Chapter XXIV “I Think My Monica Deserves the V.C.”
The autumn term sped swiftly away. In addition to the school work, which required a great deal of persevering effort to do as well as the quartette aimed at doing theirs that term, Elsa had her music, and Olive attended a school of art for extra lessons in drawing and sepia.
Amethyst, who, as yet, evinced no great talent for any accomplishments, so-called, had a little more spare time than the others, and was therefore able to go occasionally with her mother to visit some of her poor old, or invalid, folk. These visits were a great interest to Amethyst, who had a kind and pitying little heart for sorrow and suffering, and Mrs. Drury wisely encouraged her little daughter to sing, or repeat a few comforting texts to the sad, or lonely, or suffering, as the case might be. Poor old Mrs. Robbins had long since gone to the “City bright” of which Amethyst had sung to her; but in the crowded and squalid streets of the poorer part of St. Paul’s parish there were many more who needed temporal as well as spiritual help.
Once, Mrs. Drury took her with her to see Mrs. Hodges, whose cottage was on the Disbrowe estate, and as Amethyst entered the little garden gate, the only occasion on which she had ever been there before recurred vividly to her mind.
“I wonder whether that little old woman is still here, mumsie,” she said.
“Hardly likely, dear, but you will soon hear.”
It transpired that Granny Wood was there, circumstances having caused her to make her home with her daughter, and the dear old soul, now quite a prisoner through rheumatism to her chair by the fireside, was delighted to see one of the “little missies,” of whom, as her daughter explained, she was never tired of talking.
“They was angels without wings to me, that day, ma’am,” the old granny asserted; “little missy here, and her friend. But them other two—well, there, I won’t say all I thinks! My darter says I ain’t no business to bear malice, an’ me a Christian body, but I owes this last illness o’ mine to that there bouncin’ h’animal.” And the wrinkled old face looked as nearly cross as it was possible for her apple-cheeks and faded blue eyes to manage.
Amethyst looked subdued, and Mrs. Drury hastened to explain that she was sure the girls had not meant to be really unkind, and that both of them had learnt since what suffering meant, and she went on to tell of the death of Olive’s mother.
“Dear, dear; poor lamb!” ejaculated Granny Wood, commiseratingly, all her animosity gone; “to think o’ that now, and me a-grumblin’ at ’er an’ all.”
“And Monica Beauchamp, the other one, you know,” put in Amethyst, “she is quite different now. She tries to be kind to everybody, because Jesus was always kind.”
“Praise the Lord, missy,” cried the old woman, in quavering tones; “then I’ll never say aught agin’ either of ’em again; but I’ll just keep on asking the Almighty to bless every one of you, and make you all blessings every day of your lives.”
Amethyst and her mother walked home rather silently, until they reached the spot where the bicycle accident had happened that memorable afternoon.
“It must have been just here,” said the little girl, as they passed the place. “I remember Olive saying the motor was pulled up by that tree. It was a good thing Mr. Howell went by just then, wasn’t it, mumsie?”
“Yes, dear,” agreed Mrs. Drury.
“Such a lot has happened since then,” continued Amethyst, who was in a retrospective mood. “Everything seemed to begin with that half-term holiday.”
“What do you mean, girlie?”
“Why, mumsie, Mrs. Beauchamp used to be so cross, and now she’s the nicest old dear possible; and Monica was nasty and uppish, you know, at first. I didn’t think I ever could like her, and now I think she’s almost too good to live, sometimes! And Olive is nicer too, although I shall always like my darling Elsa best.” Here Amethyst paused, from sheer want of breath, for her tongue always ran twice as quickly as other people’s.
“Is that all, girlie?” put in Mrs. Drury, who was much amused at the comparisons, but felt they were truthfully if somewhat quaintly made.
“Oh, no! There’s Lily Howell, just think how she’s altered. I don’t believe any one would know her nowadays who knew her then; she’s so well behaved, and speaks quietly, and seldom gets into trouble at school. I’m so glad Mrs. Howell buys plain hats and things for her now,” Amethyst ran on. “I don’t believe she could help being vulgar when she wore such hideously gaudy hats and dresses.”
“What has Lily’s clothing to do with the bicycle accident? You have wandered a long way from that,” remarked her mother, with a smile.
“Oh, mumsie, I haven’t! It’s just because Lily wants to copy everything Monica does now, that she is so much more lady-like. I think she nearly worships Monica.”
“Hush, Amethyst! Don’t speak like that, dear,” reproved her mother; “I can quite understand that Lily feels she owes a good deal to her. I hope that she will one day be a star in Monica’s crown. I am so glad that they have begun to attend St. Paul’s.”
“Mrs. Howell and Lily were both at church twice last Sunday, mumsie, and Mr. Howell was there in the evening. I remember noticing him, because I did think father must have chosen his text on purpose for him, only of course he didn’t, because he couldn’t possibly have known he would be there.”
And Mrs. Drury, who had vivid recollections of the intense earnestness with which her husband had preached from Mark viii. 36, on the subject of Eternal Profit and Loss, said, softly, as they turned in at the Vicarage gates: “Father always asks God to give him the right text to preach from, girlie, and He knew just who would be hearing the sermon.”
Shrewd little Amethyst had been fairly correct in her rough-and-ready epitome of the happenings of the last six months, which had certainly left their mark on all concerned, and, in every case, for the better, to a greater or smaller degree.
The missionary working-party prospered and increased, and, by the time Christmas drew near, the number of members had risen to fourteen; quite a large drawer full of “gifts” had been already neatly and carefully made, and the Expenses Fund was almost exhausted! The committee began to consider how it was to be replenished, and hazy ideas of “collecting” (which they dreaded) or else having a little sale of work during the Christmas holidays, formed in their enthusiastic minds.
But they were still only ideas, when, one Saturday afternoon, Lily Howell, who, upon one pretext or another, had waited until all but the quartette had gone, slipped a sealed envelope into Monica’s hand, and merely whispering: “Pa told me to give it to you,” was gone before the astonished girl could say a word.
The excitement of the committee when they found that the envelope contained a cheque for £10, “To be used for your Chinese folks, and ask for more when you want it,” was tremendous.
“How splendid! Now we sha’n’t have either to beg, borrow, or steal,” cried Olive. “It is a good thing we let Lily come, after all.”
And Monica, who remembered the opposition which she had met with upon proposing Lily’s name, could not refrain from smiling.
Those were happy days for Monica: her school life was most interesting, and now that she bicycled into Osmington, instead of being dependent upon the pony-trap, she enjoyed the ride to and fro immensely, especially as either one or two of her friends accompanied her most of the way to Carson Rise, on the days that she remained at school until the afternoon, for music or some other extra.
Then the missionary work was a source of great pleasure to her, and her enthusiasm was kept very keen by long letters from Robina Herschel, and an occasional one from Miss Daverel.
Sometimes, when Monica was poring over a missionary magazine, or exercising her ingenuity in making something fresh for the girls to copy at the working-party, her grandmother would tease her by saying she was “missionary mad.” But Monica would only look up and smile, knowing that in her heart of hearts the old lady was well-content that her grandchild should seek to help forward, even in the simplest way, the spread of the “good news,” which had brought light at eventide to her own dark heart.
And every day was bringing Colonel Beauchamp nearer. Several letters had come from him, but in none of them had he been able, definitely, to say when he would reach England; he hoped, as he had said at first, to spend Christmas Day at home, but it was uncertain. Monica was counting the days, in true school-girl fashion, by marking off on a little calendar each day at its close; and the number had steadily decreased until very few remained to be crossed off now.
She stood before the little calendar on the bedroom wall one night, pencil in hand, and crossed off the twenty-first of December. “Only four more days to Christmas now, and by then, my darling dad will be here. Oh, how I am longing to see him, and tell him everything! I have tried to explain in my letters, but it is so difficult to write just what one feels, and I do want to feel his hand on my head once more, just as he used to do, and hear his dear voice saying, ‘God bless my darling child.’”
Here Monica’s feelings overcame her, and her eyes brimmed with tears for a moment. But they were soon chased away, and a happy smile played about her lips, as she began to undress, and put the various articles of her attire neatly away. “I do hope he will think I have improved, and that I am growing up a little bit like he wanted me to. If I am, it is all owing to the Herschels,” and Monica took up the frame containing the pictured faces of her seaside friends, and gazed thoughtfully at them. “Dear Robina, and—and Leslie, too; what sort of girl should I have been by now, if God had not sent you into my life? I can never, never thank Him enough for all His goodness to me, and so the only thing I can do is to seek to ‘walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleasing,’ as my motto says, and do what I can to get others to follow Him, too.”
Monica never crossed off December the twenty-second on her little calendar; indeed, she forgot all about it, for a telegram the next afternoon informed them that the colonel had already left London, and in less than a couple of hours Monica was in her father’s arms.
“My darling child!”
“Dearest dad!”
What else they said was unintelligible for the next few moments, and then Colonel Beauchamp held his daughter at arm’s length, and critically examined her.
“Shall I pass muster, daddy dear?” she asked, merrily; but there was more behind the words than appeared on the surface.
And the proud father, noting the purposeful face, so full of expression, and reading true nobility of character therein, held out his arms, and Monica slipped confidingly into them, while he bent his soldierly head and pressed a long, long kiss upon her broad white brow, murmuring, as he did so, in tones so low as only to reach his daughter’s ears: “I think my Monica deserves the V.C., for it is evident she has fought successfully against heavy odds, under fire of the enemy, and won a brilliant victory.”
“Oh, dad, I don’t think I have,” whispered the happy girl, her head on his shoulder; “but whatever good there is about me, is all owing to my having enlisted under the banner of Jesus Christ.”
“His arm hath gotten him the victory,” repeated the colonel reverently, and Monica knew that her father understood.