and which seemed as if it must be doing her good, deepened into that
last, long, slumber that knows no awakening in this life, and Mary
Franklyn passed into the presence of the King.
The sorrow and sadness in that household during the days that followed
can be more easily imagined than described. Lois, Kathleen, and Roger
endeavoured to be brave and forgetful of self, as they strove to comfort
their father and the younger ones.
Dick, who arrived home a couple of hours after his mother had breathed
her last, was inconsolable. He had adored his gentle, fragile mother,
and it was heart-breaking to see the erstwhile merry whistler wandering
listlessly and silently about the house; or to come upon him, unawares,
in some quiet spot whither he had fled in order to indulge his grief
unseen. Roger, who had always been his chum in a way that brothers
seldom are, now became his comforter; and it was during those sad,
sorrowful days, when the younger lad's heart was rendered impressionable
by grief, that he began to seek the Saviour whom Roger had lately found,
and whom their mother had loved so dearly.
Elsa bore up bravely, after the first terrible outburst, and was very
helpful in looking after Joan and Paddy, who fretted for their mother a
great deal. But Olive seemed turned to stone. She realised that in the
bargain she had sought to make with God she had been worsted! He
_might_ have spared her mother; He _might_ have heard her cry: and she
would have kept her promise if He had! But He was cruel, oh! _so_ cruel,
to snatch her mother away without giving her a chance even to whisper
that she was sorry for all the anxiety she had caused her, and that she
would be a better girl, in future, if her mother would only say she
forgave her. Both Lois and Kathleen sought to break down the stoical
reserve, behind which Olive hid her real feelings, but she always
repulsed them, and they could only hope that, in time, God would answer
their mother's many prayers for her wilful little daughter.
*CHAPTER XX.*
*"KEEP IT UP, IT ANSWERS VERY WELL."*
A few days after Mrs. Franklyn's funeral, Monica Beauchamp, looking very
fresh and dainty in a pretty linen frock and straw hat was walking up
the shady road leading from the town to The Cedars, Mr. Howell's
residence.
She had never yet paid the visit she had promised on the day she
sprained her ankle, so Monica had coaxed her grandmother into dropping
her in the town, that afternoon, while she drove on to pay a call at a
little distance in the country. For some time a plan had been forming
in the girl's mind, and a visit to Mrs. Howell was necessary before it
could be put into execution.
"I hope Mrs. Howell will be in," she said to herself, as she entered the
white gates, and walled up the beautifully kept drive, "and I almost
hope that Lily will be _out_," she added; for upon the only occasion she
and Lily had met since the unhappy affair at school, the latter had
passed Monica with no attempt at recognition, beyond an ugly scowl. At
the time (it was before she went to Sandyshore) Monica had felt very
much inclined to return the scowl with interest, except that she
considered Lily utterly beneath contempt. But lately she had had very
different feelings towards her would-be injurer, and it was chiefly on
her account that she was so anxious to pay her mother a visit.
Mrs. Howell being at home, Monica was ushered into a huge and
magnificently furnished drawing-room, decorated lavishly with plush
hangings, of decidedly gay hues, and was warmly welcomed by her hostess,
who was delighted to see her.
A quarter of an hour passed pleasantly in chatting over the sprained
ankle, long since well, and the holiday she had enjoyed so much, and
then Monica broached the subject uppermost in her mind.
"Mrs. Howell," she began diffidently, for she was not quite sure how her
proposal would be received, "did Lily tell you _all_ about the
examination affair?"
"Well, my dear, by degrees we got to know the rights of it, though she
would not tell us till her pa threatened to punish her, if she didn't
speak out. He was in a great taking when the notice came that she wasn't
to go back no more, and he packed her off to stay with his step-sister,
a very strict woman, and poor Lily has had a very rough time of it. She
only came back yesterday, and wouldn't have done then, only for her aunt
being took ill; for it was her pa's intention to let her bide there some
months. Now he talks of sendin' her to boardin'-school, but where to he
hasn't no idea. All our plans for her schoolin' was upset-like, you
see, my dear, by that notice, and her pa was terrible annoyed to think
it all came about through her trying to do you a bad turn. For, to tell
the truth, my dear," Mrs. Howell rambled on garrulously, "he thinks a
sight of you, does Bob. He would have wrote to apologise, but he
couldn't get Lily to say she was sorry, nohow. Oh! dear me, what
trouble that girl has caused us, and 'twill be far worse when she comes
'ome from boardin'-school." And the poor woman whimpered distressingly.
"Don't cry, dear Mrs. Howell," said Monica gently; "perhaps she won't
have to go away to school at all. Would you like her to go back to the
High School if she could? Do you think she would go?"
"Oh, my dear, there's no chance!" was the dismal reply, as Mrs. Howell
wiped her florid face with a tiny muslin handkerchief; "they wouldn't
take her back now. I only wish they would. I know Lily would be
delighted really, although she's said times and times that she'd rather
die than ever go there again."
"Well, don't tell her, please, in case it falls through, but grandmother
thinks I might write to Miss Buckingham, and perhaps she would overlook
it this once and let Lily go back." Monica spoke earnestly, and there
was no hint of pride in her tones, neither did she say that it had taken
a good deal of persuasion to get Mrs. Beauchamp to consent to let her
write on her school-fellow's behalf.
"Oh, Miss Beauchamp, my dear, if you only would!" ejaculated Mrs.
Howell, delight and incredulity struggling for the mastery in both tones
and countenance. "But it does seem strange that you that's been injured
should be the one to do us a good turn. I can't think why you should!"
And she looked searchingly into the flushed face opposite her, as if she
would find the motive written upon it.
Monica was sorely tempted to make just a mere commonplace reply, but she
summoned up all the courage she could, and gave Mrs. Howell the real
reason, realising that this was an opportunity afforded her of
witnessing to her new Master.
"I don't know whether you know Him, dear Mrs. Howell," she said, a
trifle nervously, but with intense earnestness, "but while I was away I
accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my Saviour, and He has forgiven me so
much, that I can't help forgiving everybody else. And I think He told
me to show Lily how I feel, by trying to do this. Oh, I do hope Miss
Buckingham will make it right! I almost think she will."
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" said Mrs. Howell, tremulously, in her eagerness
clutching hold of Monica's hands; "you've found some One I've been
wanting for years! My heart's just breaking for want of peace."
And in very simple fashion, for it was all such new and unaccustomed
work to her, Monica tried to feed this hungry, longing soul with the
Bread of Life. She felt so helpless, but trusting to the Holy Spirit's
guidance, she repeated a great deal of the sermon which she would never
forget; and Mrs. Howell seemed to literally drink it all in.
"God bless you, my dear," she murmured, as Monica at length rose in
haste, having discovered that the time arranged for her to meet the
carriage was already past--"God bless and reward you for all you've
done. I've been a sinful woman, all my life, but please God this shall
be the beginning of better things."
Monica hurried down the hill, a song of thanksgiving in her heart, and a
happy smile flickering about her lips. How delightful this new life
was! Not for anything would she go back now to the careless, thoughtless
days of the past, when she had given others such endless trouble, and
been so discontented and miserable herself. She felt as if she loved
everybody, that beautiful September day, and as if it would be
impossible ever to displease any one again.
But, alas! a rude stare, without a trace of recognition in it, from the
object of her solicitude, with whom she came suddenly face to face as
she turned a corner, and upon whom she bestowed a radiant smile, and
cordial "How do you do, Lily?" sent her on the rest of her way with a
small cloud in her hitherto cloudless sky, and a nasty little feeling of
wounded pride endeavoured to make itself felt. However, she consoled
herself with the thought that Lily would soon have cause to think
differently of her, and hastened to the place where she had promised to
wait for the carriage.
But, unfortunately, it was just the other way round! The carriage, with
Mrs. Beauchamp in it, had been waiting some time for Monica, and her
grandmother greeted her with words of displeasure.
"I am very much annoyed, Monica; you are fifteen or twenty minutes
behind time," she said severely. "Richards has been driving up and
down, up and down, all that time, lest the horses should take cold; they
were so very warm. It was very thoughtless indeed of you, to keep me
waiting like this."
"I am very sorry, grannie," was all Monica said, as she seated herself
beside her grandmother in the landau; and it spoke volumes for her that
her voice was gentle, and her look penitent. Monica of old would not
have answered thus, and Mrs. Beauchamp knew it, and thoroughly
appreciated the change, although she said nothing. Indeed, silence
reigned during the drive, and it was not until they were in the
drawing-room after dinner that Mrs. Beauchamp enquired the result of
Monica's visit.
"You might as well write to Miss Buckingham this evening, if you are
still anxious to do so," she said, when she had heard what Mrs. Howell
said; "there is no time to spare, as the letter will have to be
forwarded to wherever she is spending her holidays."
And Monica gladly fetched her writing-case, and began to write what
proved to be a very difficult epistle. Her pen had to be nibbled
thoughtfully many times before the letter was accomplished, and then the
result was not all that the writer could wish. She was rather afraid
that Mrs. Beauchamp would ask to see it before it went; but,
fortunately, just as Monica had signed her name, in school-girl
calligraphy, at the end of perhaps the most tidy letter she had ever
written, the old lady roused up from the little doze in which she had
been indulging, and bade Monica hasten, or she would lose the post.
"I have just finished, grannie," and as Monica laid down her pen,
Harriet came to say that Richards was waiting for the letters.
"Have you any to send to-night, grannie? No? Then there is only this
one, Harriet," and Monica breathed a sigh of relief as she shut up her
writing-case and prepared to read to her grandmother.
Not the most agreeable of tasks was this; for Mrs. Beauchamp considered
that it was "improving" for her granddaughter to read aloud for at least
half an hour every evening. Monica was not a very fluent reader, so
that she was continually being pulled up for leaving out commas, or for
emphasising quite the wrong word. The interruptions would have been
very trying if the book had been even the least bit interesting, but as
it really seemed to have been chosen for its dryness and dullness,
Monica did not mind. However, she tried her hardest, nowadays, to read
carefully, and with a fair amount of expression, and she was far less
often interrupted than she used to be. She did want to be what Marcus
Drury called a "whatsoever" Christian.
"You really begin to read quite nicely, Monica," her grandmother said
approvingly, as she finished a chapter, and was told that would do for
that evening. "Your father would be greatly pleased with the
improvement there has been in you lately."
Tears of joy sprang to Monica's eyes, as she put the book away, and then
stooped and gave the old lady a "good-night" kiss.
"What has made the difference in you, Monica?"
And for the second time that day the young girl answered radiantly, but
humbly, "The Lord Jesus Christ."
"Little Elsa said that was what it was," muttered Mrs. Beauchamp under
her breath, as she toyed nervously with her eye-glasses. "Well, child,
keep it up, it answers very well," she added, in a louder tone.
"It would be no use for me to try to keep myself, grannie dear," was the
stammering reply, "for I should do something wrong directly, but when I
let Jesus hold me tight, then it is all right."
Mrs. Beauchamp made no answer, and, after waiting a moment or two,
Monica slipped off, fearful lest she had offended her grandmother.
But the old lady sat thinking deeply for a long, long time--thinking of
the past when she was a girl of Monica's age, and with as headstrong a
nature as hers--thinking of her married life, when her whole time and
thought had been given to the things of this world--thinking of the
unrestful, unsatisfying present, and of the dark, dark future stretching
out beyond.
"Little Elsa told me, once, that she prayed God every day to bless me,"
she murmured, while a tear trickled slowly down her cheek. "God bless
the child ... and me, too!"
A week elapsed before any reply came to Monica's letter, and she began
to be afraid that Miss Buckingham would not make known her decision
before it was too late, for the school reopened in another few days.
However, one morning, the long-looked-for letter arrived, and the girl's
heart was overjoyed when she found that her request had been granted,
and that Lily Howell would be allowed to re-attend the school if she
wrote an apology for her past conduct, and sent it to the head-mistress
without delay. Miss Buckingham added that it had been a matter of
regret with her, that one of her scholars should have had to leave the
school under such circumstances, so that if Lily were really penitent,
the past should be overlooked; more especially as the girl she had
endeavoured to injure had taken upon herself the task of interceding for
her.
"I wish she hadn't put that last bit in," mused Monica, "because that
will very likely offend Lily more than ever, because she will hate to
think she owes anything to me. However, I can't help that; I have done
what seemed right, and I must just leave the result, and I am dreadfully
afraid she won't apologise. Well, I'll do as grannie suggests--just
send Miss Buckingham's letter to Mrs. Howell, and then wait to see what
happens."
A little note, badly expressed and ill-spelt, but breathing gratitude in
every line, from Mrs. Howell, was all that Monica received, and in it
there was only a hope expressed that Lily would send the apology, but no
certainty. So she had to be patient, and wait a little longer.
Meanwhile, she kept the matter quite secret, not even breathing a word
of it to Olive, for she thought, and very wisely, that if the whole
affair fell through, it would be much better for no one to have known
anything of it. But Monica was not very clever at keeping a secret, and
if she had seen much of the Franklyns the probability is, that in a
moment of forgetfulness she would have divulged it. However, the girls
met but seldom during the days that elapsed between Mrs. Franklyn's
funeral and the school reopening.
Once, when Monica was in Osmington, she ran up against Amethyst Drury,
and, as they were talking, Mr. Howell's motor car passed them, reminding
the younger girl of his daughter.
"I saw Lily the other day, Monica, and she wouldn't look at me. She
walked by just as proud as Lucifer. The idea! As if we were all to
blame, and she was innocent! I'm awfully glad she won't be at school
any more."
"I daresay we should feel pretty much as she does, Thistle, if we were
in her place," was Monica's reply; "she can't enjoy herself much."
"Quite as much as she deserves," said Amethyst, with decision; "horrid
cheat!"
"Oh, Thistle!" Monica's tone was reproachful.
"Well, I ought not to have said that, I know," said Amethyst penitently,
"but I _don't_ like her; do you, Monica?"
"I am afraid I can't say I really like her," Monica confessed honestly;
"but still she may be sorry inside, you know, and, perhaps, if we had
been kinder to her at first, she would have been nicer to us now. I mean
she would feel that we did not think the very worst of her," added
Monica, a trifle lamely. She knew what she meant herself, but had
difficulty in expressing it.
"I am afraid the worst is about right," was Amethyst's sententious
answer, as they parted. And Monica could not help wondering just _what_
the girls, as a whole, would say, if Lily should reappear at the High
School again.
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*"I GUESS I'LL JUST WATCH *_*YOU*_* A BIT."*
"Monica!"
"Yes, grannie?"
"I want to talk to you for a few minutes."
And Monica, without so much as a frown, although she had just reached a
most interesting part of her story, laid her book down, and prepared to
give all her attention to her grandmother. She had no idea that Mrs.
Beauchamp was covertly watching her, as she frequently did, to see
whether she would exhibit any irritation or temper at the interruption;
but if she had been aware of it, she could not have smiled more
brightly, or been more ready to give up her own wishes to please her
grandmother. Truly the Monica Beauchamp of the present was a totally
different being from the one of bygone days.
The old lady noted her expression with an approving smile, and could not
help acknowledging to herself that this grandchild of hers was fast
becoming very dear to her, and well deserved the pleasure that was in
store for her.
"I wanted to have a little talk about your birthday, Monica; it will
soon be here now."
"Yes, grannie," replied the girl, with sparkling eyes. "Next Tuesday,
the 27th."
"And you will be sixteen. Dear me, how time flies, to be sure! I well
remember the day your dear father was the same age," Mrs. Beauchamp said
musingly, and her thoughts went back to past days for a few moments.
But they soon returned to the present, and she went on: "I wonder what
you would choose if I said you might have what you liked for a birthday
present, Monica?" And she smiled into the eager, upturned face.
"Oh, grannie, I don't know, I'm sure, _what_ I should choose; there are
so many nice things!" And Monica turned over in her mind various things
she had been wishing she possessed. Most people would have thought that
she already had everything that she could possibly want, but even the
best supplied of mortals can always do with "more." A nice
writing-case, some books, a new brooch--any or all of these would be
nice, and Monica was about to mention them, when a sudden thought
flashed through her brain; here was the very opportunity she had been
wanting! If only Mrs. Beauchamp would give her money this birthday to
spend as she liked!
"Well, Monica, how long are you going to be choosing? Remember, I did
not say I would give you what you chose!"
"Oh, grannie dear, I do hope you will!" coaxed Monica, in persuasive
tones. "I would rather have it than anything else."
"Well, what is it? Perhaps if it is anything in reason, you might have
it, but I warn you not to ask for a bicycle." Mrs. Beauchamp looked
quite stern, as if the mere mention of the article brought the past
vividly before her, but there was a suspicious twinkle in her eyes,
which Monica did not notice.
"No, grannie, I will never ask you for _that_," was Monica's subdued
reply, although her active young limbs literally ached sometimes, when
she saw other girls jumping on their bicycles and spinning off along the
country roads. But she had long since given up expecting ever to do the
same, for she knew how her grandmother objected to women cyclists. "But
I do wish you would give me money instead of any other present, this
year, grannie, because I want some very particularly."
"What for?" asked the old lady curiously. "Surely you haven't exceeded
your pocket-money, and got into debt like boys do; have you, Monica?"
"Oh! dear, no, grannie," and Monica's laugh rang merrily out, "it isn't
anything of that kind! But if I tell you what I want it for, you won't
say 'no,' will you, grannie dear? It's nothing wrong." And the clear
grey eyes sought the old lady's earnestly.
"Very well; now, tell me."
"Oh, you are a dear grannie!" said Monica enthusiastically. "I'll tell
you all about it. You know when we girls all went to the missionary
meeting at Sandyshore, Miss Daverel, the lady who spoke, said there were
lots of ways girls could help; and we four made up our minds to see what
we could do." Monica paused, and looked a trifle diffidently at Mrs.
Beauchamp; she was not quite sure what sort of reception her words would
get, for, as far as she knew, her grandmother had no more interest in
foreign missions than old Richards, the coachman, had.
But the old lady nodded, and seemed in no wise annoyed, so Monica took
courage, and proceeded with her story. "We want to have a sort of
working-party, just amongst us girls, with perhaps Mrs. Drury and Miss
Franklyn to help, and make all sorts of things to send out to China, for
the poor little girls and the women who are so sad and unhappy, Miss
Daverel says. She has promised to send us patterns and directions, and
we want to begin very soon; but you see, grannie, we must have some
money to buy dolls and print, and wool, and all sorts of things with.
And I _thought_, grannie dear, if you would give me money instead of
anything else, it would help us start, at any rate."
"H'm." Mrs. Beauchamp said nothing in favour of the proposal, but then
she did not say anything against it, which was fairly encouraging.
Monica tried to read her thoughts by scanning the face which was
slightly turned away from her, but could make nothing of it. "Why
should this undertaking be started with your money, Monica? Surely it
is as much the others' affair as yours?"
"Oh, yes, we all want to do it; but you see, grannie, none of the others
have much to spend, and I---- Oh, I do want to give something that I
shall miss, if it is only a little!" And Monica's girlish face glowed
with enthusiasm.
"Well, I had intended giving you something that I believe you would have
liked very much, Monica; but if you would really rather have money to
spend as you propose, you may count upon having a five-pound note on
your birthday instead. I was going to give you a bicycle."
"Oh, grannie!" Amazement, consternation, hesitation, these, and
countless other emotions played upon the young girl's heart. First,
utter astonishment that her grandmother should ever have dreamt of
revoking her decision about cycling; then a great desire for the
long-coveted, and now possible machine took possession of her, and
something within her said: "Here is the chance, at last, that you have
been longing for. It is a pity you mentioned 'sacrifice,' but still, it
does not matter, you have your choice, and your grandmother feels sure
you will choose the bicycle, that is why she urges you to consider."
Oh, how subtle was the temptation! Only those similarly constituted can
imagine what a battle was being fought in Monica's heart. The
bicycle--or the five-pound note: an endless amount of pleasure for
herself--or the means to provide joy for others. How hard it was!
Monica felt that no other choice that she might ever be called upon to
make could possibly equal this; for it was just the one thing she did
want, and yet----
"Don't decide hastily, Monica," said her grandmother, seeing that she
hesitated; "think it well over, and tell me to-morrow which you have
chosen."