to her own room and think. Once there, she determined to fight the
matter out, and a very sharp battle it proved, this first real denial of
self. For some time, it seemed as if she _must_ choose the bicycle, and
satisfy her conscience by scraping together all the pocket-money she
could muster (only a few shillings) and giving that to the missionary
cause. She had not promised the girls a large amount, they knew nothing
of the offer of the five pounds, and never need know. Her grandmother
quite expected her to choose the bicycle, yes--she would decide upon
that, and perhaps her father or some one else would give her a present
of money, and if so, that should be added to the sum in her purse, and
would provide quite a nice start for the working-party.
Monica began to feel quite self-sacrificing, and having, as she thought,
made a final decision, she proceeded to prepare for bed, her mind full
of the joy and pleasure that the possession of (and permission to use) a
bicycle of her own would afford.
Her thoughts were still running in the same direction when she opened
her little Bible and began to read a few verses, as she had done lately.
She did not read according to any plan, she had never heard of such a
thing as a Union for Bible Reading, so that she was just reading
straight on through the gospels, and finding out many wonderful truths.
She had read as far as Matt. xvi. 20 last time, and the little ribbon
marker was laid between the pages. Her brain was still very full of the
bicycle, and soon she found that she had read some few verses without
having taken in the sense of them at all! So with an effort she sought
to fix her wandering thoughts on the printed page, and as she did so,
the words of the next verse seemed to stand out from it as if the
letters were made of fire; at any rate they burnt right into her very
soul.
"Then said Jesus unto His disciples, If any man will come after Me, let
him deny himself."
Oh, how that one short sentence, straight from the lips of the Saviour,
accused Monica! How guilty she felt! How small must be her love for
Him, if she could, even for one short hour, think more of her own
personal pleasure and gratification, than the needs of great, dark,
heathen China! She fell on her knees beside the pretty white bed, and
burying her face in her hands, she sobbed out her sorrow and humiliation
into the ear of Him who never fails to hear His children's cry for
pardon. And as she prayed, a deep, sweet peace filled her heart, and she
knew that she was forgiven. Thus Monica Beauchamp was enabled to
triumph over self, and the first real sacrifice she had been called upon
to make, since becoming a Christian, was willingly, nay, gladly made.
The next day, Mrs. Beauchamp, not without some misgiving (for she did
not want Monica to fall short of her expectations, though she would
hardly confess so much, even to herself), asked for her decision.
"I would like the five pounds best, please, grannie dear," was the
bright reply, while a little flush rose to the young girl's face.
The old lady's heart thrilled with pleasure, but she evinced no sign of
it.
"Very well, Monica," was all she said; and if her granddaughter had
expected to be asked for her reasons, she would have been disappointed;
but Monica was glad that no more was said. The experience of the night
before was too real, too solemn, for her to talk it over, and she was
too honest to have given any but her real reason.
With a glad heart, and a bright song often upon her lips, she prepared
for school next day, and Mrs. Beauchamp, catching snatches of the
refrain every now and then, marvelled at the total change that had taken
place in her grandchild. "It is simply wonderful," she murmured,
"wonderful! She used to be _such_ an anxiety, and now she is just the
reverse. I am glad for Conrad's sake; he will find a treasure when he
returns, if this condition of things lasts." And the old lady sighed a
wee bit doubtfully; but then she had no experimental knowledge of the
Saviour who is "able to keep from falling," as well as "able to save."
The little governess cart was brought round from the stables punctually
at nine o'clock the next morning, and Monica jumped into it, closely
followed by Jack.
"No, no, poor Jack, you can't go with me to-day," she said, as she tried
in vain to get him out of the trap; "I'm going to school, my doggie, and
you can't go there."
Tom, the little stable-boy, who had been holding Caesar's head, and
grinning with delight at Jack's persistence, volunteered to carry him
back and fasten him up in the yard.
"Poor old fellow," said his mistress, as Richards gathered up the reins,
and the pony trotted briskly down the drive, for Jack's whines and
short, yapping barks of disappointment could be heard for some distance.
"Pony's a bit fresh this morning, miss," remarked the old coachman, who
had all his work cut out to hold him in, for the road to Osmington was a
downhill one. "Steady there, steady," he said, as Caesar tossed his
dark-brown mane, resentful of some little flicks of the whip.
"A nasty-tempered h'animal 'e is sometimes; look how he bit your 'and,
miss."
"Oh, that was all my own fault, Richards," replied Monica; "I deserved
that."
"Well, he didn't ought to have snapped out at you like that," continued
the old man. "Belle and Beauty wouldn't have done such a thing, never,"
and he shook his grey head decisively, for "the pair" constituted the
joy and pride of his heart, and he had never forgiven the introduction
of the pony.
"They are always so quiet and gentle," agreed Monica, and the old
coachman, having subdued Caesar into going at a steady trot, rambled on
about the merits of "the pair" until the short drive was over.
"I do _wonder_ if Lily Howell will turn up," thought Monica to herself,
as she entered the school door, greeting one and another as she passed
them on her way to the cloak-room. There she found Amethyst Drury, who
informed her that several of the girls had been moved up, but the
quartette was still intact.
"And oh, Monica," she added, in an excited whisper, "Lily Howell must
have come back! There is that pink and green hat of hers; no other girl
would have one exactly like it, would she?"
Monica, glancing at the pegs, and seeing what was unmistakably one of
Lily's well-known, gaudy hats, was not as astonished or disconcerted as
Amethyst could have wished.
"I think there is no doubt about it, Thistle," she said quietly. "I
shall be glad to find Lily has come back."
"Whatever for?" enquired the younger girl, in a puzzled tone. Monica
had been incomprehensible to her lately.
But Monica was entering the hall by the swing-door, and only smiled her
answer, for talking was forbidden. With one swift glance she saw that
Lily, looking certainly less defiant than usual, was in her old place,
and with a glad feeling in her heart, Monica slipped into her usual
position at Olive's side, persistently ignoring the telegraphic messages
that Olive's dark eyes were continually dispatching, until the
head-mistress's bell announced the commencement of prayers.
Every one of the girls was more or less excited that first morning at
school after the long holidays, but the air of the Fourth Form seemed
charged with electricity. No one, except Monica and Lily, knew how it
had come about that the latter was again amongst them; and even those
two were wondering just what would happen, when Miss Buckingham appeared
in the doorway.
"Good morning, girls. I am glad to meet you all once again," she said
in the energetic, crisp fashion peculiar to her. "I hope you have all
thoroughly enjoyed your holidays, and have now come back prepared to
work hard. Some of you may be surprised to see one of your number here
again, after what occurred last term; but when I tell you that she has
apologised, and I have entirely consented to overlook what took place
then, I am sure I may depend upon you, one and all, to do your share in
helping to blot out the memory of the past, and by your kindness and
consideration, strive to emulate the Spirit of Him who said: 'Whatsoever
ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' I am not
afraid that this unaccustomed leniency will be taken a mean advantage
of, or I should warn you not to count upon a repetition of it. Instead
of that, I advise you, one and all, to throw all your energies into this
term's work, particularly those among you who will be candidates for the
Junior Cambridge Examination at its close, and I shall look forward to
seeing the majority of your names in the 'Honours' List."
The excitement caused by Miss Buckingham's words soon subsided, and
beyond being the object of a good deal of staring, Lily Howell was not
interfered with; and as the morning wore on, she began to feel less
uncomfortable. It had been a hard tussle to get her to write the
apology, and, but for her father threatening to send her to live
indefinitely, with her strict aunt if she did not, she would have
absolutely refused. But now that it was over, and the head-mistress had
spoken so kindly, as even Lily could not help feeling, the girl began to
see how despicable her conduct had been, and she was seized with a
sudden desire to prove to the whole form that she could be as nice a
girl as any of them, if she liked.
Fortunately, Maggie Masters, her former ally, was no longer at school,
having left the neighbourhood, so that Lily had every opportunity of
making a fresh start, and she took advantage of it. As the days passed,
the change in her was very noticeable--even those who had always felt an
aversion for her could no longer find any complaint to make; she was
painstaking and persevering, and being by no means wanting in ability,
she bade fair to rival the most clever in the class. But she kept aloof
from the girls; she felt, instinctively, that in spite of Miss
Buckingham's expressed wish, they were not willing to let bygones be
bygones. They did not twit her, or indeed make any allusion to the
past, but they simply let her alone.
All but Monica Beauchamp and Elsa Franklyn, who from the very first day
of the term had tried their best to be friendly. But she repulsed them,
feeling convinced that they were only patronising her; it was an
impossibility for a nature like Lily Howell's to realise that both those
girls were actuated by the same principle, that of "loving one another."
"I can't think what you did it for," she remarked to Monica, referring
to the letter of intercession the latter had written on her behalf,
"unless it was to make Miss Buckingham think a lot of you. Weren't you
mad when she never even mentioned your name?" And the girl looked
curiously at Monica, who was a complete enigma to her.
"Oh, Lily! I never once thought of such a thing," she replied, in a
pained tone.
"Well, what _was_ it for, then?" persisted Lily.
"I don't think you would understand if I told you," was the reply.
"Why not, pray? Ma said it was because you had turned religious lately.
Is that why?" And Lily's light blue eyes scanned the other's face
inquisitively.
"I have not turned 'religious' as you call it, Lily," said Monica
gently, although a flush rose to her cheek; "I have only given myself to
Jesus Christ, and I am trying to follow Him. I _do_ wish you would,
too, Lily," she added earnestly.
"My gracious goodness!" ejaculated Lily, inelegantly, for she was
completely taken aback. "I guess I'll just watch _you_ a bit, and see
the effect before I go in for it."
Monica had to bite her lip hard to keep back the tears that would spring
to her eyes, for she was tremendously in earnest, and Lily's mocking
words jarred cruelly. "I am afraid you will see more failures than
anything else," she said, in a low tone; "but you must not judge of
Jesus Christ by me. He is the One to copy, He never fails or makes
mistakes."
"Pa always says Christian people are far more often 'libels' than
'Bibles,' and that's why he doesn't believe in them," said Lily, to
herself, as Monica and she separated; "but if I'm not mistaken, Miss
Monica will prove an exception to that rule. All I know is, _I_ wouldn't
have done for _her_, what she did for _me_! So there must be something
in it!"
*CHAPTER XXII.*
*"I CANNOT SPARE YOU, MONICA."*
Tuesday, September 27th, dawned bright and fair, as all birthdays
should, and Monica, girl-like, was full of curiosity as to what presents
she would have, beyond the one already promised.
Several inviting-looking packages were laid beside her plate on the
breakfast table, and also some letters. Monica made a dash at them,
hoping, not without a good deal of misgiving, that there would be one
from her father.
"There is!" she exclaimed aloud, in her delight, just as Mrs. Beauchamp
entered the dining-room, and greeted her with the old-time wish of "many
happy returns," and bestowed upon her one of her rare kisses.
"What is there?" she queried, as she slipped a sealed envelope among the
other presents, and took her seat at the head of the table.
"Why, actually a letter from dad, grannie, come on the very day," she
explained, in glee, as she held it up. "And here is one from Miss
Herschel, too, but she does not know when my birthday is, so that has
only come by chance. Isn't that odd?"
"Very," agreed Mrs. Beauchamp, as she began to pour out the coffee.
"Now eat your breakfast, and then you can look at your packages."
Either Monica's usually keen appetite was very small, or her digestion
very good, on that particular morning, for in a very few minutes she
expressed herself as "quite finished," and then began undoing strings
and paper with eager fingers.
A dear little pocket Bible "with love from Amethyst and her mother"; a
crudely drawn, but wonderfully life-like portrait of Jack, nicely
framed, from Olive; a beautifully-worked nightdress-case from Elsa: both
inexpensive gifts, for the twins had very little pocket-money. Then
there was a very handsome collar for Jack, the united gift of the
servants.
"I can't think who this is from," said Monica, taking up the last parcel
and hastily cutting the string. "Oh, grannie, do look!" she cried,
holding up a plain leather frame containing the photograph of Robina
Herschel and her brother, taken together. In the frame was slipped a
scrap of paper, bearing the words: "In memory of happy days at
Sandyshore."
"Oh, I _am_ glad to have that!" said Monica, as she gazed upon the
pictured features of the two she admired so much, the fair, fragile girl
presenting such a contrast to her firm, resolute brother. "I suppose it
is in return for the snapshot which Marcus took, that I gave them. But
how could they--I mean who could have told them when my birthday was?"
"Probably the letter will explain," suggested Mrs. Beauchamp, who was
not quite sure that she approved of a _double_ photograph. But a hasty
glance at Monica's innocent face disarmed all suspicion.
It soon transpired that Elsa had been the little bird who had been only
too ready to tell Miss Herschel when Monica's birthday was; and thus the
mystery was quickly cleared up. Robina only wrote a short letter, as
they were all very busy getting her brother's things ready for his
voyage to Africa. He was to be dismissed, among other missionaries, at
a public meeting in London in the course of a few days, and would start
for the Soudan almost immediately after. "He sends you his best wishes,
not only for your birthday, but for always," the letter concluded, "and
says that you will find his good-bye message in Colossians i. 9, 10. We
shall miss him terribly, mother and I, but we are quite, quite willing.
Perhaps Mrs. Beauchamp would spare you to pay us a little visit after
Christmas, while your holidays were on. Tell her, mother says we would
take the greatest care of you!"
Monica read the last two sentences aloud, before she folded up the
letter and put it in its envelope.
"It would be nice, grannie, wouldn't it? I hardly remember going away
on a visit to any one."
"We must see," remarked Mrs. Beauchamp, in not very gushing tones.
Strangely enough, the mere thought of parting with this granddaughter of
hers, even for a week or two, filled her with dismay; she had grown to
be dependent upon her for company, and the bright, cheery, girlish
presence would be sadly missed at Carson Rise now.
And yet, Monica must go out into the world, and make friends and see
many phases of life, of which she was utterly ignorant now. So she
stifled a sigh, and added: "It is very kind of Mrs. Herschel to invite
you, and it would make a nice little change for you, during the winter."
Monica, whose face had fallen somewhat at her grandmother's first
remark, brightened up visibly. She _would_ so like to go and stay with
the Herschels, and she had been afraid Mrs. Beauchamp meant to refuse
her consent, but now the prospect looked more hopeful.
"Two more letters and then I've done," she said gaily, opening the
envelope bearing the old lady's handwriting first. Inside it was a
crisp, new five-pound note, wrapped in a half-sheet of notepaper.
"Oh, thank you so much, grannie dear!" she said, as she fingered the
rustling bit of paper which meant so much for the cause she had at
heart: her imagination already pictured all sorts of nice things for
China which that sum would procure.
"Are you not sorry now that you did not choose the bicycle?" said her
grandmother drily.
"No, grannie, indeed I am not," was the bright response, for down in
Monica's young heart was a deep sense of satisfaction that that battle
with self had been fought and won the week before; for however much
common sense may say to the contrary, the Bible axiom that "it is more
blessed to give than to receive" still holds good.
"Now for dad's letter." With a hasty glance at the clock, which told
her she had only a few minutes to spare, Monica tore open the thin
envelope, and with eager fingers unfolded the closely written sheet. For
a few seconds no words were spoken, and then she lifted her face, which
was full of excitement and bubbling over with joy.
"Oh, grannie, he's coming home!" she cried; "something quite unexpected
has changed all his plans, and instead of the regiment staying out in
Simla, it's been ordered home, and when he gets to England, dad's going
to retire. Oh, isn't it lovely! Just fancy, grannie, he won't go away
from home any more, and he says he will then be able to look after his
troublesome child himself, and relieve you of all responsibility.
Naughty dad!" she added, while a little thrill of pleasure ran through
her at the remembrance of the long letter sent from Sandyshore, which
would only just be arriving at Simla then. "I don't think I'm quite so
much trouble now, am I, grannie? And I am sure you would miss me just a
little bit, wouldn't you?"
She looked up roguishly, and was amazed to see her grandmother's eyes
were looking suspiciously wet.
"I cannot spare you, Monica, I could not give you up now," she said
tremulously; "your father must make his home here, as long as I live."
A sudden impulse prompted Monica to slip out of her place, and give her
grandmother a caress, and a moment later they were locked in each
other's arms: the first embrace the girl had ever received from the
undemonstrative old lady. But it was only the forerunner of many more;
the possibility of losing her grandchild had shown Mrs. Beauchamp how
intensely she loved her, and the proud reserve of her nature tottered
and fell before the flood of love which came rushing in.
"When does he speak of coming, Monica?" she asked, as she wiped her
eyes, and felt if her dainty lace cap was on straight, while Monica
returned to her letter.
"He doesn't quite know yet, grannie dear," she replied, glancing it
quickly through, "but it might be in time for him to spend Christmas
with us. Oh, isn't it almost too splendid, to think of seeing my
darling dad quite two years sooner than I had ever dreamt, and then, not
just for a little while, but for always!"
And Monica, gathering up all her packages, rushed upstairs to get ready
for school in a perfect maze of delight.
She was already behind time, so that she could only put all her letters
and presents into a half-empty drawer, to be admired more fully upon her
return. But she just managed to look out Leslie Herschel's text, and
some of the words, which she never remembered having seen before,
fastened themselves upon her memory.
"We ... do not cease to pray for you, and desire that ye might be filled
with the knowledge of His will ... that ye might walk worthy of the Lord
unto all pleasing."
"What a beautiful 'Good-bye' message," she murmured, as she closed her
Bible, and began putting on her hat and coat. "I am sorry to think
perhaps I shall never see him again, but I will try to become what he
would wish, in case we should ever come across each other in years to
come. Dear old dad would like the Herschels, I am sure."
The Franklyns and Amethyst were quite excited at Monica's news which she
told them during recreation, until Olive remembered that Colonel
Beauchamp's return to England _might_ mean Monica leaving the
neighbourhood and school, too; but she soon reassured them, feeling
convinced that her father would fall in with her grandmother's wishes.
Then she began talking about their work for China, and told them of the
five pounds which Mrs. Beauchamp had given her, and which was to be
spent on materials. She did not think it necessary to mention that it
was in lieu of any other present, and, curiously enough, it did not
occur to the girls to ask what her grandmother's real birthday gift to
her, personally, had been.
"We must have a committee meeting," said Olive importantly. She had
made up her mind to enter heart and soul into the project, but her
reason for doing so was very different from the others; she thought,
poor child, that by working hard she would be able to drown the voice of
conscience, which never rested, and was always accusing her. "I suppose
we four will be the committee."
"Yes, if you like," Monica agreed, laughingly; all this was new ground
to her. "Where shall we meet?"
"Mother says we can have my old playroom to use just as we like," piped
Amethyst, "and we can have the working parties there, too."
"Lovely! Splendid! Just the place."
These, and other similar explanations greeted the proposal, which was
unanimously accepted, and arrangements were quickly made for a committee
on the following Saturday afternoon, to be followed by an expedition
into the town to buy sufficient things to start the work with. Miss
Daverel's instructions were expected to arrive at any time, Monica
having written to her some days previously.
The bell rang before they had finished planning everything; but enough
had been arranged for the time being, and the quartette went into school
with very light hearts, and the lessons went well that day. Indeed, Miss
Churchill had a model class that term, the greater number of her pupils
being intent on doing both their teacher and themselves credit. Her only
regret was that the girls would probably all do so well in the
examinations that there would be a wholesale removal, and she would lose
them all next term! Of Monica she had grown particularly fond. The
story of her intercession on Lily Howell's behalf had, of course, become
known to the teachers, though it had not been allowed to reach the ears
of the girls, and Mary Churchill admired the spirit which had prompted
such an action. There was a subtle change in Monica Beauchamp, too, an
indefinable something which was rounding off the sharp corners of her
disposition, and the teacher could not think what it was. Good and
upright as Mary Churchill was, she was, as yet, a stranger to Him Who
can make all the crooked places in the lives of His children straight,
and the rough places smooth, or she would have recognised His handiwork.
However, she looked on and wondered, as day succeeded day, and the
alteration not only lasted, but actually became intensified. Not that
Monica became the least bit "goody-goody," even Olive could never say
she was that; she was just as bright and laughter-loving as ever, and
fond of every kind of fun that did no one any harm. But her companions
soon found that it was useless to get her to join in a joke, or laugh,
carried out at some one else's expense, and nothing would persuade her
to do behind a teacher's back what she would not do before her face!
Lily Howell, watching keenly, noted all these things, and being a
quick-witted girl drew her own conclusions. Monica had not proved to be
a "libel," and she felt constrained to admire the girl whom she used
almost to hate.