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.
“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.
But it was not to be. The gentle sleep into which she presently fell, 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.