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.”
Monica was glad that it was nearly bedtime, for she longed to get away 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 Cæsar’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 Cæsar 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 Cæsar 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!”