tell you something of my work for the last five years in China, and then
I will try to show you what you can do, _if you will_, to help make the
lives of Chinese girls brighter and happier. First and foremost, I must
start by saying that girls are thought little or nothing of in China;
they are _not wanted_. And, although it is not really allowed, in one
way or another nearly one-half of all the baby girls who are born in
China are either drowned, or murdered, or what is even worse, buried
alive directly they are born! And when I tell you that out of every
three people in the whole world one is born in China, you can guess
something of how many there are. It made my heart ache, often and
often, to be in the midst of such dreadful cruelty; and yet we must not
altogether blame the Chinese, for they do not know that our Heavenly
Father values girls just as much as He does boys, and is grieved when
they are ill-treated.
"But though it is sad to think of the little babies dying, they are
really better off than many of the little girls who are left to grow up.
For there is a cruel custom in China of squeezing the feet of little
girls up tight, by means of a bandage--so"--and Hope Daverel picked up a
strip of calico, and deftly bound up her left hand to illustrate her
words--"until it hurts most dreadfully. Of course, the little girl
cries with the pain, but no one pities her, and in a few days it is
unbound, and done up tighter still. Sometimes a mother will take a big
stick to bed with her, in order to beat the child if she screams with
the awful pain. I wonder how _you_ would like that?"
The young missionary paused a moment, and looked down enquiringly into
the young faces before her, which expressed horror at the recital of
China's woes.
"Well, the poor feet have to go on being squeezed smaller and smaller,
until after about two years they are considered small enough to be
pretty! Oh! girls, you who love pretty things, think of it an ugly lump,
without any shape, tiny enough to totter about in shoes like this," and
Miss Daverel held up a wee Chinese shoe. "This is a full-sized shoe for
a lady, and it only measures two inches and a half! This pair has been
actually worn by a woman belonging to one of my classes, and she gave
them to me on purpose to bring home and show to you. A girl's chances of
getting married depend entirely upon the smallness of her feet: they do
not trouble at all about whether she is clever, or handsome or good.
And she is married, often, as young as six months old! and is taken away
from her own mother, to go and live with the mother of the little boy,
or lad, who is her husband. It is difficult for you English girls to
imagine such a state of affairs; but unless you know _something_ about
them, you cannot do much towards helping your Chinese sisters. Once they
are married, the poor girls have a very, very dull life, if they are
fortunate enough to escape ill-treatment from their husbands. One of
the first questions asked by the Chinese ladies whom I go to visit, in
their dim, cheerless rooms at the back of the house, is 'Does your
husband beat you?' and when I shake my head and say I am not married,
they look astounded, and say: '_So_ old, and no husband!'
"But sad as their lives are, their fear of what comes after death is far
more sad. The women are taught that there is no heaven for them, and
all that the very best of them can look forward to is that, after
numbers of future lives spent in torment, they _may_ be born again into
this world as a little boy! And they are so afraid of evil spirits, who
they think are constantly on the look-out to do them untold harm: they
even call the boys by girls' names, so that they may not be thought
_worth_ harming! and when the poor creatures die, as the funeral
procession goes along the road, imitation money made in paper like this"
(and the speaker held up samples) "is scattered about, to propitiate any
evil spirits that may be near; while clothes, money, and various other
things, all made in paper, are burned at the grave side, in order that
the dead person may have them to use in the other world. And that sort
of thing is continually being done before what they call ancestral
tablets, or at the graves of relations who have died, lest the spirits
of the departed should come back to earth and trouble those that are
living. Millions of pounds are spent every year, in that way alone.
"Is it not all terribly sad? I am sure that you agree with me that it
is, and are wishing that you knew of some way to help. Well, I will
tell you; there are many things you might do. I suppose that most of
you elder girls go to school; when you meet your school-friends again,
you can pass on to them what I have told you this afternoon; and perhaps
you could gather some of them together to dress dolls, or make little
presents such as we missionaries love to be able to give to the children
and girls who attend our schools, or come to us for medicine. A little
gift from England is _such_ a treasure; it would repay you for any
self-denial it may cost, if you could only see the delight on the poor,
little, dull faces, when they catch sight of the doll, or the pair of
bright knitted cuffs, or the little cotton-box, that the _guniong_, as
they call us, is going to give them. And besides that, you can give
some of your pocket-money: those pence and shillings which it is _so_
easy to fritter away on mere nothings, and things which do not last.
Oh! girls, which do you think you will value _most_ in the great day of
reckoning which is coming, the sweets you have eaten, the grand
collection of picture post-cards you were so eager to get, or the
Master's 'Well done!' which will surely be spoken to those who have
denied themselves for His sake?
"But working and giving are not everything--there is praying. And if,
as I do hope, there are some here who have found a precious Friend in
Jesus for themselves, will you not pray that your Chinese sisters may
find Him too? There are millions of them who have never heard His name,
even _once_, yet; and they are dying _so_ fast, without God, and without
hope. So I am praying that He will touch some of the girls' hearts here
this afternoon, and fill them with an intense longing to go and bear His
message, in the years to come, to the women and girls in far-off China.
"Now shall we sing a hymn, so simple that even the smallest can
understand it, and will you try to mean every word?" And soon, girlish
voices were singing, with real earnestness,
The fields are all white,
And the reapers are few;
We children are willing,
But what can we do
To work for our Lord in His harvest?
Our hands are so small,
And our words are so weak,
We cannot teach others;
How then shall we seek
To work for our Lord in His harvest?
We'll work by our prayers,
By the gifts we can bring,
By small self-denials;
The least little thing
May work for our Lord in His harvest.
Until, by-and-by,
As the years pass, at length
We, too, may be reapers,
And go forth in strength
To work for our Lord in His harvest.
Just a few solemn words of prayer followed, in which Miss Daverel asked
that her young hearers might realise the need of the heathen, and with
God's help seek to do their part towards satisfying it; and then the
meeting ended.
While tea was being handed round by Mrs. Murray's maids, Miss Daverel,
who had noted Monica's rapt attention, drew her aside, and after a few
whispered words, she and a little maiden of not much over six
accompanied the missionary indoors, to reappear in a few minutes in
Chinese costume.
"Oh!" cried the girls, as first one and then another discovered what
appeared to be a Chinese lady and her little girl coming across the lawn
towards them, and they all crowded round, while Hope Daverel showed them
the beautifully embroidered red satin coat and kilted skirt, such as the
wife of a mandarin or high official would wear, and which Monica's tall
figure showed off to advantage. They all laughed merrily at the quaint
little object in mauve and yellow jacket and _trousers_, who, they were
told, looked just like a little Chinese girl, with the exception of her
hair and feet.
Tea over, all the girls were given magazines or little booklets about
missionary work, and Miss Daverel showed them samples of all sorts of
nice easy things that are valued so much as gifts, not only in China,
but in all parts of the mission field; and she gladly promised to send
all particulars (and a missionary box!) to any or every girl who would
write to her, and tell her that she had found some others to help her,
and they wanted to start working.
"I say, girls, we'll make some things, won't we, when we get back?" said
Monica, as the quartette wended their way homewards.
"Oh, yes!" cried Amethyst and Elsa, simultaneously; and if Olive said
nothing, her voice was not missed. "And we'll get a lot of the High
School girls to join us."
"I wish Miss Daverel lived at Osmington," said Elsa wistfully; "she
would show us just what to do."
"Oh, she is wanted in China," was Monica's decisive reply; "she can't
possibly be spared from there. I daresay we shall be able to make the
things by her directions, and we'll send them to her to give away."
"Mother will help, I'm sure," said Amethyst.
"And Lois, too," added Elsa; "she cuts out splendidly, and makes the
stuff go ever so far, because she fits everything in so well."
"It is evident we must begin to save up our pocket-money," said Monica,
"because there will be a lot of things to buy, and we want to give it
all ourselves, don't we, girls?"
And again, in the eager assent that Monica's words called forth, if one
voice was silent, it passed unnoticed.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
*"YOU TELL THEM, LOIS; I COULDN'T."*
"There is not likely to be any letter for us, this morning, as we are
going home to-morrow," said Elsa, the next morning, as the girls stood
in the bay window, watching the postman delivering his missives at
practically every house in the steep road which led up to Rocklands.
They usually filled up the few minutes before breakfast, while waiting
for Mrs. Beauchamp's appearance, in this way.
"I hardly expect there will be one for any of us," said Monica, "unless
there should be one from dad forwarded on."
"He's coming in our gate," said Olive; and a few seconds later a maid
entered, with one solitary letter on a salver.
"For Mrs. Beauchamp, miss."
"Very well, Ada;" and the girl withdrew, as Mrs. Beauchamp entered.
"Only one letter for you, grannie." Somehow, Monica had slipped into
the way of calling her grandmother thus, lately, and the shortened form
was by no means unpleasant to Mrs. Beauchamp.
"Just cut it open for me, Elsa, my dear," said the old lady to her
"little right hand," as she called her; "while I pour out the coffee."
And Elsa, preparing to do as she was asked, picked up the letter. But
as she did so, she observed the writing, and with wonder in her tones,
she exclaimed: "I think it must be from Lois!" and she cut it open
hastily, a nameless fear taking possession of her.
"Thank you, my dear, I will see what it says," said Mrs. Beauchamp, as
she adjusted her pince-nez; "possibly it is some arrangement about your
return home." She spoke quietly, but she felt otherwise, for she, too,
had a presentiment of impending trouble. With eyes which seemed ready to
devour her, Elsa watched Mrs. Beauchamp's face, while she hastily
scanned the short letter, and something in its expression made her heart
beat with great thumps.
"Mamma!" she faltered, with trembling lips, and even Olive and Monica
held their breath while they waited for Mrs. Beauchamp's answer.
"Don't be frightened, dear," she said kindly; "it certainly is about
your mother, who is not quite so well. But your father thinks there is
nothing to be alarmed at, and hopes she will be as well as usual by the
time you reach home to-morrow."
"Are you sure that is quite all?" Elsa whispered, in a voice hoarse with
emotion; she loved her mother so intensely that she could not bear the
thought of her being worse than her usual invalid condition.
"Quite, my dear; you may read it, both of you," and the twins found
nothing different in the few sentences the letter contained.
"I wish we were going home to-day," murmured Elsa wistfully, while tears
trembled on her long, dark lashes.
"Nonsense, Elsa!" said Olive, a touch of impatience in her voice; really
a sign that she was troubled, too. "I don't suppose that mamma is very
much worse than usual, only Lois croaks so."
But Elsa, although she said no more, did not feel comforted; and Mrs.
Beauchamp and Monica stole furtive glances at the sad, downcast face of
the gentle, loving girl, who had endeared herself to both of them.
Breakfast was a quiet meal, and all were glad when it was ended,
although the bright sunshine seemed suddenly clouded over, and the
girls' interest in the various amusements they had planned for their
last day at Sandyshore had vanished.
They were in their bedrooms, getting ready for a morning on the sands,
when a double knock was heard upon the open front door, and poor Elsa
grew white as death.
"Oh, Olive, perhaps it's a telegram!" she gasped.
"What a grizzler you are, Elsa!" said Olive, not really unkindly, for
she was very fond of her mother, too, though in a totally different
fashion from Elsa; "probably it's only the butcher or greengrocer."
But Barnes, with alarm on her face, came to summon the twins, and Elsa
knew that her foreboding was true, even before she saw the fateful pink
paper in Mrs. Beauchamp's trembling fingers.
"Oh, don't say she's--dead!" wailed Elsa, as she crossed the room; and
Olive shuddered convulsively.
"No, no, my dears," said the old lady; "no, no, not that; only very ill,
and your father wants you home at once."
"Oh, my dear mamma, my darling mamma!" sobbed Elsa pitifully, as she
clung to Mrs. Beauchamp; while Olive, with horror-stricken face and dry
eyes, read the few words of the telegram, which ran thus--
"Mother very ill: girls to come home with all possible speed."
"Oh, I wish I'd never left her! I don't believe I'll ever see her
again," wailed Elsa, in such heart-broken, pitiful tones, that Monica
begged her to try not to cry so, and whispered words of comfort.
"How soon could we go, Mrs. Beauchamp?" Olive said, in a strained,
unnatural voice.
"There is a train at eleven," said Monica, who had been studying the
time-table, "a very quick one, which arrives at Osmington by one-thirty.
The Drurys go home to-day," she added, "but not until the three-fifteen
train."
"Oh, Barnes shall go with them," interposed Mrs. Beauchamp, "and return
here this evening. We would all go to-day, but the packing could not be
done in time for the eleven o'clock train. There is less than an hour,
now; so, Monica, you help Olive and Elsa to get their things together,
and Barnes shall pack their boxes at once. Cheer up, my dears," she
added, to the poor twins, who were already collecting their books and
needlework, which were lying about on the different tables; "let us hope
for the best; and, very likely, you will find a change for the better
has taken place when you reach home."
"Elsa, darling, do let Jesus comfort you," whispered Monica, a few
minutes later, when they were alone in the girl's bedroom, "I am asking
Him to. And He can make dear Mrs. Franklyn better, you know, if it is
His will." Monica spoke shyly; she was unaccustomed to giving Elsa
advice--Elsa, who had always appeared almost perfect to hasty, impetuous
Monica, who had, by no means, found it easy work to follow in the
footsteps of the meek and lowly Saviour.
"Oh, Monica, I have been asking Him to help me bear it!" said Elsa, "and
I don't want to grieve Him by fretting. But, oh, you can't think what
it would be like to lose my precious mamma!" And the tears rained down
the poor child's face.
"No," said Monica, with unconscious pathos, "I can hardly remember how I
felt when I lost mine. It is so long ago now, I have nearly forgotten
it."
"Monica, will you go on praying, all day, that God will make her better,
but if He sees--the other--would be best--for her--that He will help us
bear it?"
The words, so hard to utter, came falteringly, and the elder girl, with
wet eyes, gathered Elsa into her strong, young arms, and while she
pressed a kiss upon the downcast brow, she murmured: "Yes, Elsa,
darling, and we know He will."
A hasty scramble to get all packed, a short drive to the station crowded
with visitors now making their way homewards at the close of their
holiday, and then a few last words were said, after the twins,
accompanied by Barnes, had ensconced themselves in one of the
fast-filling compartments.
Mrs. Beauchamp, at Elsa's request, had not accompanied them, so only
Monica--her sunburnt face, usually so bright, now wearing a sad
expression--stood on the platform waiting to bid them farewell.
"The Drurys, Monica," said Olive, as she leant out of the window just as
the train began to move, "they won't know. Tell them."
"Yes, I will," replied Monica; "they'll be sure to see you to-night, and
I shall come to-morrow. Good-bye, good-bye," and with a would-be
cheerful smile she waved to both of them, but her eyes sought Elsa's,
who, poor child, was making a brave effort not to give way, and make a
scene before a compartment full of people. It was a good thing, in one
way, that they had not the luxury of one to themselves.
Very few words were said during the long, long two hours and a half
which dragged wearily by. About half-way, Barnes produced a basket of
lunch, which she had brought with kindly forethought, and pressed the
girls to eat something. Olive managed a couple of sandwiches, but Elsa,
who tried to swallow one, felt as if it would choke her, and gave it up
after toying with it for a few minutes.
"Have this lovely pear, now do, Miss Elsa," urged Barnes, with whom the
kind, thoughtful girl was a great favourite.
And with a pathetic smile, Elsa thanked her, and felt refreshed after
eating the juicy fruit.
The twins whispered a sentence or two now and again, but for the most
part the journey was accomplished in silence. Elsa lay back with closed
eyes as if asleep, except that sometimes her lips moved unconsciously,
showing that she was taking her sorrow where alone she would find real
comfort.
Olive gazed through the window with unseeing eyes at the country through
which they were passing, but her mind was in a turmoil. Could this
terrible and unexpected blow be sent by God as a punishment to her for
all her wilful neglect of Him? Did He think that by taking her mother
away He would _drive_ her to become His child? Then nothing should
induce her to become one! These and countless other thoughts passed
through the unhappy girl's mind, and her heart grew more rebellious than
ever. She did not want to become "goody-goody" she told herself, but it
was too bad of Monica to have left her in the lurch. And then, she,
Olive Franklyn, tried to make a bargain with God! If He would avert the
threatened sorrow which overhung her home, and restore her mother to her
usual degree of health again, then she would serve Him; but if not----
At length the train began to draw near Osmington, and the girls dreaded
and yet longed to see a familiar face on the platform, and to hear the
latest bulletin.
They had expected Kathleen, or perhaps only one of the servants, so that
they were astonished to see Roger striding up the platform as the train
pulled up.
"Oh, Roger!" and the twins each seized a hand and clung to him, "how is
she?" whispered Olive, for Elsa was trembling too much to speak; from
Roger's sad face she feared the worst.
[Illustration: "'OH, ROGER! HOW IS SHE?' WHISPERED OLIVE."]
"She is very, very ill," was all he said gravely; "I am glad you have
come, she has been asking for you both."
Barnes, who had been standing near, now came forward, and, for the first
time, Roger realised that his sisters were not alone. With a word of
thanks he spoke gratefully of Mrs. Beauchamp's kindness in sending the
girls home under her care, and enquired as to her plans.
"Oh, I return by the next train, sir, thank you, which leaves just after
two. I'll just have time to get a cup of tea before I start. Mrs.
Beauchamp wished me to offer her sincere sympathy, sir, if I saw any of
the family, and she would like to know the latest report."
"Please thank her," said Roger. "My mother has been most grateful for
all her kindness to my sisters."
"And how is Mrs. Franklyn now, sir?" she asked.
Roger turned away from the girls, who for the moment were collecting
various small packages they had brought with them, and with something
suspiciously like a sob in his throat, he replied, "She is sinking
rapidly; she cannot live many hours."
"Dear, dear. I _am_ sorry to hear that, sir!" said the woman, with real
concern. "Poor, dear Miss Elsa."
"Hush! Don't let them hear. I have not said so much to them."
And with a word of farewell to the maid, he bade the twins come with
him. Stopping only to give a porter instructions about the luggage, he
strode on, and the girls had as much as they could do to keep up with
him.
Fortunately, it was only a matter of a very few minutes' walk to their
home, so that they were soon there. As they entered the gate, Roger
glanced furtively at the windows, for he knew his mother's life was only
just trembling in the balance, and even during the fifteen or twenty
minutes that he had been absent, the call might have come. But the
blinds were up, and he breathed freely. In silence they entered the old
side door, and quietly, oh! so quietly, Lois came downstairs to meet
them.
What a different home-coming was this from the one they had been
anticipating. No bright welcome, no merry words, no gay laughter.
Instead of all that, there was an awful hush and unnatural quiet
reigning in the busy, bustling household, and it was all owing to the
fact that their mother was lying so very, very ill in the well-known
room, beyond the baize-covered doors, upstairs.
"I am glad you have come, dears," said Lois, gently, as she bent and
kissed the twins, and Elsa saw that her face bore traces of recent
tears.
"Oh, Lois!"
"Hush, darlings, hush!" she whispered, as she gently pushed them into
the deserted dining-room; "we must not make any noise, it worries her
so."
"But she will get better? Oh, Lois, say she will!" cried Olive.
Lois looked enquiringly at Roger; but muttering: "You tell them, Lois; I
couldn't," in hoarse tones, he strode by her, and went out, shutting the
door gently behind him.
And, with am arm round each of them, Lois told them, in tender words,
that God was calling their mother to Himself, and that very, very soon
they must give her up. For a few minutes she let them weep on
unrestrainedly, knowing well that it was best so. And then, with words
of comfort, the elder sister, who in future would have to act a mother's
part, bade them think of the peace, and rest, and freedom from all pain
that their loved one would soon be enjoying in the presence of her
Saviour.
As Lois talked thus, Elsa seemed not to think so much of her own
sorrows, as of the gain that would be her mother's, and her sobs grew
less as she remembered the blessedness of those who die in Christ Jesus.
But Olive, over whose turbulent young heart a perfect hurricane of doubt
was sweeping, refused to be comforted, and wept on unrestrainedly. God
was cruel, _cruel_ to take their mother away, and nothing Lois or Elsa
said would persuade her otherwise.
A hasty opening of the door startled them, and Dr. Franklyn, looking ten
years older than when the twins left home, entered the room.
"I hear that Olive and Elsa have come," he said. "Let them get undressed
and go to their mother at once. Remember, girls, no scenes," he added
severely, and was gone without another word.
After hastily removing their hats, and vainly endeavouring by sponging
their faces with cold water to obliterate the traces of emotion, the
twins entered their mother's room. If they had expected to see a vast
difference in her, they were disappointed for only a very practised eye
could tell that Mary Franklyn was nearing the gates of death. To the
twins she looked much as usual, the bright flush upon her poor, thin
face was so deceptive. She was quite conscious and free from pain, and
lay with one hand in her husband's watching for them.
"My girlies," she murmured, and she feebly stroked their sunburnt faces,
as they bent over her, and kissed her passionately. "I am so glad--you
had--a nice holiday--before--this trouble--came. Don't cry--my
darlings--Jesus is--very precious--and He--will bring--all my dear
ones--to me--some day." And then she stopped, for her breath was coming
in quick, short pantings, and the pulse, upon which Dr. Franklyn had his
finger, was only feebly fluttering.
"Don't exert yourself too much, my dear," he said tenderly, with anguish
in his eyes.
A radiant smile passed over the dying woman's worn features, and she lay
back, exhausted. "I will--rest--a little," she whispered. For she
hoped to recover sufficient strength to speak a last word to these two
of her children and Dick, who could not arrive for some hours.