The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBeryl's triumphThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Beryl's triumphAuthor: Eglanton ThorneRelease date: January 15, 2024 [eBook #72721]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1909*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BERYL'S TRIUMPH ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Beryl's triumphAuthor: Eglanton ThorneRelease date: January 15, 2024 [eBook #72721]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1909
Title: Beryl's triumph
Author: Eglanton Thorne
Author: Eglanton Thorne
Release date: January 15, 2024 [eBook #72721]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1909
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BERYL'S TRIUMPH ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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BERYL STRUCK OUT BRAVELY FOR HIM.
BY
EGLANTON THORNE
AUTHOR OF"THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "IT'S ALL REAL TRUE,""IN LONDON FIELDS," ETC.
WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
Formerly issued asCORAL AND BERYL
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. BERYL
II. THE SHIPWRECK
III. A FRIENDLESS SUFFERER
IV. BERYL MAKES A REQUEST
V. BERYL HAS PERPLEXING THOUGHTS
VI. A TALK ABOUT THE KINGDOM
VII. BERYL GAINS A FRIEND
VIII. THE FIRST QUARREL
IX. A STRANGE SUNDAY SCHOOL
X. OVERTAKEN BY THE TIDE
XI. THE CHILDREN ARE MISSING
XII. DELIVERANCE
XIII. ANTICIPATED GLOOM
XIV. THE GOVERNESS
XV. FALLING INTO TEMPTATION
XVI. SELF-WILL AND SORROW
XVII. AN UNWELCOME GUEST
XVIII. BERYL'S TORMENTOR
XIX. HOW BERYL'S TORMENTOR BECAME HER FRIEND
XX. BERYL'S BIRTHDAY PARTY
XXI. A TALK UNDER THE WALNUT TREE
XXII. MORE WORK FOR THE KINGDOM
XXIII. IN LONDON
XXIV. DAVID GILBANK'S PICTURE
XXV. HOME AGAIN
XXVI. A STRANGER APPEARS AT EGLOSHAYLE
XXVII. SORROWFUL PARTINGS
XXVIII. BERYL ACTS THE PART OF A HEROINE
XXIX. THE DAWN OF A NEW LIFE
XXX. A GRAND SURPRISE FOR BERYL
BERYL'S TRIUMPH
BERYL
"DO make haste, Lucy; how slow you are!" exclaimed Beryl Hollys, as she impatiently shook the long, silken tresses, which her maid was carefully brushing. "Papa will be here before you have done my hair, I do believe."
"You need not be afraid of that, Miss Beryl," answered the maid quietly; "for Andrew has only just driven out of the yard, and it's a good three miles to the station. Master can't possibly be here yet awhile."
"Well, do make haste, anyhow!" returned Beryl, giving her head another toss; "there are ever so many things I want to do before papa comes."
"I am as quick as I can be," replied Lucy, in an aggrieved tone; "but your hair is in such a tangle with tossing in the wind, that there is no doing anything with it."
"My hair is a bother," said Beryl. "I wish I could wear it quite short like a boy. It kept blowing in my eyes and teasing me so when I was on the beach. I should have enjoyed the wind but for that. I think it is good fun when the wind blows as it has been blowing this afternoon."
"The wind still seems to be rising," said Lucy, as an angry gust beat against the house; "I am afraid there will be a storm to-night."
"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Beryl gleefully. "I love to hear the wind roaring after I am in bed. It seems to make the bed feel so much more cosy and comfortable."
"Oh, Miss Beryl, how can you say you are glad!" said Lucy reproachfully; for, being a fisherman's daughter, she knew the perils of the deep, and to her a storm was an event to be dreaded. "Think of the poor sailors who may be drowned whilst you are enjoying your warm bed."
"Oh, well, Lucy, you know I did not mean that I was glad that sailors should be drowned," replied Beryl, in a tone of annoyance; "I'm sure I don't wish any one to come to harm; but I do like to hear the wind roar."
By this time Beryl's hair was in order, and Lucy proceeded to array her in a white dress, with blue sash and ribbons. As soon as she was released from her maid's hands, Beryl, regardless of Lucy's warning that she would tumble her dress, scrambled up into the high window-seat, and took a good look at the prospect it commanded. The nursery window was at the side of Egloshayle House, and looked over the garden wall into the narrow, hilly street which led from the village to the shore.
A corner of the beach, too, was visible, with a row of fishermen's boats drawn up high and dry on the stones, and some nets spread over them. Several men were moving about on the beach, gathering up the nets, and making the boats more secure, in expectation of a stormy night. The gloomy sky, the angry roll of the waves, and the increasing bluster of the March wind, seemed to show that their prognostications would soon be verified.
"How the wind does blow, to be sure!" said Beryl; "and now it is beginning to rain. I hope papa will not get wet."
"The rain is not enough to hurt any one at present," said Lucy, looking out; "and I dare say Andrew took wraps. Oh, Miss Beryl, do look at your dress. It will not be fit to be seen if you kneel on it like that."
Beryl disdained to reply to Lucy's words, but, springing lightly from the window-seat, hastened out of the room.
A delicious smell of cooking came to her nostrils as she ran down the wide staircase. Beryl observed it with satisfaction, for she would have dinner with her father to-night in honour of his return, and she had a keen appetite for the dainties which cook was sure to send up on this occasion.
Beryl was the only child in that large, old house, and as such she had many indulgences; but she had never known a mother's love and care. Nearly twelve years had passed since the summer day when Mr. Hollys brought his pretty young bride to her Cornish home. Egloshayle House looked a bright and pleasant abode then, when newly painted and adorned in honour of her coming, and the quiet life of the little seaside village seemed sweet and peaceful to the hearts which clung together so fondly, and made the happiness of each other's life.
The joy had lasted but a short time. Only one year of happy wedded life, and then came death and change.
At Beryl's birth her mother passed from earth, and to the desolate husband the young helpless life seemed a poor exchange for that of which it robbed him.
He went abroad for some years, leaving his babe in the care of servants, who were faithful to their charge, and lovingly tended the child. When at length he returned home, Guy Hollys was very pleased with his tiny daughter, and learned to love her tenderly, though, perhaps, his love was not the wisest, most unselfish form of parental affection. He liked to pet and fondle his little Beryl, showering upon her gifts and indulgences; but his kindness was of a sort that gave him little trouble, and his fondness for her did not incline him to settle down and make his home at Egloshayle again. Since his wife's death, he had returned to the habits of his former bachelor life, and usually lived in London, contenting himself with paying brief visits to his Cornish property, to see that all was going on as it should there, and that the child was well and happy.
In order that Beryl might not be entirely left to servants, he persuaded his sister, an unmarried lady of but small property, to live at Egloshayle House, and take the oversight of the household. Having made this arrangement, he felt fully persuaded that he had done all that could be required of him as a father.
Beryl was very fond of the parent of whom she saw so little, and always hailed his visits with delight. The child's life was not dull, though she had no companion of her own age.
She thoroughly enjoyed her free, wild, seaside life, and found a variety of delights and amusements in rambling along the shore, and exploring the rocks and caves with which it abounded, or in making acquaintance with the honest fisher-folk of the place, who had always a smile and a pleasant word for the little lady of "the House." Her father had given her a pony, on which she used to ride for many a mile along the coast, with Andrew in attendance to see that she came to no harm.
It would have been pleasanter, no doubt, as Beryl sometimes acknowledged, if she had had a child-friend to share her walks and rides; but on the whole she was pretty content with her lot, and did not complain of what could not be helped. These long hours passed in the open air gave her health and strength, and she grew a tall, strong girl, of graceful, well-made figure, and as hardy, agile, and swift-footed as any child in Egloshayle.
Beryl's mental culture was far behind her physical, and she was little less ignorant than the fishermen's children who played on the beach. Her aunt was supposed to be responsible for Beryl's education; but Miss Cecilia Hollys was far too indolent to impose upon herself the trouble of teaching Beryl. Beyond an occasional music lesson, and frequent reprimands on the score of her ignorance, with tiresome injunctions as to ladylike behaviour, she left the culture of Beryl's mind to her nurse, who, having taught her to read after a fashion, to write an ugly scrawling hand, and to do sums of the simplest description, could give no further instruction to her charge.
Beryl was in no wise distressed by the poverty of her mental requirements. She was blissfully unconscious of the fact that for a gentleman's daughter she was disgracefully ignorant. She could read the pretty, gaily-illustrated story books with which her father kept her well supplied, and she felt no need of any further learning. Beryl was disposed to be well satisfied with herself. She had an agreeable sense of superiority and dignity as she went about amongst the fisher-folk of Egloshayle, who regarded her with as much admiration and deference as if she had been a little princess. Sometimes, when the young lady was more than usually perverse and wilful, her aunt would threaten to send her to school, but this threat never disturbed Beryl's equanimity, since she felt certain that her father would not consent to an arrangement to which she herself felt so strong an objection.
Beryl was on her way to her Aunt Cecilia as she flitted down the staircase, sniffing, with pleasant anticipations, the savoury odours which escaped from the kitchen regions. She was not particularly fond of her aunt's company, for the affection existing between them was of the coolest description; but in her present mood of excitement Beryl felt restless and impatient, and a little talk with her aunt might help to pass away the time.
Beryl entered the drawing-room, a long, low room with a painted ceiling, and a bow-window, which commanded a fine sea-view. The room felt warm, even to closeness, for a large fire of logs burned in the grate, and suffused through the apartment the fragrance of burning wood. Beryl could not see the fire as she came in, for a large black and gold screen completely hid the hearthrug. Going round to the other side of the screen, Beryl saw her aunt, comfortably stretched on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, in which she seemed greatly interested. A fat little dog was lying on the rug at Miss Cecilia's feet, and it moved languidly and gave a feeble whine as Beryl approached. Beryl took no notice of the little animal, for, though fond of most dogs, she could feel nothing but contempt for this stupid, useless poodle. Lion, the great mastiff chained in the yard, from whose approach Aunt Cecilia would have shrunk away in terror, was, in Beryl's opinion, far more suitable for a pet and plaything.
Miss Hollys had long ceased to be young, but she was dressed with as much care and attention to fashion as in the days of her early youth, though the youthful style of her apparel only heightened in cruel contrast the worn and faded look of her face. Her thin, pinched features had an expression of peevish discontent, and she appeared as unsympathetic a companion as a child could have. She started and shivered as Beryl bounded across the room.
"Oh, Beryl, if only you could learn to enter a room quietly!" she said, in a weak, fretful tone. "And you have left the door open; I know you have by the dreadful draught."
"Really, Aunt Cecilia, I should think a little draught would do you good," observed Beryl coolly; "this room feels like an oven."
"You forget that I am not like you, child, as strong as a horse. The least current of air gives me cold. Do, for goodness' sake, shut that door."
Beryl did as she was told, and then came back to the fireplace. Tea-things were standing on a little table beside her aunt's couch, for Miss Hollys had just been fortifying herself with her afternoon cup of tea.
"May I have a cup of tea, aunt?" asked Beryl, as she laid hands upon the teapot.
"You had better not," said Aunt Cecilia languidly; "tea is not good for little girls."
But Beryl had already filled a cup for herself, and proceeded to enjoy the tea without further debate.
It was clear that asking her aunt's permission was a mere formality. Miss Hollys never expected that her injunctions would be regarded, and Beryl had long known that she could disobey her aunt with impunity. Filling her lap with sweet biscuits, Beryl sat down on the hearthrug to enjoy a little repast.
"It will keep her quiet! That's a mercy!" thought her aunt, as she turned again to her novel.
But Miss Hollys was soon reminded that Beryl could eat and talk at the same time.
"Do you think papa will soon be here, Aunt Cecilia?" she asked, with her mouth full of biscuit.
"I dare say," replied her aunt; "you had better make haste and eat your biscuits, or you won't be able to speak to him when he comes."
"What time would the train get to the station?" persisted Beryl.
"I can't tell you the exact time," replied Miss Cecilia; "perhaps Lucy may know."
But Beryl was not disposed to take this hint, and seek Lucy's company again.
"Oh, how stormy it looks over the sea!" she exclaimed. "And the waves are so big. There will be a great storm presently."
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," said Miss Hollys, with a sigh; "I can't sleep when there is a storm. It makes me feel so nervous and weak."
"How would you like it, if you were on board a ship out in the midst of the storm?" returned Beryl, thinking that Lucy's remarks might be repeated to her aunt with advantage. "It will be far worse for the poor sailors than for you."
"I should not like it at all; it would kill me," said Aunt Cecilia.
"I wonder what it feels like to be drowned!" said Beryl, pursuing her own train of thought. "I don't think I should mind it much. There is nothing I like better than being in the water."
Aunt Cecilia had returned to her novel, and took no notice of this remark.
For want of anything better to do, Beryl was beginning to tease the poodle, when the welcome sound of wheels reached her ears, and with a cry of joy she rushed from the room, leaving the door wide open, to her aunt's discomfiture, as she ran into the hall to meet her father.
Mr. Hollys was a tall, brown-haired, brown-bearded man, not yet forty years of age. His countenance showed little trace of the sorrow which had darkened his early life. He had the air of a well-to-do English gentleman, who led an easy, comfortable life, carefully avoiding all unnecessary trouble and vexation.
"Well, Beryl, how are you?" he asked, as he took her in his arms. "Quite well? That's right. You look well enough. Why, how you have grown since Christmas, child! I declare you look nothing but legs and arms."
"I'm glad you think I've grown, papa," said Beryl, with pride; "I want to be very tall; as tall as you, papa."
"Not quite as tall as I am, I hope," he replied; "or you will be a female monstrosity, Beryl. How is your aunt? Let us go and find her. And when will dinner be ready? For I am as hungry as a man ought to be who has been fasting for the last nine hours."
As they entered the drawing-room together, it was plain how much Beryl resembled her father. She had the same blue eyes, the same abundant brown hair, only the child's tresses had a pretty golden tinge, which her father's had lost, and her complexion was fair and delicate.
Beryl did not talk much to her father as he ate his dinner, partly because her own attention was absorbed by the unusual dishes presented to her, and partly because she had sufficient feminine discernment to see that her chatter would be more acceptable to him when he had satisfied his appetite. But when dessert was placed on the table, and her father was leisurely sipping his wine, she gave full rein to her tongue, and began to tell him all that had happened in the little world of Egloshayle during the months of his absence. This pleasant talk, however, was not destined to last long. It was brought to a close in a startling manner.
Whilst the meal was in progress, the storm had been growing stronger and stronger, and the blasts which now beat against the house were tremendous.
"What a gale, to be sure!" remarked Mr. Hollys, as he poured himself out a second glass of wine; "We shall hear of some disasters at sea to-morrow, I fear."
Even as he spoke there fell on their ears, through the roar of wind and waves, the boom of a gun, fired out at sea.
"Why, what is that?" exclaimed Mr. Hollys. "There is surely some vessel in distress off our own coast."
They heard the sound again, and he rose and went to the window, but peered in vain into the dark night.
Just then there came a knock at the door, and, scarce waiting for a response, Andrew burst in, saying in great excitement, "I thought as how you would like to know, sir, that there's great commotion down on the beach yonder. They say there's a vessel in danger off Sheldon Point."
THE SHIPWRECK
ON hearing the news which Andrew brought, Mr. Hollys hastened into the hall, and, putting on his travelling coat and cap, prepared to go out into the stormy night.
"Papa," said Beryl's voice by his side, "do let me go with you, and see the ship."
"Nonsense, child," returned her father hastily; "you could not stand on the beach in such a storm as this. No, no; you must not think of it."
"Oh yes, papa, I could stand against the wind," persisted Beryl; "I am sure I could. You do not know how strong I am."
But Mr. Hollys was firm. "No, no, child, it will not do; I cannot think of it," he said. "But I tell you what you may do, Beryl. You can get Lucy to take you into the garden. You will see the ship from there, I have no doubt."
And with this, Beryl had to be content.
Lucy was anxious herself to see what was happening, and made no objection to taking Beryl into the garden. The garden lay in front of the house, reaching to the beach, and was comparatively a sheltered spot, for a high, strong wall, protected it from any possible danger from wind or wave. At the bottom of the garden there was a door made in the wall, from which a flight of stone steps led down to the beach, giving Beryl easy access to the water when she wanted to bathe, for at high tide the waves broke over the lowest step. As another convenience for bathers, a garden-house had been built close to this door. It consisted of a lower and an upper room, and as the window of the upper room rose above the wall, and overlooked the whole sweep of the bay, it formed a fine observatory.
In this house Lucy and Beryl took refuge from the wind, which even in the garden was felt as far too rough, as it beat in their faces, laden with the cold sea-spray. Soon they were joined by some of the other servants, and the whole party gazed anxiously from the windows; but for a long time they could distinguish nothing save a heaving mass of blackness, over which swept the furious blasts.
Presently Beryl cried, "Lucy, I can see a light! There, far away to the right, beyond Sheldon Point. Don't you see it?"
"Yes, I think I do," said Lucy, peering into the dark. "Ah, and there is that gun again! It sounds a long way off."
"The light is moving!" cried Beryl. "I can see it quite plainly. It is moving towards us."
"Ah, poor souls, the Lord have mercy upon them!" exclaimed Lucy, clasping her hands in despair. "The wind is driving them straight upon the rocks below Sheldon Point."
"What do you mean, Lucy? What will happen to them?" asked Beryl.
"Why, Miss Beryl, the ship will break in pieces if it strikes on those rocks, and they will all go down," replied Lucy. "There is scarce a hope for any of them, poor souls."
"But surely they can be saved; they must be saved!" cried Beryl passionately. "The men will get out the lifeboat. Papa will see that they do something."
"The lifeboat would be of no use amongst those rocks, I fear," said Lucy, "even if they could launch it in such weather as this. The fishermen's lives are as dear as the lives of those on board that ship. They have wives and children to live for."
"Oh, Lucy, I will never say again that I like storms," said Beryl remorsefully. "Oh, I hope the ship will be saved!"
"I remember, many years ago, when I was a little girl, there was a vessel struck on those rocks," said Lucy, "and all on board her were drowned, though there were over a hundred of them."
"How dreadful!" said Beryl, with a shiver, as she watched the light drifting nearer and nearer to the deadly peril of the rocks.
Meanwhile, at the extremity of the beach where Sheldon Point ran out grim and sharp into the sea, a crowd of fisher-folk had gathered, and were watching with grief and horror the oncome of the doomed vessel.
There were brave hearts in that throng, men who would not shrink from danger in attempting to save the lives of others; but even these held back now, feeling that it would be certain destruction to commit themselves to those seething, angry waves.
Mr. Hollys had called for the lifeboat when he came down to the beach, but no seaman had echoed the call. They shook their heads at the mention of it, for they felt it would be madness to put out in it now, and Mr. Hollys was reluctantly forced to own that they were right.
Such a terrific sea had not been known for years. The waves were even dashing over Sheldon Point, a feat which would seem incredible to one who had merely seen the waves when dancing in their summer play at the foot of this lofty height. The fate of a disabled vessel drifting at the mercy of such a sea was indeed hopeless.
"Can nothing be done?" cried Mr. Hollys, in despair. The howling of the wind and the fierce tumult of the waves were all the answer he received.
Lights had been kindled along the shore, and now, as the vessel drew nearer, they could discern her form and size. The cries of those on board her were lost in the storm. Already the angry sea had swept over her, carrying many to death; but they could distinguish some human forms clinging with the grasp of despair to mast and rigging.
"Is it quite impossible to help them? Is there nothing you could do?" asked Mr. Hollys of the fishermen about him.
"We have ropes and life-buoys, sir," answered Joe Pollard, Lucy's brother, a brave, sturdy fellow, of honest Cornish race. "When it comes to the worst, we may be able to pull in some, if the waves bring them near enough."
Nearer came the vessel, driven by the cruel wind. Now they could see clearly the people on deck. Clinging together at the stern were a group whose appearance sent a thrill of deep pity through Mr. Hollys' heart.
They were a father and mother apparently, with their little girl between them. Scarcely had Mr. Hollys observed their look of anguish and love, as they clung together in the prospect of immediate death, ere the dreaded shock came. With a crash, sounding sharp and loud above the roar of wind and water, the vessel snapped in two on the treacherous rocks, and the larger part disappeared at once from view. Looking intently at the spot, Mr. Hollys could see that the ship's stern rested on the rocks, a little above the waves, which seemed greedy to devour it. The woman and child were still clinging there, but the man had disappeared.
And now the brave fishermen were on the alert, eager to rescue any whom the waves might bring within their reach. As their quick eyes caught sight of a dark object tossing close at hand, one and another, girt with a rope, would plunge into the sea to the succour of the drowning man. Some few were brought to shore in this way, but the number was small indeed compared with those who perished.
Mr. Hollys directed Joe Pollard's gaze to the two still clinging to the wreck.
"Is there no possibility of saving them?" he asked. "Could they not be reached from above?"
Joe shook his head. "There's no getting at them that way, I reckon," he replied; "the cliff is as straight as the side of a house below the Point. The only chance would be by swimming round; but it would be a hard fight for it."
"There will soon be no hope of saving them," said Mr. Hollys, as he watched the waves breaking over the wreck. "Here, give me a rope, Joe. I'm a tolerable swimmer, I'll try it. I can't see those poor creatures perish without making some effort to save them."
"Nay, nay, sir; you couldn't hold out against such a sea as this," replied Joe. "If any one does it, I'm the man. You've got the little lady to think of."
As Joe spoke he was fastening a rope round his waist. To one end of this rope, he secured a life-buoy; then turning to Mr. Hollys, he said, "I'll try it, sir. You hold the rope, and I'll do my best."
In another moment the brave fellow had plunged into the water, and was battling with the waves. Mr. Hollys held his breath as he watched him. For a while the waves seemed to assist his progress, but it was harder work to round the Point. Again and again he was driven back; sometimes he was lost to sight in a gulf of the sea, appearing again triumphant on the crest of a huge wave.
Bravely, he struggled on, till at last the Point was rounded, and a few strong strokes brought him alongside the wreck. He had gained it just in time, for already it was breaking up under the fierce onslaught of the waves.
A shout of joy broke from the watchers on the beach when they saw Joe climb the planks to which the helpless woman clung. But rescue was yet to be made, and Joe's hardest struggle lay before him.
With the rope, he secured the woman and child to the life-buoy, and scarcely had he done so, when the whole mass to which they clung heaved over and sank beneath the waves. The three sank with it, and for a moment it seemed to the alarmed watchers as if all were lost. But the next moment the life-buoy bore them up, and, seizing the rope, Joe began to swim back, towing the other two.
Now the fishermen on the shore could help, and with a will they drew in the rope, till, beaten and bruised by the waves, and utterly exhausted, the shipwrecked ones were brought to shore.
"Surely they are dead?" said Mr. Hollys, as he looked at the white and unconscious forms which the men had drawn out of the waves.
"I think not, sir," said one of the fishermen. "They're not so far gone but what they can be brought back, I reckon. I've seen folks look worse than that, and yet recover."
"They had better be carried to my house," said Mr. Hollys. "Everything will be in readiness there."
And with compassionate tenderness the rough fishermen lifted the slight form of the child, and the scarcely heavier one of her mother, and bore them along the beach, and up the short ascent to Egloshayle House. Here prompt measures were taken to restore them to animation. The child was the first to recover consciousness. She came round quickly, and, when wrapped in warm blankets, and laid in Beryl's bed, seemed little the worse for her misadventure, save that she was frightened, and cried piteously for her mother.
The mother's case was more serious, and it was long ere she showed the least sign of life. When at length she was restored to consciousness, her pulse was so feeble, and her exhaustion so extreme, that the doctor, whose help Mr. Hollys had summoned, feared that she might be unable to rally from the effects of the shock she had sustained.
Whilst the others were engaged in attending to the poor woman, Beryl sat beside the child and tried to soothe her with loving words and caresses. She was a pretty child, with large, dark eyes, and short, black curly hair, much smaller, and probably younger than Beryl. She seemed dreadfully frightened at finding herself in a strange place, and Beryl's words and kisses failed to soothe her.
"I want mamma," she sobbed. And when told that her mother was too ill to come to her, she said, "Then father will do. Where is father? Why doesn't he come to me? Mamma is often ill, I know, but father never is."
In despair, Beryl went downstairs and sought her father. She found him in the dining-room talking to the doctor.
"Papa," said Beryl, "that little girl keeps crying for her father. Do you know where he is?"
"Alas! Poor little thing," said Mr. Hollys, sadly, "her father is drowned, I fear. We never saw him after the vessel struck."
Beryl grew white, and clung to her father's arm with a sickening feeling of horror.
She had never realised before what death meant. How dreadful it seemed that that little girl upstairs should be crying for her father, and he lying dead beneath the waves.
She burst into tears, and turned away. Her father drew her back to him, kissing her, and uttering fond and soothing words; but Beryl wept long and bitterly. She never forgot the grief and horror of that night. In after years, it stood out clear and distinct in her history, as the night on which she had first tasted of the world's sorrows.
A FRIENDLESS SUFFERER
THE morning after the storm dawned so fresh and beautiful that it seemed as if Nature were anxious to atone for her wrath and passion of the previous night. The breeze was light and sportive; such clouds as the sky showed were hurrying out of sight as fast as possible; the sea, on which the sun was pouring his warm rays, though still high, no longer dashed on the shore with devouring rage, but only heaved and flowed with the buoyancy of full life.
But the brightness of the day could not make amends for the ruin which the storm had wrought. On every side were heard complaints of loss and disaster. Some of the fishermen had lost their boats, others their nets; and the loss of their means of livelihood was a serious calamity for these poor men to face, involving, as it did, want and starvation for their wives and families. But the greatest loss of all was the loss of life, and with sad hearts, the few who had been saved from shipwreck counted the number of their comrades who had gone down to death in the dark waters. Several bodies were washed ashore during the course of that day, along with pieces of the wreck—barrels, life-buoys, seamen's jerseys, and articles of various kinds belonging to the fittings of a ship. The drowned were handled with reverent pity by the kindly folk of Egloshayle, and decent burial given them in the churchyard. There were only a few in the Cornish village, and those persons of recognised bad character, who could rejoice in the spoil the sea brought them that day, and showed greedy haste in bearing it away.
The vessel so cruelly wrecked was a merchant ship from Montreal, bound for Swansea. She had carried no passengers save the lady and child now sheltered in Mr. Hollys' home, and the gentleman who had perished. The sailors shook their heads when they heard that the lady was still very ill. It would go hard with her, they feared, for she had been an invalid when she came on board, and they had understood that the gentleman was making this voyage mainly for the benefit of his wife's health.
Beryl awoke on this bright March morning with the sense of a strange weight upon her mind. She could not understand what made her feel so heavy-hearted, till she saw that she was not lying as usual in her own little bed, but on a somewhat frail couch, which Lucy had hastily arranged for her. Then she remembered all, and sprang up, that she might take a look at the little companion who had been brought to her so strangely on the previous night. The child was sleeping peacefully in the bed close by. Beryl crept quietly to her side, and looked at her with a glance of love and pity, for a sense of the child's great loss was still prominent in her mind. The child looked very pretty as she lay with one arm bent beneath her curly head, and the long, dark eyelashes resting on her soft, pale cheek. Beryl stooped and kissed her very gently, so as not to rouse her.
"What a dear little thing she is!" said Beryl to herself. "I wonder what her name is! How I should like to have her for a little sister! I never thought before that I should care for a sister."
At this moment Lucy entered the room. She exclaimed at seeing Miss Beryl standing with bare feet on the cold matting.
"Hush, Lucy," said Beryl, in a shrill whisper, giving her nurse an indignant glance. "You will wake the child if you make such a noise, and she looks so tired, poor little thing."
Lucy made no reply, but quietly fetched the young lady's shoes and stockings from the other side of the room, and Beryl had time to observe that her nurse's eyes were very red, as though she had been weeping.
"Whatever is the matter with you, Lucy?" she asked. "What have you been crying about? Has Aunt Cecilia been scolding you again?"
"Oh no, it's not that, Miss Beryl," replied Lucy, "it's about my brother. They have been telling me what danger he was in last night; and I can't help thinking whatever I should have done if I had lost him."
"But he is all right, is he not?" asked Beryl. "He was not hurt at all, was he?"
"Oh no; he is quite safe and well; not hurt, at least, as I know of," said Lucy.
"Then why ever should you cry?" demanded Beryl, in a tone of astonishment. "I should think you ought to be very glad that he was able to save this little girl and her mother. I think it was so good and brave of him. I should be quite proud of my brother if I were you. Why, I heard papa talking of it last night, and he said Joe deserved a medal from the Royal Humane Society, and he thought he would very likely get it too. Does not that please you, Lucy?"
"Yes, it's all very fine," said Lucy, tears coming into her eyes as she spoke; "and of course I'm proud of Joe; but I reckon the Royal Humane Society could not have brought him to life again if he had been drowned; and he is the only brother I've got, and I can't help thinking how different it might have been."
"Well, really, Lucy, you are silly to cry over what has not happened," said plain-spoken, practical Beryl. "Think what it is for this poor little girl to lose her father. That is a real thing, and far worse."
"Ah, poor child, I should not wonder if she were to lose her mother too," said Lucy, showing no resentment of her young lady's freedom of speech, to which she was probably well accustomed.
"What do you mean, Lucy?" said Beryl, looking frightened.
"The poor lady is very ill," said Lucy; "for a lady they say she is; and, indeed, I was sure of it as soon as I saw her pretty white hands with the rings upon them. The doctor says the shock may kill her."
"Oh, Lucy, what a dreadful thing!" said Beryl, tears coming into her eyes at the thought. "Whatever will become of this poor little thing if she loses her mother too!"
"I can't tell, I'm sure," replied Lucy. "Perhaps she has friends who will take care of her."
"Make haste and dress me, please, Lucy," said Beryl, in a tone of decision. "I must go and speak to papa."
But Beryl found it no easy matter to get the quiet talk with her father upon which she had set her mind. All the morning people kept coming to the house to consult him on various matters, and just as she thought she had secured his ear, he was summoned to go down to the beach to view a body which had come ashore, and which was believed to be that of the lady's husband.
In vain, Beryl turned for sympathy to Miss Hollys. She was far too absorbed in her own sensations, and would talk of nothing but the terrible shock she had sustained, and the great inconvenience it was to have strangers ill in the house.
At last Beryl was so annoyed at what she considered her aunt's heartlessness, that she was driven to say bluntly, "Well, aunt, you know that if you were half-drowned, and very ill, you would be thankful to any kind people who would take care of you; so I think it is very horrid of you to grumble because we have to do it."
Whereupon Beryl was well scolded for her impertinence, and no doubt she deserved it.
Her aunt's society proving so uninteresting, Beryl went upstairs again, and found, to her delight, that the little girl was awake, and less shy and fretful than on the previous night.
Beryl looked on with pleasure whilst Lucy arrayed the child in some of Beryl's clothes which she had long outgrown.
"What is your name, little girl?" asked Beryl, in such a dignified, patronising tone, that Lucy could hardly keep from smiling to hear her.
"Coral," replied the child.
"Coral!" repeated Beryl. "What a funny name! I have never heard of any one being named Coral; have you, Lucy?"
"No, I don't know that I ever have," replied Lucy; "but after all it is not much stranger than your own name, Miss Beryl."
"Oh, well," said Beryl; "you know that papa called me Beryl because it was the name of a song mamma used to sing to him."
"Yes," said Lucy; "and this little girl's parents may have had some such reason for calling her Coral."
"Mamma often calls me Cora," said the child, "but papa likes Coral best. Where are papa and mamma? Can't I see them now?"
"I can take her down to see her mamma," said Lucy. "She is sleeping now, they say, so little missy can just look at her quietly, and then come away again."
Little Coral was quite satisfied when she had taken a look at her mother, lying with her face almost as white as the pillow it pressed, in the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. Apparently she saw nothing very unusual in her mother's appearance, for she whispered to Lucy that her mamma was often ill thus, and would be sure to be better soon, and then very willingly suffered herself to be taken back to Beryl.
Beryl brought out her prettiest books and playthings to amuse her little guest, and completely won her heart by the gift of a doll, a kind of toy which Beryl was wont to eye with disdain, but which seemed the loveliest object imaginable to little Coral. The children were very happy together for the rest of the day.
On the following day, the shipwrecked sufferer seemed a little stronger. Mr. Hollys had some talk with her. He was obliged to tell her that her husband's body had been washed ashore, and to ask if there were any relatives to whom she would like him to communicate the fact of his death. The poor woman bore the sad intelligence better than could have been expected. She knew that her husband was dead, she said; and she should not have wished to survive him, save for the sake of their little child.
To Mr. Holly's surprise, she declared that she had no friends in England. The only relative she had living, her brother, was far away in Australia. She had quarrelled with him at the time of her marriage, of which he had disapproved, and had not heard of him for years, so that she did not know where a letter might find him.
Her husband's name was Louis Despard; he came of an old Canadian family of French extraction; her child was named Coralie Despard, after her husband's mother.
Their wedded life had been full of trouble. For a short time they had lived in London; but things had not prospered with them there, and her husband had always been eager to get back to his own country, so when he had the offer of a share in a business in Montreal, nothing would do but he must accept it. But the venture proved unhappy. The business was a failing concern, and her husband lost nearly all his money in it. After struggling for years with disappointment and difficulty, Mrs. Despard's health, never very robust, completely broke down, and a doctor having said that a voyage might perhaps restore her, they had resolved, as a last resource, to sell everything, and return to England, to begin life anew there.
Such was the story told by the suffering woman, in brief, broken sentences as her strength permitted. "And now," she said at last, bursting into tears, "my husband is gone, everything is lost; and what will become of me and my child, I know not."
Mr. Hollys was touched by the sight of her distress. He was a man of tender heart, though little used to scenes of sorrow and suffering. Kind words rushed to his lips in his anxiety to soothe the delicate, grief-stricken woman.
"Do not think of that now," he said. "Do not trouble about the future till you are stronger. We will do all we can for you here, and you are welcome to remain as long as you please."
Mrs. Despard thanked him most gratefully; but he hurried away from her thanks, as though they made him uneasy.
Guy Hollys did not, like his sister, anticipate inconvenience or annoyance from the presence of these strangers in his home. He was a man of generous, kindly nature, and loved to give with a free hand. And although he did not do good from high and sacred motives, he was yet one who could never look on suffering unmoved, nor see others in want, without making an effort to relieve them.
BERYL MAKES A REQUEST
TWO days later, the body of Louis Despard was committed to the earth. Little Coral had been told that the sea had robbed her of her father, and she cried heartily at the thought that she should see him no more. But she was too young to realise the greatness of her loss, and her tears, like most tears of childhood, were quickly dried. Every one was so kind to her, and petted her so freely, Beryl was such a delightful companion, and there were so many strange and pretty things to be seen in the new place in which she found herself, that the child's mind refused to dwell long on its grief.
But both the children shed tears as they stood by Mr. Hollys' side in the churchyard, and saw the coffin lowered into the cold, dark grave. It was a new, mysterious experience for Beryl.
She had heard and known of Death, but it had never come thus near to her before. It was as if a grim shadow had fallen across the sunshine of her life, and it seemed to her that now the coming days could not be so joyous as the past had been. Strange thoughts were working in the child's mind as she stood beside that open grave.
She listened with a dull, aching wonder to the words which the rector was reading, and wished that some one would explain them to her.
Soon the last words were uttered, and as the little crowd turned away, Mr. Hollys drew the children nearer to the grave, that they might drop into it the flowers they carried.
Guy Hollys' spirit was moved within him, for he was reminded of that day of sorrow many years ago, when he had seen his young love laid to rest in the bosom of the earth. Not many yards from where they stood, rose the marble cross which marked the place where she slept. He led the children to the spot ere they left the churchyard.
Beryl knew it well, for Lucy had thought it right, when she was but a tiny child, to bring her frequently to see her mother's grave. She could have repeated without looking the words inscribed on the marble cross:—
Sacred to the Memory ofMARGARETTA HOLLYS,the beloved wife of Guy Hollys, Esq.,of Egloshayle House,who died June 14, 18—, in the 20th year of her age."I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting."
Often as Beryl had read these last words, she had never before desired to know their meaning; but now, as she glanced at them, there came an eager, almost painful longing to understand what they signified.
"Papa," she startled him by asking, "what is the resurrection; what does it mean?"
The question seemed to embarrass him. His eyes fell beneath his child's open glance; he coloured, and his foot uneasily tapped the gravel.
"I can hardly explain it to you, child," he said. "When you are older you will understand."
"But I want to know now," said Beryl.
Her father made no reply, but turned to lead the way home. Yet he inwardly reproached himself for having thus evaded his child's question. Could it be that Beryl knew nothing of the truths of religion? Surely his sister might have seen that the child learned her Catechism, and had some religious instruction.
Had her mother lived, he was certain that long ere this, Beryl would have known something of the mysteries of life and death, as far as it was possible that they could be explained to a child. He could fancy in what simple, tender language Margaretta would have talked to the child, of the Lord in whom she so surely believed.
Ah! It was a great loss for poor little Beryl, the loss of a mother's love and training.
He felt himself quite unable to answer her question in a way that would be comprehensible to her. The doctrines of Christianity, if grasped by his intellect, were not loved by his heart. He scarcely knew how the words which had suggested her question came to be upon the tombstone. Perhaps the rector had thought it proper that they should be added as a fitting expression of the faith of the deceased.
"The resurrection of the body and the life everlasting." Were they verities to him? He supposed so; he repeated the words as part of his creed whenever he went to church, which was not every Sunday, however. But he could give no precise form to his belief. Beryl's question had made him uncomfortably aware that he too was ignorant, and needed teaching.
Well, he must see to it that the child had a teacher; he would enquire about a governess when he next went to town. He blamed himself now that he had not done so before, for was he not wronging the memory of his gentle wife, if he allowed her child to grow up ignorant and irreligious? Had not some one said that women without religious faith were angels who had lost their wings?
It was a true saying. Not for the world would he have his little Beryl grow up a soulless, selfish woman, like many whom he knew. He would like her to be such a gentle, loving, trustful woman as his dear young wife had been.
Ah, had she been spared to him, he might have been a different sort of man this day.
Beryl made no further attempt to get her question answered. She took little Coral's hand with a protecting tenderness that was almost motherly, as they turned away from the grave, and sadly and quietly walked home together. When they reached the house, the children lingered for a while in the garden, for this was the first spring day, with a glorious warmth in the sunshine and a balmy softness in the air. Primroses and crocuses decked the garden borders; violets nestling in the shade gave their exquisite perfume to the breeze; a few of the hardier ferns were unfurling their delicate fronds, and the fruit-trees against the walls were bursting into blossom. The garden looked a symbol of the joyful resurrection about which Beryl was wondering.
"Shall we go to the end of the garden," said Beryl, "and gather some violets for your mother?"
Coral assented readily, and they were soon busy plucking the fragrant flowers.
When they had gathered all they could find, they went into the garden-house, and Beryl showed Coral the exact spot where she had stood to watch the vessel drifting on to Sheldon Point. So much had happened since that night that it seemed to Beryl a long way off now, and she felt herself a much older and wiser being than the Beryl who had awaited her father's return home with such impatient eagerness.
Presently Lucy joined them in the garden.
"Your mother is better, and would like to see you, little missy," said she to Coral; "and you too, Miss Beryl, she would like to see," she added, looking at Beryl.
Beryl was pleased to hear this, for she had a great wish to see little Coral's mother.
They hastened back to the house, and the children would have gone at once to the sick-room, had Lucy not checked them, and insisted on the necessity of their removing their outdoor clothes and changing their shoes before they saw the invalid.
As they went downstairs together, hand in hand, Beryl was conscious of a strange tremor. She had never before seen any one who was very, very ill, and she was half afraid lest there should be anything dreadful in the sight. She stood still for a few moments at the door of the room, and almost wished that she could go back.
But Coral opened the door, and led her in, and as they drew near the bed, Beryl's fear vanished, for the white, worn face she saw upon the pillow had once been beautiful, and was still pleasant to see, and the large, dark eyes, so like Coral's save for the deep sorrow they mirrored forth, looked upon her with a tender motherly glance.
"You are my little Coral's friend," she murmured. "I have heard how good you are to her. I thank you, my dear child, a thousand times."
Beryl could not speak; for once her usual self-possession failed her. Tears came into her eyes at the sight of that pale, sad face; she looked down, and said nothing.
"Mamma," cried Coral, pressing forward with her flowers, "look what lovely violets we have picked for you! Just smell how sweet they are! They all grew in the garden, every one of them."
"My little Coral, my poor, poor Coral!" said her mother, clasping her close, and looking on her with the glance of hungering love. "You have no father to care for you now, and I too must soon leave you. Oh, how can I? But I must, I must."
"Oh, mamma! What do you mean! You must not go away and leave me. I cannot let you go!" cried Coral, in great distress. "Oh, mamma! You will not go; say you will not leave me."
"Alas, my child! I cannot help it," said her mother, in agitated tones. "The doctor has told me he cannot save me. I am dying, I feel it. And oh, I do not want to die yet! Sad and lonely as my life is, I would like to live a little longer for your sake, my sweet child. Besides, death is so dark and terrible, I am afraid of it."
Here Lucy interposed, and drew the children away. "You must not distress yourself so, madam. You must not, indeed; you will make yourself worse," she said.
As Beryl kissed Coral, and tried to soothe her grief, she felt as if she too must mourn a mother; for with the sight of that pale, loving face, there had dawned on her mind a sudden revelation of all that she had lost in losing her mother.
Presently Mrs. Despard asked to speak with Beryl again, and Beryl went back to the bedside.
"What is your name, dear?" asked the invalid, looking with admiration at the tall, strong girl.
"Beryl," she answered.
"Beryl," repeated Mrs. Despard, "a pretty name. Coral and Beryl, how well they go together! How old are you, Beryl?"
"Ten," answered Beryl; "but I shall be eleven in June."
"Not eleven yet, and so tall and strong," said Mrs. Despard, in surprise. "Why, you are scarcely two years older than my Coralie. And you too have lost your mother, they tell me, my dear?"
"Yes," said Beryl, sadly; "she died when I was a baby; I never saw her."
"It was a great loss for you!" said Mrs. Despard, with a sigh, as her thoughts reverted to her own child. "And my poor little Coral too! She must soon lose her mother. Ah, who will care for her when I am gone?"
"I will take care of her," said Beryl boldly, for she seldom doubted her power to perform anything that she willed. "I mean to ask papa to let her live with us, and be my little sister. She is a dear little thing; I will always be good to her."
The pale, wasted face of the invalid flushed as she heard these words, which brought her a sudden gleam of hope.
"Would you indeed wish that?" she asked eagerly. "But no, it could not be; your father could not think of it."
"He would if I asked him," persisted Beryl, heedless of the fact that Lucy was frowning and putting her finger to her lips, as a sign that she considered Miss Beryl to be talking too fast. "At least, I am almost sure that he would; he generally does whatever I ask him."
Mrs. Despard said no more; but she seemed to be thinking of Beryl's words, for the flush lingered on her cheeks, and her eyes had a more hopeful look as she watched the two children.
When Lucy at last sent them from the room, Beryl left Coral to her own devices for a time, and went in search of her father.
Greatly to her satisfaction, she found him sitting alone in the library.
"Well, Beryl, what do you want?" he said as she entered. "Where is your little playfellow? Have you grown tired of her already?"
"Oh no, papa; she is the dearest little thing; but I am so glad to find you here alone, for I want to have a very particular talk with you."
"What is it now, I wonder?" said her father, as he lifted her on to his knee, and began to play with her hair.
"Papa, I have just been seeing Coral's mamma," said Beryl.
"Ah, have you?" said her father. "And how does she seem now, poor woman?"
"She looks very ill, so white and thin," said Beryl; "but I like her so much, and she spoke to me very kindly. Do you think she is so very ill? She spoke as if she were going to die. Do you think that can be true, papa?"
"I am afraid so," he answered. "The doctor thinks she had disease of the lungs before, and her being so long in the water, and the fright and all her trouble, have made it develop rapidly."
"But will it really come to that? Oh, I hope not," said Beryl, large tears gathering in her eyes; "but if it should, papa, how sad it would be for little Coral! Her mamma cried when she spoke of it, and so did Coral. It was so sad."
"Yes, it is very sad, my darling, very sad," said Mr. Hollys, in a low voice.
"Papa, if it should be, what would become of poor little Coral, without father or mother to take care of her?" asked Beryl, looking straight into her father's eyes.
"I scarcely know, my dear," he answered. "I suppose we should have to send her to some orphan asylum."
"But would she be happy there, papa?" asked Beryl.
"I suppose so," he said. "I believe the children are well cared for in those places."
"I don't believe they are happy! I should think they must feel as if they were at school," said Beryl, to whom school-life seemed an experience to be dreaded. "Oh, papa, cannot you guess what I want you to do? I want you to promise that Coral shall never go away, unless her mother should get better, and wish to take her away. I want you to say that she may live with us always, and be my little sister."
"Well, upon my word, a slight request, truly," said Mr. Hollys. "Do you think I am such a rich man, Beryl, that I can afford to adopt daughters upon a moment's notice?"
"You are rich, are you not, papa? And it would not cost much, I should think," said Beryl. "Oh, papa, do not say no! I never wished for anything so much as I do for this."
"That was what you said, Beryl, when you asked me to give you a pony. You always know how to get round me. But this is a serious matter, and I must take time to think it over. I will do the best I can for poor little Coral, but I cannot at once promise to adopt the child."
And Beryl could get no more from her father that night. She was not without good hope of getting her wish, however, for when her father promised to "think over" any request of hers, he usually ended by complying with it.
BERYL HAS PERPLEXING THOUGHTS
THE next day was Sunday, and at breakfast Mr. Hollys told Beryl that he was going to church, and would take her with him if she could be ready in time.
"May Coral go too, papa?" asked Beryl eagerly.
"Yes, I suppose so, if the child likes to go," he said, shrugging his shoulders at the idea of his taking charge of two children; "but perhaps she would rather stay with her mother?"
And upon Lucy's being consulted, it was thought better that Coral should stay at home, so that Mrs. Despard might have her child's company, if she wished for it.
Miss Hollys had decided that she was "not equal" to church that morning, so Beryl set out alone with her father.
They walked through the village and up the steep road to the church. The day was bright, and though a boisterous breeze blew from the sea, neither Beryl nor Mr. Hollys thought it too rough. Despite the fineness of the weather, there was but a small congregation gathered in the church, for the clergyman very old man and a dull preacher, so that most of the fisher-folk preferred to worship in the Methodist chapel at the foot of the hill.
Beryl seldom paid much attention to the service when she was at church. She liked the singing well enough, though it was often trying to cultivated ears, but the rest of the service was wearisome to her. She had devised a number of little diversions for her entertainment whilst the lessons were being read, or the sermon, which Mr. Trevor did not attempt to deliver with expression, but read in a hurried, indistinct monotone, with the manuscript held close to his failing eyes. Sometimes Beryl would occupy herself in counting the tiny diamond panes in the large window opposite to her father's pew, or she would endeavour to count the congregation, with a view to ascertaining whether there were more men than women, or more women than men in the church. This question decided, she would perhaps have recourse to studying the mural tablets about her, and trying to gather from the descriptions they gave some idea of what the deceased were like when they walked this earth. Or she would take some long word, such as remembrance or commandment and try how many little words she could make out of the letters.
But to-day, as she sat by her father's side in the large square pew, Beryl used none of these devices for passing away the time. Her mind was full of thoughts of Coral and her mother, and of the sad burial in the churchyard which she had seen yesterday. Somehow these thoughts led her to pay more attention to the service than she generally did. She bent her head over her Prayer-book, and tried to follow the clergyman and to join with the congregation in the responses. When the Apostles' Creed was repeated, Beryl became aware of what she had not before observed,—the fact that the words with which the confession of faith ended were the same as those inscribed on her mother's tombstone. She looked up eagerly at her father as she made this discovery, and he caught the meaning of her glance, for his thoughts too had flown to that marble cross as he repeated the familiar words.
This incident sent Beryl wondering again about the resurrection. How she longed to know what it meant! Was it anything very hard and difficult, she wondered?
When the text of the sermon was announced, Mr. Hollys found the place, and handed Beryl his Bible, that she might read the words. Now Beryl often refused to read the text when Lucy wished her to do so, but she could not behave in that way to her father; so she took the book and slowly read the words, without in the least grasping their meaning, however. She kept the Bible on her lap, and began carelessly turning over the leaves. Suddenly her eye lighted on the word the meaning of which so perplexed her. What was said about it here? The leaves had opened at the eleventh chapter of St. John's Gospel, and the words which met her eager glance were the ever-memorable ones,—
"Jesus said unto her, 'I am the resurrection and the life.'"
Beryl was so surprised to meet with the word thus; so full of the sense that she had made a great discovery, though a mysterious one to her, that she felt obliged to draw her father's attention to the verse. Moving nearer to him, she touched his sleeve to attract his attention, and then pointed to the place in the Bible. Mr. Hollys bent towards the child, and read the words which had so surprised her. His face changed for a moment, then he nodded and smiled, as if to intimate that he understood what, in fact, he was very far from understanding, and turning away, looked steadfastly at the preacher, as though he were much interested in his discourse. But, in truth, he heard scarce a word of the brief sermon, for his mind was wholly occupied by a strange train of thought to which Beryl's action had given rise.
Beryl was very quiet as they walked home from church. On reaching home she hastily threw off her hat and jacket, and then went to the sick-room, where Coral was keeping her mother company. The invalid welcomed her with a smile. The milder weather had helped her to rally a little, though no permanent recovery was possible.
"So you have been to church, my dear," she said, looking at Beryl. "I wish you would tell me about it. It is long since I entered a church; though I can well remember how I use to go every Sunday with my mother when I was a girl. Did you have a nice sermon this morning? What was the text?"
"'Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life,"'" repeated Beryl.
"Why, Miss Beryl, it was nothing of the kind; how can you say such a thing!" exclaimed Lucy, who had just come in, having also attended church that morning. "The sermon was about being subject unto the higher powers."
"Oh, was it!" said Beryl. "Well, I thought that was the text; but I remember now that papa showed me another first, and I found that one for myself."
"'I am the resurrection and the life,'" repeated Mrs. Despard slowly. "What made you think of those words child?"
"They are like what is written on the cross at mamma's grave," said Beryl softly. "'I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.' I wish I could understand them. What is the resurrection?"
"I think it means that the dead will be raised; that they will live again at some future time," said Mrs. Despard; "but I do not rightly understand these things. I wish I did; for then, perhaps, I should not be so afraid of death." She shivered as she spoke. Alas, she knew that death was drawing near to her, and dark and terrible was the thought of meeting that "last enemy."