woman on chair by bed with a girl lying in it and another girl at woman's feetMOLLY CREPT UP TO THE BED, AND KNELT DOWN CLOSE TO CECIL.
MOLLY CREPT UP TO THE BED, AND KNELT DOWN CLOSE TO CECIL.
Miss Leicester laid her firm hand kindly on the young girl's shoulder.
"It is a great trial for you, Molly, dear," she answered. "No one can help you in a time of trouble like this but God himself. Sometimes God sends trouble of this kind, just to force us to go direct to him. Perhaps that is the reason why you are going through such a dark cloud, dear Molly."
"But oh, tell me about Kate!" interrupted Molly. "How selfish I am to think only of myself! What does the doctor say of Kate?"
Miss Leicester paused for a minute.
"I cannot conceal the truth from you," she said then. "At the present moment Kate's life is in the greatest danger. Dr. Groves is anxious to consult Sir John Williamson, a great London specialist, about her case. He is going to telegraph to him to come down to Redgarth, and we hope he may arrive to-night. If Sir John Williamson approves, Dr. Groves is inclined to try a certain operation, which may remove the pressure which is now injuring poor Kate's brain. If the operation succeeds, she will get quickly better; if not——"
"Oh, is there any fear?" said Molly.
"There is," replied Miss Leicester; "it is a very serious operation, but Dr. Groves recommends it, because he thinks it is the only chance of restoring Kate to health."
"And when will it be performed?" asked Molly.
"In all probability Sir John Williamson will perform it to-night. We have just heard that an excellent nurse will be here between nine and ten o'clock. The doctor can arrive by the midnight train, and all may be satisfactorily over before to-morrow morning. That is all I know myself, dear Molly. Cecil and I will stay with Kate until the nurse arrives. Perhaps you will tell the others, dear. I trust to you to be brave and calm, and to do what is right in every way. We must have courage. Things look very dark for Kate at present, but all hope is not yet withdrawn."
"Thank you for telling me," said Molly. "Yes, I will try to be brave."
She went slowly out of the room.
In the passage she paused, and gave a longing glance at the door over which the heavy curtain was hung.
"Oh, Kate, Kate, youmustlive!" she said aloud. "I will pray ever so hard for you. You must not die, dear, darling Kate; I have asked God to spare you, oh, I think he will, I think he will!"
Molly went hastily to her room, and put on her hat. She had a craving, which she could scarcely account for, to be alone in the cathedral. The doors were always open, anyone could go in at any moment. Inside there was perfect calm, a great peace, a great stillness. Molly craved for this stillness now inexpressibly. She managed to slip out of the house without anyonenoticing her, and running down the broad carriage-drive, soon reached the beautiful old porch. She went in, heard the swinging doors close softly behind her, and going as far as some of the free seats, entered one and threw herself on her knees.
Up to the present Molly Lavender had had what might be considered, in every sense of the word, a happy life. Her mother had died before she was old enough to understand her loss. Her grandmother had treated her with uniform affection and kindness. Judge Lavender, although a peculiar, and in some ways a selfish, man, had been good to his only child. Molly had been happy at school. Hers was an affectionate as well as an enthusiastic nature. She had been liked by all her schoolfellows. In particular she had been loved by Cecil Ross. Molly had given quite a passion of girlish affection to this friend of her childhood. Cecil and Molly had been chums for many years now.
When Molly came to St. Dorothy's, she was just in the humor to take up a fresh friendship. She had never met anyone like Kate before; Kate had fascinated her. Still, in her heart of hearts she loved Cecil best, but there was something about Kate's gay ways, her brightness, her wit, her fun, which appealed to a fresh side of Molly. Molly had been very proud of Kate's confidence. She had held her little head high when Kate confided in her and made much of her. Then came the dreadfultime of reaction—the time when Kate snubbed Molly unmercifully. Molly Lavender was too well born, too rich, too endowed with that sort of things which girls esteem, to have had much experience hitherto of snubbing. Schoolgirls quickly find out whether their companions are encased in the triple armor which good birth joined to money confers. Molly was fifteen, but she had never been really snubbed before. She was astonished and puzzled. The fact that a girl who was of no birth in particular had done this, did not affect her. Molly was too true a lady, in the best sense of the term, not to recognize a real lady when she met her.
She loved Kate deeply, and her conduct hurt her; it hurt her to the point of intense pain. Kate's speech on her birthday had caused Molly's ears to tingle and her heart to swell. She had admired the proud girl, as she stood before her schoolfellows and spoke of the old poetry, the old charm, the old idyllic life, which had passed away forever. Molly had longed to stand by the side of this girl and show every other girl in the school how noble and splendid she was, but the girl herself had repulsed her. The girl, with her own hands, had cast Molly aside. Then had come the explanation; the mystery was cleared. Molly was innocent of the crime imputed to her. She had been given the means to amply exonerate herself; then she had met Kate, and Kate was too ill to listen to her; and now, now KateO'Connor, beautiful, good, talented, was about to die.
Molly found herself face to face with her first trouble. Many girls of her age had known worse, but to Molly it was full of intense bitterness; a pain which almost reached agony's point. She was hopeless and frightened. It was awful to meet death like this. Death, the invincible, the inexorable! What right had death to come and claim one so young, so full of life, so eminently fitted to do good in the world? Above all, what right had death to come and snatch away Molly's friend?
"She mustn't die," sobbed the girl. "Oh, please, God, don't let Kate die, make her better! let the operation succeed. Give the doctors great wisdom, give them skill, help them to save her life. Oh, God, I am a miserable, weak girl, but I do beg very hard for this—thisgreatboon! oh, do spare Kate's life! Oh, God, do listen to me! if you will spare her life, I'll try very hard to please you; I'll try to besogood; I will give up my life to you. Oh, God, hear me! let it be a bargain between us; spare Kate, and then I'll give up my life to you."
Molly's prayer scarcely comforted her. Still it excited her a good deal; she felt hopeful; she wondered as she left the church if the great God up in heaven, the Maker of all things in heaven above and earth beneath, had heard her little, childish prayer; if he was inclined to consider her poor little bargain. She wondered,she hoped; then she went slowly back to St. Dorothy's.
Miss Leicester was not present at supper. Molly found herself forced to take the head of Kate's table. As she had heard the latest news of Kate, she was immediately made the heroine of the hour. All the other girls flocked round her, asking eager questions in awe-struck voices.
"Is she really in danger, Molly?" asked Hester.
"Yes," said Molly, "yes; but I can't talk of it now."
"Oh, we must know everything!" said Amy. "It is perfectly awful. Why, of course, we all loved Kate better than anyone else in the house! It did not matter a bit about her running about barefooted long ago, nor her grandfather being a sort of peasant king. Kate was just Kate, and we all loved her; oh, she mustn't die!"
"Do sit down, Amy, and eat your supper," said poor Molly. "What is the good of our saying that sort of thing? If God wishes it, she will die; it all rests with God."
"Yes, that is true enough," said Hester. "After all, none of us can do anything; let us get over this horrid meal, and go into the drawing room. For my part, I have no heart for study to-night. I don't know if anyone else has."
"Not I," answered Molly; "my notes and everything must go to the wall. I simply can't think of such stupid things as psychology andphysiology, and all those awful inductions and deductions, while my mind is in a whirl."
"Nor I, nor I!" said several other girls.
Supper proceeded in a mournful fashion, and the girls trooped into the drawing room. The pretty room looked cheerful enough, the electric light burned brightly; the piano stood invitingly open. Hester shuddered as she passed it.
"To think that Kate was rattling out waltzes on that piano not a week ago!" she said. "Molly, come here; you have not half told us what you know. Now, you must out with it all, whether it pains you or not. What did the doctor say?"
Molly made a struggle to swallow a great lump in her throat.
"He said that Kate's life was in danger," she answered. "A doctor is coming from London to-night."
"Oh, mercy! then it must be serious," said Alice Rae, a rosy-faced girl of nearly twenty. "When my father died, a doctor came from London. We all gave up hope when he was sent for."
"Are you sure of your facts, Molly?" asked Hester. "A London doctor costs a great deal, and everyone knows that Kate is not well off."
"Well, a doctor has been sent for," said Molly, "for Miss Leicester told me so. His name is Sir John Williamson; he is a great specialist on brain affections. Kate must havehurt her brain very badly when she fell. Miss Leicester says there is something pressing on the brain which causes Kate to be quite insensible. Dr. Groves wants to perform an operation."
"Oh, horrors!" cried Mary Wilson, a room fellow of Kate's. "Are you certain—positively certain, Molly Lavender?
"Yes," answered Molly, who felt important in spite of all her misery, while she was imparting these ghastly details to her hearers. "Sir John Williamson will be here to-night, and if he agrees with Dr. Groves, they will perform the operation."
"To-night!" cried Hester.
"Yes," said Molly, nodding. "Miss Leicester says it will be all over in the morning, and we shall know—we shallknowwhether——" Her lips quivered, her eyes sought the ground; she found that she could not proceed with her speech.
"Think of it, girls!" said Hester "Think of its happening while we're all asleep!"
"No, I shan't sleep," said Molly.
"Nor I," echoed Amy.
"I am sure, if I do sleep, I shall have the most terrific nightmares," cried another girl. "Oh, dear Kate, what fun she was! Do you remember the name she gave us all in the dormitory—the Dwellers in Cubicles? Why, she made quite a storm in the house with her proposal that selfishness should be evicted. Oh, dear; oh, dear!but, somehow or other, I don't feel that she is going to die."
"Nor I," said Hester, trying to speak cheerfully. "Dr. Groves can't have at all given up the case, or he wouldn't propose an operation. You may be quite certain the London doctor will soon set her right; let us try and be cheerful, let us hope for the best."
"We might all of us remember Kate to-night when we are praying," said Amy, turning scarlet as she spoke.
"Oh, yes, yes, of course!" said the others, in the shy way in which schoolgirls allude to their deepest feelings.
"I wonder if Miss Leicester will come down to prayers," said Amy, after a pause.
"I don't know; perhaps there won't be any," said Hester. "How I wish," she added, with a sudden, vindictive smile, "thathorridMatilda were here!"
"Little wretch!" cried Amy. "Why should we be inflicted with her at this moment? Surely we have trouble enough."
"But for her it would never have happened," said Hester.
"Now, what in the world do you mean, Hetty?" cried half a dozen voices.
Hester looked mysterious. Molly's face became very white.
"I am bound in honor not to tell, girls," said Hester. "You must take the hint for what it is worth, and draw your own conclusions.You have observed a cloud between Kate and Molly."
"Yes, yes, of course we have!" cried half a dozen voices.
"Well, Matilda was at the bottom of it; I can't tell you particulars. But for Matilda, Kate mightn't have gone on that botany expedition. But for Matilda, Molly, at least, would have accompanied her. There might not have been an accident; Kate might be well and happy, and working hard for her scholarship at the present moment."
"You make me burn with curiosity, Hester," cried Amy.
"I dare say, well, I can tell no more."
"You've told too much," said Molly.
"Have I? Well, I'll be mum. Only listen to me, girls. Matilda is coming to St. Dorothy's."
"Yes; worse luck!" groaned one or two.
"When she comes, let's boycott her," said Amy suddenly.
"What fun!" cried the others, clapping their hands. Molly covered her face with hers.
She thought of her bargain in the cathedral; of her prayer to God, of her vow to give herself up to him absolutely, if only he would spare Kate. Did this kind of talk please him? Were uncharitableness, vindictiveness, revenge, the sort of things he delighted in?
"Oh," she said, rising to her feet, and speaking with an effort, "it frightens me to hear you talking like that, girls. If Matilda is bad, wehave no right to try and make her worse. Oh, I did hate her myself, but I mustn't! I must get over it. Think of Kate—think of that beautiful picture she drew for us."
"Yes, poor darling," said Amy, with a sob. "I shall never forget how she looked when she talked of her grandfather, the peasant king, and the little cottage, and the flowers, and the sweet life she used to lead."
"Well, do let us forget about Matilda," said Molly. "If we can't think kindly of her,—and I find it very hard to think kindly,—let us try not to think of her at all; at least not to-night."
Hester stared very hard at Molly. When, by and by, the other girls had dispersed, Hester came up to Molly, and said in a low voice: "I don't understand you; I thought you hated Matilda."
Molly looked at her with frightened eyes.
"Oh, I do!" she said; "but I want tounhate her."
"Molly, you've no right to coin words."
"It expresses what I mean," said Molly.
"But you have not told me your true thought," said Hester; "what is it?"
"I am afraid of doing anything the least bit wrong to-night," said Molly again. "I think it may make a difference about Kate."
"I don't understand you," said Hester.
But Molly did not explain.
Miss Leicester came down at ten o'clock for prayers. The girls all stood up while she readthe evening hymn; as a rule they sang it, but there could be no singing at St. Dorothy's to-night. At the end of her short prayer, she said a word or two about Kate.
"Spare her, if possible, O Father," said the principal, in her solemn voice; "but, oh, in any case help us to say, Thy will be done."
"I can't say it; I can't!" whispered poor Molly, to her own struggling heart. "Oh, God! please remember what I promised to you in the cathedral."
Then she went upstairs with the others.
T
THE night passed somehow. When Molly laid her tired head on her pillow she fell asleep. She awoke quickly, however, aroused by the sound of wheels on the gravel sweep outside the silent house. Remembrance came quickly to her, and she knew what had happened, the great specialist from London had arrived. Molly wondered if Cecil would perhaps come to visit her. Her heart began to beat wildly; she sat up in bed. Kate's room was in a distant part of the house, but the sound of rather heavy footsteps coming up the stairs came distinctly to Molly's ears; they died away in the distance. Once again there was silence; it was broken, at long intervals, by the hurried closing of a door, by rapid but quiet footsteps, then again followed the awful, awful quiet—that sort of quiet which tries a young and anxious heart as nothing else can do in all the world.
Molly lit her candle; she took down a book of history from her shelves, and tried in vain to read; her eyes followed the printed words without in the least taking in their sense.
"'In tracing the history of nations,'" she read, "'we discover a threefold purpose——'"
"Kate, dear; oh, beautiful Kate!" cried Molly's heart.
The book seemed full of Kate; all the ancient story sank down into the depths of the paper, and Kate's history and Kate's danger seemed alone to fill the closely written pages. Molly shut up the book, and clasped her hands.
"How I wish Cecil would come to me!" she moaned once or twice.
The little clock on her mantelpiece struck the hour of midnight. The sound was echoed outside by the big cathedral clock, then the chimes rang out. Molly shuddered as she thought of the cathedral, where she had prayed, and of her vow to God. Perhaps God was angry with her for trying to make a sort of compact with him. Oh, what was right? What was the good of prayer? If one could not pray in one's extremity, what was one to do? Molly felt frightened as she remembered her vow. Oh, why did not Cecil come to her? How could she keep her senses, lying there in her little bed, while Kate was perhaps traveling along that valley from which there was no return? Molly wondered, as the night went on, if Kate would be afraid to die, but then she remembered that Kate would know nothing about it until after she was dead. She wondered if she would be frightened then, and how her spirit would feel without her body. She wondered if the old grandfather, who was so goodand noble and sweet, would come to meet the girl he loved in the other world, and would lead her gently away up to the throne of God himself. And then she wondered if God would smile at poor Kate, and tell her that he had thought over everything, and saw quite clearly that her life down here would be too full of struggle, and so he had called her early to a happier home.
Here Molly's reflections caused her to burst into bitter sobs. She was sobbing loudly when her room door was suddenly opened, and Cecil came in.
"Oh, Cecil, Cecil! what news!" cried Molly. "Oh, Cecil, how I have longed for you! do tell me quickly what news, what has happened? Cecil, is she—is she dead?"
"No," said Cecil; "no!"
"Oh, come and sit by me, Ceci, and put your arms round me, I am so miserable, and so, sofrightened!Come over here; let me feel your touch."
"Why, you want some sal volatile; you are quite unstrung," said Cecil.
"But oh, do tell me what news!"
"Well, they are going to perform the operation."
"Oh, isn't it over yet?"
"No; they are just going to begin."
"And have you been sent away?"
"Yes; I can do nothing further. Miss Leicester is there, and Miss Forester has come."
"Oh, I can't,can'tstand it!" said Molly."Suppose she wakes and screams—suppose it hurts her frightfully."
"No, it won't, they are going to give her chloroform. Molly, you must try and control yourself. It is selfish, too, to make a fuss just now."
"I know it is," said Molly; "but I have been alone so long, and I have got so fearfully nervous. I don't mind half so much now you are here. You will stay with me, won't you, Cecil?"
"I will, if you like; I will lie down beside you, if you like."
"Oh, I can't sleep; I can't think of it! Do talk to me. What did Sir John Williamson say?"
"I don't know; I did not hear. They are going to perform the operation; it will take a little over an hour."
"And then?" said Molly.
"Then they will know," answered Cecil.
"Oh, Cecil! how soon after?"
"Very soon, Miss Forester says. I heard her telling Miss Leicester that Dr. Williamson is certain there is a small piece of bone pressing on the brain. If that can be successfully removed without injuring the brain in any way, Kate will recover consciousness, and then there is no reason why she should not quickly get better."
"Do you think she'll get better, Cecil?"
"How can I say? I hope so."
"Have you—have you prayed about it, Cecil?"
"Yes, of course."
"So have I," continued Molly; "I prayed in church. I can't believe it was a very good prayer, and I can't make it any better. Miss Leicester prayed too, but she prayed differently. Miss Leicester said: 'Thy will be done.' I did not say that. I—I made a vow."
"Dear little Molly," said Cecil, "I never saw you so excited in all your life before. What vow did you make?"
"I promised to give myself up to God. I thought I would go as a missionary, or something, if only he would make Kate well. Was it wrong of me to pray like that, Cecil?"
"I don't know," answered Cecil.
She sat quiet and still on the edge of Molly's bed. Her strong face was quite pale, her eyes were calm and steadfast, her lips wore a gentle, chastened sort of look. Molly, who was in a fever of excitement and misery, could not help gazing at her in wonder.
"Are you not very anxious?" she asked.
"To a certain extent I am, Molly, but there is no use in losing my self-control. I don't think we two girls can do anything more in this matter, just now. If you don't rest, you will be ill; and that will cause a lot of fresh trouble and misery to a great many people. I will give you a little sal volatile, and then you must lie down, and I will hold your hand, and perhaps you will fall asleep."
"I can't sleep."
"You must try. I won't stay with you, if you talk any more."
"Oh, then, I'll stay perfectly quiet! but I know I shan't sleep."
Cecil prepared the sal volatile, and bringing it to Molly's side, made her drink it. Then she straightened the bed-clothes, and, laying her cool hand on Molly's hot forehead, sat down beside her. In spite of herself the tired girl's heavy eyes closed, and she slept.
It was quite early in the morning when she awoke. Cecil was still seated by her bedside. She started up with a cry.
"Oh, Cecil, what has happened? Is she—is she alive? I have been dreaming about her all night. Have you—have you heard anything?"
"No; but we might go and inquire now," said Cecil.
Molly sprang eagerly out of bed.
"Oh, you darling! Let us go immediately!" she cried.
She put on her dressing gown, and, taking Cecil's hand, stole softly with her out of the room. The long corridors were all deserted; the first dawn of the cold daylight was creeping in through the windows; the cheerful house looked ghastly and deserted. Molly shivered as she accompanied Cecil to the door of Kate's room. The girls had just reached the door when Dr Groves came out.
"Oh, sir!" cried Molly, "oh, please tell me——"
"Tell you what, my dear?" said the doctor kindly.
"Is she—is she dead?" said Molly.
"Dead? Not a bit of it," said the doctor. "I am glad to tell you that my patient is better this morning. Oh, my dear child, what is the matter? Pray don't make any noise outside this door."
For Molly had burst into such a choking fit of sobs that her self-control was in danger of giving way.
S
SIX weeks after the events mentioned in the last chapter, Kate O'Connor had very nearly recovered her normal state of health. She was still at St. Dorothy's, but the doctor had forbidden all return to work until after Christmas. Christmas was drawing near now, and the girls were talking a good deal about it. Matilda Matthews had been an inmate of St. Dorothy's for three or four weeks. The boycotting idea had been quite abandoned. Molly was the one who put a stop to that; she had been consistently kind to Matilda from the first. Matilda had shrunk from Molly, and was rather surprised when the young girl came to meet her on the evening of her arrival, talked to her pleasantly, and did her best to make her feel at home and at ease. Matilda was given a very nice room to herself, and Molly suggested to her that she should invite some girl who was going in for the same branch of study to share it with her in the evenings.
"Such a step will make you popular," said Molly; "besides being a kind thing to do."
"I don't care a straw about being kind," answered Matilda frankly, "although I should naturally like to be popular. I did not know you were the good-natured sort you seem to be, Molly Lavender. I thought you'd hate and detest me after the shabby way I treated you; but as you are inclined to be agreeable, I am quite willing to meet you halfway. I may as well tell you now that I never took particularly to you, but I was much impressed by Cecil Ross, and if she were not quite the shabbiest girl in the world, I should wish to be her chum. Well, say now, why should not you and I be chums—chums for life, I mean. You don't want to share my room, but I can do all kinds of odd things for you. I can be awfully good-natured to girls whoreallycotton to me; and when you go to London—— You live in London, don't you?"
"Yes; with my grandmother," answered Molly.
"Oh, I expect you have a horribly dull time! My father has a house in Portman Square. You shall come and drive with me in the carriage; and oh, say, wouldn't it be prime if I coaxed father to give a ball at Christmas, and I invited you to it?"
"I am not out yet," answered Molly, "so I do not think grandmother would allow me to go."
"Well, I mean a children's ball; you are not too old to enjoy it, are you?"
"I am fifteen—not at all too old; but I don'tthink grannie will wish me to leave her in the evenings."
"Your people are very rich, aren't they?"
"I believe they are; but what does that matter?"
"What does that matter!" echoed Matilda, with a curl of her lips. "Dear, dear! I think you must have taken leaves out of Kate O'Connor's book. By the way, they say—stoop down and I'll whisper to you—that that young lady will be obliged to stoop to charity, after all; that sainted grandfather of hers did not leave her much money, and her illness has swallowed up a considerable portion of what was reserved for her educational expenses here."
"Surely that is not our affair."
Molly turned scarlet as she spoke; she had to place the most violent control upon herself to remain another moment by Matilda's side.
"I do want to be good to you," she said. "I am sure we all at St. Dorothy's want to be good to you, Matilda,—at least, I think we all do,—but oh, please, if you wish to have a nice time here, you must give up that sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?" asked Matilda.
"You must not repeat what you think other people have said; you must try hard not to make mischief. As to Kate, I will not listen to a word against her; in fact, I won't talk about her to you at all."
"Oh, hoity toity!" said Matilda, tossing her head.
Molly soon afterward left her.
"How am I to be kind to such an awful girl?" she whispered to her own heart, but then she remembered her vow to God. She was trying with all her might to keep it, but nothing seemed quite right.
It was within a week of the end of the term, when, one morning, Molly received a letter from her grandmother. It ran as follows:
My Dear Molly:You will be wondering what I intend you to do during the Christmas vacation which is now so close at hand, and you will doubtless be preparing for your usual time with me. Well, my dear child, I am sorry to disappoint you. I know, darling, that you love me very much, and it is a great pleasure to me to have you; but, after careful consideration, I have made up my mind that I must not have that pleasure this Christmas. It would be very selfish of me to have you in the house, Molly, for I could do little or nothing to give you pleasure while you were with me. My health, my dear child, is not what it was; I suffer terribly from insomnia, and can stand none of that noise and racket in which the young delight. In short, it would be very wrong to mope you up with an old woman, Molly. My faithful servant, Pearson, attends to all my wants; my doctor visits me daily. I have a full measure of that peace and calm, that quiet and rest, which are now my sole ideas of earthly happiness. You must not, therefore, fret about me, dear, for I am as well as an old woman of over eighty can be. This letter is to tell you, dear Molly, that you are not to spend Christmas with me. Have you any idea what you would like to do with yourself? Your letters from St. Dorothy's interest me very much. I delight in readingabout your life, dear, for I can do so without in the least exciting myself. I always thought highly of Cecil Ross, and what you say about the Irish girl, Kate O'Connor gives me much pleasure. I told you all about my little scheme, Molly, for endowing girls who are ladies, and really want a good start in life. From certain things you tell me, it is possible that I may be able to assist Kate materially in the future. I can say nothing about that at present, but I wish you clearly to understand that I take an interest in her. I hope she will quite recover from her serious accident. What an escape she had of her life, poor child! what an awful operation she must have gone through! My dear Molly, what do you think of the following idea? Suppose you and Kate arrange to spend your Christmas with Cecil. Cecil will, of course, want to join her brothers, and you might all keep house together for a month. You can talk this over with Cecil, and let me know. Please understand that, in any arrangement of this kind, I consider myself responsible for the expenses. Why not go to the seaside? Some people enjoy the sea at Christmas. A complete change of that sort will do you all good, and a lot of young things together can knock up a good deal of fun—at least, I used to find that the case in those days in the dim past when I was young. Let me know what you settle, my darling, and believe me,Your affectionate grandmother,Mary Lavender.
My Dear Molly:
You will be wondering what I intend you to do during the Christmas vacation which is now so close at hand, and you will doubtless be preparing for your usual time with me. Well, my dear child, I am sorry to disappoint you. I know, darling, that you love me very much, and it is a great pleasure to me to have you; but, after careful consideration, I have made up my mind that I must not have that pleasure this Christmas. It would be very selfish of me to have you in the house, Molly, for I could do little or nothing to give you pleasure while you were with me. My health, my dear child, is not what it was; I suffer terribly from insomnia, and can stand none of that noise and racket in which the young delight. In short, it would be very wrong to mope you up with an old woman, Molly. My faithful servant, Pearson, attends to all my wants; my doctor visits me daily. I have a full measure of that peace and calm, that quiet and rest, which are now my sole ideas of earthly happiness. You must not, therefore, fret about me, dear, for I am as well as an old woman of over eighty can be. This letter is to tell you, dear Molly, that you are not to spend Christmas with me. Have you any idea what you would like to do with yourself? Your letters from St. Dorothy's interest me very much. I delight in readingabout your life, dear, for I can do so without in the least exciting myself. I always thought highly of Cecil Ross, and what you say about the Irish girl, Kate O'Connor gives me much pleasure. I told you all about my little scheme, Molly, for endowing girls who are ladies, and really want a good start in life. From certain things you tell me, it is possible that I may be able to assist Kate materially in the future. I can say nothing about that at present, but I wish you clearly to understand that I take an interest in her. I hope she will quite recover from her serious accident. What an escape she had of her life, poor child! what an awful operation she must have gone through! My dear Molly, what do you think of the following idea? Suppose you and Kate arrange to spend your Christmas with Cecil. Cecil will, of course, want to join her brothers, and you might all keep house together for a month. You can talk this over with Cecil, and let me know. Please understand that, in any arrangement of this kind, I consider myself responsible for the expenses. Why not go to the seaside? Some people enjoy the sea at Christmas. A complete change of that sort will do you all good, and a lot of young things together can knock up a good deal of fun—at least, I used to find that the case in those days in the dim past when I was young. Let me know what you settle, my darling, and believe me,
Your affectionate grandmother,Mary Lavender.
Molly read this letter with a quickly beating heart and flushed cheeks; she plunged it into her pocket, and danced rather than walked down to breakfast. Kate O'Connor had no home to go to, and Miss Forester had asked her to remain on at Redgarth if no better offer turned up. Kate had not yet recovered her usual color, nor were her eyes so bright as of old, she was gentleand affectionate to everyone, but a good deal of her high spirit had deserted her.
When Molly had an opportunity she spoke to Kate about the old trouble, but Kate's illness had made all that time seem rather dim to her, and although she was now very fond of Molly, something of the oldvervehad left her friendship.
"But it will be all right, more than right, when I get her away to the seaside," thought Molly to herself. "Oh, what a splendid idea it is!"
"Molly, what are you thinking about?" asked Cecil, as Molly ate her bread and butter and smiled to herself.
"You might as well give us a share of your happy thoughts," said Hester. "You can't possibly know how comical you look, eating and smiling and nodding, and never letting out a word."
"I have had such a jolly letter," answered Molly.
"From whom? Do tell us!"
"From grannie, of course."
"Oh, you are going to her for Christmas, are you not?"
"Well, no; I am not," answered Molly. "I can't talk about my letter now. Cecil and Kate, shall we meet and have a little consultation after dinner to-day?"
"It is a half-holiday, so of course we can," replied Cecil.
"And am I not to be in the conference?" interrupted Hester.
"No, I'm afraid you are not, but we'll tell you all about it afterward," said Molly.
She did not add another word, but, having finished her breakfast, left the room abruptly.
"Where are you going to spend your Christmas, Kate?" asked Hester.
"Here, I suppose," said Kate.
"You will have a dull time, you poor thing!"
"Oh, no! I shall like it. It is so kind of Miss Forester."
But Kate sighed somewhat heavily as she spoke.
"Well, I do pity you," said Amy. "Fancy staying on here with all the girls away. Even if you could study—but you are not allowed to do that yet."
"I shall be all right," said Kate. "I must have patience."
She did not add any more, but went out of the room.
Cecil and Hester found themselves alone.
"I wish I could do something for her," said Cecil; "but I can't. I'd give anything to invite her to stay with the boys and myself; but the only lodgings we can secure at Hazlewick are so small and poor that I could not possibly ask her to share them. Poor dear Kate! when I look at her I do long for money."
"Well, you will have plenty of money some day, Cecil," said Hester. "You have but tocultivate those wonderful brains of yours, and you will be able to do anything. You don't know what Miss Forester and Miss Leicester think of you, and for that matter, all the professors; they say you will pass your B.A. brilliantly by and by, and after that, of course, you can take up anything."
"I have a great deal to work for," said Cecil. "How quickly this term has gone! Of course I shall love to be back with the boys; but I shall be glad, too, when we can return to our life here. But for the anxiety about Kate, I could have done better than I have done. During the worst part of her illness, I could scarcely think of my studies at all."
"You ought to be a nurse or a doctor or something," said Hester. "Miss Leicester says you would make a splendid lady doctor; she said she never saw anyone so young with such self-control."
"By the way," said Cecil, "I wonder if that report is really true about Kate."
"What report?"
"Perhaps I ought not to speak of it, but I know you are her friend, Hester."
"Rather; I'd do anything for her," said Hester Temple.
"Well, it was Alice Wright, who lives at Dacre House, who told me, and Alice is a very careful sort of girl. She knows a cousin of Kate's, a Mr. Dixon; he is a solicitor in London, and Alice's mother wrote to tell her that Mr.Dixon has gone bankrupt, and that poor Kate's little money has been all swallowed up in the smash. I don't think Kate knows herself, but Alice says it is perfectly true, and that Miss Forester is carefully considering the case. She is so fond of Kate that nothing would induce her to cast her off, and, besides, Kate is still too weak to bear any shock. At the same time, Miss Forester can't keep her here if she has no money to pay her fees. If Kate were in her usual health, she is so full of pluck that she could stand anything, even a reverse of this sort. I wonder what Miss Forester will do; it would be perfectly horrid for Kate to feel that she was here on charity."
"Well, don't say anything about it," said Hester. "I expect something will be arranged during the vacation, and we shall know when we meet next term."
Cecil left the breakfast room feeling rather depressed. She went shortly afterward to school, and in the course of the morning, between two lectures, came suddenly face to face with the principal.
"My dear," said Miss Forester, in her genial way, "are you well? You don't look quite as bright as I should like to see you. I hope you are not studying too hard; there is no use in overdoing anything, even study, Cecil."
"No, I am not working too hard," said Cecil, "but oh, if I might talk to you!" she added, throwing emphasis and almost passion into her words.
Miss Forester laid her hand on her shoulder.
"You certainly may, my dear girl," she replied. "Let me see. Molly Lavender is coming to see me this evening. I have arranged to give her half an hour at five o'clock, but if you come to me at six, I shall be delighted to have a chat with you. I am interested in you, Cecil. If you go on as well as you have begun, you are likely to do the school credit. Can you come at six to-night?"
"I certainly can," replied Cecil. "I am anxious to see you, but not about myself; I want to say something about Kate O'Connor."
Miss Forester laughed.
"I am hearing about Kate O'Connor, morning, noon, and night," she said. "All you St. Dorothy girls seem to have gone wild about her. Well, my dear, don't look so puzzled; I am very fond of Kate; I will listen to anything you have to say about her with great pleasure. I will expect you at six this evening, Cecil."
Cecil ran off with a beaming face.
"Molly," she said, as they were going home together, "I am in luck! I met Miss Forester twenty minutes ago, and she invited me to go and see her this evening. I told her that I wanted to talk to her about Kate; I mean to have everything out, if I can."
"Are you going to-night?" said Molly. "She invited me to tea with her."
"Yes; I am to go afterward."
"And you mean to talk to her about Kate?"
"Yes."
"What about her?"
"Well, her vacation for one thing, poor darling! How is she to get better, living on all alone here?"
"She needn't," said Molly, beginning to skip as she walked; "it is all arranged in the most beautiful, perfect way. I will just tell you now, Cecil, for you can think it over during dinner, and then we can discuss the thing in all its bearings later on. Grannie—you know what a brick she is?"
"I should rather think I do," said Cecil warmly.
"Well," continued Molly, "she can't have me this Christmas. That love for silence seems to grow and grow upon her. The poor darling will soon bring herself to such a pass that she won't even be able to stand the creaking of a chair; but what heavenly plan do you think she has suggested? I am not to go to her, but I am to have a jolly, jolly, merry, merry Christmas, for all that. Oh, Cecil, and it will help you too, and those boys of yours, and Kate! Oh, I think it is just too perfect! I do think grannie has the sweetest thoughts in all the world. Aren't you quite delighted?"
"But you forget, you have not told me yet," said Cecil.
"Of course, no more I have. Well, listen: we're all to be grannie's guests this Christmas, not at her house in London, but somewhere atthe seaside. Grannie will take lodgings for us, and we are to be as jolly and merry as ever we please. She has invited me, of course, and you too, Cecil, and the four boys, and Kate, and she thinks the seaside will do us good, even if it is cold weather; and now all we have to decide on is what part of the coast we will visit, and how many rooms we will require, for grannie, who is very rich, will pay everything, so that the horrid money part needn't trouble any of us. Now, Cecil, aren't you glad—aren't you delighted?"
"But it seems too much to take," said Cecil.
"Too much! Oh, if you're going to begin that nonsense, I'll never speak to you again! Don't waste words over it, Cecil, for you will have to yield in the end, and you may as well do it with a good grace."
"It will certainly be a good relief to Mr. Danvers," said Cecil.
"Yes, of course; and, poor man, his feelings ought to be a little considered. Of course you will accept, Cecil; say 'yes,' this minute."
"I don't see how I am to refuse, Molly. It is quite the most perfect idea I ever heard of in all my life."
"Yes, isn't it? Won't grannie have a jolly Christmas, even though she is all by herself. Why, her heart will be just bubbling over with contentment."
"But she would not like it to bubble," said Cecil. "Oh, she is the dearest old lady in the world! But Molly, darling, I very nearly lostmy reason trying to stay quiet enough that day, when she told me that she had left me five hundreds pounds in her will."
"Well," said Molly, "I am too happy for anything. We'll tell Kate after dinner, and then you and I, Cecil, must arrange all about the lodgings. We need deny ourselves nothing, for grannie will want us to have a real good time."
The girls had a consultation after dinner, or rather, Molly harangued and arranged, and Kate and Cecil sat by and listened, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. Much of Kate's old high spirits returned to her for this auspicious occasion. It turned out that she knew a great deal more about the seaside than either of the other girls, her home in Ireland being within a mile of the coast. She suggested an unfashionable seaside resort; she further added that the sea was grandest in winter, when the great storms came, and the waves were sometimes, figuratively speaking, mountains high. She described with great vividness a storm which she and her grandfather had witnessed on the broad Atlantic, how the great rollers came dashing and breaking in, and the clouds of spray wetted your face, even though you stood many yards back from the raging sea. Then she described a vessel on the rocks, and the lowering of the lifeboat, and the rescuing of the drowning people, and the man and the little girl whom she and her grandfather tookhome that night; the terrible grief of the man, whose wife had been drowned in the shipwreck, and the feel of the little child's arms round Kate's neck as she lay huddled up in her bed.
"But all that sounds perfectly awful," said Molly, when Kate paused for breath.
"Yes, the shipwrecks are awful, but the sea itself is magnificent," said Kate, "you can't be near it without loving it. Oh, it will give me a fresh lease of life to breathe the dear salt air again!"
"Then the seaside is decided on," said Molly, with emphasis; "and all we have to do is to find a suitable place, not too fashionable. I wish we could go as far away as Penzance or Falmouth, but it seems scarcely worth while for such a large party to take so long a journey; I must think it all over very carefully. There is one thing now I want to decide."
"What is that?" asked Cecil.
"Why, that we should leave all our books behind, and just take a few good novels; one or two of Sir Walter Scott's, a Dickens and a Thackeray, and perhaps Miss Austen. Just let us live for pleasure for a whole month. Oh, I know it seems a wrong thing to say, but, for my part, I think I shall study all the better when the month is over, if I do not work during that time."
"Agreed," said Cecil, looking up wistfully.
"Ceci, I know you are pining to work that brain of yours," said Molly, "but I am certain a month's rest will be best."
She looked full at Kate as she spoke.
Kate's eyes had suddenly assumed a wistful look; she gave Molly a direct glance, and the delicate rose color flooded her pale cheeks.
"I don't think it is fair to Cecil," she said suddenly.
"If we all agree, what matter does it make to Cecil?"
"But it does; it makes a great deal," continued Kate. "I know perfectly well, Molly, why you are proposing it, and I think it is very, very good of you. You don't want me to feel out of it; but I shan't, dear Molly; I shall try and have patience. I know it is impossible for me to compete in any way with you and Cecil now."
"I see," interrupted Cecil suddenly. "I did not know what Molly meant at the time. Yes, it is a good thought; we'll all rest our brains. Kate shall not even read, but we'll read aloud to her, and so badly that she's certain to drop off to sleep in a quarter of an hour; and you know, Kate, the doctor said that sleep was better for you than any medicine."
"I know," said Kate, with a sigh.
Her high spirits had vanished; she looked paler than usual.
"I wish I did not feel so weary," she said. "I wish this horrible depression, and good-for-nothingness would leave me."
"It will when you are at the seaside," said Molly.
"And I defy you to be very depressed in the company of Maurice and Jimmy," continued Cecil. "Oh, you have never met the boys; you don't know what rascals they are, not Maurice—he is a prince of boys—but the others."
"Yes, I can vouch for their all being the most extraordinary and delightful quartet in the world," said Molly, with a laugh. "Well, I must go now: it is nearly five o'clock, and Miss Forester has invited me to tea with her."
"Don't stay too long," called out Cecil. "Remember, I am due at school at six."
"I shall give myself exactly half an hour by the clock," replied Molly, with a smile.
She left the room, and, five minutes later, was knocking at the door of Miss Forester's charming sitting room.
"Come in!" called the principal.
Molly entered. Tea was on the table; Miss Forester was seated by a desk, examining some exercise books, she glanced round quickly when Molly entered the room.
"Pour me out some tea, like a good girl," she said; "then help yourself, and don't say a word to me for a minute or two."
She turned once more to the work over which she was busy. Molly poured out tea, helped herself to a cup, and then gave many shy glances at the principal's beautiful, tall, and slender figure, her strong face, with its deep, dark eyes and lovely expression.
"How good she looks!" thought the child,"how brave! she has the sort of expression which a conqueror ought to wear, even to look at her helps me. Oh, yes! I am sure she has had many a fight, and I am also certain that she has always come off victorious. I wish I could tell her about that vow I made, and how very hard I find it to keep it, and how frightened I am now and then, when I wake in the night and think about it. Perhaps if I don't faithfully keep it, God will send some fresh punishment to poor Kate; perhaps I did wrong to vow at all."
"Molly, child, what are you thinking about?" said Miss Forester suddenly.
She rose as she spoke, came up to the fire, and drew a little table luxuriously toward her; as she did so, she gave Molly a penetrating glance.
"Bring your chair nearer, my dear," she said; "you look, not exactly troubled, but anxious. Now, I don't want my girls to be anxious. What is the matter, Molly? have you anything on your mind?"
"Yes," said Molly; "I have."
Miss Forester was silent for a minute.
"I never force anyone's confidence," she then said slowly, "but I am a middle-aged woman, and you are a young girl. It is just possible that my experience may be of value to you."
"I'd rather tell you than anyone else in the world," replied Molly, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm.
"Then why not, my dear child? you have surely come here for the purpose, have you not?What is worrying you, my dear Molly Lavender?"
"I'll tell you as quickly as I can," said Molly "You remember about Kate, don't you?"
"Kate O'Connor!" said Miss Forester, with a laugh. "I am not likely to forget her, I find her name in everybody's mouth."
"It was the time when Kate was ill," said Molly; "that fearful day when Dr. Groves thought she might never get better. Don't you remember finding Cecil and me by her bedside?"
"I do, and I thought you had no business to be there."
"Perhaps not," said Molly, coloring; "but I was so restless and wretched that I could not keep away. Miss Leicester called me out of the room a moment or two after you went, and told me that a London doctor was coming, and that there was to be an operation, and that Kate's life hung in the balance. I felt nearly wild; I thought that I could not live if Kate died—there had been a horrid cloud between us two, and I had not been able to set matters right with Kate, and I did feel that life would be unendurable if Kate were taken away. I went into the cathedral, and I knelt there and prayed to God. I was in desperation, and I spoke in a desperate way. I asked God to make Kate better, just as if I were demanding something from him, and I said, 'If you will do it, I will do something for you; I will give up my life to you, if you will only do it.' Miss Forester, I spoke in a sort ofpassion, I felt so fierce and wretched and desperate, then I came away, and in the morning Kate was better, and now she has recovered. But there is my vow to God, I daren't break it, and yet I don't know how to keep it. I promised to give myself to him altogether. I did it, not because I love him, but because I wanted something from him; but now, at any cost, I must keep my bargain. Oh, what am I to do? what am I to do?"
"To live the consecrated life," said Miss Forester slowly.
Molly's head had been lowered, tears were running down her cheeks; she looked up at these words.
"I don't pretend that you did right, Molly," said the principal; "but you did as many another poor tempest-tossed soul has done before you—you struggled to make a bargain with your Maker. Well, child, he was gracious enough to answer your request; now keep your part."
"That is what I want to do," said Molly; "but can I, can I do it without love?"
"Don't you love your Heavenly Father, my dear?"
Molly blushed.
"Not as I love Kate," she said; "nor Cecil; not as I love you."
"Come here, my love, and hold my hand."
Molly went up to Miss Forester's side. Her soft little hand was clasped in the kindly grasp of the older woman.
"I have lived through a great many of these tempests," she said, bending down and looking into Molly's flushed face. "When I was your age, I did not love God best; but now there is no one like him. We were made for God, Molly, as St. Augustine said; we can't be happy apart from him. We don't know that when we are young, but if we use life aright, it teaches us this great lesson. You have made a vow, dear, and you must keep it."
"But ought I to go as a missionary or anything of that sort?" asked Molly.
Miss Forester could scarcely help smiling.
"Missionaries are not the only people who keep a vow of consecration," she said.
"But doesn't it mean that I ought to do something very special?"
"It means," said Miss Forester suddenly, "that you ought to do your school work, and your home work when it comes, from quite a different standpoint from that which influences the girl whose life is not consecrated. You must set God in the middle of your life, and do everything from his point of view. You say you don't love him much now, but love will come very quickly. It is surprising how soon the vain and silly things of life will assume their true proportions, how interesting all your fellow-creatures will be, because you will try to look at them from the point of view from which God regards them. You must make a friend of your Father in heaven; where Christ would havedenied himself, you must do the same. My love, it is not an easy life, but it is a very grand one. It need not, in any sense of the word, prevent your enjoying the innocent pleasures of the world; you may be the kindest of friends, the most loving of daughters, the most diligent of pupils, all the more, not the less, because you lead a consecrated life."
"Thank you," said Molly, in a low tone. She soon afterward took her leave.
As she walked back to St. Dorothy's she thought with a feeling of almost rapture of all that Miss Forester had said to her; her spirit was so uplifted that she thought no temptation too strong not to be easily overcome.
"And I can be happy as well as good," thought the young girl, as she skipped lightly over the ground. "What a delightful Christmas we are all going to have! how beautiful the world is! Oh, yes! God is very good, and I ought to love him; I do love him. I wonder if ever a time will come when I shall feel that I love him best of all."
"Hullo! I say, Molly Lavender, won't you stop for a minute?"
The voice was Matilda's, who came hurrying and panting across the quadrangle.
"I saw you ahead of me, and I rushed on," she said. "I want to speak to you very badly; I wonder if you will do something for me. You have professed to be friendly to me since I cameto St. Dorothy's; well, now is the time for you to prove your own words."
"I will do what I can for you, of course, Matty," said Molly, in her pleasantest voice. "Now, what is the matter?"
"Matter enough," pouted Matilda; "you don't know what a day I've had! All my Christmas is completely ruined! You can just make it bearable for me, if you like."
"What can I do?" said Molly, but somehow or other the pleasure had gone out of her voice; she had a certain premonition of what was coming.
"I will tell you," said Matilda, slipping her hand through Molly's arm, and swinging along, in her usual ungainly gait, by her slight, young companion's side. "I have just had a letter from mother, and my cousin Bob, who lives with us—bother him!—has gone and taken scarlet fever, and of course he is at home, and of course I can't go back for Christmas, and of course mother wants me to stay at Redgarth, but I won't; so there!"
"Oh, I am really sorry for you!" said Molly. "But what is to be done?"
"Why, this," said Matilda eagerly; "I heard Cecil and Kate talking over that delightful scheme of yours for the seaside, and I want to join you. I know perfectly well that neither Kate nor Cecil can bear me, but you profess to be my friend, and you can manage it for me, Molly. Now, will you say 'yes,' Molly? Sayyou will be my friend; say you will manage it for me."
"I really can't!" said Molly, in a cross voice. "It is quite impossible."
"There, I knew you were a humbug like the rest of them," said Matilda, removing her hand with such violence from Molly's arm that she almost pushed her down. "I know you got up early last Sunday to go to the communion, but you are like the rest of those stupid folks who profess so much; when it comes to the point you'll do nothing."
"But, but," said Molly, "it is grandmother's party, and she said nothing about you. I can't do it, Matilda—I really can't!"
"You know perfectly well it is your party, and that the old lady will do as you please. Anyhow, you can write and ask her if I may come; you can say I am a plain, good sort of girl—I shan't mind if you run down my appearance a bit. If you just add I am a chum of yours, she'll agree fast enough, and of course mother will manage my expenses. If you don't do it, Molly, I shall go to the Kings' at Brighton, I vow and declare I will! I won't stay here. Mother was in a way when she wrote, and she never thought of the Kings, but I'll remind her of them. You wouldn't much like to be inthathouse if you knew what it was like—card parties on Sunday, and no end of fun; and as to the flirtations, why, Arabella has had six proposals already, and she's not nineteen!I don't really care for the Kings, they are such a fast lot; but I'll go to them rather than stay here. If I were with you, Molly, perhaps I might be even a little bitgood, or perhaps I might try to be good. Well, it is for you to decide."
The girls were passing the cathedral at that moment; the voices of the choir came out on the evening air.
Molly thought, with a sort of shock, of her vow. She was just having a pretty sharp encounter with the enemy. Was she to fall so quickly and so soon? She turned abruptly, and looked full at her companion.
"To tell you the truth, Matilda," she said, "I'd rather not have you."
"Well, that's pretty frank, upon my word!" said Matilda; "and why?"
"Because," said Molly, "you don't care for Cecil and Kate, and because I do; because Cecil, Kate, and I are harmonious in every sense of the word. You have not our tastes, you have not our ideas, your plans for yourself in life are not a bit the same as ours; but rather than—rather than you should be wretched and perhaps do yourself harm, Matty, I—I will talk to the girls about it. There, don't say anything more. I will let you know to-morrow."
Molly dashed away as she spoke, rushed into the cool hall at St. Dorothy's, ran upstairs, and locked herself into her own little room; there she fell on her knees and wept bitterly.