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.
Sometimes the remembrance that Lily was judging Christianity by its effect upon her daily life prevented Monica from doing, or saying something, in a moment’s thoughtlessness, that would have brought discredit on her Master’s cause. But far more often it was the realisation of His presence, unseen, but very real, which kept her from doing that which would grieve Him, for she had taken as her motto Leslie Herschel’s text, “Walk worthy of the Lord, unto all pleasing.”
Elsa Franklyn, who had been learning very hard lessons lately in the school of sorrow, was a great help to Monica. Indeed, when things went wrong Monica got into the way of telling Elsa all about it, and the quiet, gentle girl, who was so diffident of any attempt at advising the elder one, yet seemed, somehow, to straighten out the tangles in a wonderful way.
Olive, whose unrest made her captious and pettish at times, was sometimes inclined to be jealous of her twin-sister, and angry with Monica for “taking up” with Elsa, instead of being content with her alone, as used to be the case. But when she expostulated with Monica, as she did occasionally, the answer she invariably received, was, “I am just as fond of you as ever, Ollie, you know that quite well; but you see Elsa understands, and you don’t yet; that’s why I must have a talk with her sometimes.”
And Olive, angry with herself for falling short of her friend’s expectations, but not willing to take the same step as Monica and Elsa had done, felt that the explanation was even worse than the offence!