Monica's Choice

by George Bird Grinnell

  *CHAPTER XIX.*

  *"YOU TELL THEM, LOIS; I COULDN'T."*

  "There is not likely to be any letter for us, this morning, as we aregoing home to-morrow," said Elsa, the next morning, as the girls stoodin the bay window, watching the postman delivering his missives atpractically every house in the steep road which led up to Rocklands.They usually filled up the few minutes before breakfast, while waitingfor Mrs. Beauchamp's appearance, in this way.

  "I hardly expect there will be one for any of us," said Monica, "unlessthere should be one from dad forwarded on."

  "He's coming in our gate," said Olive; and a few seconds later a maidentered, 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 intothe way of calling her grandmother thus, lately, and the shortened formwas 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. Butas 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 openhastily, a nameless fear taking possession of her.

  "Thank you, my dear, I will see what it says," said Mrs. Beauchamp, asshe adjusted her pince-nez; "possibly it is some arrangement about yourreturn home." She spoke quietly, but she felt otherwise, for she, too,had a presentiment of impending trouble. With eyes which seemed ready todevour her, Elsa watched Mrs. Beauchamp's face, while she hastilyscanned the short letter, and something in its expression made her heartbeat with great thumps.

  "Mamma!" she faltered, with trembling lips, and even Olive and Monicaheld their breath while they waited for Mrs. Beauchamp's answer.

  "Don't be frightened, dear," she said kindly; "it certainly is aboutyour mother, who is not quite so well. But your father thinks there isnothing to be alarmed at, and hopes she will be as well as usual by thetime you reach home to-morrow."

  "Are you sure that is quite all?" Elsa whispered, in a voice hoarse withemotion; she loved her mother so intensely that she could not bear thethought of her being worse than her usual invalid condition.

  "Quite, my dear; you may read it, both of you," and the twins foundnothing different in the few sentences the letter contained.

  "I wish we were going home to-day," murmured Elsa wistfully, while tearstrembled on her long, dark lashes.

  "Nonsense, Elsa!" said Olive, a touch of impatience in her voice; reallya sign that she was troubled, too. "I don't suppose that mamma is verymuch 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 ofthe 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 thegirls' interest in the various amusements they had planned for theirlast 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 Elsagrew white as death.

  "Oh, Olive, perhaps it's a telegram!" she gasped.

  "What a grizzler you are, Elsa!" said Olive, not really unkindly, forshe was very fond of her mother, too, though in a totally differentfashion from Elsa; "probably it's only the butcher or greengrocer."

  But Barnes, with alarm on her face, came to summon the twins, and Elsaknew that her foreboding was true, even before she saw the fateful pinkpaper in Mrs. Beauchamp's trembling fingers.

  "Oh, don't say she's--dead!" wailed Elsa, as she crossed the room; andOlive 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 sheclung to Mrs. Beauchamp; while Olive, with horror-stricken face and dryeyes, 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 heragain," wailed Elsa, in such heart-broken, pitiful tones, that Monicabegged 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 thetime-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-fifteentrain."

  "Oh, Barnes shall go with them," interposed Mrs. Beauchamp, "and returnhere this evening. We would all go to-day, but the packing could not bedone 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," sheadded, to the poor twins, who were already collecting their books andneedlework, which were lying about on the different tables; "let us hopefor the best; and, very likely, you will find a change for the betterhas taken place when you reach home."

  "Elsa, darling, do let Jesus comfort you," whispered Monica, a fewminutes later, when they were alone in the girl's bedroom, "I am askingHim to. And He can make dear Mrs. Franklyn better, you know, if it isHis will." Monica spoke shyly; she was unaccustomed to giving Elsaadvice--Elsa, who had always appeared almost perfect to hasty, impetuousMonica, who had, by no means, found it easy work to follow in thefootsteps of the meek and lowly Saviour.

  "Oh, Monica, I have been asking Him to help me bear it!" said Elsa, "andI don't want to grieve Him by fretting. But, oh, you can't think whatit would be like to lose my precious mamma!" And the tears rained downthe poor child's face.

  "No," said Monica, with unconscious pathos, "I can hardly remember how Ifelt when I lost mine. It is so long ago now, I have nearly forgottenit."

  "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 usbear it?"

  The words, so hard to utter, came falteringly, and the elder girl, withwet eyes, gathered Elsa into her strong, young arms, and while shepressed 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 crowdedwith visitors now making their way homewards at the close of theirholiday, and then a few last words were said, after the twins,accompanied by Barnes, had ensconced themselves in one of thefast-filling compartments.

  Mrs. Beauchamp, at Elsa's request, had not accompanied them, so onlyMonica--her sunburnt face, usually so bright, now wearing a sadexpression--stood on the platform waiting to bid them farewell.

  "The Drurys, Monica," said Olive, as she leant out of the window just asthe train began to move, "they won't know. Tell them."

  "Yes, I will," replied Monica; "they'll be sure to see you to-night, andI shall come to-morrow. Good-bye, good-bye," and with a would-becheerful 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 ascene before a compartment full of people. It was a good thing, in oneway, that they had not the luxury of one to themselves.

  Very few words were said during the long, long two hours and a halfwhich dragged wearily by. About half-way, Barnes produced a basket oflunch, which she had brought with kindly forethought, and pressed thegirls 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 upafter toying with it for a few minutes.

  "Have this lovely pear, now do, Miss Elsa," urged Barnes, with whom thekind, thoughtful girl was a great favourite.
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br />   And with a pathetic smile, Elsa thanked her, and felt refreshed aftereating the juicy fruit.

  The twins whispered a sentence or two now and again, but for the mostpart the journey was accomplished in silence. Elsa lay back with closedeyes as if asleep, except that sometimes her lips moved unconsciously,showing that she was taking her sorrow where alone she would find realcomfort.

  Olive gazed through the window with unseeing eyes at the country throughwhich they were passing, but her mind was in a turmoil. Could thisterrible and unexpected blow be sent by God as a punishment to her forall her wilful neglect of Him? Did He think that by taking her motheraway He would _drive_ her to become His child? Then nothing shouldinduce her to become one! These and countless other thoughts passedthrough the unhappy girl's mind, and her heart grew more rebellious thanever. She did not want to become "goody-goody" she told herself, but itwas 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 thethreatened sorrow which overhung her home, and restore her mother to herusual degree of health again, then she would serve Him; but if not----

  At length the train began to draw near Osmington, and the girls dreadedand yet longed to see a familiar face on the platform, and to hear thelatest bulletin.

  They had expected Kathleen, or perhaps only one of the servants, so thatthey were astonished to see Roger striding up the platform as the trainpulled up.

  "Oh, Roger!" and the twins each seized a hand and clung to him, "how isshe?" whispered Olive, for Elsa was trembling too much to speak; fromRoger's sad face she feared the worst.

  "'OH, ROGER! HOW IS SHE?' WHISPERED OLIVE."]

  "She is very, very ill," was all he said gravely; "I am glad you havecome, she has been asking for you both."

  Barnes, who had been standing near, now came forward, and, for the firsttime, Roger realised that his sisters were not alone. With a word ofthanks he spoke gratefully of Mrs. Beauchamp's kindness in sending thegirls home under her care, and enquired as to her plans.

  "Oh, I return by the next train, sir, thank you, which leaves just aftertwo. 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 ofthe family, and she would like to know the latest report."

  "Please thank her," said Roger. "My mother has been most grateful forall 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 collectingvarious small packages they had brought with them, and with somethingsuspiciously like a sob in his throat, he replied, "She is sinkingrapidly; she cannot live many hours."

  "Dear, dear. I _am_ sorry to hear that, sir!" said the woman, with realconcern. "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 withhim. Stopping only to give a porter instructions about the luggage, hestrode on, and the girls had as much as they could do to keep up withhim.

  Fortunately, it was only a matter of a very few minutes' walk to theirhome, so that they were soon there. As they entered the gate, Rogerglanced furtively at the windows, for he knew his mother's life was onlyjust trembling in the balance, and even during the fifteen or twentyminutes that he had been absent, the call might have come. But theblinds were up, and he breathed freely. In silence they entered the oldside door, and quietly, oh! so quietly, Lois came downstairs to meetthem.

  What a different home-coming was this from the one they had beenanticipating. No bright welcome, no merry words, no gay laughter.Instead of all that, there was an awful hush and unnatural quietreigning in the busy, bustling household, and it was all owing to thefact that their mother was lying so very, very ill in the well-knownroom, beyond the baize-covered doors, upstairs.

  "I am glad you have come, dears," said Lois, gently, as she bent andkissed the twins, and Elsa saw that her face bore traces of recenttears.

  "Oh, Lois!"

  "Hush, darlings, hush!" she whispered, as she gently pushed them intothe deserted dining-room; "we must not make any noise, it worries herso."

  "But she will get better? Oh, Lois, say she will!" cried Olive.

  Lois looked enquiringly at Roger; but muttering: "You tell them, Lois; Icouldn't," in hoarse tones, he strode by her, and went out, shutting thedoor 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 soonthey must give her up. For a few minutes she let them weep onunrestrainedly, knowing well that it was best so. And then, with wordsof comfort, the elder sister, who in future would have to act a mother'spart, bade them think of the peace, and rest, and freedom from all painthat their loved one would soon be enjoying in the presence of herSaviour.

  As Lois talked thus, Elsa seemed not to think so much of her ownsorrows, as of the gain that would be her mother's, and her sobs grewless as she remembered the blessedness of those who die in Christ Jesus.

  But Olive, over whose turbulent young heart a perfect hurricane of doubtwas sweeping, refused to be comforted, and wept on unrestrainedly. Godwas cruel, _cruel_ to take their mother away, and nothing Lois or Elsasaid would persuade her otherwise.

  A hasty opening of the door startled them, and Dr. Franklyn, looking tenyears older than when the twins left home, entered the room.

  "I hear that Olive and Elsa have come," he said. "Let them get undressedand go to their mother at once. Remember, girls, no scenes," he addedseverely, and was gone without another word.

  After hastily removing their hats, and vainly endeavouring by spongingtheir faces with cold water to obliterate the traces of emotion, thetwins entered their mother's room. If they had expected to see a vastdifference in her, they were disappointed for only a very practised eyecould tell that Mary Franklyn was nearing the gates of death. To thetwins she looked much as usual, the bright flush upon her poor, thinface was so deceptive. She was quite conscious and free from pain, andlay 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--youhad--a nice holiday--before--this trouble--came. Don't cry--mydarlings--Jesus is--very precious--and He--will bring--all my dearones--to me--some day." And then she stopped, for her breath was comingin quick, short pantings, and the pulse, upon which Dr. Franklyn had hisfinger, was only feebly fluttering.

  "Don't exert yourself too much, my dear," he said tenderly, with anguishin his eyes.

  A radiant smile passed over the dying woman's worn features, and she layback, exhausted. "I will--rest--a little," she whispered. For shehoped to recover sufficient strength to speak a last word to these twoof 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 thatlast, long, slumber that knows no awakening in this life, and MaryFranklyn passed into the presence of the King.

  The sorrow and sadness in that household during the days that followedcan be more easily imagined than described. Lois, Kathleen, and Rogerendeavoured to be brave and forgetful of self, as they strove to comforttheir father and the younger ones.

  Dick, who arrived home a couple of hours after his mother had breathedher last, was inconsolable. He had adored his gentle, fragile mother,and it was heart-breaking to see the erstwhile merry whistler wanderinglistlessly and silently about the house; or to come upon him, unawares,in some quiet spot whither he had fled in order to indulge his griefunseen. Roger, who had always been his chum in a way that brothersseldom are, now became his comforter; and it was during those sad,sorrowful days, when the younger lad's heart was rendered impressionableby 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 veryhelpful in looking after Joan and Paddy, who fretted for their mother agreat deal. But Olive seemed turned to stone. She realised that in thebargain she had sought to make with God she had been worsted! He_might_ have spared her mother; He _might_ have heard her cry: and shewould 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 whisperthat she was sorry for all the anxiety she had caused her, and that shewould be a better girl, in future, if her mother would only say sheforgave her. Both Lois and Kathleen sought to break down the stoicalreserve, behind which Olive hid her real feelings, but she alwaysrepulsed them, and they could only hope that, in time, God would answertheir mother's many prayers for her wilful little daughter.