length received a message to the effect that he would be detained still
longer, and they had better not wait for him. So they, too, strolled
down to the Shore Road, where they knew they would eventually come
across their friends.
"I'm almost sorry I'm not in your shoes, old man," said Marcus, as he
adapted his long, swinging strides to his friend's shorter steps.
"It's a very good thing that you are a little undecided about it," was
Roger's somewhat enigmatical reply. "But tell me what you mean?"
"Why, I felt this morning as if I would give anything to go in for
medicine, with a view to going abroad; but I know father has set his
heart on my taking orders."
"If I remember rightly, the preacher distinctly observed that the
service was not to be one of picking and choosing but a case of
'whatsoever.'"
Something unusual about the tone in which Roger made this remark, and a
total absence of his usual cynicism, made his friend glance curiously at
him, and he realised that a change, undefinable at present, but
nevertheless unmistakable, had taken place in Roger Franklyn.
"I say, old chap, I wish with all my heart _you_ would be a 'Whatsoever
Christian,'" he said impulsively.
"With God's help I mean to be," was the unexpected reply, as Roger
lifted his hat, and glanced upward, as if registering a vow.
"Thank God!" was Marcus' low but fervent response, as he gripped his
friend's hand with such force as to make him wince.
"I knew you would be glad," was the quiet reply, "and so will my dearest
mother; she has been praying a long time for her eldest boy, and he has
been very obstinate. But I shall need all your prayers, now, for
already I foresee trouble and disappointment looming in the distance.
The pater is expecting me to follow in his footsteps when I leave St.
Adrian's, but I--oh! Drury, I am sure those words were meant for me
this morning. There was probably not another medical student in the
church, and I felt called to offer myself to Him for foreign service, if
He will accept me."
"You need not doubt His acceptance, old fellow. When we give what God
asks for, you may be very sure He takes it. How glad Herschel will be!"
"Who is Herschel?" ask Roger quickly.
"Why, this morning's preacher. Did not you hear father talking about
him last night? No? Oh, then I must tell you. He is staying down here
with his mother and a sister, I believe, and father met him yesterday,
some time. Leslie Herschel's father (the late Dean of Balmore) and he
were great friends, so he was awfully glad to come across him, and asked
him, straight off, to preach this morning. He has had a curacy in some
huge mining town, but he is going out to the Soudan this autumn."
"It's marvellous how God makes things fit in," remarked young Franklyn,
with rather an embarrassed laugh; it was such a new thing for _him_ to
be talking in that strain. "I suppose, humanly speaking, Mr. Drury
might have preached a hundred sermons and they would never have touched
me; but just this one, from an utter stranger, _did_. And if he had
been here either last Sunday, or next, instead of to-day, I should not
have heard it!"
"There is a little chorus we undergrads sing sometimes, before we begin
our Open-Airs, in Cambridge," said Marcus, "which runs thus--
'I believe God answers prayer.
I am sure God answers prayer.
I have proved God answers prayer.
Glory to His name.'"
"He certainly answered prayer for me this morning, and I'll trust Him
for all the future."
Thus, Roger Franklyn, medical student, was "transformed"; and, in the
course of a few days, he returned to his work at St. Adrian's, filled
with a new purpose, governed by one desire, and one only, namely, to
consecrate his service henceforth unto the Lord.
Mr. and Mrs. Drury's hearts were filled with thanksgiving when they
heard of his conversion, and a smile irradiated Leslie Herschel's face
when he was told of one result, at any rate, of his claim for service.
And Elsa: who can describe Elsa's joy, when, late that Sunday evening as
her brother bade her "good-night" at Rocklands gate, he bent down and
whispered his news in her ear? He knew well enough which of his twin
sisters would be the one to rejoice with him, for Elsa's brave efforts
to live a consistent Christian life in her own home had not been
unobserved by her eldest brother.
"Oh, Roger, darling, how splendid!" and she clung tenderly to him.
"_How_ glad mamma will be when she hears; she has been praying for you
so long. And I have, too," she added shyly.
"Dear little sister," he murmured, as he stooped and kissed her
forehead. "Go on praying, Elsa, not only for me, but for Dick, and
Olive, and the others."
Monica was strangely subdued all that Sunday. Twice Mrs. Beauchamp
enquired if she were not well, but she replied that nothing ailed her.
Elsa, who felt sure that she had been, in some way, influenced by the
sermon, tried to muster sufficient courage to speak to her about it; but
no opportunity occurred. Olive seemed determined never to leave
Monica's side for a moment. So persistent was she, that even Monica
grew cross once, and said pettishly, "Do be quiet for a bit, Olive, I
want to read." But if any one had taken the trouble to watch her
movements, they would have seen that she rarely turned a page, although
she appeared to be absorbed in her story.
In reality, Monica was thinking; good and evil were striving for the
mastery within her, and she did not seem able to come to any decision.
She longed to become a Christian, in her inmost heart, but something
seemed to bar the way. At first, she could not think what the obstacle
could be; but before she had lain down to rest that night, she knew that
it was her friend, Olive, who was hindering her from taking the decisive
step. Olive had said, "Oh, Monica, don't!" and although she knew that
she was acting worse than foolishly, Monica decided not to make the
great choice just then!
*CHAPTER XVI.*
*"DO BE CAREFUL, GIRLS."*
"Hurrah! Three cheers for mumsie!" cried Amethyst excitedly, one
morning.
"What's up now?" enquired her brother, in a provokingly calm tone.
"Why, we're all going for a picnic to Gullane Head, father as well, for
the whole day. Isn't it scrumptious?" And she danced about him in
great glee.
"Very," he agreed, "but whom do you mean by 'all'? Four people scarcely
constitute a picnic."
"Silly boy!" she retorted; "of course Monica and the Franklyns are
coming. Mumsie arranged it all with Mrs. Beauchamp yesterday, only she
would not say a word until this morning, in case it should not be fine.
But there's no fear of rain to-day," and she glanced up at the deep blue
sky, in which no speck of cloud was visible, with great satisfaction.
"How do you propose to get there?"
"Oh, father and you are to bicycle, and mother and we four girls are
going in a waggonette."
"Is Mrs. Beauchamp going to bicycle, also?" asked Marcus, gravely. He
was terribly fond of teasing his young sister.
"Oh, you dreadful boy! Of course not! She isn't going at all; it's too
much of a real picnic for her to enjoy."
"I'm sorry Roger has gone," mused Marcus, as he began putting his Kodak
in order, with a view to some snap-shotting. "I wonder if Herschel
would care to come."
He was soon striding up the quaint old street to the lodgings occupied
by the Herschels. The town was very full, and rooms were at a premium,
so that the Herschels had been glad to secure even such rooms as they
had, in a very old-fashioned house, where the front door opened into the
sitting-room, and when one sat in the low bay window, one seemed
absolutely in the street.
Marcus, whistling a merry tune, paused a moment at the door, and then
went by it, and tapped at the window. All the visitors acted in a very
free-and-easy fashion at Sandyshore!
He was invited to "come in," and without more ado he walked into the
sitting-room, where the remains of breakfast were still upon the table.
With apologies for intruding so early, Marcus shook hands with a
sweet-looking widow lady, the depth of whose mourning betokened recent
loss, and a tall slender girl, whose clear, grey eyes seemed too large
for the fragile little face surrounded with an aureole of fair hair.
"I came to see if Herschel had any plans for to-day. If not, we are
having a picnic at Gullane Head, about seven miles from here, and I
wondered whether he would bicycle over with father and me."
"Do, Leslie; it will do you good," said his mother, as the young
clergyman hesitated, and demurred about leaving them for a whole day,
when his time with them was getting so short. "Robina and I have plenty
to amuse ourselves with."
"Would you both join us?" asked Marcus. "Mother and the girls are going
in a waggonette."
"Thank you very much, but I am afraid you must excuse us. Robina is not
very strong, and it suits us best to have a lazy time by the sea." Mrs.
Herschel smiled lovingly at her daughter, whose fair face flushed at the
allusion to her health, for it was a sore trial to Robina Herschel that
she had always to be taken care of, and shielded from every ill wind.
But she bore her cross bravely, and no word of murmuring escaped her
lips, although she was denied much that goes to make a girl's life
happy.
"What time do you start, Drury?"
"Oh, 10.30, I believe; but come round to the vicarage directly you are
ready, won't you?" and, excusing himself on the plea of having to pump
up his tyres, Marcus hurried away.
It was a merry party that finally left the Vicarage, after various
delays, that morning. For some time the three cyclists kept level with
the waggonette, and Marcus teased Amethyst and the girls most
unmercifully about ill-treating the poor horse by making him drag such
heavy weights as they were, etc., etc.
"It isn't us, it's all the lunch we had to bring for you," cried
Amethyst.
"Oh, indeed! You hear, mother? Be sure not to give my small sister so
much as a crumb, because, upon her own confession, it's all been brought
for me."
"Oh! isn't he tiresome, mumsie?" said his sister, with a little pout.
She did not care to be made a laughing-stock of, and the others were all
smiling.
"He's only teasing you, girlie; I wouldn't mind," said Mrs. Drury.
"Dick always goes on like that," put in Olive. "Brothers are an awful
nuisance, but they 'keep a body alive,' as our old cook says."
"I wish I had one," said Monica wistfully, her glance following the
merry young fellow who was now cycling along at a good rate, in order to
pick up the two clerics, who were well ahead.
"I don't know what Mrs. Beauchamp would say to a troublesome grandson as
well as a troublesome granddaughter," said Olive mischievously. But the
words were scarcely out of her mouth before she wished she had not said
them.
For Monica, drawing herself up, with one of her haughty airs, said
sarcastically: "I am much obliged for your opinion of me, I am sure;
especially as no one asked you for it."
"Oh, I only said it for fun," and Olive looked repentantly at her
friend. But Monica chose to consider herself injured, and for some
little time all the occupants of the waggonette felt a trifle
uncomfortable.
But a halt was proclaimed soon after, and all the party dismounted, in
order to go over a lighthouse which was situated about two-thirds of the
way between Sandyshore and Gullane Head, and in the general interest
resulting from an inspection of the wonderful mechanism, which the
lighthouse keeper proudly explained to them, the little cloud blew over,
and by the time their destination was reached, Olive and Monica were as
good friends as ever.
Gullane Head, as the promontory which projected from the mainland was
called, was an ideal place for picnics. There were several old caves,
said to have been used as hiding-places for contraband goods years
before; and the huge boulders which had evidently fallen at some time or
other from the cavernous roofs made rough-and-ready chairs and tables,
provided one was not too particular.
It was universally decided that it would be the best plan to have lunch
first, as they were all hungry, and then devote a long afternoon to
exploring the neighbourhood. So a particularly nice spot was chosen,
and amid much laughter an impromptu lunch was quickly laid upon one of
the flattest boulders, and the party seated themselves, as best they
could, around it.
"I'm glad we've got it all to ourselves," said Amethyst, with a deep
sigh of enjoyment, as she passed a plate containing half a pork-pie to
Marcus; between whom and herself a truce had been declared.
"I can't understand it," added the vicar. "I should have thought half
Sandyshore would come to such a charming spot." And he leaned over and
looked down at the dark blue sea, dashing up against the base of the
rocks, some sixty or seventy feet below.
"It is rather an expensive drive, for one thing," said his wife, who was
engaged in pouring lemonade syrup into glasses, to which Elsa added
water.
"By the way, where is our coachee?" enquired Marcus. "Isn't he to have
something to eat?"
"He has driven on to the Coastguard station, to put up his horse,"
replied his father. "Some relations of his live there, he says. He
will turn up again at four."
"Are you enjoying your holiday, Miss Beauchamp?"
Monica started at the sound of a voice near her elbow, and looked up to
see that the young clergyman, of whom she was frightfully shy, and whom
she had done her utmost to avoid so far, had found a seat near her own,
which was rather a high lump of rock where she had perched herself in
order to get a good view of the undercliff.
"Yes, thank you, very much," she faltered; and then she pulled herself
together, for it was an unusual thing for Monica Beauchamp to be at a
loss for words.
"Sandyshore, and indeed all the coast in this neighbourhood, is very
lovely," said Leslie Herschel, his eyes sweeping the panorama that
stretched out before them.
"I couldn't bear staying here last year," admitted Monica, "and when I
knew my grandmother was coming again, I was vexed at first; but I should
have been very sorry not to have come, now."
"How is that? May I ask what has made the difference?" And there was
eager questioning in his voice, also in the dark eyes which met
Monica's.
"Why, I have had my special friend, Olive Franklyn, with me, this year,
and that has made all the difference," was Monica's reply.
Leslie heaved an involuntary sigh, for he had observed the young girl's
startled attention on the previous Sunday morning, and he had hoped to
have heard that it was the presence of a new-found Heavenly Friend that
had made things different. He looked earnestly at Monica, who was
occupied with balancing her plate, safely, upon one knee, and wondered
whether the present was a good opportunity for speaking a word for his
Master, or whether a better one might occur later on.
He had just decided that there is no better time than "now," when Monica
looked up with a merry word about the difficulty she was experiencing
with her plate, and in a moment more the article in question had slipped
out of her grasp, and was lying in fragments on the ground, some six or
seven feet below.
All hope of a further _tete-a-tete_ was prevented by the contretemps;
and when peace reigned again, Monica was to be found seated amongst the
others, in case, next time, she should let herself fall, instead of her
plate!
"What were you talking about up there, Monica?" whispered Olive, who had
been extremely curious to know what the young clergyman had been saying.
"You!" was the very unexpected reply; and that was all the information
she could get, whereat she was all the more puzzled. She had noticed
Mr. Herschel glance at her, while Monica was speaking; surely she had
never told him of their conversation after the sermon! If so, perhaps
he would be trying to get a talk with her; and Olive was filled with
alarm at the idea, for her conscience had been accusing her very loudly.
However, she determined not to give him an opportunity of speaking to
her alone, by never leaving Monica for an instant, and, by that means,
she congratulated herself she prevented any more conversation between
him and her friend.
But Olive need not have been quite so scheming, for after the whole
party had explored the caves, Mr. Drury and the two young men went off
on a tour of inspection, leaving Mrs. Drury and the girls to amuse
themselves close home.
Mrs. Drury's suggestion that they should all sit still for a little
while and enjoy the beautiful view and delicious breeze after the
darkness and dampness of the caves, was received with acclamation,
Amethyst stipulating that she should tell them a story.
Her mother, who was accustomed to a request of that nature, demurred at
first, but finally consented, and they were delighted with her racy
account of a journey she had taken in her girlhood's days, when a
terrific snowstorm had kept all the passengers imprisoned in the train,
several miles from a station, for more than twenty-four hours.
Monica followed next, with some particulars of her early days in Burmah,
culled rather from what she had been told than from what she actually
remembered. And then Olive protested that she was tired of sitting
still, and proposed a search for some way of reaching a piece of sand
which could be seen at a little distance along the coast.
Amethyst and Monica were ready enough to go with her, but Elsa, who was
no climber, decided to keep Mrs. Drury company; so the trio set off on
their voyage of discovery.
"Do be careful, girls," pleaded Mrs. Drury, who was rather anxious, well
knowing their zeal was apt to run away with their discretion; "and
unless you succeed in finding either some steps, or a proper path
leading down to the shore, you are on no account to go. I can trust
you, Amethyst?"
"Oh, yes, mumsie! We'll promise to be awfully careful," the shrill
treble voice called back, and a few minutes later the sight of a
handkerchief waving in the breeze proclaimed the fact that a beaten
track had been found; and the two who were left behind settled down to a
cosy half-hour.
Elsa, who loved Mrs. Drury only next to her own mother, squeezed up
close to her, and the vicar's wife put a protecting arm round the
girlish figure, for she had a very warm corner in her heart for quiet,
gentle Elsa. Then they had what was a delightful, helpful chat to the
young girl, who confided all her hopes and fears about Monica and Olive
to Mrs. Drury, and was encouraged to pray on, and look out for
opportunity of service. The latter remark reminded Elsa of the young
clergyman's text, and Roger's decision, and, from her own difficulties
and anxious thoughts about her twin sister, she went on to speak of the
future that now stretched out before her favourite brother.
"I think it is so splendid of him to want to be a missionary," and
Elsa's face glowed with animation; "but I am afraid it will disappoint
father a good deal, and poor mamma will be _very_ sad at the thought of
his going so far away, but she will not let him know it, because she
will be so glad for him to go, really. I suppose, if all is arranged,
that he would not start for a year or two, would he, Mrs. Drury?"
"No, dear, I expect not."
"That will give mamma a nice long time to get used to it," replied Elsa
contentedly. She was singularly childish in some things, and
correspondingly sensible about others.
Mrs. Drury cast a shrewd glance at the bright young face, which was
turned seawards, and sighed. She realised what even the elder Franklyns
either could not, or would not, dream of, that the gentle, patient,
invalid mother was fading slowly, but surely, away; and she knew that
the happenings of even a year hence would have no power to bring either
gladness or sorrow to Mrs. Franklyn, who by then would be in the
presence of the King. But the twins had no idea of it, and as Mrs.
Drury sat silently looking at Elsa, who was all unconscious of the
terrible sorrow in store for them all, she wondered if she were wise in
leaving the girl in ignorance, for she could imagine what the shock
would be like, when the blow fell. She had talked the matter over with
Mrs. Franklyn, who well knew upon what a slender thread her life hung,
and had urged her to let her children be prepared for the inevitable;
but their mother had pleaded their youth, and said it would be time
enough later on to break the news to them, and Mrs. Drury had no choice
but to be silent, although she did not agree with her friend.
Elsa, who had been indulging in the pleasantest daydreams, roused
herself to find her companion beginning to look anxiously in the
direction in which the girls had gone, for time was getting on, and they
ought to have been returning by then.
"It is half-past three, Elsa," she said, and there was a ring of real
concern in her voice; "it is careless of them to have been so long, for
we must soon think about preparing for home. Can you see any signs of
them? Your eyes are younger than mine."
But Elsa was obliged to confess that she could not, even though she
mounted with some trepidation to the top of a huge boulder in order to
get a more extended view.
"We would go and look for them," went on the vicar's wife, "only it is
hardly safe to leave the bicycles, and all our things. I am vexed with
them for staying away so long."
"Shall I run along the cliff and see if I can find them?" suggested
Elsa, who was not without anxiety about the missing trio herself. "I
could go very quickly, if you would not mind staying here with our
belongings."
"Perhaps you would be able to see them, Elsa, and then call to them to
return at once. But don't go far, dear," said Mrs. Drury, now really
worried about the absentees.
"If you would go on packing up, we will all try to be back by the time
you are ready," said Elsa, with a cheeriness she was far from feeling,
as she hurried off.
*CHAPTER XVII.*
*"DON'T PERSUADE ME NOT TO, ANY MORE."*
Meanwhile, how had the missing trio been spending their time?
With delight, after walking about a quarter of a mile along the cliff,
they found some old, uneven steps leading down to its base. They were
very unsafe-looking, as several were missing at intervals; but, neither
of the three girls being troubled with nerves, they proceeded to descend
cautiously. Amethyst was the last to climb down, and it was her white
handkerchief, fluttering in the breeze, which Mrs. Drury and Elsa had
seen.
"I say, girls, mind how you get down here," cried Monica, who was
leader. "It's an awful stretch." And she dropped a distance of several
feet, to gain a foothold on a lower step.
"It's a good thing we have a gymnasium at school," said Olive, who had
lost a considerable amount of breath over her scrambling; "that kind of
practice helps one in experiences of this sort."
"Oh, Olive, I can't possibly get down there, my legs won't reach!" And
Amethyst looked hopelessly at the long distance between the step she was
on and the next one below.
"Drop down, you'll be all right," said both the girls encouragingly.
"Oh, I couldn't, I should fall!" cried the smaller girl, a spice of fear
in the shrill tones.
"Oh, come along! Don't be a coward, Thistle!" said Olive
contemptuously. "Here, I'll give you a hand."
Either the hand or the sneer had the desired effect, for Amethyst was a
plucky little girl really; and in another moment she was landed safely
on the lower step.
That proved to be the worst difficulty, and eventually, the shore was
reached without further trouble.
"I wish Jack was here; he would like a race along this sand, poor old
chap," said Monica, whose one sorrow had been the leaving of her devoted
dog behind.
"Yes, isn't it jolly down here, and not a soul to be seen," cried Olive.
"I wonder if there are any shells about?"
A search was instituted, and a collection of various kinds quickly
gathered together, and tied up in a handkerchief. Then paddling was
proposed, and a merry time ensued of splashing about, off and on the
large flat rocks with which the sand was thickly studded at that
particular spot.
"What's the time, Monica?" Amethyst enquired at length.
"Why, past three already," was the horrified reply; "how quickly the
time has flown! We must give this up, girls, and get our shoes and
stockings on."
The drying process was accomplished as satisfactorily as was compatible
with only two very minute handkerchiefs, and seizing the bundle of
shells, the girls reluctantly bade farewell to the charming and secluded
little cove.