"What are you doing with those things, Miss Burton?" asked Beryl curiously.
"I am trying to contrive new clothes out of old ones, Beryl," returned her governess; "and I shall want you and Coral to help me. I am thinking of starting a Dorcas meeting."
"What is a Dorcas meeting?" asked Beryl, in a tone of wonder.
"Don't you know? Have you never read in the Bible about Dorcas, and what she did?"
Beryl shook her head.
"I know," put in Coral eagerly. "Dorcas was the woman who made clothes for the poor, and Peter brought her to life after she was dead. And they showed him all the coats and garments which she had made."
"Yes, you are right," said Miss Burton, smiling at the child's hurried explanation. "I am glad you remembered about her, Coral. A Dorcas meeting is called by her name, because it is a gathering at which clothes are made for the poor. I want you and Beryl to be little Dorcases, and make garments for the poor children. I was quite distressed yesterday to see how bare of clothing some of them are obliged to go this bitter weather. Now, some of these cast-off things of yours will cut up nicely for smaller children, and others with a little mending will do as they are. We must have a working meeting once or twice a week, and see how much we can do."
"Oh, that will be nice," cried Coral. "I shall like that, shan't you, Beryl?"
Beryl did not at once reply. She was feeling vexed that Coral should have known about Dorcas when she did not. Moreover, Miss Burton's proposal did not seem a delightful one to her. She was not, like Coral, fond of needlework. Coral could sew pretty well for a little girl of her age, and would amuse herself for a long time with a needle and cotton making doll's clothes, which were often of a very queer cut. But if Beryl undertook any work of the kind, she soon threw it down in disgust. She disliked sewing, and had not sufficient patience to overcome its difficulties. When she worked, her needle was sure to break, or her thread to get into a knot, and her task was never finished unless Miss Burton insisted upon its completion—an exercise of authority fatal to Beryl's good temper.
Miss Burton had hoped that Beryl would interest herself in the proposed Dorcas meeting, and that it would prove a means of overcoming her indolent dislike of sewing.
Perhaps Beryl suspected that there was some such thought in her governess's mind, and felt inclined to resent it. She made no pleasant response to Miss Burton's proposition.
"Can't Lucy make the clothes?" she asked sulkily. "I hate sewing."
"I dare say Lucy will give us a little help," said Miss Burton; "but she has almost as much work as she can manage to do for you and Coral. I don't think you will dislike sewing so much, when you have learned to use your needle more skilfully."
"I don't want to learn," muttered Beryl.
"I am so sorry," returned Miss Burton; "I thought you would have liked our little scholars to have some warm clothes."
"I like them to have the clothes, of course," said Beryl; "but I don't want the trouble of making them."
Lucy had carried the children's frocks back to the wardrobe, and Beryl and her governess were alone.
"So, Beryl," said Miss Burton softly, "you are not willing to do any sort of work for the kingdom?"
Beryl coloured and looked uncomfortable.
This unexpected question put the matter in a new light.
"It is the King who gives us our work, Beryl," said Miss Burton, "the little duties as well as the great ones. Don't you think that it is His will that you should learn to sew properly? Don't you think that in our sewing meetings, as well as in our Sunday school, we may be workers for the kingdom?"
"Yes, Miss Burton," said Beryl, ashamed and convinced; "I did not think of that. I will try to like making the clothes, but I do so dislike sewing."
But when the Dorcas meetings were commenced, Beryl found that she could like them without much trying.
Miss Burton did not give the children too difficult tasks. She did all the awkward bits herself. There was always some pleasant story in hand, which they read by turns, so that the children learned to look forward to the afternoons on which they held their Dorcas meeting; and as Beryl grew more expert in the use of her needle, she liked sewing better, and took a pride in the neat little garments which she helped to make.
IN LONDON
CHRISTMAS, with all its joys, its gifts from Santa Claus, its festivities and charities, had come and gone, and spring no longer seemed a distant prospect, when to Beryl's delight, there arrived the invitation from Mrs. Everard for which she had been longing ever since Percy spoke of it.
That lady wrote to beg Mr. Hollys to bring the two children with him when he came to town, and leave them in her charge for at least a month. She promised to take the greatest care of them, and to give them all kinds of novel pleasures, which, as country children, they would be sure to enjoy. She added that Mr. Hollys need have no fear that their presence in her home would cause any trouble, since her eldest daughter, the widow of an Indian officer, had lately returned to live with her, and she doated on children, and, having none of her own, would find the greatest pleasure in caring for the two little girls as long as they were her mother's guests.
Mr. Hollys hesitated about accepting this invitation for the children; but Beryl, hearing of it, gave him no rest till he promised that they should go to London. His consent once gained, Coral and Beryl thought and spoke of scarcely anything except their visit to town. Miss Burton had very inattentive pupils during the next few weeks. Beryl could not give her mind to her lessons; but she took the liveliest interest in the various preparations which were being made for their leaving home. Lucy's needle was now never idle, so much making and mending had she to do for her two young ladies.
And one bright morning, the children were excused all lessons, that Mr. Hollys might drive them and their governess to Langport, the nearest town of any size to Egloshayle, where, for more than two hours, they were going with Miss Burton from shop to shop, as she purchased dresses, boots, gloves, and the various articles they needed to equip them for their London visit, while Mr. Hollys attended to business of his own in the town.
When, at last, the eagerly expected day arrived, it was a large and merry party which started from Egloshayle House en route for London. Hettie Burton was one of the travellers, for her home was at Hampstead, and she was going to spend there the weeks during which her pupils were at Mrs. Everard's. Lucy, too, was in attendance, for Mr. Hollys wished to spare Mrs. Everard and her daughter any unnecessary trouble in the management of the children.
Coral and Beryl were in the gayest spirits, as they set forth to make acquaintance with the great world lying beyond their quiet Cornish home. The journey was an event in Beryl's life, for she had never been many miles from peaceful Egloshayle. What a long, long journey it was! The children were both too weary to receive any clear impression of their new surroundings, when they were lifted out of the carriage at the door of Mrs. Everard's house in Hyde Park Gardens. Having given them into his friend's care, Mr. Hollys drove off to his own rooms in Russell Square, promising to look in early on the following day to see how the children were getting on.
The little girls woke bright and well the next morning, though at a rather later hour than usual. They came downstairs, however, in time to see Percy ere he started for his tutor's, and joyfully renewed their acquaintance with him.
Beryl was delighted with all she saw in Mrs. Everard's home. Especially did she admire the handsome King Charles spaniel, which sat on a chair by Mrs. Everard's side as she took her breakfast, and was treated to dainty morsels from her plate. Beryl wanted to make friends with him; but, to her surprise, he would not respond graciously to her overtures. Prince was an aristocrat, keenly alive to his own dignity. By a low growl, and a sudden display of his delicate white teeth, he expressed his resentment of the familiarity of Beryl's touch, and when Mrs. Everard lifted little Coral on to her lap, his jealousy broke forth in a storm of indignant barks. It was evident that he viewed the children with disgust as unwelcome intruders.
After breakfast, the children went up to the large room at the top of the house which had once been Percy's nursery, and was now given to them as a playroom. The windows commanded one of the entrances to the Park, and as it was a bright, sunshiny morning, the children found great entertainment in watching the many carriages and still more numerous riders that passed in and out of the wide gates. It was a wonderful scene to them, so different from the quiet beach at Egloshayle, and Lucy enjoyed it no less than her young charges. Whilst they were thus engaged, a lady came into the room and greeted them brightly and fondly.
This was Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. Everard's widowed daughter. She seemed inclined to pet and indulge the children. She said she would take them out in the afternoon, and asked them which they would like best—to go to the Zoological Gardens or to Madame Tussaud's. As they knew nothing of the attractions of either place, it was rather difficult to decide. Whilst they were discussing the important question, a servant brought the news that Mr. Hollys was below.
"How good of your papa to come so soon!" said Mrs. Campbell. "But I hope he will not want to take you away from me."
Accustomed as she was to be petted and indulged, Beryl was charmed beyond measure by Mrs. Campbell's sweet, caressing manner and winning words. As she went downstairs, holding that lady's hand, she thought that she had never known any one so kind and pleasant. Coral, who walked behind, and had been less noticed, was not so favourably impressed with their new acquaintance.
Mr. Hollys had come with the intention of taking the children into the Park, to amuse them with a sight of the beautiful horses, and fair and stately riders, to be seen at this hour in Rotten Row. But Mrs. Campbell had so much to say to him that it was some time ere he could get away, and Beryl's patience was sorely tried.
"Well, Beryl, how do you like your present quarters?" asked Mr. Hollys, as with the two children, he left the house, having promised to return there for luncheon, and afterwards join in the excursion to the Zoological Gardens, which Mrs. Campbell had planned for the children's pleasure.
"Oh, papa, I think everything is delightful," exclaimed Beryl rapturously, "and Mrs. Everard is so kind, and Percy, and Mrs. Campbell."
"Then you like Mrs. Campbell?" observed her father.
"Why, yes, of course I do," exclaimed Beryl; "I think Mrs. Campbell is the nicest woman I have ever known; don't you, Coral?"
"Not nicer than Miss Burton," said Coral.
"Well, no; she is not nicer than Miss Burton; no one could be; but Mrs. Campbell is very kind and very pretty; don't you think so, papa?"
"Oh, of course," said Mr. Hollys with a laugh, which puzzled Beryl.
"She is not so pretty as Miss Burton," remarked Coral; who, for some reason or other, was not enchanted with the fair widow, as Beryl was.
"I don't know," returned Beryl; "Miss Burton has not such golden hair. Which do you think the prettiest, papa: Miss Burton or Mrs. Campbell?"
"Oh, Miss Burton, by a long way," he answered, without a moment's hesitation.
The children thoroughly enjoyed walking through the Park, and gazed with charmed eyes on the novel sights they saw there. True, the wind was in the east, but what do children reck of east winds, if only the sun be bright!
The weather continuing fine, they had plenty of sight-seeing in the days that followed. Mrs. Campbell was indefatigable in her efforts to amuse them. She took them to all the sights and shows that children love, marched them through the bazaars, and purchased for them many of the pretty and curious toys which decked the stalls. It was evident that Beryl held the first place in the lady's regard. The presents given to her were generally more handsome and costly than those bestowed on Coral. Beryl was not so well aware of this as Coral was. If she noticed it, she did not think it strange that she should have better things than her little sister. She was accustomed to have the first consideration.
Though he liked little Coral, and was kind to her, Mr. Hollys could not treat her quite as he treated his own child.
The weeks of the children's stay in London passed rapidly away. Mr. Hollys did not have a great deal of Beryl's company, although he was a frequent visitor at the house in Hyde Park Gardens, but he heard much of his child's sayings and doings from the lips of Mrs. Campbell. Beryl was vexed that her father had so little leisure to bestow on her. He would readily promise to take her anywhere she wished to go; but the time for doing so was seldom found. Perhaps Beryl would not have minded this, could she have seen more of Percy. But Percy at home was a different person from Percy at Egloshayle. He was working hard for an examination, and could spare scarcely any time for trifling with the children.
Mr. Hollys had promised Beryl before they left home that he would take her to see her friend David Gilbank during her visit to London; but week after week went by, and the promise was not redeemed, although Beryl did not fail to remind him of it.
One day in the first week in May, when Mr. Hollys was lunching at Mrs. Everard's, some one mentioned the Royal Academy Exhibition, just opened, and Mrs. Everard invited Mr. Hollys to drive there, with herself and her daughter, that afternoon.
"I shall be very happy," said Mr. Hollys, with careless politeness; "the pictures are said to be well worth seeing this year."
"Oh, papa," cried Beryl eagerly, "do you think that any of Mr. Gilbank's pictures will be there?"
"I dare say," he replied; "I believe his pictures have been exhibited there."
"Do take me with you," exclaimed Beryl impetuously; "I should so like to see Mr. Gilbank's pictures."
"I don't know about that, Beryl," replied her father; "you must ask Mrs. Everard's permission. It may not be agreeable to her to have the company of such an importunate young person as you are."
He glanced at Mrs. Everard as he spoke, and she was about to reply that she would be very pleased to take Beryl, when her daughter's soft, sweet voice interposed.
"We should be delighted to take dear Beryl with, us, should we not, mamma?" said Mrs. Campbell; "but I think we must consider what is good for her. The galleries of the Academy are so hot and crowded of an afternoon that it is scarcely the place to which to take a child. She could not see the pictures for the people who would be around her, and I fear the poor darling would grow very weary, especially as she has been in the Park all the morning."
"Ah, to be sure, you are right; it would not be a good place for her," said Mr. Hollys.
"I am not a bit tired, papa," protested Beryl, her cheek flushing with anger at what she considered Mrs. Campbell's interference; "it would not hurt me, I am sure."
"My darling, you are hardly old enough to know what will harm you and what will not," said Mrs. Campbell in her gentlest tones. "We older people must judge for you. I tell you what I will do, Beryl; I will take you myself some morning early to the Academy, and we will have a good look at Mr. Gilbank's pictures before the crowd begins to gather. I will look for them to-day, that I may know where to take you."
"Thank you; but I would much rather go this afternoon," said Beryl ungraciously.
"It is better you should not go. Say no more about it, Beryl," said Mr. Hollys, in his most decided manner.
"Poor darling, I wish we could let you have your wish," said Mrs. Campbell fondly, as she placed on Beryl's plate some crystallised apricots, a dainty of which the child was fond.
But Beryl was not in a mood to be solaced by sweetmeats. Her cheek crimsoned, and she bit her lips to keep from crying; but the tears which had sprung to her eyes were called thither by anger rather than by sorrow.
"I should have gone if it had not been for Mrs. Campbell," she complained afterwards to Coral; "Mrs. Everard was willing to take me, and papa would never have thought about its being hot and crowded. But Mrs. Campbell did not want to have me with her; I could see that plainly enough, although she pretended to be sorry for me. I don't like her as I did; she is not nearly so nice as Miss Burton."
And Coral agreed with this opinion.
DAVID GILBANK'S PICTURE
MRS. CAMPBELL, as, conducted by Mr. Hollys, she moved through the crowded picture galleries, was congratulating herself on the clever way in which she had avoided the trouble and distraction which Beryl's presence would have caused. In the second room, they found one of David Gilbank's pictures.
"Why, I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys, as his eyes fell on it. "It is Egloshayle! And he has painted Coral and Beryl."
It was a boldly-painted sketch of a seabeach, lying bathed in summer sunshine. The tide was receding the beach, the waves in gentle, sportive fashion rippled back from the glistening wet pebbles. Half-way up the beach, keel upwards, lay a stoutly-built fishing-boat, and seated in its shadow were two children, whom Mr. Hollys recognised as Coral and Beryl; for, small as was the scale on which they were painted, the resemblance was striking. The free, unrestrained grace of the children's attitudes was admirable. Nothing could be more natural than Beryl's pose as she leaned against the side of the boat, her bright hair falling over her shoulders in vivid contrast to the dark wood, and her feet firmly planted against the shaggy back of old Lion, who lay just beyond the edge of the shadow, in full enjoyment of the sunshine. Beryl's face wore a look of lazy content; but Coral, who was leaning forward and gazing at the sea, had an expression of wondering, childish reverie in her large dark eyes.
"It is lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell. "I never saw a prettier picture. The children must have sat for it."
"I believe they did," returned Mr. Hollys, "for I remember now that Beryl told me that Gilbank painted them whilst he was at Egloshayle; but I did not think of anything so good as this. I must secure this picture."
So, asking the ladies to excuse him for a few minutes, he went away to make arrangements for purchasing the painting. But he quickly returned, his face wearing a look of vexation.
"Is it not annoying?" he said. "The picture has already found a purchaser. It was sold not half an hour ago."
"How very tiresome!" exclaimed Mrs. Campbell. "But perhaps you can come to terms with the purchaser."
"I fear not," said Mr. Hollys; "it is no dealer who has bought it, but a gentleman who has taken a fancy to the picture. Robert Harvey is his name. I do not know him, though I seem to have some strange association with the name that I cannot define."
"A very ordinary name!" remarked Mrs. Campbell. "Yes, certainly. Well, I wish Robert Harvey, whoever he is, had not bought that picture."
As he spoke the Robert Harvey who had forestalled him in the purchase of the picture was standing within a few yards of Mr. Hollys. He was a tall, somewhat stern-looking man, with greyish-brown hair and a long sweeping beard of the same mixed hues. His face was deeply coloured, as if from constant exposure to the elements, and had, moreover, a withered, wrinkled appearance, which made him seem older than he was. An expression of melancholy was on his countenance, and, as he moved through the crowd, his shy, awkward bearing betrayed a sense of isolation even in the midst of his fellows.
He paused before the picture which he had made haste to purchase, and looked at it with a long and earnest gaze. It had a strange fascination for him, and the secret of the charm lurked in the grave, sweet face of little Coral. He could not have explained how it was that that childish face exerted such an influence over him.
It seemed to bring to life again his boyish days, so long, long buried in the past. He saw himself a rough, strong lad leading with gentle hand his tiny, dark-eyed sister along a pebbly shore by just such a sunlit sea as shone in the picture. She had been very like that little girl, only prettier; yes, he was sure that his sister was prettier. How he had loved her, his darling, only sister! Yet he had tyrannised over her; he had always made her will bend to his, till a time came when her woman's will, growing strong under the stimulus of love, had dared to rebel against his authority. She had taken her own way in defiance of him, and he had vowed that he would trouble himself no more about her. Now, he knew not if she were dead or alive.
He had returned to London, after being absent for many years from England, hoping to find his sister, but had failed to do so. He had lived to regret, with keen self-reproach, the severity with which he had treated her. He regretted it more than ever, as little Coral's face brought to mind one and another tender memory of his childhood.
Coral and Beryl were astonished to learn that their friend Mr. Gilbank had put them into his picture. Of course they were eager to see the painting, and Mr. Hollys, after some coaxing, agreed to take them to the Academy at an early hour the next morning.
The children were very pleased with David Gilbank's work. Their childish vanity was gratified by his exact representation of them as they had appeared last summer, even to the very sun-bonnets, which they had thought so ugly when Lucy had insisted on their wearing them for the sake of their complexions. Beryl was delighted too with the excellence of Lion's portrait.
"Now, papa, you will take us to see Mr. Gilbank, will you not?" Beryl exclaimed.
"Certainly I will; it is a promise, you know," he replied. "I will try to manage it to-morrow."
"I hope Mrs. Campbell won't want to go with us," said Beryl.
"Why not?" asked her father in surprise. "I thought you were so very fond of Mrs. Campbell."
"I am not so very fond of her now," said Beryl, with an odd emphasis on the very.
In truth, Beryl's feelings towards that lady had so changed that, instead of being fond of her, she was beginning to dislike her. She watched Mrs. Campbell's words and ways with a child's keen observation, and found much to criticise in her confidences with Coral. Moreover, something scarce definable in the words and looks of those about her made Beryl fear that Mrs. Campbell would exercise a disturbing influence on her childish future. This fear took definite form on the evening following their visit to the Academy.
Beryl, who complained of a headache, had been sent to bed rather earlier than usual by Mrs. Campbell. She was not in the best temper at this, despite the honeyed words with which that lady had dismissed her. As she approached the nursery, she found that Lucy was enjoying a gossip with Mrs. Campbell's maid. Ere she entered, Beryl's quick ears caught the words uttered by Lucy:—
"Then you think they will make a match of it!"
To which the other servant replied, "I feel pretty sure of it. You should see how particular my lady is about her dress whenever she is going to see Mr. Hollys. Poor Miss Beryl! I wonder how she will like to have a stepmother."
"Hush!" said Lucy with a warning glance, as Beryl appeared.
Lucy thought that the child could not have heard; but as she began to undress her she wondered what could have put the young lady so much out of temper.
When Lucy was brushing her hair, Beryl said suddenly—
"Lucy, what were you and Mrs. Campbell's maid talking about when I came in?"
"Oh, nothing particular, Miss Beryl!" replied Lucy evasively. "Leastways, nothing that concerns you."
"That's not true, Lucy," returned Beryl hotly. "I heard what you were talking about. You were saying that papa would marry Mrs. Campbell. But it's not true; I know it's not."
"Well, I never, Miss Beryl!" exclaimed Lucy, in affected astonishment. "I'm sure you can't say that you heard me say that!"
"You may not have said exactly those words, but was what you meant," cried Beryl excitedly; "but it's not true. I know it can't be true."
Beryl's emotion quite overpowered her, and she burst into hot, passionate tears. Lucy did her best to soothe her.
"Come, come, Miss Beryl; don't cry for nothing!" she said. "You're overdone, that's what it is. You've had a long, tiring day. You'll feel better when you get to bed."
But she did not tell Beryl that it was unlikely she would have a stepmother, and Beryl, whose ideas of stepmothers had been gathered from story books, regarded such a possibility with the utmost dread. Especially did she dislike the thought of Mrs. Campbell's filling such a position towards her.
Beryl woke the next morning with a heavy sense of trouble; there came a gleam of comfort, however, with the recollection that she should see Mr. Gilbank that day.
But, unfortunately, as Beryl had feared, Mrs. Campbell contrived to make one of the party who set out for the artist's studio. As they drove to St. John's Wood, Beryl gravely eyed her father and the lady, as they sat side by side on the opposite seat. She was watching for some sign that should confirm the rumour that had caused her such uneasiness. Presently Mr. Hollys was struck with Beryl's unusually grave expression.
"What is the matter, Beryl?" he asked.
"I am thinking, papa," said Beryl.
"That is an extraordinary proceeding on your part, I suppose," he said lightly; "a penny for your thoughts!"
"Oh, I could not tell you them now," said Beryl blushing, and involuntarily glancing at Mrs. Campbell.
"Ah, I am afraid Beryl's thoughts concern poor me," said that lady with a laugh; "she is going to find fault with me when my back is turned."
Beryl's cheeks grew hotter, and she looked so guilty that her father hastily introduced another subject, in order to cover her confusion.
David Gilbank's studio was neither grand nor luxurious, but it struck the children as one of the most charming places they had ever visited; for it was furnished in simple, artistic style, had plenty of pictures, and a large supply of the picturesque knick-knacks artists love.
The artist was at work when they entered; but he cheerfully laid aside his brush to give his visitors a cordial greeting. It was an unexpected pleasure to him to see his little friends from Egloshayle, and he greeted them warmly.
Mr. Hollys soon began to speak of the picture that had so pleased him.
"I wish I could have had it," he said, almost impatiently. "You might have let me know that you had painted the children."
"I would have done so had I considered the faces to be portraits," said Mr. Gilbank. "But the picture is little more than a sketch made on the beach at Egloshayle. It was after considerable hesitation that I decided to send it to the Exhibition."
"Do you know anything of the purchaser?" enquired Mr. Hollys.
"He is a man named Robert Harvey, who has made a fortune out in Australia," said Mr. Gilbank. "I wonder what made him take a fancy to my picture."
"Robert Harvey," repeated Mr. Hollys; "what is it makes that name seem so familiar to me?"
"Why, papa!" burst in Beryl eagerly. "I remember Coral's mamma told you that her brother's name was Robert Harvey. I was in the room when she said it."
"To be sure! How strange that I should have forgotten it!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys. "The child is right. Robert Harvey was the name I advertised so freely, and without result. We came to the conclusion that he was dead. Surely this man cannot be Coral's uncle!"
Little Coral uttered a startled cry, and looked frightened at the suggestion.
"Mrs. Despard said that he had gone to Australia," remarked Beryl.
"Yes, she did," replied her father; "but Australia is a large place, Beryl, and there might easily be more than one Robert Harvey there. However, I will try to find this man. Do you know his address, Gilbank?"
"Yes, no; they have it at the Academy; but I omitted to take it down; I am so careless in regard to these matters. But I will get it, and send it to you."
"Thank you," said Mr. Hollys; "I had better call on him, though I do not at all expect to find that he is Coral's relative."
The children were so eager to talk to Mr. Gilbank and examine his pretty things, that Mr. Hollys was persuaded to leave them with the artist for a little time whilst he went to his club. Mrs. Campbell drove away to do some shopping in Regent Street, so Coral and Beryl, greatly to their delight, were left alone with their friend. They had so much to tell him, and talked so fast, that Mr. Gilbank did not find it easy to understand them, as they told him what a good angel Miss Burton had proved to them, of the Sunday school they had started at Egloshayle, and of their labours at the Dorcas meeting.
At last Mr. Gilbank put a question that made Beryl pause.
"So you still strive to live as 'children of the kingdom,'" he said gently; "I am glad to know that."
Beryl's cheeks flushed, and she hung her head. She suddenly became aware that she had thought little of the kingdom since she came to London. She had indeed daily uttered the petition, "Thy kingdom come," but with scarce a thought about the meaning of the words. Amid the excitements of her new life she had found no time for reading the Saviour's words, and thinking upon His blessed life. And meanwhile there had been springing up in her heart anger and hatred and strong self-will.
"Mr. Gilbank," she said humbly, "I don't think it is so easy to be a 'child of the kingdom' in London as it is at Egloshayle."
"Why not?" he asked in surprise.
"Because there is so much else to think about," she said; "shopping, and dressing, and seeing sights. And then people are so horrid, one cannot help getting cross sometimes."
"A child of the kingdom has no excuse for getting cross, however 'horrid' people may be," said her friend; "and shopping, dressing, and sight-seeing are poor things to keep one from communing with the King. God, your Father, is as near to you in London as at Egloshayle; and if you have greater temptations, He will help you to overcome them if you ask Him. Remember, child, that being good comes before doing good. The kingdom of God is righteousness and peace and joy; and unless that kingdom is within you, you cannot serve the King."
"But, Mr. Gilbank," said Beryl, "how can you feel peace and joy, when your life seems to be going all wrong, and you are afraid everything will be spoiled for you?"
"What, child, have you come to that thus early?" said Mr. Gilbank, looking at her with a tender smile. "Well, I know of but one way of keeping calm amidst threatening troubles,—it is by trusting the love of God. Your Father in heaven loves you; He will not let anything really harm you, and nothing can happen to you but with His knowledge and by His will."
And Beryl resolved that she would try thus to trust God. And though, when her father presently called for them, she left the artist's studio feeling sad and humbled, she was in a happier and better frame of mind than that in which she had started for the visit.
HOME AGAIN
DAVID GILBANK lost no time in sending Mr. Hollys the address he wanted; but Mr. Hollys suffered some days to pass ere he went in search of Robert Harvey. When he did call at the private hotel at which that gentleman had been staying, he learned that Mr. Robert Harvey had sailed for Canada on the previous day. He had stated that business called him suddenly away, but that his visit would be brief, and he hoped to return to London by the end of the summer. But Mr. Hollys, having made up his mind that this could not be Coral's uncle, concerned himself very little about Mr. Harvey's doings. He told the children the result of his enquiries, and then dismissed the matter from his mind—an example they speedily followed.
Beryl found a pleasant surprise awaiting her on her return from visiting Mr. Gilbank, in the shape of a kind note from Miss Burton inviting her pupils to spend a long day with her at her home. No prospect could have seemed more delightful to the two children, and when the day arrived, they enjoyed it fully as much as they expected.
Space does not permit us to dwell upon the pleasures of that long day at Hampstead—the kindness of Miss Burton's mother and sisters, the freedom in which they were allowed to make acquaintance with every corner of the little old-fashioned house, and the delightful ramble over Hampstead Heath, which set the children longing to return to the country.
Too quickly the day passed. As they came back from their walk, their tongues still busy—for it seemed as if they could never say all they wanted to Miss Burton—they were dismayed to find Mrs. Everard's carriage already awaiting them at the gate of the cottage.
"We told Lucy not to come till nine," they said; "and it is not nine yet."
But, to their surprise, it was not Lucy, but Mr. Hollys, who had come to fetch them. They found him in the little drawing-room talking to Mrs. Burton. He had come, he said, in order to have a few words with Miss Burton. He wanted to make arrangements for the children's return home with her early in the following week.
"Oh, are we going home?" exclaimed both the children at once. "That will be nice!"
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys. "What strange creatures children are! You were glad enough to come away, and now you are just as delighted to go back."
"Oh, but you know, papa," said Beryl, "there is no place like home."
Little Coral was wearied with her long day of enjoyment, and as they drove home she fell asleep in her corner of the carriage. But Beryl was wide awake, and her mind working busily. Suddenly she perceived that this was a favourable opportunity of putting to her father a question she had resolved to ask him, though she had much dread of what his answer might be.
She leaned forward and gently touched his hand to attract his attention.
Mr. Hollys' thoughts must have been very absorbing at that moment, for he started and looked round with the expression of one who had forgotten for a time where he was.
"Papa, I want to say something to you," whispered Beryl; "but don't speak loudly, because Coral is asleep."
"Well, what is it?" he asked, rousing himself with a sigh to listen.
"I want to ask you a question, papa," said Beryl, with unwonted timidity. "I hope you won't mind my asking it; I feel so very anxious to know."
"Of course I shall not mind, child," returned her father carelessly; "why make such a fuss about it? You are not generally shy of asking questions."
"But this is something very particular," said Beryl, still hesitating.
"Really! I am curious to hear what it is," he said playfully. "Out with it, Beryl."
"Papa, is it true that you are going to marry Mrs. Campbell?"
"What?" he exclaimed, in a tone of profound astonishment. "What do you say, Beryl?"
Beryl repeated the question.
"My dear Beryl! What can have put such an idea into your head?" he returned.
"Isn't it true, papa?" she asked anxiously.
"Certainly not," he replied, "nor ever will be."
"Oh, I am so glad!" she exclaimed, drawing a deep sigh of relief.
"Whatever has made you think of such a thing?" he asked again.
Then Beryl repeated to him the words she had heard pass between the two servants.
Mr. Hollys laughed as he listened, but yet he seemed annoyed.
"Whatever will people say next!" he exclaimed. "I never knew anything like the mischief women will make with their tongues. I hope you have not said a word of this to any one, Beryl?"
"I told Miss Burton," said Beryl.
"Did you? You should not have done so. What did she say?" he said quickly.
"Oh, I don't know—she did not say much—only that I must be a good girl and try to make the best of it," said Beryl.
"Oh," said Mr. Hollys, and became silent.
"I am very glad it is not true," observed Beryl presently. "I could not bear to have a stepmother; I hope you will never marry again, papa."
"Why should you hope that?" he returned almost sharply. "I might marry a good woman whom you would love and who would make you happy."
"Oh, I could not be happy with a stepmother," exclaimed Beryl confidently. "They are never good. I should hate her—I know I should."
"That is a foolish notion you have picked up," said her father. "You should not speak in that positive way about things you know nothing of."
"But, papa, you are not thinking of marrying, are you?" asked Beryl, getting alarmed.
Mr. Hollys was silent for a moment or two, ere he replied to her question.
"You need not be afraid, Beryl," he said, at last, rather constrainedly. "I do not think I am likely to marry again."
Beryl was hardly satisfied with this reply; but she had not time to say more, for the carriage was drawing up at Mrs. Everard's door, and Coral woke with a start.
A few days later the children, with ill-concealed elation, said good-bye to Mrs. Everard and her household, and started on their journey homewards. Mr. Hollys drove with them to the London terminus, where Miss Burton met them, as arranged. Mr. Hollys seemed sorry that he was not going with them.
"I shall soon follow you, Beryl," he said. "I feel that I have had enough of London."
"Oh, do, papa! That will be nice!" cried Beryl joyfully.
Beryl's spirits did not flag through all the long journey to Egloshayle. When she sprang out of train at the little country station, she appeared almost as fresh as when she started, from London.
How pleasant it was to be at Egloshayle again! The cool evening breeze which greeted them was so much sweeter and purer than any air to be breathed in London. And then to catch the distant murmur of the waves, and see them tumbling in merry haste upon the shore—what pleasure in town could compare with that?
Miss Burton smiled to see the rapture with which the children welcomed each familiar sight and sound as they drove home in the waning light.
"How true it is that there is no place like home!" remarked Beryl, as Egloshayle House came in sight.
"It is worthwhile to go away to have the pleasure of coming back," said Coral sagely.
In her joy at finding herself at home, Beryl threw her arms around her aunt's neck, and gave her an unusually warm embrace, till that lady implored her niece to have mercy on her pretty lace frill. She even had a kind word and caress for the fat, lazy poodle, and soon—as followed by Coral she ran through the house, looking into every nook and corner, and making enquiries concerning all that had happened in her absence—the whole household had cause to know that Miss Beryl had come home.
A STRANGER APPEARS AT EGLOSHAYLE
CORAL and Beryl received a hearty welcome home from the good folks of Egloshayle. Every one seemed glad that they had returned. The little Sunday scholars were delighted to see their teachers again, and to learn that the school was to be re-opened on the following Sunday.
After their long holidays, Miss Burton found that her pupils settled to their lessons better than she could have expected. She kept them well employed, and so busy and happy were they that the days seemed winged, so swiftly did they pass.
At the end of June, Mr. Hollys returned home, but he did not remain more than a few weeks at Egloshayle. After he had gone, in the warm August days, the children almost lived in the open air, reading and working, or learning their lessons in some shady nook in the garden, and often coaxing Miss Burton to allow them to have their tea or supper there. Sometimes they would picnic at some pleasant place along the shore; Andrew would go with them loaded with various requisites, and with his help the children would kindle a fire in some sheltered corner amongst the rocks, and boil the kettle for tea in gipsy fashion. When this enjoyable repast was over, Coral and Beryl would amuse themselves by clambering about the rocks, or wading in the waves in search of shells or seaweed.
Though she was now in her teens, and growing a tall girl, Beryl did not disdain these simple pleasures. She was perfectly satisfied with the life she led, and no thought of change, or trouble ever crossed her mind. But whilst she was thus fearless of the future, the coming days were bringing her change and trouble of a kind that would be very hard to bear.
Mr. Hollys came home again at the beginning of September, and, as usual at this season, he had many visitors. Engaged though he was, he managed to find time for many a visit to the schoolroom, and showed much interest in the doings of the children and their governess.
It happened one day, at this time, that Miss Burton and the children, returning through the village from a walk, noticed a strange gentleman standing at the door of the "Blue Anchor Inn." There was nothing remarkable in his appearance; he was merely a tall, dark man, with a long brownish beard, and they would not have given a second thought to him, had he not attracted their attention by starting forward as he caught sight of the children, and regarding them, as they passed, with an earnestness which they found rather embarrassing.
"How that man stared at us!" exclaimed Beryl loftily. "I think it was very rude of him."
"I fancy he thought he had seen you before," remarked Miss Burton.
"He looked at Coral most," said Beryl. "I wonder who he is."
"Some one who is staying at the inn, I suppose," replied Miss Burton; "an artist, perhaps, like your friend Mr. Gilbank."
"Oh, I dare say he knew us by the picture in the Academy!" said Coral, hitting the truth in her childish simplicity.
The others laughed at this suggestion, and then, beginning to talk of Mr. Gilbank, soon forgot the stranger they had seen.
But the next day they saw him again. This time he was on the beach, standing with Joe Pollard on the rocks below Sheldon Point, and listening earnestly to the fisherman, who appeared to be telling him a long story.
"What a strange man that is!" said Beryl. "What can Joe be telling him?"
As she gazed at the two, she saw the stranger grasp Joe's hand, and shake it heartily; then turning, he hastily made his way across the beach in the direction of Egloshayle.
"I shall go and ask Joe who he is," said Beryl; and bounding over the shingles, she was soon at Joe's side.
Joe was startled by the child's sudden appearance and eager questions. He drew the sleeve of his jersey across his eyes, and cleared his throat twice ere he answered her.
"It's the strangest thing, Miss Beryl," he said. "That gentleman has come down from London to find out about the vessel that was wrecked here last March twelvemonth. It seems he has just come back from Canada, where he has been in search of a sister whom he had lost sight of. He learned there that his sister had come to England in this ship—the one as was wrecked here, I mean. So he came, asking me to tell him about the wreck."
"Yes," said Beryl eagerly; "and what did you tell him?"
"Oh, all there was to tell, miss—about the poor lady who died up at the house and little Miss Coral. He'd heard something of it before from the shipowners, I reckon. He's gone off in a grand hurry now—to find Mr. Hollys, I suppose."
"Oh, Joe, what a wonderful thing!" cried Beryl. "He must be Coral's uncle. How surprised she will be to hear it! I must run and tell her."
And Beryl scrambled over the rocks with perilous haste in her eagerness to join Coral. Her mind was thrown into such a state of wonder and excitement by the news she had heard that she could not pause to think how it might affect her own personal history.
Miss Burton and Coral were astonished to hear what she had to tell them. Little Coral looked frightened. Her uncle had become a sort of mythical personage to her, and she had never thought that he would really appear.
"We had better go home at once, Beryl, and tell your father what you have heard," said Miss Burton.
So they hurried to the house as quickly as possible, and surprised Mr. Hollys with their intelligence. Beryl had hardly finished repeating to her father what Joe had told her, when there came a loud ring at the house-bell.
"There he is!" cried Beryl excitedly. "I knew he would soon come for Coral."
"But he won't take me away, will he?" asked Coral, looking dreadfully distressed.
"Not to-day, certainly, my child; don't look so alarmed," said Mr. Hollys kindly, as he took up the card a servant now brought him, and read on it the name of Robert Harvey. "You ought to be glad your uncle has come."
But Coral felt anything but glad as Miss Burton hurried her upstairs to be made presentable by Lucy. A little later a servant was sent to bring Coral to the drawing-room. Coral's face grew white.
"You will come with me, Beryl?" she said, turning with an appealing look to her adopted sister.
Beryl was quite ready to accompany her; but the servant interposed. "Mr. Hollys said that only Miss Coral was to go down," she said.
Beryl dropped Coral's hand with a look of disappointment, and poor little frightened Coral had to go alone to meet her formidable uncle.
"Oh, Miss Burton!" exclaimed Beryl, when they were alone. "Do you think Coral's uncle will want to take her away from us?"
"I cannot tell," said her governess gravely.
And Beryl felt that if her dear little sister were taken from her, she could never be happy again.
SORROWFUL PARTINGS
BY Mr. Hollys' pressing invitation, Mr. Harvey became his guest for a time. Coral quickly lost all fear of him. His bronzed, bearded face had a kind look, and his manner to the children was gentle and winning. He could not make enough of little Coral, who reminded him so vividly of the sister he had lost, and it seemed to him that by goodness to her child he might, to some extent, make amends to his dead sister for the unkindness he now so deeply regretted.
It may be imagined what a blow it was to the children when they learned that Mr. Harvey had made up his mind to return to Australia in the following month, and that he meant to take Coral with him.
Beryl protested indignantly against the cruelty of taking Coral from her. Coral's sorrow was less demonstrative, but she grieved sorely as the parting drew near.
"Australia is such miles and miles and miles away!" Beryl would declare. "I shall never see you again, Coral, if you go there; I know I never shall. And I thought you were always going to be my dear little sister, and we should never be parted. Oh, it is too dreadful!"
"And to think that the great wide sea will be always between us," said Coral; "that will make you seem such an immense way off."
"I shall never look at the waves without thinking of you," said Beryl. "I shall fancy you are right away there, as far as one can see, and I shall call across the waves—'Coral! Coral!' But you will not hear me."
"Perhaps I shall, if you call very loud," replied Coral.
The children had their photographs taken before they parted, and as souvenirs they exchanged lockets, made of solid gold, with a wreath of forget-me-nots wrought in turquoise, which Mr. Hollys bought for them. Beryl's locket held Coral's likeness, and Coral's Beryl's, and each promised the other to look at the portrait and kiss it every morning and night. But we must not dwell on that sad parting. The children's last farewell was painful to see. Mr. Hollys had forcibly to separate them at last.
Coral disappeared with her uncle. She would have the relief of fresh scenes and new interests; but Beryl, left alone amid the familiar scenes, was as one broken-hearted. It was long ere Beryl could be roused from her sorrow. She missed her little sister at every turn, and all attempts to cheer her proved vain. She loved to dwell on her loss, and she would wander disconsolately through the garden or along the beach, thinking, with a heavy heart, of the happy times that had passed away for ever.
But every one was so kind to her, and so anxious to give her pleasure, that gradually Beryl's natural buoyancy of spirit returned. Her father took her for many a ride with him, mounted on her little grey pony. When the hunting season commenced, he allowed Beryl to ride with him to the various meets, consigning her to Andrew's care, whilst he followed the hounds. Beryl thoroughly enjoyed these glimpses of the hunt. She longed to be grown-up, that she might ride after the hounds, as did some daring young ladies of the neighbourhood.
Children are seldom observant of the demeanour of their elders, or Beryl might have seen that her governess was not so happy as she had been when first she came to Egloshayle. One day the truth came to her knowledge in a surprising way.
It was a bright November day, one of those late autumn days which have a beauty of their own. There was a crisp freshness in the still air, the sky was clear and gloriously blue, the sea calm and bright, whilst the trees in the garden showed the rich russets and yellows peculiar to this season.
Beryl had been longing for a walk; but Miss Burton had been obliged to insist upon a French exercise being first re-written, and she had gone to make some calls in the village, having arranged that Beryl should join her there as soon as the exercise was creditably written.
Beryl was not in a working mood, and the exercise took her a long time. When, at last, she pushed aside her books with a sigh of relief, she was dismayed to find how late it was. She hurried upstairs to get ready for her walk, when a glance from her bedroom window showed her that Miss Burton had already returned, and was walking in the garden with Mr. Hollys.
Something in their appearance made Beryl stand at the window to watch them. She wondered what her father could be talking about so earnestly as he gazed into Miss Burton's face. And Miss Burton looked pale, startled, unlike herself. Her father seemed to be urging some request, to which Miss Burton would not listen.
Now she appeared to utter a final word, and turning from Mr. Hollys, walked quickly to the house.
What could it mean? Beryl wondered.
She hastily put on her hat and jacket, and ran downstairs to join her governess. But she was not to be found in the schoolroom, nor in any of the sitting-rooms, and after waiting a few minutes Beryl, growing impatient, went to Miss Burton's room.
Beryl did as children not seldom do. She knocked at the door, and opened it at the same instant.
"Can you come for a walk, now, Miss Burton?" she said, as she advanced into the room.
There was no reply, and to Beryl's dismay she saw Miss Burton kneeling beside the bed, her hands clasped, her face hidden, whilst stifled sobs shook her frame. At the sound of the child's approach she started and raised her head, but could not at once conquer her emotion.
"Oh, what is the matter, Miss Burton?" cried Beryl, greatly alarmed. "Are you feeling ill?"
"No, I am not ill," said Miss Burton faintly, as she rose from her knees and sank on to the nearest chair.
"Then what is it?" asked Beryl. "Have you had bad news? Is your mother ill?"
"No, no, dear; it is not that," said Miss Burton, struggling to subdue her sobs.
"Oh, Miss Burton, do tell me what is making you unhappy!" Beryl implored her.
"I cannot, dear; so please do not ask me any more questions," said Miss Burton, trying to smile. "I have my troubles as well as you; but they won't bear talking about. Now run away, and take a walk by yourself; for I do not feel equal to going with you."
Slowly and reluctantly Beryl turned away. She went into the garden. Her father was still there, and she thought that she would join him; but as she came in sight, he turned hastily towards the stable-yard. Beryl felt sure that he had seen her, and she fancied that he too must wish to be left to himself. She did not follow him, but took a solitary and dreary walk.
Miss Burton did not come down during the remainder of the day, nor did she appear at breakfast the next morning. At that meal Mr. Hollys announced to his sister his intention of leaving home forthwith. This was a surprise both to her and to Beryl.
"You will not be away long, papa?" Beryl cried. "You will come back for Christmas?"
"I cannot say," he returned hastily. "I may be away some time—perhaps I shall go abroad."
Beryl was perplexed and grieved; but something in her father's manner restrained her from asking questions. He was given to making and carrying out his plans promptly, and in less than an hour he had driven away from Egloshayle House to catch the London express. Another painful surprise awaited Beryl. A few days later her governess told her that she would be obliged to leave her at Christmas.
"Leave me!" repeated Beryl. "You do not mean altogether?"
"Yes, dear; it grieves me to say it, but I shall be obliged to leave you for good."
"Oh, Miss Burton, you cannot mean it! How could I do without you?" cried Beryl wildly.
"You must learn to do without me, Beryl."
"I will not; you shall not go!" exclaimed Beryl passionately. "Why are you going? Does papa wish you to go?"
"No, it is not that," said her governess tremulously.
"Then you really must not go; I will write to papa!" cried Beryl.
"No, no, dear; you must not do that," replied Miss Burton, laying her hand on Beryl's arm. "Listen to me. I am obliged to go. Your father knows about it, and will not attempt to hinder me. It is painful enough to leave you; do not make it harder for me by your words."
Beryl could not understand why, if it was painful to her, Miss Burton should insist on going. Nor when she spoke to her aunt on the subject could she get any satisfactory explanation. Miss Hollys understood Miss Burton's reasons for the step as little as Beryl.
There was about it all an element of mystification which added to the pain with which Beryl contemplated the coming change. It was bad enough to lose Coral, but what would life at Egloshayle be like when Miss Burton too was gone? Miss Burton tried to cheer her by saying that perhaps Beryl would be able to come, and stay with her at Hampstead sometimes. But Beryl only shook her head. Nothing would ever be nice again. When the parting day came, it was a sad, despairful young face Miss Burton looked back upon as the train carried her out of Egloshayle station.
BERYL ACTS THE PART OF A HEROINE
BERYL knew not what to do with herself after Miss Burton's departure. Miss Hollys tried to be kind to her niece; but her well-meant attempts to cheer and amuse the child only irritated Beryl. She would wander listlessly about the house, unable to settle to any occupation, and feeling as restless and unhappy as a girl can feel. Her aunt hinted that she would probably be sent to school in the course of a few weeks, a prospect which did not tend to raise Beryl's spirits.
One day Beryl roused herself from her moodiness, and started for a long walk. She had been thinking of Mr. Gilbank, and the words he had said to her when she had asked him how one could have peace in the heart when one's life seemed to be going all wrong. She knew that if her friend could speak to her now he would say, as he had said then, that she must trust God, her Father, and believe that He loved her, although He had permitted these changes that she found so hard to bear. The child was learning a lesson that no one, old or young, finds easy to learn—the lesson that God's love is as real and great when clouds shadow our pathway, as it is when we walk in sunshine. But with the first glimpse of the truth, leading her to look up to God with childlike trust and love, a feeling of sweet peace came to her heart.
Beryl walked along the shore as far as Sheldon Point. The day was bright, and though the wind blew high, it was not very cold. Beryl enjoyed contending with the boisterous breeze, which brought a warm glow of colour to her cheeks.
There were some children playing on the rocks beneath the Point, and Beryl lingered for a few minutes to watch their play. They were jumping from rock to rock, as the outgoing tide receded, and urging each other forward to one daring feat after another. It was not a very safe amusement, for the rocks were here and there slimed with slippery seaweed, and below them the sea flowed deep; but the children were accustomed to climb about the rocks, and had no sense of danger. Beryl had often performed such feats herself, and she did not think it necessary to utter a word of warning.
But suddenly she was startled by a shrill cry, followed by a great splash. A little boy of five, moved by an adventurous spirit beyond his years, had endeavoured to follow the example of his elders, but failing in the leap, had slipped on a treacherous edge, and fallen back into deep water.
The children screamed loudly in their fright, and Beryl echoed their cry as she looked round for help. No one was in sight; the beach was deserted at this hour. Before help could reach them from the village, the boy would surely be drowned.
What was to be done? Beryl hesitated scarcely a moment. She could swim; it was for her to make an effort to save the child. Throwing off her jacket and hat, Beryl leaped into the water as the boy rose to the surface. But already the swift-flowing current had carried him some distance from the rocks. Beryl struck out bravely for him, though she experienced unusual difficulty in swimming, encumbered as she was by clothing. Ere she could reach him, the child sank again, and when his head again appeared on the surface, it was still far from her.
And now, as the cries of the children rang in her ears, Beryl began to doubt her power to save him, and a sense of her own peril chilled her heart. But with a prayer for help she pressed on, and putting out all her strength, by a great effort managed to reach the child and grasp him, only to find that his weight immediately dragged her beneath the waves.
The children on the rocks uttered an affrighted scream as they saw them both disappear. But Beryl's head soon re-appeared above the waves as she tried to strike out for the shore. But her strength was spent, and the weight of her clothes dragged her down. The tide, too, was dead against her. She could make no way against it, whilst she held the child; yet she would not let him go.
Again both sank beneath the sea, and when Beryl again rose to the surface, she saw that she had drifted still further from the land. And now she saw that she must die, and oh! How dear life seemed to her at that moment! Her father's love, her happy home, all the precious things that were hers rose before her mind. But then came the thought of God, her Father, and a blessed sense that she was in His hands for life or for death. And Beryl passed into unconsciousness without fear or distress.
But the work of Beryl's young life was not yet over. God had heard her cry for help. A boat with two fishermen in it was rounding Sheldon Point, and the screams of the children on the rocks brought them quickly to the spot. One of them dived into the water, and clutched the children as they rose for the last time to the surface. With his comrade's help they were lifted into the boat, and rowed swiftly to the shore.
Both were apparently lifeless when lifted out of the water; but the men took prompt measures for their restoration, and Beryl soon showed signs of returning animation. She was carried into Joe Pollard's cottage, which was nearest to the spot where the adventure had occurred, and his wife did everything she could for her, whilst the news of what had happened was sent to Egloshayle House.
It was feared for some time that help had come too late for the little boy; but the persevering efforts made to restore him at last had their reward; he revived, and in the end fared much better than Beryl.
Lucy came in the carriage, and conveyed her young lady home. She was put to bed, and every precaution taken to ward off ill effects; but ere long shivering fits came on. By night she was in a high fever, and the doctor, who was summoned, did not disguise that he thought very seriously of her case. When, on his second visit the next morning, he found no improvement in her symptoms, he deemed it advisable to at once telegraph to her father.
Mr. Hollys was in Paris, and though he started on his journey homeward as soon as possible, he did not arrive at Egloshayle till the evening of the following day. He entered his home with a sinking heart. It was hard to miss Beryl's bounding step and rapturous greeting. He came in quietly, and refusing all refreshment till he had seen his child, stole noiselessly upstairs to Beryl's sick-room.
What a change met his eyes as he approached her bedside! Beryl's beautiful hair had been shorn off; her face was burning with fever, and her eyes, unnaturally brilliant, looked at him without the least sign of recognition. She was tossing to and fro, and talking incessantly in a wild, rambling way. Now she would cry out that Coral was drowning, and implore some one to save her. Then she seemed to fancy that she herself was sinking in the water, and stretching out her arms, would cry to her father for help, taking no comfort from his presence, though he bent over her with words of tenderest love. Presently she would be calling for Miss Burton, and beseeching her not to go away.
The scene soon became too painful for Guy Hollys, and he left the sick-room and went downstairs, looking worn and haggard from the effects of his long Journey and distress of mind. He made enquiries, and soon learned all that could be told him of the cause of Beryl's illness. He was moved with sorrowful pride to think how bravely Beryl had thrown herself into danger in the hope of saving another's life. But how could he bear it, if that little life had been won at the cost of her own? The fisherman whose boy had so narrowly escaped drowning had many other children; but he, Guy Hollys, had only this one precious child.
"Oh, what a pity it is that Miss Burton is not here!" said his sister to him. "She is invaluable in sickness; she has such health and such strong nerves, not like poor me, whom the least thing upsets."
"Yes; she is a good, reliable woman—a woman in a thousand," said Mr. Hollys gravely. "I too wish that she were here."
"She would come, I have no doubt, Guy, if you were to ask her," suggested Miss Hollys. "Additional help is really wanted, for Lucy cannot do everything. Of course we could hire a nurse, but it would be much better to have Miss Burton."
"But how can I ask her for our sakes to leave her home now?" said Mr. Hollys. "You forget that to-morrow will be Christmas Day."
"No, I do not," said Miss Hollys; "but she is very fond of Beryl. I believe she would gladly come for her sake."
"True. Yes, I think she would," replied her brother thoughtfully.
And then he sat in silence for a while, musing over the suggestion his sister had made. Presently he rose and went to the library, and having paced to and fro that room for some minutes in anxious deliberation, he sat down at his writing-table, and taking pen and paper, wrote a letter to Miss Burton.
And though it would hardly be true to say that he asked Miss Burton to come, for he did not venture to do more than hint how greatly she was needed, his letter had the effect of bringing her to Egloshayle two days later.