Chapter XXIII “It’s All Surprises, Nowadays!”
“Now, let’s get to business.”
And the quartette, alias the “China Committee,” as Amethyst had playfully nicknamed them, gathered round the large table in the vicarage playroom and began to consider ways and means.
“I’ve got a box full of patterns, and a long letter from Miss Daverel,” began Monica, who had been elected president by virtue of her munificent gift towards the Expenses Fund, and who in consequence, occupied the “chair” at the head of the table. “Let us look at each thing, and I’ll read to you how it’s made, and then we’ll decide whether we can undertake to make some like it, or not.”
Half an hour was spent in admiring and examining the eighteen or twenty pretty and useful little “gifts,” any, or all, of which, Miss Daverel said would be so acceptable to Chinese girls. Simply made children’s clothing, a gaily dressed doll, bright knitted cuffs, a bookmarker, a woollen ball, a gay cretonne bag (containing a thimble, cotton, tiny pair of scissors and a pincushion), a knitted comforter, small Scripture pictures mounted on card—these were some of the articles the box contained.
“Most of them are quite easy to make,” said Amethyst, who was keenly interested; “I should like to make a work-bag best, I think.”
“I like dressing dolls,” said Elsa, who was carefully examining the clothes of the sample she held in her hand.
“Oh, doll’s clothes are awfully finicking to make!” was Olive’s opinion; “but I think I could paste pictures on cards, like that. What shall you make, Monica?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I am not much good at needlework. Perhaps I could knit a scarf, or some cuffs. But we must think about going to market first. Who will make a list of what we want?”
“I will.” And Olive produced a pencil and paper with alacrity, and by dint of many references to Miss Daverel’s directions, for quantities, a list of requisites sufficient to start with was eventually drawn up.
“Now about a working-party, Monica. When shall we begin, and whom shall we ask to join?”
It was unanimously decided that they would meet on Saturday afternoons, for a couple of hours, once a month to begin with, and every fortnight afterwards, if they got on well, and Mrs. Drury and Lois Franklyn were to be asked to take it in turns to superintend things. Several girls’ names were proposed, and seconded, as suitable for invitation, and then Monica said she would like to ask Lily Howell.
“Oh, no!” cried Amethyst, in dismay; “we don’t want her.”
And Olive said: “I should think not, indeed!”
But Monica, who read approval in Elsa’s glance, insisted that there was no reason why she should not join them, and realising that Monica was really the prime mover in the whole concern, the other two were reluctantly compelled to acquiesce; Amethyst comforting Olive and herself by remarking: “It’s not the least bit likely that she will come, that’s one good thing.”
But contrary to Amethyst’s expectations and wishes, she did. And thus it came to pass, on the following Saturday when the quartette, with very varying feelings, were waiting the arrival of the half-dozen or so of their companions who had promised to come and help them, that Lily Howell was shown into the playroom, the first of any to put in an appearance.
Monica, suddenly overwhelmed with a terrible fit of shyness, shook hands stiffly, and could not think of a single thing to say. But Elsa came to the rescue, and soon interested Lily in the work they were going to do, showing and explaining one thing after another, until the newcomer caught the infection, and was very ready to do her share.
Indeed, that was the general opinion expressed Mrs. Drury, who, at the girls’ earnest request, acted as spokeswoman, explained more fully the object of the little working-party, and with happy tact soon set everybody at their ease, having provided each one with exactly the piece of work which she had a fancy for doing.
For at least half an hour the tongues wagged busily, and many were the questions asked, for the work in most cases was quite novel; but eventually all were settled, and then Mrs. Drury read part of a book which Miss Daverel had suggested they should start with—“Children in Blue, and What They Do,” one of the most delightful and fascinating books ever written with a view to interesting English girls in their Chinese sisters.
By the end of the afternoon every one of the girls had become quite as enthusiastic as even Monica could wish, and when the new missionary box had been handed round, it began to feel quite heavy.
“What are you going to do with all the things when we have made them?” asked one of the visitors, and Monica replied that they wanted to collect a nice number, and let Miss Daverel have them to take back with her when she returned to China, in about a year; and if they had more than were wanted for her, the missionary had sent the address of a depôt in London, where some ladies would gladly forward any gifts sent to them.
“Are you going to have a working party every Saturday?” Gipsy Monroe enquired, as they folded up their work. She was making a queer little cotton jacket, and was eager to go on with it.
“Only once a month, we thought,” replied Monica; “we didn’t suppose you would want to come oftener.”
But every one insisted that they should meet every fortnight, at least; and so it was arranged.
“It has been nice, hasn’t it?”
It was Amethyst who actually said the words, as they put away the work and cleared up the room after their visitors had gone, preparatory to going down to the dining-room for tea; but all the others were thinking the same thing. There were three very happy girls that evening, at any rate, out of the four.
Amethyst whispered to her mother, in that hour of confidences, when the light is waning outdoors, and the gas has not been lighted within, that she still meant to be a speaker when she grew up, but she was quite, quite sure now that it would have to be about missionary work, instead of temperance; would mumsie mind very much? And Mrs. Drury imprinted a kiss upon the upturned brow, and repressed an inclination to smile at the rapidity with which the alteration in subjects had been made, and said that she thought perhaps there would be plenty of opportunities for her to plead on behalf of both causes, if her little daughter ever became a “platform woman.”
Olive slipped her arm through her twin-sister’s, as they walked home in the dusk, and talked more frankly than she had done for a long time, and Elsa’s heart grew light about her. She felt there was no end to what Olive could do, if once she started in the right direction, for she knew there were immense capabilities in her sister, such as she herself would never possess. And Elsa, who, ever since the meeting at Sandyshore, had had a great desire to become a missionary like Miss Daverel, when she grew up, but felt convinced that she would never be thought suitable, began to hope and pray that God would choose Olive instead. How splendid it would be if Olive, as well as Roger, should some day take the Gospel to the heathen!
Monica being rapidly driven home in the brougham which had been sent for her, reviewed the afternoon with girlish satisfaction. It was nice of the girls to come, nicer of them to be interested, and nicer still that they should be willing to meet more often than they had expected. But it was nicest of all to know (and the knowledge made her very humble) that she, Monica Beauchamp, was being enabled in a strength not her own, to walk along the pathway of life, in a way that was pleasing to her Master and helpful to others.
Mrs. Beauchamp was very interested in hearing all the details of the afternoon’s work, and delighted Monica by offering to knit some comforters and cuffs during the long winter evenings that were coming. She would undertake to buy all the wool herself, she said, so that the “Expenses Fund” might last as long as possible.
“That’s very kind, grannie,” said Monica, with a smile, “for I can see our money will soon melt. We have spent nearly thirty shillings, already!”
“Out of your five pounds? Did none of the others contribute anything?” asked the old lady.
“Oh, yes, seven or eight shillings between them, grannie. But they could not do more: Amethyst has very little pocket-money, I know, and I think the Franklyns are quite poor.” Monica dropped her voice to a whisper. Not even to her grandmother could she explain her reasons for thinking so; but first, the barely furnished rooms at the doctor’s, and then the very, very simple and inexpensive mourning which was all that could be afforded for the grown-up daughters, as well as for the younger children, told their own tale, which Monica, brought up as she had been in the lap of luxury, thought the essence of poverty.
“The doctor’s practice is not so large as his family,” remarked Mrs. Beauchamp, with grim humour. “When is Elsa’s birthday, Monica?” she added, after a short pause.
The girl, who had been thinking deeply, started at the sudden and apparently irrelevant question.
“Why, next Saturday, grannie, the same day as Olive’s, of course.” What could have made her grandmother ask?
Probably she looked her surprise, for the old lady said: “You need not be afraid I am going to give them five-pound notes to squander on heathen Chinese,” but her smile belied her words. “I was wondering how much younger they are than you.”
“Just over a year: they will be fifteen on their birthday. It will be a very sad day for them; Olive says Elsa can’t bear to think of a birthday without their mother.”
“Poor children,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, in tones of pity; then, as if to change the subject, she said: “I suppose Amethyst Drury is younger again?”
“Oh, yes, she won’t be fifteen until next summer, only she is so quick and clever that she is quite as forward at school as those who are older. I am much the oldest in our form,” added Monica, with a sigh. Her backwardness in many subjects had been a source of trouble to her lately.
“I expect you will know enough by the time you leave school, my dear, if you make the most of the next two years,” said her grandmother kindly. “I have no fancy for you to become a blue-stocking.”
“I am afraid there is no fear of that, grannie!” and Monica laughed merrily. “I am far too big a dunce. Little Thistle will do the best of us all, I expect, but Elsa and Olive have to work hard, because they must earn their living when they leave school. Olive wants to go in for art, she says; and she is so clever at drawing I expect she will get on.”
“H’m! it’s a pity she hasn’t a fancy for cooking or washing,” said the old lady bluntly; “either of those occupations would be more likely to provide her with food and clothing than dabbling about with messy paints. I expect my little Elsa is far more sensible, and means to be a home-bird.”
“No, grannie, she will have to do something; for Miss Franklyn can manage all the housekeeping. I think Elsa hopes some day that she might be a nurse in a children’s hospital, but she has not said anything about it lately.”
“Sensible girl. Now get the book, Monica, and we will have some reading.”
It was not until the twins’ birthday that Monica realised what all her grandmother’s questions were aiming at, and then she understood!
“What time do the girls come, Monica,” asked Mrs. Beauchamp, as they sat longer than usual over their breakfast, there being no need to hurry, for Saturday was a whole holiday.
Monica looked up in surprise, for it had been all arranged before that the Franklyns should come at eleven, and remain the whole day at Carson Rise, in order that their birthday might not be spent among surroundings which would remind them continually of their loss. Amethyst Drury had been invited, too.
“At eleven, granny.”
“Oh, yes, of course. How are you going to amuse yourselves, Monica?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, grannie; we might get a game of croquet-golf, or tennis, if the grass is dry enough.” And Monica looked critically out upon the beautiful lawn, which was the pride of the gardener’s heart.
“I have secured a new ’amusement’ for you,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, her eyes twinkling with fun. “I was going to say ‘game,’ but it is hardly that.”
“What can it be? Not badminton?” queried Monica, all excitement.
“No, not badminton,” repeated her grandmother, with a smile. “I hardly think you will guess, so as soon as you have finished breakfast we will go and see it.”
“I finished ages ago,” said Monica, as she pushed back her chair with alacrity; “I am curious, grannie.” And she slipped her arm through the old lady’s (a favourite habit nowadays), and they went together to a large summer-house where the croquet and tennis sets were kept.
“Is it a small game, or whatever you call it, grannie?”
“Not very small,” was the amused reply, “but here we are, and you can judge for yourself.”
She fitted a key in the lock, and opened the door, and Monica gazed in utter astonishment at what she saw; for, resting on its own stand in the middle of the quaint, octagonal summer-house, was a beautiful, perfectly new bicycle!
“Oh, grannie!” Only an exclamation, but who can describe all that was contained in those two words? and Monica almost squeezed the breath out of the old lady’s body with the energy with which she hugged her.
“There, there, that will do, Monica; don’t quite strangle me,” protested Mrs. Beauchamp; but all the same, she keenly enjoyed her grandchild’s unqualified delight. “Do you like it?” she added, as Monica examined and admired the bicycle to her heart’s content.
“I can’t think why you have given it to me, grannie!” was the answer, if answer it could be called.
And Mrs. Beauchamp said she would find the reason inside the little basket fastened to the handle-bars.
The old lady turned away, and pretended to look out of one of the little coloured glass windows, while Monica read the few words on a tiny card which she found:—
“For an unselfish girl,
from her loving
GRANNIE.”
A lump rose in Monica’s throat as she stepped across the little summer-house and bent down and kissed the face which only a few short months ago she had thought so stern and unlovable. How different everything was nowadays!
“I didn’t do it for a reward, grannie dear,” she whispered. “I never dreamt of such a thing. I quite gave up all thought of the bicycle when I chose the five pounds.”
“I know you did, my child,” replied the old lady, while she furtively wiped her eyes, which were suspiciously moist, although she was smiling now; “but you see, I didn’t! And as I knew nothing about these things, I took Mr. Bertram into my confidence, and told him to choose just the right kind and size; and I should think he has done his work very well. Now you will have something to amuse your friends with, to-day.”
“We shall have to take great care not to knock it about,” said Monica.
“Ah! that reminds me: Mr. Bertram advised your learning to ride on an old one first, so I have ordered Brown’s to send a man over with one from Osmington this morning, and if you like to spend a little time in having a lesson, he can stay. I daresay the girls would find it amusing.”
“To see me tumble off, grannie?” cried Monica merrily.
“Well, don’t hurt your ankle again, or anything else,” cautioned her grandmother; “I should prefer to hand you over whole to your father when he comes.”
The next hour passed quickly, and then the Franklyns and Amethyst arrived.
Monica, all excitement, took them straight to the summer-house, not noticing, in her eagerness, that her friends seemed quite as excited as herself. But they no sooner saw the bicycle than Olive, who could contain herself no longer, exclaimed: “It’s exactly the same!” and then it was Monica’s turn to look puzzled.
However, the mystery was soon cleared up, as she learnt that there had been a great surprise at the doctor’s that morning, too; a bicycle, the exact counterpart of Monica’s, having been delivered there addressed to, “The Misses Elsa and Olive Franklyn”; and a little note attached to it stated that it was a birthday gift to the twins, with love and best wishes from Mrs. Beauchamp.
“How splendid of grannie!” cried Monica enthusiastically; “now we shall have some lovely rides together.”
“Won’t it be jolly?” said Olive, who was beside herself with pleasure, and Elsa’s quietly happy face was good to see.
“Poor Thistle, you are the only one left out! Never mind, you shall use mine sometimes,” Monica said, suddenly remembering that this new departure would make Amethyst feel rather out of it.
She was delighted when Amethyst replied with glee: “But I am going to have one of my own very soon. Father promised me he would get me one this autumn, and he said the other day he had seen one which was just what he liked, only a little too big for me, so he has ordered a smaller-sized one. I meant to have given you such a surprise.”
“I think it’s all surprises nowadays,” said Monica; “how little any of us dreamt last half-term holiday that we should all be riding our own bicycles before the next one arrived!”
“We wanted to bring ours up to show you,” put in Elsa, “but Mrs. Beauchamp, in her note, asked us not to. We were dreadfully afraid that perhaps she didn’t want you to know, Monica. But that isn’t like her, and it wouldn’t have been any pleasure if we couldn’t tell you.”
“I should think not! Dear old grannie, I can guess why she said that. A man from Osmington is coming up this morning to give us some lessons on an old one. Why, there he is, and grannie too!”
All four girls crossed the lawn, and while the twins were trying in vain to express to Mrs. Beauchamp the delight that her handsome present had given them, Monica and Amethyst spoke to the man, and inspected the bicycle he had brought, and which Jack was sniffing suspiciously.
The greater part of the day, first with the teacher, and afterwards with only each other to hold the machine up, was spent on the wide, straight drive, which was a charming place to practise upon. And if the quartette were all quite tired out as they bade each other “good-bye,” they were all agreed that it was well worth it, to be able to balance themselves and even go a few yards without assistance!