Part 11

It was not a very long one; indeed there were a few who wished it had been half as long again. It was not by any means a brilliant peroration, but yet there were points about it which made it the most remarkable sermon to which many of his hearers had ever listened. And that last word gives the key to the whole thing; they _had_ to listen! Whether they liked it or not (and many, very many, did not at all appreciate the home-truths which they heard), some unseen and uncontrollable impulse forced them to listen, even against their will. The earnest, ringing tones of the young preacher, his dark eyes, which seemed to penetrate their very motives and thoughts, stirred the apathetic indifference of that nominally Christian congregation; and they realised, some of them for the first time, that the service of God was a very real and tangible thing, and that they had, so far, had no part or lot in the matter.

Leslie Herschel dwelt first upon the Master, then upon the service itself, and finally upon those who were called to serve, and when and how that service should be rendered.

"My friends," he said, in conclusion, "I claim your service, whole-hearted, faithful, loyal service, to-day, for my Master. He will force none, coerce no one into rendering unloving obedience, but He pleads with you to-day to come with willing hearts and offer Him your best. And what does He promise in return? Peace, joy, hope, satisfaction in this life, and eternal life in the world to come. I ask you, are you content to do without Him? Is this world, pleasant and attractive though it be, so satisfying that you need nothing more than the gaiety, the success, the honour, aye, and the gold which it offers to some, but by no means all of its devotees? But supposing you _are_ satisfied now (and I very much doubt if there exists a single individual who is absolutely satisfied), will you be satisfied, think you, when you come to stand, all unprepared, in the presence of your Judge? Will this world stand you in good stead _then_?" And the preacher leaned over the pulpit, while with searching glance his eyes seemed to scan every one of the disturbed faces before him. "The Bible tells me that 'this world passeth away.' What will it advantage you, _then_, whether you have moved in a select circle, or not? Whether you have acquired fame and distinction, or not? Whether you have been known among men as almost a millionaire, or not? Oh! my friends, I beseech you, with all earnestness, that you will _this day_ choose the Lord Christ for your Master.

"It is an old, but true, saying, that 'To-morrow never comes'; we are only sure of to-day, therefore 'Choose ye this day whom ye will serve,' and say: 'Behold, Thy servants are ready to do whatsoever my Lord the King shall appoint.'

"I do not, I dare not, promise you a path of ease and luxury, but I _can_ say, for I have proved it, that the life which has Christ as its Alpha and Omega is the only truly happy one, the only life worth living. And that word 'whatsoever,' if you really mean what you say, may entail the giving up of many a cherished plan, many a life-long project. It may mean going to China or Africa as a medical missionary for one; to face the misery and horrors of life among the denizens of the East End for another; to live a Christlike life in a worldly and uncongenial atmosphere for a third.

"But in it all, and through it all, Christ's never-failing arm will guide and uphold you, and His voice will be heard, saying: 'Behold, I come quickly, and My reward is with Me, to give every man according as his work shall be.' '_Who_, then, is willing to consecrate his service _this day_ unto the Lord?' May God in His mercy grant that from many a heart in this church this morning the cry may go up to Him, 'O Lord ... _I_ am willing.'"

The strains of the organ, on which the opening bars of that beautiful consecration hymn:

Take my life, and let it be Consecrated, Lord, to Thee,

were being exquisitely played by the organist, accentuated rather than disturbed the hush of solemnity which had fallen upon the congregation, as the young preacher concluded his earnest appeal for personal dedication; and there were undoubtedly several that morning who, realising the claim which Christ had upon them, willingly surrendered all to Him.

The Beauchamp and Drury parties met in the quaint old churchyard, and the two elder ladies walked slowly on, while the young people waited about for Mr. Drury.

"A wonderful sermon, was it not?" said Mrs. Drury.

"Ye--es; but rather too dictatorial in style for such a young preacher." Mrs. Beauchamp's tones expressed dissatisfaction.

"Did you think it dictatorial?" enquired the vicar's wife pleasantly; "it did not strike me in that way. I thought it was a grand opportunity, splendidly seized. With such a varied congregation, coming as we do from all parts of England, no one but God can foresee the results that may accrue, with His blessing, from the faithful message this morning."

"Perhaps so," was Mrs. Beauchamp's somewhat absent reply; and she turned back as if to wait for the girls.

Amethyst and Elsa were close at hand, and quickly joined them, but Monica and Olive were some distance behind, walking slowly, and apparently deep in conversation. Mrs. Drury, who had not been unobservant of the effect of the sermon upon Monica, as she sat listening, listlessly at first, and then was roused into paying startled attention to the (to her) unusual discourse, tactfully drew her own child and Elsa into conversation, as they walked on. For she was sure, from the expressions on the faces of the girls behind, that they were discussing what they had been hearing.

As a matter of fact, after a few commonplaces with Marcus and Roger, the girls left them, and slowly following the others, had been silent companions for a few moments.

Then Olive, shaking off the unwelcome feelings which had taken possession of her, said gaily: "A penny for your thoughts, Monica!"

"You can have them without the penny," was her friend's rather sad reply, as she slipped her arm into Olive's. "I'm half inclined to do what he said, Ollie."

Olive raised a startled face to Monica's, and read quite a new expression upon it, in which there was a certain amount of determination. "What do you mean?" she queried; but in her own heart she knew full well what Monica meant.

"Why, to say _I_ am willing," said Monica, with some confusion, for she felt diffident about expressing what she meant even to her greatest friend.

"Oh, Monica, don't! We'll never have any more good times together," said Olive, and it must have been her bad angel who prompted her words; "if you do you'll have to leave me behind, for _I'm_ not going to give in."

"I wish I could live like he said," and Monica's face looked wistful. "Sometimes I----"

"Well?"

"Sometimes I long to be able to write and tell dad that it is all settled. He _would_ be so glad."

"Well, I don't see much in it," said Olive obstinately. Her better feelings were aroused by Monica's words, but she deliberately crushed them down.

"Oh, yes, there is; there's _everything_ in it! You've only to look at that young clergyman, and your mother, and even Elsa, to see what a difference there is. Oh, Olive, if I had your mother to help me I _would_, really, say to God what we sang just now,

Take myself, and I will be Ever, only, all for Thee"--

and Monica's young face glowed with feeling.

"No, you wouldn't," was Olive's moody reply, "any more than I do. Of course, I mean to be a Christian some day, but not while I'm only a girl; I want some pleasure first."

"Oh, Olive, Olive, you little know the dark cloud that even now is beginning to gather over your head!"

With a sigh, Monica turned away, and, with one consent, they hurried after the others, and no more was said. But the elder girl's heart had been roused and awakened, and never again would she drift into her former state of indifference.

The two young fellows, waiting about in the churchyard for Mr. Drury, at length received a message to the effect that he would be detained still longer, and they had better not wait for him. So they, too, strolled down to the Shore Road, where they knew they would eventually come across their friends.

"I'm almost sorry I'm not in your shoes, old man," said Marcus, as he adapted his long, swinging strides to his friend's shorter steps.

"It's a very good thing that you are a little undecided about it," was Roger's somewhat enigmatical reply. "But tell me what you mean?"

"Why, I felt this morning as if I would give anything to go in for medicine, with a view to going abroad; but I know father has set his heart on my taking orders."

"If I remember rightly, the preacher distinctly observed that the service was not to be one of picking and choosing but a case of 'whatsoever.'"

Something unusual about the tone in which Roger made this remark, and a total absence of his usual cynicism, made his friend glance curiously at him, and he realised that a change, undefinable at present, but nevertheless unmistakable, had taken place in Roger Franklyn.

"I say, old chap, I wish with all my heart _you_ would be a 'Whatsoever Christian,'" he said impulsively.

"With God's help I mean to be," was the unexpected reply, as Roger lifted his hat, and glanced upward, as if registering a vow.

"Thank God!" was Marcus' low but fervent response, as he gripped his friend's hand with such force as to make him wince.

"I knew you would be glad," was the quiet reply, "and so will my dearest mother; she has been praying a long time for her eldest boy, and he has been very obstinate. But I shall need all your prayers, now, for already I foresee trouble and disappointment looming in the distance. The pater is expecting me to follow in his footsteps when I leave St. Adrian's, but I--oh! Drury, I am sure those words were meant for me this morning. There was probably not another medical student in the church, and I felt called to offer myself to Him for foreign service, if He will accept me."

"You need not doubt His acceptance, old fellow. When we give what God asks for, you may be very sure He takes it. How glad Herschel will be!"

"Who is Herschel?" ask Roger quickly.

"Why, this morning's preacher. Did not you hear father talking about him last night? No? Oh, then I must tell you. He is staying down here with his mother and a sister, I believe, and father met him yesterday, some time. Leslie Herschel's father (the late Dean of Balmore) and he were great friends, so he was awfully glad to come across him, and asked him, straight off, to preach this morning. He has had a curacy in some huge mining town, but he is going out to the Soudan this autumn."

"It's marvellous how God makes things fit in," remarked young Franklyn, with rather an embarrassed laugh; it was such a new thing for _him_ to be talking in that strain. "I suppose, humanly speaking, Mr. Drury might have preached a hundred sermons and they would never have touched me; but just this one, from an utter stranger, _did_. And if he had been here either last Sunday, or next, instead of to-day, I should not have heard it!"

"There is a little chorus we undergrads sing sometimes, before we begin our Open-Airs, in Cambridge," said Marcus, "which runs thus--

'I believe God answers prayer. I am sure God answers prayer. I have proved God answers prayer. Glory to His name.'"

"He certainly answered prayer for me this morning, and I'll trust Him for all the future."

Thus, Roger Franklyn, medical student, was "transformed"; and, in the course of a few days, he returned to his work at St. Adrian's, filled with a new purpose, governed by one desire, and one only, namely, to consecrate his service henceforth unto the Lord.

Mr. and Mrs. Drury's hearts were filled with thanksgiving when they heard of his conversion, and a smile irradiated Leslie Herschel's face when he was told of one result, at any rate, of his claim for service.

And Elsa: who can describe Elsa's joy, when, late that Sunday evening as her brother bade her "good-night" at Rocklands gate, he bent down and whispered his news in her ear? He knew well enough which of his twin sisters would be the one to rejoice with him, for Elsa's brave efforts to live a consistent Christian life in her own home had not been unobserved by her eldest brother.

"Oh, Roger, darling, how splendid!" and she clung tenderly to him. "_How_ glad mamma will be when she hears; she has been praying for you so long. And I have, too," she added shyly.

"Dear little sister," he murmured, as he stooped and kissed her forehead. "Go on praying, Elsa, not only for me, but for Dick, and Olive, and the others."

Monica was strangely subdued all that Sunday. Twice Mrs. Beauchamp enquired if she were not well, but she replied that nothing ailed her. Elsa, who felt sure that she had been, in some way, influenced by the sermon, tried to muster sufficient courage to speak to her about it; but no opportunity occurred. Olive seemed determined never to leave Monica's side for a moment. So persistent was she, that even Monica grew cross once, and said pettishly, "Do be quiet for a bit, Olive, I want to read." But if any one had taken the trouble to watch her movements, they would have seen that she rarely turned a page, although she appeared to be absorbed in her story.

In reality, Monica was thinking; good and evil were striving for the mastery within her, and she did not seem able to come to any decision. She longed to become a Christian, in her inmost heart, but something seemed to bar the way. At first, she could not think what the obstacle could be; but before she had lain down to rest that night, she knew that it was her friend, Olive, who was hindering her from taking the decisive step. Olive had said, "Oh, Monica, don't!" and although she knew that she was acting worse than foolishly, Monica decided not to make the great choice just then!

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*"DO BE CAREFUL, GIRLS."*

"Hurrah! Three cheers for mumsie!" cried Amethyst excitedly, one morning.

"What's up now?" enquired her brother, in a provokingly calm tone.

"Why, we're all going for a picnic to Gullane Head, father as well, for the whole day. Isn't it scrumptious?" And she danced about him in great glee.

"Very," he agreed, "but whom do you mean by 'all'? Four people scarcely constitute a picnic."

"Silly boy!" she retorted; "of course Monica and the Franklyns are coming. Mumsie arranged it all with Mrs. Beauchamp yesterday, only she would not say a word until this morning, in case it should not be fine. But there's no fear of rain to-day," and she glanced up at the deep blue sky, in which no speck of cloud was visible, with great satisfaction.

"How do you propose to get there?"

"Oh, father and you are to bicycle, and mother and we four girls are going in a waggonette."

"Is Mrs. Beauchamp going to bicycle, also?" asked Marcus, gravely. He was terribly fond of teasing his young sister.

"Oh, you dreadful boy! Of course not! She isn't going at all; it's too much of a real picnic for her to enjoy."

"I'm sorry Roger has gone," mused Marcus, as he began putting his Kodak in order, with a view to some snap-shotting. "I wonder if Herschel would care to come."

He was soon striding up the quaint old street to the lodgings occupied by the Herschels. The town was very full, and rooms were at a premium, so that the Herschels had been glad to secure even such rooms as they had, in a very old-fashioned house, where the front door opened into the sitting-room, and when one sat in the low bay window, one seemed absolutely in the street.

Marcus, whistling a merry tune, paused a moment at the door, and then went by it, and tapped at the window. All the visitors acted in a very free-and-easy fashion at Sandyshore!

He was invited to "come in," and without more ado he walked into the sitting-room, where the remains of breakfast were still upon the table.

With apologies for intruding so early, Marcus shook hands with a sweet-looking widow lady, the depth of whose mourning betokened recent loss, and a tall slender girl, whose clear, grey eyes seemed too large for the fragile little face surrounded with an aureole of fair hair.

"I came to see if Herschel had any plans for to-day. If not, we are having a picnic at Gullane Head, about seven miles from here, and I wondered whether he would bicycle over with father and me."

"Do, Leslie; it will do you good," said his mother, as the young clergyman hesitated, and demurred about leaving them for a whole day, when his time with them was getting so short. "Robina and I have plenty to amuse ourselves with."

"Would you both join us?" asked Marcus. "Mother and the girls are going in a waggonette."

"Thank you very much, but I am afraid you must excuse us. Robina is not very strong, and it suits us best to have a lazy time by the sea." Mrs. Herschel smiled lovingly at her daughter, whose fair face flushed at the allusion to her health, for it was a sore trial to Robina Herschel that she had always to be taken care of, and shielded from every ill wind. But she bore her cross bravely, and no word of murmuring escaped her lips, although she was denied much that goes to make a girl's life happy.

"What time do you start, Drury?"

"Oh, 10.30, I believe; but come round to the vicarage directly you are ready, won't you?" and, excusing himself on the plea of having to pump up his tyres, Marcus hurried away.

It was a merry party that finally left the Vicarage, after various delays, that morning. For some time the three cyclists kept level with the waggonette, and Marcus teased Amethyst and the girls most unmercifully about ill-treating the poor horse by making him drag such heavy weights as they were, etc., etc.

"It isn't us, it's all the lunch we had to bring for you," cried Amethyst.

"Oh, indeed! You hear, mother? Be sure not to give my small sister so much as a crumb, because, upon her own confession, it's all been brought for me."

"Oh! isn't he tiresome, mumsie?" said his sister, with a little pout. She did not care to be made a laughing-stock of, and the others were all smiling.

"He's only teasing you, girlie; I wouldn't mind," said Mrs. Drury.

"Dick always goes on like that," put in Olive. "Brothers are an awful nuisance, but they 'keep a body alive,' as our old cook says."

"I wish I had one," said Monica wistfully, her glance following the merry young fellow who was now cycling along at a good rate, in order to pick up the two clerics, who were well ahead.

"I don't know what Mrs. Beauchamp would say to a troublesome grandson as well as a troublesome granddaughter," said Olive mischievously. But the words were scarcely out of her mouth before she wished she had not said them.

For Monica, drawing herself up, with one of her haughty airs, said sarcastically: "I am much obliged for your opinion of me, I am sure; especially as no one asked you for it."

"Oh, I only said it for fun," and Olive looked repentantly at her friend. But Monica chose to consider herself injured, and for some little time all the occupants of the waggonette felt a trifle uncomfortable.

But a halt was proclaimed soon after, and all the party dismounted, in order to go over a lighthouse which was situated about two-thirds of the way between Sandyshore and Gullane Head, and in the general interest resulting from an inspection of the wonderful mechanism, which the lighthouse keeper proudly explained to them, the little cloud blew over, and by the time their destination was reached, Olive and Monica were as good friends as ever.

Gullane Head, as the promontory which projected from the mainland was called, was an ideal place for picnics. There were several old caves, said to have been used as hiding-places for contraband goods years before; and the huge boulders which had evidently fallen at some time or other from the cavernous roofs made rough-and-ready chairs and tables, provided one was not too particular.

It was universally decided that it would be the best plan to have lunch first, as they were all hungry, and then devote a long afternoon to exploring the neighbourhood. So a particularly nice spot was chosen, and amid much laughter an impromptu lunch was quickly laid upon one of the flattest boulders, and the party seated themselves, as best they could, around it.

"I'm glad we've got it all to ourselves," said Amethyst, with a deep sigh of enjoyment, as she passed a plate containing half a pork-pie to Marcus; between whom and herself a truce had been declared.

"I can't understand it," added the vicar. "I should have thought half Sandyshore would come to such a charming spot." And he leaned over and looked down at the dark blue sea, dashing up against the base of the rocks, some sixty or seventy feet below.

"It is rather an expensive drive, for one thing," said his wife, who was engaged in pouring lemonade syrup into glasses, to which Elsa added water.

"By the way, where is our coachee?" enquired Marcus. "Isn't he to have something to eat?"

"He has driven on to the Coastguard station, to put up his horse," replied his father. "Some relations of his live there, he says. He will turn up again at four."

"Are you enjoying your holiday, Miss Beauchamp?"

Monica started at the sound of a voice near her elbow, and looked up to see that the young clergyman, of whom she was frightfully shy, and whom she had done her utmost to avoid so far, had found a seat near her own, which was rather a high lump of rock where she had perched herself in order to get a good view of the undercliff.

"Yes, thank you, very much," she faltered; and then she pulled herself together, for it was an unusual thing for Monica Beauchamp to be at a loss for words.

"Sandyshore, and indeed all the coast in this neighbourhood, is very lovely," said Leslie Herschel, his eyes sweeping the panorama that stretched out before them.

"I couldn't bear staying here last year," admitted Monica, "and when I knew my grandmother was coming again, I was vexed at first; but I should have been very sorry not to have come, now."

"How is that? May I ask what has made the difference?" And there was eager questioning in his voice, also in the dark eyes which met Monica's.

"Why, I have had my special friend, Olive Franklyn, with me, this year, and that has made all the difference," was Monica's reply.

Leslie heaved an involuntary sigh, for he had observed the young girl's startled attention on the previous Sunday morning, and he had hoped to have heard that it was the presence of a new-found Heavenly Friend that had made things different. He looked earnestly at Monica, who was occupied with balancing her plate, safely, upon one knee, and wondered whether the present was a good opportunity for speaking a word for his Master, or whether a better one might occur later on.

He had just decided that there is no better time than "now," when Monica looked up with a merry word about the difficulty she was experiencing with her plate, and in a moment more the article in question had slipped out of her grasp, and was lying in fragments on the ground, some six or seven feet below.

All hope of a further _tete-a-tete_ was prevented by the contretemps; and when peace reigned again, Monica was to be found seated amongst the others, in case, next time, she should let herself fall, instead of her plate!

"What were you talking about up there, Monica?" whispered Olive, who had been extremely curious to know what the young clergyman had been saying.