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 tête-à-tête 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.