, had been silent
companions for a few moments.
Then Olive, shaking off the unwelcome feelings which had taken
possession of her, said gaily: "A penny for your thoughts, Monica!"
"You can have them without the penny," was her friend's rather sad
reply, as she slipped her arm into Olive's. "I'm half inclined to do
what he said, Ollie."
Olive raised a startled face to Monica's, and read quite a new
expression upon it, in which there was a certain amount of
determination. "What do you mean?" she queried; but in her own heart
she knew full well what Monica meant.
"Why, to say _I_ am willing," said Monica, with some confusion, for she
felt diffident about expressing what she meant even to her greatest
friend.
"Oh, Monica, don't! We'll never have any more good times together,"
said Olive, and it must have been her bad angel who prompted her words;
"if you do you'll have to leave me behind, for _I'm_ not going to give
in."
"I wish I could live like he said," and Monica's face looked wistful.
"Sometimes I----"
"Well?"
"Sometimes I long to be able to write and tell dad that it is all
settled. He _would_ be so glad."
"Well, I don't see much in it," said Olive obstinately. Her better
feelings were aroused by Monica's words, but she deliberately crushed
them down.
"Oh, yes, there is; there's _everything_ in it! You've only to look at
that young clergyman, and your mother, and even Elsa, to see what a
difference there is. Oh, Olive, if I had your mother to help me I
_would_, really, say to God what we sang just now,
Take myself, and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee"--
and Monica's young face glowed with feeling.
"No, you wouldn't," was Olive's moody reply, "any more than I do. Of
course, I mean to be a Christian some day, but not while I'm only a
girl; I want some pleasure first."
"Oh, Olive, Olive, you little know the dark cloud that even now is
beginning to gather over your head!"
With a sigh, Monica turned away, and, with one consent, they hurried
after the others, and no more was said. But the elder girl's heart had
been roused and awakened, and never again would she drift into her
former state of indifference.