CHAPTER VI."HE WEREN'T CALLED 'SEIZE-'ER' FOR NOTHIN'!"The following day was Saturday, and therefore a whole holiday. Monica, who had grown quite accustomed to the new life among companions of her own age, felt quite dismal when she rose in the morning, and remembered there were two long, long days to be got through before she could expect to see any of them again. She fully intended asking her grandmother if Olive might come to Carson Rise (as Mrs. Beauchamp's residence was called) to tea, at least, if not to spend the greater part of the day. But Olive had told her of the previous arrangement that she and Elsa should go to the vicarage (an invitation, by the way, which she now wished she had not been so eager to accept!), so that Monica was compelled to give up her plans for that week.Whether it was that she missed the wholesome control of schoolrégime, or whether, to use a common phrase, "she got out of bed the wrong side" that Saturday morning, it would be difficult to say; but at any rate, things went very much wrong.To begin with, Mrs. Beauchamp was confined to her bed with a feverish cold, and Barnes came down at breakfast time to say "would Miss Monica please have her breakfast, and then amuse herself as quietly as possible, so that grandmother could get a little sleep, as she had had a very restless night."Now Monica was not really an unfeeling girl, but being abnormally healthy and vigorous herself, she had scant sympathy with ailing people, and was of opinion that her grandmother coddled herself frightfully. Added to this, she knew that Mrs. Beauchamp had intended driving into Osmington that day, to call on some friends who would be likely to be able to tell her more about the Franklyns, and whether Monica might safely be allowed to mix with them. Now, with this cold, the drive would be impossible, and perhaps several days would elapse before she would get full permission to make a friend of Olive. It certainlywasvexing; it almost seemed to the disappointed girl as if her grandmother had caught cold on purpose; and Olive had hinted only the day before that perhaps Mrs. Beauchamp would let Monica come to tea, one day, with them, and the lonely girl was longing to have her first glimpse of real home life, and make the acquaintance of the "Pickle," and see the girls' "den."And, in her chagrin, Monica, with a hasty movement, pushed the hot water jug roughly out of her way, as she reached after the butter dish, with the result that the silver cream jug, which she had carelessly placed near the edge of the table, tipped over, and spilling its contents on the handsome felt carpet, fell with sufficient force to bend the handle, and to make a very nasty dent in its pretty fluted side."Oh, horrors!" ejaculated Monica, "therewillbe a row!" and she endeavoured to mop up the cream with her serviette, and tried what she could do with the jug."I suppose I must ring for Harriet," she muttered, in despair, as the carpet seemed to get worse under her treatment and the jug certainly no better!Her hasty ring brought the parlourmaid quickly on the scene, and that worthy held up her hands in horror at the dreadful state of the carpet."Oh! Miss Monica," she gasped, "whatever will your grandma say? The carpet will be ruined, you may depend. There'll be a nasty looking stain, however much we get it out. That's the worst of these felts," and she hastened away, to return in a moment with cloths and hot water and various remedies for the mishap.Harriet went down on her knees and applied them vigorously, but an ugly dark patch remained, and, as she seemed to take great pleasure in reminding poor Monica, "it always would." She turned her attention to the cream jug next, but, of course, could do nothing to remove the dent, or straighten the twisted handle."Oh, my!" she said; "your grandma will be vexed, Miss Monica, so partikler as she always is about the silver things, on account of their anticwitty, as she calls it. Well, well!"Poor Monica! How she ached to box the ears of this Job's comforter; and it is to be feared the only motive that she had in refraining from doing so, was that she considered itinfra dig.of a lady to strike a menial! She had not learnt the lesson "that he that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city." So, merely shrugging her shoulders, she said not one syllable to the retreating parlourmaid, as she departed with her cloths, and the final remark "that itwasunfortunate, the missis laid up, and all."Monica finished her interrupted meal in gloomy silence, meditating upon the scene that would be enacted later on, when her grandmother was made aware of the mishap.Having made a bad start, unfortunately Monica thought it didn't much matter now if she got into more trouble. So after lounging about in the schoolroom for half an hour, and finding nothing to amuse herself with, she decided upon a visit to the stables.She knew very well that in going there she was acting in defiance of her grandmother's expressed wish; but the spirit of insubordination had seized hold of Monica, and she felt absolutely reckless. Old Richards was nowhere to be seen, so she proceeded to enjoy herself thoroughly, by visiting "Belle" and "Beauty," the handsome pair of greys in their loose boxes, and then passed on to inspect the new pony "Cæsar," who was fastened in his stall.She had just leaned over the door, the upper half of which was open, when she espied Tom, the stable-boy, in the harness-room beyond, busy over polishing the harness, and humming a tune."Mornin', miss," he grinned, as he touched his ragged cap with delight, and went on with his work with extra briskness. He was a bright little chap of fourteen, only recently introduced into the Carson Rise stables, and he appreciated to the full the magnificent opportunity of "getting on" that the situation afforded.For Tom White meant to "get on" to the very best of his ability; and even Richards, who was rather grudging of praise, could find no fault in the little lad, who was as willing as willing could be, and took the greatest possible pains over all his jobs."Is the new pony all right, Tom?" queried Monica, as she stood looking admiringly at Cæsar, as he pawed the ground impatiently, and tossed his silky brown mane. "Will he let me pat him?""Better not, miss," suggested Tom, with an elderly air, which sat comically upon his young shoulders. "Mr. Richards, he said this mornin' that he thought he were a bit of a tartar, miss." And Tom put down a piece of harness with evident pride in the high state of polish which his efforts had produced. He was just going to attack another vigorously, when Monica bade him come and unfasten the pony, so that she could see his head better."Please, miss, I'd rather not." And Tom came slowly out of the harness-room, but made no effort to do as Monica said."Why not, pray? You surely aren't afraid he'll bite you?" said Monica sharply. She had an intense scorn for those who were afraid. "You'll never be any good for a coachman if you're afraid of apony." And her proud young face expressed disgust."Please, miss, 'tisn't that a bit," said the boy, his big grey eyes upraised to hers pleadingly; for he was devoted to Miss Monica. "I ain't a mite afraid of 'im, but Mr. Richards 'e said, said 'e: 'Now, Tom, you leave that there pony alone,' says 'e. 'If 'e don't bite, if 'e gits a chance, my name ain't Richards. You may depend,' says 'e, ''e weren't called "Seize-'er" for nothin'.'""Nonsense!" said Monica, scornfully, although she was tickled with the man's unconscious pun. "You wouldn't bite me, would you, old boy?" she added to the little chestnut, who eyed her rather maliciously as she entered the stall, and put out her hand to rub his soft brown nose."Oh, don't, miss, please don't!" cried the little stable-boy, as he tried to snatch her hand away. But even as he spoke the pony made a grab at the girlish fingers, and Monica realised too late that she would have been wiser to pay attention to the boy's warning, for her hand ached terribly, and there were ugly tooth marks on the palm and one or two fingers."You little wretch! You horrid little vixen!" she cried, in pain and anger, as she bound her hand, fortunately the left one, in her handkerchief, and tried to still the throbbing.The pony, quiet enough now, appeared to take no notice of the epithets she poured out upon him, and Tom stood helplessly by, his very soul in his liquid grey eyes, wishing with all his heart, poor little chap, that it had happened to him instead of to his adored young lady."Please, miss," he suggested timidly, "'adn't you better go indoors, and get something to do your 'and good. Shall I run round to the kitchen and tell 'em?"Monica blessed the warm-hearted little lad for his evident desire to make matters a little easier for her indoors, and gladly assented to his plan.She was thankful when she reached the house that she was saved the effort of telling what had happened, for she felt a curious sensation all over her, and was seized with a desire to fall into the first chair she came to. Surely she was not going to faint? Monica Beauchamp had never been known to have nerves before!"Mercy on us, Miss Monica, you do look bad!" cried the kindly old cook, as she called to one of the maids for a glass of water, and sent another for the vinegar bottle. "La, what a nasty grip the little beast give you!" she added, as the handkerchief fell off, and revealed the extent of the damage. "Get a bowl of warm water, Mary Ann, quick!" And in another minute she was gently bathing the injured hand in the water, to which she had added a little Condy's fluid."Is that better, miss?" she asked, with kindly sympathy, glad to notice that the colour was returning to Monica's cheeks. She was, perhaps, the only one of all the servants who had any affection for the girl whose coming had upset the even tenor of the quiet household, and whose pranks gave them so much extra trouble."Oh! yes, thanks, cook, it doesn't ache quite so horribly now," she said, with a sigh of relief, as the woman bound the hand up in some soft old linen, and Monica prepared to leave the kitchen regions. But when she let her hand fall for a moment, a stifled groan escaped her lips, and she raised it quickly."Let me make a sling of this old scarf, Miss Monica," said cook, suiting the action to the word, and hastily improvising a sling from a black and white check tie, which she produced from one of the huge dresser drawers. "It's a mercy the skin ain't broke.""Thanks," was all Monica could manage to say, for it required all her self-control to keep her lips firmly clenched, the aching was so intense."Perhaps Barnes could find some soothin' stuff to put on it, miss," she called after the girl, as she slowly ascended the kitchen stairs.Monica managed to reach the schoolroom door, where she came face to face with Barnes, who had been in search of her; and she had to tell the maid what had befallen her."Dear, dear, Miss Monica," said Barnes, "'tis nothing but a chapter of accidents this morning; the missis so poorly, too. But there, 'tis one consolation the doctor will be here in a few minutes to see her (for she told me I'd better send for him), and he'll soon put your hand to rights."She spoke more cheerfully than she felt, for Monica looked very unlike her usual self, and she feared she was going to be ill. "Just you have a bit of rest in this easy chair, miss," she said, pushing forward a cosy basket chair, and Monica sank among the cushions with relief. "Why, there's the doctor's gig, I do declare," added the maid, with satisfaction, as wheels sounded on the carriage drive.The fatherly old doctor, who knew Monica very well, although she had seldom required any of his physic, paid her a visit after he had attended to her grandmother. He examined the bite carefully, and commiserated with her on the unfortunate mishap, but said it was not at all a serious matter. He promised to send some lotion, and told her to keep her hand in a sling, and he hoped in a day or two there would be little more than bruises left."But you mustn't go and put your hand into the pony's mouth again, my dear child," said he with a smile, "or you might not get off so easily again. I can't quite understand how it happened yet.""Oh! it was all my own fault," admitted Monica, frankly. "I was warned that the pony might bite, but, of course, I didn't think he would! In fact, I ought not to have gone into the stables at all." And she looked up saucily into the kind old face bending over her. But the expression in the keen eyes which looked searchingly at her made her lower her own, while something akin to shame filled her heart."I suspect the colonel would say that obedience was one of the first duties of a recruit," he said, slowly; "at any rate, it is one of the hardest lessons that a soldier of the King of kings has to learn. My lassie," he added, tenderly, but solemnly, as he smoothed her ruffled hair with a fatherly touch, "how much longer are you going on fighting against Him? Why don't you surrender arms, and begin to fight for Him, and with Him? You see, I know that I am talking to a soldier's daughter. Won't you think about what I have said?" And he took up his hat and gloves, preparatory to departing.Monica, remembering her father's last letter, thought how strange it was that the old doctor should speak in the same strain, but she was too shy to mention it, and Dr. Marley feeling that, at any rate, the seed had been sown in the rebellious young heart, forbore to say more. But as he drove on to his next patient he prayed that it might take root; for the old doctor had known Colonel Beauchamp since he was a little lad, and he took a warm interest in his only child.Monica passed a bad five minutes in her grandmother's room after the doctor had gone, but the influence of his words remained with her, and she refrained from being saucy or off-hand. Indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp began to fear that the accident had made her really ill, so wonderfully subdued and penitent was she.Considering that she would have to bear the pain and inconvenience of her injured hand for some little time, the old lady excused Monica from further punishment, on condition that she did not disobey again. Fully intending at the moment to keep her promise, Monica said she would remember her grandmother's wishes in future, and the latter dismissed her, feeling more hopeful about her grandchild than she had done for a long time.As she did not feel up to any great exertion, Monica spent the greater part of the afternoon and evening in writing a long letter to her father, telling him, in detail, all about her new school, and, above all, about her new-found friend. She also described the happenings of that unfortunate morning, taking care not to spare herself in the least; but she felt too shy to say much in reply to his letter, the only remark she made being: "I have been thinking about what you wrote, dad dear, and I mean to try and learn the hard lesson, but I haven't found a teacher yet." And when the father read the girlish, blotted, and rather badly spelt letter, some weeks later, in far off Simla, the tears rose to his eyes, while he bowed his head and prayed that God would send some one to guide his little daughter into the only safe path.While Monica was engaged in writing her letter, Amethyst Drury was busy playing hostess to the two Franklyns. It was such a lovely sunny afternoon that Mrs. Drury had given permission for the trio to have tea in the little rustic summer-house overlooking the pretty, but by no means large, lawn."Isn't it fun having tea out here?" remarked Amethyst, as the three girls sat lazily in the garden chairs, having done ample justice to the cocoanut cake and raspberry jam sandwiches, which had been provided for the feast by kind Mrs. Drury."Awfully nice," admitted Olive, "but I must say I wish Monica could have been here too.""Oh! Ollie," said Elsa, hastily, with an apologetic glance at Amethyst, for she feared she would think her sister rude.Amethyst's eyes flashed, and she burst out indignantly: "I can't bear that girl! She's going to spoil everything, and we had such lovely times together before she came." And her lips trembled, and in a minute more there would have been an April shower. But Elsa the peacemaker interposed.Putting her arm lovingly round the little hostess, she said, soothingly: "Olive didn't mean anything unkind, dear, I am sure. And I don't think Monica will make much difference, because, you see, she lives so far away. And besides, if Olive and Monica become great friends, that leaves me out in the cold; and I want you, Thistle.""Of course," added Olive. "You two are cut out for each other, and I always feel like a fish out of water amongst you. But let's have a game now, shall we?"And in the intricacies of playing croquet-golf, as best they could, all against all, the little unpleasantness blew over.CHAPTER VII."THIS IS MONICA BEAUCHAMP, MOTHER."But Amethyst remembered it again, later on, as she was preparing to get into her little white bed, after the Saturday night bathing operations were over. Mrs. Drury was with her, brushing out the soft fair hair, and plaiting it up into a smooth pigtail."Mumsie," she said suddenly, twisting herself round, so that the bow Mrs. Drury was tying nearly slipped out of her hand, and she bade the child keep still a moment longer."Now, what is it, girlie?""Oh, mumsie, I dowishMonica Beauchamp had never been born!" Amethyst brought out the words with such vehemence, that for the moment her mother was too astonished to reply."I do, mumsie," repeated the child vehemently."Amethyst, I am ashamed of you," said her mother sternly. "I cannot understand what you mean. I don't think you quite know what you are saying.""I do mean it, really, mumsie, but I daresay it's wicked of me. Only I know she's going to spoil everything, and Olive doesn't care a bit about me now; all she wants is Monica." And Amethyst repeated what Olive had said that afternoon. But if she expected her mother to take her part, she was disappointed."I am afraid my girlie is jealous of this new rival," she said, gently, as she drew the little night-gowned figure on to her knee. "You must not expect to be first always, Amethyst. You have had very happy times with the Franklyns, and I have been very pleased for them to make up a little of what you miss by having no sisters. But Olive, especially, seems older than you, and I do not at all wonder at her making this new friend, and I only hope that they will help each other to be good girls. And, surely, Amethyst, if you have Elsa left, you ought to be content. I do not know a nicer, dearer girl than Elsa, anywhere. I am really very glad that it is she who is left to you. It might be very sad ifsheforsook you for some one else, but I don't think Elsa Franklyn would do that.""No, I'm sure she wouldn't, mumsie," cried the warm-hearted little girl; "she is a dear old darling, and, as you say, so long as I have her it doesn't matter so much about Olive. All the same, I wish that Monica had never come to our school.""I am afraid you have already forgotten the passage you have been learning this evening, for your Sunday class to-morrow," said her mother, somewhat sadly.And Amethyst hung her head in confusion, for the verses she had been saying over and over, not an hour before, were those of that beautiful chapter in the first epistle to the Corinthians, where the Apostle says: "Without charity, I am nothing.""I forgot, mumsie," she murmured."Yes, dear; alas! we all forget so soon. Shall we kneel down together now, darling, and ask our loving Heavenly Father to root up this little weed of jealousy, and sow instead the seed of unselfish love; not only for those we have a natural affection for, but love even for our enemy if we had one."Amethyst Drury often looked back to that Saturday night, and her mother's prayer, in the days and weeks that followed; and the memory of it helped her to overcome her feeling of aversion towards the girl who had, to a large extent, usurped her place.Monica's hand was sufficiently better by the following Monday to allow of her going to school; but the sling which the doctor insisted upon her using excited so many remarks that she wished she had not gone. She put off the girls, as long as she could, but at last, in sheer desperation, she told them exactly what had happened.Her explanation was received in varied ways. One or two of the well-behaved girls looked askance at such insubordination, and lost interest in the result of pure disobedience; but several of the more reckless-minded, Olive among the number, exclaimed at the severity of old Mrs. Beauchamp in forbidding her to go in the stable-yard."Catch me keeping that rule," cried one."Or me either," said another. "Why, I should just like to see my father trying to stop me visiting the dog-kennels, and petting our old grey pony.""I suppose my grandmother has a perfect right to do as she likes in her own house?" said Monica haughtily, and the girls muttered, "Oh, yes, of course," in confusion, scarcely knowing what to make of this very peculiar girl.The days passed swiftly on, without much incident to mark them, until another Saturday drew near, and Monica, happy in her grandmother's permission to be as friendly as occasion necessitated with the Franklyns, realised that on that afternoon she was going to have her first peep into the home life of a big houseful of young people.A nicely worded note from Olive's mother asking Mrs. Beauchamp to allow her granddaughter to spend from three to seven with her girls had been graciously answered in the affirmative by the old lady, who, though she thought it right to be very stern with Monica, was really anxious for the girl to mix with other young people. So she arranged to drive in the direction of Osmington that afternoon, and drop Monica at the Franklyns' door.Monica, who was tremendously excited at what was really a great event in her life, tried her utmost to pay attention to the old lady's advice, as they bowled along in the handsome victoria."Very well, grandmother, I will be sure to remember," she replied dutifully, to some injunction of Mrs. Beauchamp's, and she looked so good and well-behaved that the old lady's heart quite warmed towards this troublesome, but wonderfully taking, granddaughter of hers.For Monica looked extremely well in a new coat and skirt of the darkest shade of blue, which, being unfastened, showed a pretty delaine blouse, with a suggestion of pink among its colourings; while the French sailor hat, simply trimmed with a huge rosette of dark blue, exactly suited her bright young face. It was very seldom that the girl troubled about her personal appearance: her usual cry being that "it was too much fag" to make herself look nice, but on this occasion she had been quite ready to fall in with her grandmother's wish that she should dress herself suitably."Here we are, grandmamma," said Monica, as the victoria pulled up at the iron gates over which the regulation doctor's lamp was swinging, and in a moment more she was on the pavement."Now, Monica, remember, you are on no account to be late in getting ready to come home. Richards will be here punctually at seven, and you must be sure not to keep the pony standing.""Very well, grandmother." Monica could see a well-known face at one of the windows, so she was eager to be off, and promised readily. Her hand was on the iron gate, when her grandmother's voice recalled her."Oh! and, Monica----"Very reluctantly she turned back, and the face under the upturned hat-brim did not look quite so fascinating, with the expression of vexation it had assumed at the delay."Please to remember that you are my granddaughter, and behave yourself as such."Fortunately, the horses grew restive and made a jerk forward, before Monica's pettish exclamation, "I never get a chance to forget it!" reached Mrs. Beauchamp's ears, or that lady would have had her return drive disturbed by the thought of her grandchild's ingratitude.The little cloud soon disappeared from Monica's brow, and her face was all smiles again as she received a boisterous welcome from her "chum.""It is jolly to have you, Monica!""It's ever so much more jolly to come, then!"And the two girls laughed gaily, in their buoyancy of spirit."Come up and take your things off first, and then you shall investigate our 'den' and all its treasures," suggested Olive, as the two girls ascended the staircase, arm-in-arm. As they went up, Olive pointed out the various rooms, lowering her voice as they passed her mother's closed door."Mother wants to see you ever so much, Monica, but she always has to rest in the afternoon, so I am to take you to her room later on. This is our room--Elsa's and mine," she continued, as they crossed the wide landing, and entered a half-open door. "It's not very big, so we keep most of our property upstairs."If Monica thought she had never been in such a small, poorly furnished room before, she made no outward sign. Two small beds, a simple wash-stand, and chest of drawers (which also did duty as toilet table), a couple of chairs, and an impromptu wardrobe made by a shelf and some cretonne curtains, was all the furniture the room contained. How vastly different was it from the elegant apartment she called her own at Carson Rise!Her hat and coat were off in a moment, and then the two friends climbed another flight of stairs, and the "den" was reached."Now, isn't it a dear old place?" cried Olive, enthusiastically, as she showed her friend into every nook and corner of the queer L-shaped room, and Monica warmly agreed with her."What do you use it for, and who does it belong to?""Oh! it really used to be shared by the whole family, and when the boys lived at home, and went to Osmington College, we had gay old times up here, between us. But now they are away, and as Lois has so much to do about the house, and Kath looks after mother, it pretty well belongs to Elsa and me.""Oh! by the way, where is Elsa?" asked the visitor, suddenly remembering her existence."She took the two little ones out for a walk. Funny of her not to want to be in when you were coming, wasn't it?"And Olive flung her arm round her friend, and hugged her impetuously.It never so much as entered Olive's head that her twin sister had unselfishly absented herself on purpose, so that she might have the satisfaction and pleasure of having her friend all to herself for a little while. It had not been exactly easy for Elsa, either, to suggest that she should take the little ones with her, and go on an errand that needed to be done, for she, too, was very much attracted by the winsomeness of this new schoolfellow, although Monica's many faults repelled her at times; in fact, a year before, Elsa Franklyn would not have troubled a bit about it, she would have sought to please herself first, whatever the circumstances might be. But now, she was wont to ask herself on occasions like these: "What would Jesus do if He were in my place just now?" and the answer coming back, very distinctly, she sought by His help to act as she felt convinced He would.Olive, self-seeking, self-loving Olive, often wondered at various little sacrifices, quietly and unostentatiously made, but accepted them without demur, stifling her conscience, which accused her very plainly, by persuading herself that Elsa was such a "mouse" she really didn't care about things a bit, so it was no sacrifice to her.The two girls perched themselves on the high window seat whence they could see the river gliding swiftly by the bottom of the large, old-fashioned garden, and indulged in a long, long "confab," as Olive termed it, after the newly painted things (which had caused such disaster to Olive's dress) had been admired among many other things.At length, when each had confided to the other all that was in her heart, a sound of youthful voices was heard in the hall below, and in a few moments more, Elsa appeared on the scene."Where are Joan and Pat?" said Olive, as Monica and Elsa greeted each other with the school-girl's typical "How d'you do?""They went to Nanny.""Because Monica wants to see Paddy. Go and fetch him up, Elsa, there's a good girl.""Mayn't Joan come, too?" pleaded Elsa; "she wants to, ever so much.""Oh, yes!" said Olive, with good-humoured benignity; "let her come if she likes. But Monica doesn't care for small girls.""I really don't know anything about children," said Monica, as Elsa went off at Olive's request."Well, I think, myself, that they are a perfect nuisance," admitted her friend; "they are always in the way, or getting into mischief, but Paddy is such a jolly little chap, everybody takes a fancy to him."And as soon as Monica saw him, she added yet another to the number of those whom Master Pat, the Pickle, had slain with the sword of his fascinations. He came peeping in the door, demurely twisting his clean holland overall in restless little fingers, as he looked shyly out of his lovely blue eyes at the tall girl who had not the least idea of what to say to "small fry.""Come here, little man," she ventured somewhat stiffly at length, holding out a hand to him."Don't fink I will, big girl," was the unexpected reply, which sent them off into roars of laughter. Paddy, perceiving he had said something comical, laughed gleefully, and added, drolly: "Aren't I a pickle?" which, of course, amused them all the more.The laugh set them all at their ease, and a happy half-hour was spent over one thing and another; Joan sitting quietly looking on, while her little brother received most of the attention. Monica had to be told of some of Paddy's escapades--how once he had got hold of the garden hose, and hiding behind some shrubs, had squirted the water all over Nanny, who was searching everywhere for him. And how another time father had come in one evening to find a stream of water running out at the front door, and they found the mischievous little boy had turned the bathroom tap on, and left it, and the bath overflowing; the water, of course, was running like a river down the stairs and through the hall!"Paddywaswhipped that night," interpolated Joan solemnly, and Pat added innocently, "Yes,naughtyPaddy; but you can't 'spect no better of a 'pickle.'"The tea-bell rang before they could have imagined it was time for that meal, and Monica, who was really somewhat shy of strangers, had to make the acquaintance of the twins' elder sisters. But Lois' kindly courtesy and Kathleen's merry chatter soon made her feel quite at home amongst them. The doctor, too, came in just as they had begun tea, the result of Olive's persistent pleading that he would be sure to be early so as to see her "dear Monica," and as he exerted himself to help entertain the young guest a sigh of regret rose to the latter's lips when the happy, homely meal was over.A stroll round the old-fashioned garden with Olive and Elsa included a visit to the rabbit-hutch and dovecot, and ended with a splendid swing; the twins, who were by no means novices at swinging, being really frightened at the height to which Monica worked herself up. But she knew no fear, and rather enjoyed seeing the anxiety which Elsa evinced every time the ropes creaked uneasily."Oh, do go lower, Monica!" she pleaded; but the wayward girl only laughed. Even Olive tried to dissuade her from going so recklessly high, but Monica showed no sign of lessening her speed, and would doubtless have eventually overbalanced herself, had not little Joan run out to say that her mother was ready to see Monica now.With a merry laugh the girl slowed down, and finally dropped from the seat and catching hold of Olive, said mischievously: "Were you afraid you would have to pick up a bundle of broken bones? I am sure Dr. Franklyn would have liked mending them up again!""Oh, don't, Monica!" was all Olive said, but her silence and Elsa's still scared-looking face, made Monica realise that she had gone a little too far, and she felt somewhat subdued as they retraced their steps to the house.Kathleen came out of her mother's room as the girls tapped at the door."Mother is very anxious to see your friend, Olive," she said, with a bright little smile; "she is feeling fairly well to-day."Monica was seized with a sudden fit of intense shyness, and would gladly have escaped the ordeal, but Olive, never dreaming that her haughty young friend was troubled with any such thing as nervousness, pushed her forward as the door closed after Kathleen's retreating figure, saying: "This is Monica Beauchamp, mother."And Monica looking straight before her, saw a pale, gentle face, with large luminous eyes, and heard a sweet, soft voice murmuring words of welcome, while the thin white hands clasped her strong young ones, and drew her proud young head down low enough for the invalid to print a loving motherly kiss upon the frank, open brow."You do not mind, dear?" said Mrs. Franklyn gently, as she scanned the face of Olive's new friend with eager intensity. "If you are Olive's friend, you must be mine, too."And Monica murmured something to the effect that she would like to be.A few minutes were spent in pleasant chatter, about the school, and one thing and another, and Mrs. Franklyn, reading between the lines, got a very good insight into the character of Olive's friend. "A girl with wonderful possibilities before her," she thought to herself, "but----" The unfinished sentence ended in a sigh, for she was thinking of this stranger's influence over her little girl.Meanwhile Olive was showing the photographs of all the brothers and sisters, which made quite a picture gallery of the mantelpiece; but remembering yet another of her two brothers, taken together, which was in the drawing-room, she ran off to get it, saying: "Monica must see that one, mother; take care of each other until I come back."The door had no sooner closed after Olive than Mrs. Franklyn, turning to the girl who was sitting beside her couch, said, in the tenderest of tones, "My child, are you a Christian?"Monica started with astonishment, for she had no idea the Franklyns were what she called "religious," and scarcely knew what to answer, but the kind, motherly eyes seemed to read her very thoughts, and she felt constrained to reply as she did."No,--I am not. But my father wants me to be.""Then, oh! my child, why don't you?""I don't think I want to be one," said Monica, slowly; "at least, not yet.""Don't put it off, childie; life is very short. If you know the way----""But I don't," interrupted Monica; "that's just what I don't know. Perhaps if I knew how to set about it I might be one.""The Lord Jesus----" began Mrs. Franklyn.But, alas! Olive came bursting into the room, and the precious opportunity had gone. The invalid could only whisper: "Read the 3rd chapter of St. John, and ask God to show you the way, dear child," when, a few moments later, Monica bent over her to say, "Good-bye."And Monica said she would. But, alas! she put the thought aside that night, thinking Sunday afternoon would be a good opportunity for reading the chapter; and when the next day came she was deep in the pages of a fascinating book, and had completely forgotten her promise to Mrs. Franklyn.CHAPTER VIII."MIND YOU ARE NOT LATE!"The days and weeks passed quickly at school, once the new term's work was well begun, and the half-term holiday was drawing near.Monica had never forgotten Lily Howell's trick to get her into trouble, but she felt above paying her out, so she left her severely alone. As it happened, that was perhaps the most trying punishment she could have devised for a girl of Lily's disposition, who ardently longed to be "taken up" by people such as the Beauchamps, whom her father called "The Quality"; and Monica's absolute indifference to her piqued her terribly.Lily was telling her mother about it one day, and complaining of being sent to Coventry by "that Monica Beauchamp, who gives herself such airs, just for all the world as if she was a duchess!"Mrs. Howell, a kindly creature of ample proportions, who always felt impelled to address her magnificent housekeeper as "ma'am," and who never ceased to wish for the happy olden days when first she had married Bob Howell, and kept house on little less than a pound a week, sighed feebly as she looked helplessly at her young daughter, who tyrannised frightfully over her "Ma," as she called her."Well, I'm sure, my dear," she ventured, "you might be content with havin' such nice young ladies as the Miss Masters to make friends of, without 'ankerin' after the gentry.""I do wish you wouldn't leave out all your 'g's,' ma," cried Lily, pettishly; "it's dreadful the way you talk. And as for the Masters, they're only butchers, and I detest being mixed up with shop people." And the girl stamped her foot in disgust.Mrs. Howell, who was shedding a quiet tear or two over her child's unkindness, sniffed loudly, and said: "I'm sure shop people is plenty good enough for girls as behaves to their poor ma like you do, and I don't wonder as this Miss Beauchamp don't take up with you. I wish to goodness your pa had never made a fortune, that I do; for it's a worry from mornin' to night, a-mindin' my manners here, and a-shuttin' up my mouth there!" And the poor, lonely woman, surrounded with every luxury and elegance that money could buy, but who felt less free than a canary in its cage, wept silently.For a minute, Lily regarded her with some sort of compunction, but she was afraid of giving way to her better nature, so merely saying: "Well, I'm sure, ma, there's nothing to cry about," turned on her heel, and left the room.And the poor mother, who had strained every nerve, in her younger days, to make her only child's life one of cloudless happiness, realised that she and her husband had made a bitter mistake in educating Lily "as a lady," for it was only too evident that she now considered herself immensely superior to her parents; and as for affection for them she had little or none.There was little talked of at the High School that second week in June but the approaching half-term holiday, and various ways of spending it. Some of the girls, whose homes were at a distance, but who either lived or boarded with friends in Osmington, so as to attend the High School, were looking forward to a week-end at home; while others were going to stay from the Friday to Monday night with relations.Monica and Olive had discussed several plans for spending the long-looked-forward-to holiday, each of which was delightful in its own way. But eventually, with Mrs. Beauchamp's consent, it was decided that the first part of the day should be spent picnic-fashion, the girls returning to a substantial tea at Carson Rise.Monica would have preferred having Olive only to spend a long day with her, but Mrs. Beauchamp, who had made the acquaintance of the Franklyn twins, and had taken a great fancy to quiet, nicely behaved Elsa, stipulated that if one sister came, both did; so as Monica said: "To make it all square, let's have Amethyst Drury as well."Accordingly, on the most perfect of sunny June mornings the quartette having met at a given spot at eleven o'clock made their way to a favourite place in Disbrowe woods, and prepared to enjoy themselves to the full.The same river which ran past the bottom of the Franklyns' garden, a mile away, flowed through the pretty little copse which enjoyed the above grand cognomen, because it was included in the Disbrowe estate, and the few acres of cherished copse seemed like "woods" in that suburban neighbourhood. It was in this copse that the Osmington people gathered their spring flowers, for the ground was carpeted with primroses during the month of April; and here, too, the boys and girls went nutting in the autumn.But in June there was nothing to gather, so the girls who had brought well-filled lunch baskets and books with which to while away the time, gave themselves up to what Olive called "a thorough laze."Seating themselves in characteristic fashion, Monica and Olive up amongst the low-spreading branches of an old oak, while Amethyst and Elsa chose the grassy hillocks caused by its roots, the quartette soon opened their baskets, and the contents disappeared with startling rapidity. As Monica said, "the river smelt quite sea-i-fied," and gave them an extra good appetite; indeed, if it had not been for Elsa, poor Hero, the collie, who Mrs. Beauchamp had suggested should accompany the girls for protection's sake, would have fared badly.However, he managed to make a very good meal, and was lying down fast asleep in the shade, while the girls, whose tongues had grown tired with talking, were either reading, or lying curled up half asleep on the grassy slope, gazing dreamily at the river, as it flowed smoothly and silently on, when they were all aroused by a short sharp bark, followed by a low growl, and Hero had bounded up the slope to a path which ran along at the top, and which was one of the least frequented paths in the wood."Whatever can he see?" cried Monica; "a rabbit, I expect.""Oh, call him back, Monica, do! Perhaps he will do some mischief," said Elsa."Nonsense! He's only chasing a rabbit or a bird."But even as she spoke there came the sound of feeble crying, as of some one in trouble, and all four girls dropped their books, and ran swiftly up the incline. Arrived there they found Hero, who was still growling at intervals, sniffing suspiciously at a large bundle, done up in a red cotton handkerchief, which was lying on the path: and a few steps away, a poor old body, in a quaint poke bonnet and black shawl, was holding herself up with one hand on the limb of an ash tree, while her other, all knotted with rheumatism, was grasping a stout walking-stick.Her gown bore traces of Hero's paws, and it was evident from her panting and half-sobbing breath that she had been very much upset.As the girls drew near she raised her stick and shook it at the dog, crying, "Oh, the beast, the beast, the wicked beast!" while Monica caught hold of Hero by his collar and dragged him away from the bundle which had great attractions for him.The situation was not without its comical side, and Olive and Monica, seeing no tragedy in it, both began to titter quite audibly."Ah, you may laugh; mebbe 'tis nothin' but sport to young leddies like you," cried the little old woman, as she glanced angrily at them. "But 'tis a sorry thing for me; I'm fair shattered wi' fright."
CHAPTER VI.
"HE WEREN'T CALLED 'SEIZE-'ER' FOR NOTHIN'!"
The following day was Saturday, and therefore a whole holiday. Monica, who had grown quite accustomed to the new life among companions of her own age, felt quite dismal when she rose in the morning, and remembered there were two long, long days to be got through before she could expect to see any of them again. She fully intended asking her grandmother if Olive might come to Carson Rise (as Mrs. Beauchamp's residence was called) to tea, at least, if not to spend the greater part of the day. But Olive had told her of the previous arrangement that she and Elsa should go to the vicarage (an invitation, by the way, which she now wished she had not been so eager to accept!), so that Monica was compelled to give up her plans for that week.
Whether it was that she missed the wholesome control of schoolrégime, or whether, to use a common phrase, "she got out of bed the wrong side" that Saturday morning, it would be difficult to say; but at any rate, things went very much wrong.
To begin with, Mrs. Beauchamp was confined to her bed with a feverish cold, and Barnes came down at breakfast time to say "would Miss Monica please have her breakfast, and then amuse herself as quietly as possible, so that grandmother could get a little sleep, as she had had a very restless night."
Now Monica was not really an unfeeling girl, but being abnormally healthy and vigorous herself, she had scant sympathy with ailing people, and was of opinion that her grandmother coddled herself frightfully. Added to this, she knew that Mrs. Beauchamp had intended driving into Osmington that day, to call on some friends who would be likely to be able to tell her more about the Franklyns, and whether Monica might safely be allowed to mix with them. Now, with this cold, the drive would be impossible, and perhaps several days would elapse before she would get full permission to make a friend of Olive. It certainlywasvexing; it almost seemed to the disappointed girl as if her grandmother had caught cold on purpose; and Olive had hinted only the day before that perhaps Mrs. Beauchamp would let Monica come to tea, one day, with them, and the lonely girl was longing to have her first glimpse of real home life, and make the acquaintance of the "Pickle," and see the girls' "den."
And, in her chagrin, Monica, with a hasty movement, pushed the hot water jug roughly out of her way, as she reached after the butter dish, with the result that the silver cream jug, which she had carelessly placed near the edge of the table, tipped over, and spilling its contents on the handsome felt carpet, fell with sufficient force to bend the handle, and to make a very nasty dent in its pretty fluted side.
"Oh, horrors!" ejaculated Monica, "therewillbe a row!" and she endeavoured to mop up the cream with her serviette, and tried what she could do with the jug.
"I suppose I must ring for Harriet," she muttered, in despair, as the carpet seemed to get worse under her treatment and the jug certainly no better!
Her hasty ring brought the parlourmaid quickly on the scene, and that worthy held up her hands in horror at the dreadful state of the carpet.
"Oh! Miss Monica," she gasped, "whatever will your grandma say? The carpet will be ruined, you may depend. There'll be a nasty looking stain, however much we get it out. That's the worst of these felts," and she hastened away, to return in a moment with cloths and hot water and various remedies for the mishap.
Harriet went down on her knees and applied them vigorously, but an ugly dark patch remained, and, as she seemed to take great pleasure in reminding poor Monica, "it always would." She turned her attention to the cream jug next, but, of course, could do nothing to remove the dent, or straighten the twisted handle.
"Oh, my!" she said; "your grandma will be vexed, Miss Monica, so partikler as she always is about the silver things, on account of their anticwitty, as she calls it. Well, well!"
Poor Monica! How she ached to box the ears of this Job's comforter; and it is to be feared the only motive that she had in refraining from doing so, was that she considered itinfra dig.of a lady to strike a menial! She had not learnt the lesson "that he that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city." So, merely shrugging her shoulders, she said not one syllable to the retreating parlourmaid, as she departed with her cloths, and the final remark "that itwasunfortunate, the missis laid up, and all."
Monica finished her interrupted meal in gloomy silence, meditating upon the scene that would be enacted later on, when her grandmother was made aware of the mishap.
Having made a bad start, unfortunately Monica thought it didn't much matter now if she got into more trouble. So after lounging about in the schoolroom for half an hour, and finding nothing to amuse herself with, she decided upon a visit to the stables.
She knew very well that in going there she was acting in defiance of her grandmother's expressed wish; but the spirit of insubordination had seized hold of Monica, and she felt absolutely reckless. Old Richards was nowhere to be seen, so she proceeded to enjoy herself thoroughly, by visiting "Belle" and "Beauty," the handsome pair of greys in their loose boxes, and then passed on to inspect the new pony "Cæsar," who was fastened in his stall.
She had just leaned over the door, the upper half of which was open, when she espied Tom, the stable-boy, in the harness-room beyond, busy over polishing the harness, and humming a tune.
"Mornin', miss," he grinned, as he touched his ragged cap with delight, and went on with his work with extra briskness. He was a bright little chap of fourteen, only recently introduced into the Carson Rise stables, and he appreciated to the full the magnificent opportunity of "getting on" that the situation afforded.
For Tom White meant to "get on" to the very best of his ability; and even Richards, who was rather grudging of praise, could find no fault in the little lad, who was as willing as willing could be, and took the greatest possible pains over all his jobs.
"Is the new pony all right, Tom?" queried Monica, as she stood looking admiringly at Cæsar, as he pawed the ground impatiently, and tossed his silky brown mane. "Will he let me pat him?"
"Better not, miss," suggested Tom, with an elderly air, which sat comically upon his young shoulders. "Mr. Richards, he said this mornin' that he thought he were a bit of a tartar, miss." And Tom put down a piece of harness with evident pride in the high state of polish which his efforts had produced. He was just going to attack another vigorously, when Monica bade him come and unfasten the pony, so that she could see his head better.
"Please, miss, I'd rather not." And Tom came slowly out of the harness-room, but made no effort to do as Monica said.
"Why not, pray? You surely aren't afraid he'll bite you?" said Monica sharply. She had an intense scorn for those who were afraid. "You'll never be any good for a coachman if you're afraid of apony." And her proud young face expressed disgust.
"Please, miss, 'tisn't that a bit," said the boy, his big grey eyes upraised to hers pleadingly; for he was devoted to Miss Monica. "I ain't a mite afraid of 'im, but Mr. Richards 'e said, said 'e: 'Now, Tom, you leave that there pony alone,' says 'e. 'If 'e don't bite, if 'e gits a chance, my name ain't Richards. You may depend,' says 'e, ''e weren't called "Seize-'er" for nothin'.'"
"Nonsense!" said Monica, scornfully, although she was tickled with the man's unconscious pun. "You wouldn't bite me, would you, old boy?" she added to the little chestnut, who eyed her rather maliciously as she entered the stall, and put out her hand to rub his soft brown nose.
"Oh, don't, miss, please don't!" cried the little stable-boy, as he tried to snatch her hand away. But even as he spoke the pony made a grab at the girlish fingers, and Monica realised too late that she would have been wiser to pay attention to the boy's warning, for her hand ached terribly, and there were ugly tooth marks on the palm and one or two fingers.
"You little wretch! You horrid little vixen!" she cried, in pain and anger, as she bound her hand, fortunately the left one, in her handkerchief, and tried to still the throbbing.
The pony, quiet enough now, appeared to take no notice of the epithets she poured out upon him, and Tom stood helplessly by, his very soul in his liquid grey eyes, wishing with all his heart, poor little chap, that it had happened to him instead of to his adored young lady.
"Please, miss," he suggested timidly, "'adn't you better go indoors, and get something to do your 'and good. Shall I run round to the kitchen and tell 'em?"
Monica blessed the warm-hearted little lad for his evident desire to make matters a little easier for her indoors, and gladly assented to his plan.
She was thankful when she reached the house that she was saved the effort of telling what had happened, for she felt a curious sensation all over her, and was seized with a desire to fall into the first chair she came to. Surely she was not going to faint? Monica Beauchamp had never been known to have nerves before!
"Mercy on us, Miss Monica, you do look bad!" cried the kindly old cook, as she called to one of the maids for a glass of water, and sent another for the vinegar bottle. "La, what a nasty grip the little beast give you!" she added, as the handkerchief fell off, and revealed the extent of the damage. "Get a bowl of warm water, Mary Ann, quick!" And in another minute she was gently bathing the injured hand in the water, to which she had added a little Condy's fluid.
"Is that better, miss?" she asked, with kindly sympathy, glad to notice that the colour was returning to Monica's cheeks. She was, perhaps, the only one of all the servants who had any affection for the girl whose coming had upset the even tenor of the quiet household, and whose pranks gave them so much extra trouble.
"Oh! yes, thanks, cook, it doesn't ache quite so horribly now," she said, with a sigh of relief, as the woman bound the hand up in some soft old linen, and Monica prepared to leave the kitchen regions. But when she let her hand fall for a moment, a stifled groan escaped her lips, and she raised it quickly.
"Let me make a sling of this old scarf, Miss Monica," said cook, suiting the action to the word, and hastily improvising a sling from a black and white check tie, which she produced from one of the huge dresser drawers. "It's a mercy the skin ain't broke."
"Thanks," was all Monica could manage to say, for it required all her self-control to keep her lips firmly clenched, the aching was so intense.
"Perhaps Barnes could find some soothin' stuff to put on it, miss," she called after the girl, as she slowly ascended the kitchen stairs.
Monica managed to reach the schoolroom door, where she came face to face with Barnes, who had been in search of her; and she had to tell the maid what had befallen her.
"Dear, dear, Miss Monica," said Barnes, "'tis nothing but a chapter of accidents this morning; the missis so poorly, too. But there, 'tis one consolation the doctor will be here in a few minutes to see her (for she told me I'd better send for him), and he'll soon put your hand to rights."
She spoke more cheerfully than she felt, for Monica looked very unlike her usual self, and she feared she was going to be ill. "Just you have a bit of rest in this easy chair, miss," she said, pushing forward a cosy basket chair, and Monica sank among the cushions with relief. "Why, there's the doctor's gig, I do declare," added the maid, with satisfaction, as wheels sounded on the carriage drive.
The fatherly old doctor, who knew Monica very well, although she had seldom required any of his physic, paid her a visit after he had attended to her grandmother. He examined the bite carefully, and commiserated with her on the unfortunate mishap, but said it was not at all a serious matter. He promised to send some lotion, and told her to keep her hand in a sling, and he hoped in a day or two there would be little more than bruises left.
"But you mustn't go and put your hand into the pony's mouth again, my dear child," said he with a smile, "or you might not get off so easily again. I can't quite understand how it happened yet."
"Oh! it was all my own fault," admitted Monica, frankly. "I was warned that the pony might bite, but, of course, I didn't think he would! In fact, I ought not to have gone into the stables at all." And she looked up saucily into the kind old face bending over her. But the expression in the keen eyes which looked searchingly at her made her lower her own, while something akin to shame filled her heart.
"I suspect the colonel would say that obedience was one of the first duties of a recruit," he said, slowly; "at any rate, it is one of the hardest lessons that a soldier of the King of kings has to learn. My lassie," he added, tenderly, but solemnly, as he smoothed her ruffled hair with a fatherly touch, "how much longer are you going on fighting against Him? Why don't you surrender arms, and begin to fight for Him, and with Him? You see, I know that I am talking to a soldier's daughter. Won't you think about what I have said?" And he took up his hat and gloves, preparatory to departing.
Monica, remembering her father's last letter, thought how strange it was that the old doctor should speak in the same strain, but she was too shy to mention it, and Dr. Marley feeling that, at any rate, the seed had been sown in the rebellious young heart, forbore to say more. But as he drove on to his next patient he prayed that it might take root; for the old doctor had known Colonel Beauchamp since he was a little lad, and he took a warm interest in his only child.
Monica passed a bad five minutes in her grandmother's room after the doctor had gone, but the influence of his words remained with her, and she refrained from being saucy or off-hand. Indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp began to fear that the accident had made her really ill, so wonderfully subdued and penitent was she.
Considering that she would have to bear the pain and inconvenience of her injured hand for some little time, the old lady excused Monica from further punishment, on condition that she did not disobey again. Fully intending at the moment to keep her promise, Monica said she would remember her grandmother's wishes in future, and the latter dismissed her, feeling more hopeful about her grandchild than she had done for a long time.
As she did not feel up to any great exertion, Monica spent the greater part of the afternoon and evening in writing a long letter to her father, telling him, in detail, all about her new school, and, above all, about her new-found friend. She also described the happenings of that unfortunate morning, taking care not to spare herself in the least; but she felt too shy to say much in reply to his letter, the only remark she made being: "I have been thinking about what you wrote, dad dear, and I mean to try and learn the hard lesson, but I haven't found a teacher yet." And when the father read the girlish, blotted, and rather badly spelt letter, some weeks later, in far off Simla, the tears rose to his eyes, while he bowed his head and prayed that God would send some one to guide his little daughter into the only safe path.
While Monica was engaged in writing her letter, Amethyst Drury was busy playing hostess to the two Franklyns. It was such a lovely sunny afternoon that Mrs. Drury had given permission for the trio to have tea in the little rustic summer-house overlooking the pretty, but by no means large, lawn.
"Isn't it fun having tea out here?" remarked Amethyst, as the three girls sat lazily in the garden chairs, having done ample justice to the cocoanut cake and raspberry jam sandwiches, which had been provided for the feast by kind Mrs. Drury.
"Awfully nice," admitted Olive, "but I must say I wish Monica could have been here too."
"Oh! Ollie," said Elsa, hastily, with an apologetic glance at Amethyst, for she feared she would think her sister rude.
Amethyst's eyes flashed, and she burst out indignantly: "I can't bear that girl! She's going to spoil everything, and we had such lovely times together before she came." And her lips trembled, and in a minute more there would have been an April shower. But Elsa the peacemaker interposed.
Putting her arm lovingly round the little hostess, she said, soothingly: "Olive didn't mean anything unkind, dear, I am sure. And I don't think Monica will make much difference, because, you see, she lives so far away. And besides, if Olive and Monica become great friends, that leaves me out in the cold; and I want you, Thistle."
"Of course," added Olive. "You two are cut out for each other, and I always feel like a fish out of water amongst you. But let's have a game now, shall we?"
And in the intricacies of playing croquet-golf, as best they could, all against all, the little unpleasantness blew over.
CHAPTER VII.
"THIS IS MONICA BEAUCHAMP, MOTHER."
But Amethyst remembered it again, later on, as she was preparing to get into her little white bed, after the Saturday night bathing operations were over. Mrs. Drury was with her, brushing out the soft fair hair, and plaiting it up into a smooth pigtail.
"Mumsie," she said suddenly, twisting herself round, so that the bow Mrs. Drury was tying nearly slipped out of her hand, and she bade the child keep still a moment longer.
"Now, what is it, girlie?"
"Oh, mumsie, I dowishMonica Beauchamp had never been born!" Amethyst brought out the words with such vehemence, that for the moment her mother was too astonished to reply.
"I do, mumsie," repeated the child vehemently.
"Amethyst, I am ashamed of you," said her mother sternly. "I cannot understand what you mean. I don't think you quite know what you are saying."
"I do mean it, really, mumsie, but I daresay it's wicked of me. Only I know she's going to spoil everything, and Olive doesn't care a bit about me now; all she wants is Monica." And Amethyst repeated what Olive had said that afternoon. But if she expected her mother to take her part, she was disappointed.
"I am afraid my girlie is jealous of this new rival," she said, gently, as she drew the little night-gowned figure on to her knee. "You must not expect to be first always, Amethyst. You have had very happy times with the Franklyns, and I have been very pleased for them to make up a little of what you miss by having no sisters. But Olive, especially, seems older than you, and I do not at all wonder at her making this new friend, and I only hope that they will help each other to be good girls. And, surely, Amethyst, if you have Elsa left, you ought to be content. I do not know a nicer, dearer girl than Elsa, anywhere. I am really very glad that it is she who is left to you. It might be very sad ifsheforsook you for some one else, but I don't think Elsa Franklyn would do that."
"No, I'm sure she wouldn't, mumsie," cried the warm-hearted little girl; "she is a dear old darling, and, as you say, so long as I have her it doesn't matter so much about Olive. All the same, I wish that Monica had never come to our school."
"I am afraid you have already forgotten the passage you have been learning this evening, for your Sunday class to-morrow," said her mother, somewhat sadly.
And Amethyst hung her head in confusion, for the verses she had been saying over and over, not an hour before, were those of that beautiful chapter in the first epistle to the Corinthians, where the Apostle says: "Without charity, I am nothing."
"I forgot, mumsie," she murmured.
"Yes, dear; alas! we all forget so soon. Shall we kneel down together now, darling, and ask our loving Heavenly Father to root up this little weed of jealousy, and sow instead the seed of unselfish love; not only for those we have a natural affection for, but love even for our enemy if we had one."
Amethyst Drury often looked back to that Saturday night, and her mother's prayer, in the days and weeks that followed; and the memory of it helped her to overcome her feeling of aversion towards the girl who had, to a large extent, usurped her place.
Monica's hand was sufficiently better by the following Monday to allow of her going to school; but the sling which the doctor insisted upon her using excited so many remarks that she wished she had not gone. She put off the girls, as long as she could, but at last, in sheer desperation, she told them exactly what had happened.
Her explanation was received in varied ways. One or two of the well-behaved girls looked askance at such insubordination, and lost interest in the result of pure disobedience; but several of the more reckless-minded, Olive among the number, exclaimed at the severity of old Mrs. Beauchamp in forbidding her to go in the stable-yard.
"Catch me keeping that rule," cried one.
"Or me either," said another. "Why, I should just like to see my father trying to stop me visiting the dog-kennels, and petting our old grey pony."
"I suppose my grandmother has a perfect right to do as she likes in her own house?" said Monica haughtily, and the girls muttered, "Oh, yes, of course," in confusion, scarcely knowing what to make of this very peculiar girl.
The days passed swiftly on, without much incident to mark them, until another Saturday drew near, and Monica, happy in her grandmother's permission to be as friendly as occasion necessitated with the Franklyns, realised that on that afternoon she was going to have her first peep into the home life of a big houseful of young people.
A nicely worded note from Olive's mother asking Mrs. Beauchamp to allow her granddaughter to spend from three to seven with her girls had been graciously answered in the affirmative by the old lady, who, though she thought it right to be very stern with Monica, was really anxious for the girl to mix with other young people. So she arranged to drive in the direction of Osmington that afternoon, and drop Monica at the Franklyns' door.
Monica, who was tremendously excited at what was really a great event in her life, tried her utmost to pay attention to the old lady's advice, as they bowled along in the handsome victoria.
"Very well, grandmother, I will be sure to remember," she replied dutifully, to some injunction of Mrs. Beauchamp's, and she looked so good and well-behaved that the old lady's heart quite warmed towards this troublesome, but wonderfully taking, granddaughter of hers.
For Monica looked extremely well in a new coat and skirt of the darkest shade of blue, which, being unfastened, showed a pretty delaine blouse, with a suggestion of pink among its colourings; while the French sailor hat, simply trimmed with a huge rosette of dark blue, exactly suited her bright young face. It was very seldom that the girl troubled about her personal appearance: her usual cry being that "it was too much fag" to make herself look nice, but on this occasion she had been quite ready to fall in with her grandmother's wish that she should dress herself suitably.
"Here we are, grandmamma," said Monica, as the victoria pulled up at the iron gates over which the regulation doctor's lamp was swinging, and in a moment more she was on the pavement.
"Now, Monica, remember, you are on no account to be late in getting ready to come home. Richards will be here punctually at seven, and you must be sure not to keep the pony standing."
"Very well, grandmother." Monica could see a well-known face at one of the windows, so she was eager to be off, and promised readily. Her hand was on the iron gate, when her grandmother's voice recalled her.
"Oh! and, Monica----"
Very reluctantly she turned back, and the face under the upturned hat-brim did not look quite so fascinating, with the expression of vexation it had assumed at the delay.
"Please to remember that you are my granddaughter, and behave yourself as such."
Fortunately, the horses grew restive and made a jerk forward, before Monica's pettish exclamation, "I never get a chance to forget it!" reached Mrs. Beauchamp's ears, or that lady would have had her return drive disturbed by the thought of her grandchild's ingratitude.
The little cloud soon disappeared from Monica's brow, and her face was all smiles again as she received a boisterous welcome from her "chum."
"It is jolly to have you, Monica!"
"It's ever so much more jolly to come, then!"
And the two girls laughed gaily, in their buoyancy of spirit.
"Come up and take your things off first, and then you shall investigate our 'den' and all its treasures," suggested Olive, as the two girls ascended the staircase, arm-in-arm. As they went up, Olive pointed out the various rooms, lowering her voice as they passed her mother's closed door.
"Mother wants to see you ever so much, Monica, but she always has to rest in the afternoon, so I am to take you to her room later on. This is our room--Elsa's and mine," she continued, as they crossed the wide landing, and entered a half-open door. "It's not very big, so we keep most of our property upstairs."
If Monica thought she had never been in such a small, poorly furnished room before, she made no outward sign. Two small beds, a simple wash-stand, and chest of drawers (which also did duty as toilet table), a couple of chairs, and an impromptu wardrobe made by a shelf and some cretonne curtains, was all the furniture the room contained. How vastly different was it from the elegant apartment she called her own at Carson Rise!
Her hat and coat were off in a moment, and then the two friends climbed another flight of stairs, and the "den" was reached.
"Now, isn't it a dear old place?" cried Olive, enthusiastically, as she showed her friend into every nook and corner of the queer L-shaped room, and Monica warmly agreed with her.
"What do you use it for, and who does it belong to?"
"Oh! it really used to be shared by the whole family, and when the boys lived at home, and went to Osmington College, we had gay old times up here, between us. But now they are away, and as Lois has so much to do about the house, and Kath looks after mother, it pretty well belongs to Elsa and me."
"Oh! by the way, where is Elsa?" asked the visitor, suddenly remembering her existence.
"She took the two little ones out for a walk. Funny of her not to want to be in when you were coming, wasn't it?"
And Olive flung her arm round her friend, and hugged her impetuously.
It never so much as entered Olive's head that her twin sister had unselfishly absented herself on purpose, so that she might have the satisfaction and pleasure of having her friend all to herself for a little while. It had not been exactly easy for Elsa, either, to suggest that she should take the little ones with her, and go on an errand that needed to be done, for she, too, was very much attracted by the winsomeness of this new schoolfellow, although Monica's many faults repelled her at times; in fact, a year before, Elsa Franklyn would not have troubled a bit about it, she would have sought to please herself first, whatever the circumstances might be. But now, she was wont to ask herself on occasions like these: "What would Jesus do if He were in my place just now?" and the answer coming back, very distinctly, she sought by His help to act as she felt convinced He would.
Olive, self-seeking, self-loving Olive, often wondered at various little sacrifices, quietly and unostentatiously made, but accepted them without demur, stifling her conscience, which accused her very plainly, by persuading herself that Elsa was such a "mouse" she really didn't care about things a bit, so it was no sacrifice to her.
The two girls perched themselves on the high window seat whence they could see the river gliding swiftly by the bottom of the large, old-fashioned garden, and indulged in a long, long "confab," as Olive termed it, after the newly painted things (which had caused such disaster to Olive's dress) had been admired among many other things.
At length, when each had confided to the other all that was in her heart, a sound of youthful voices was heard in the hall below, and in a few moments more, Elsa appeared on the scene.
"Where are Joan and Pat?" said Olive, as Monica and Elsa greeted each other with the school-girl's typical "How d'you do?"
"They went to Nanny."
"Because Monica wants to see Paddy. Go and fetch him up, Elsa, there's a good girl."
"Mayn't Joan come, too?" pleaded Elsa; "she wants to, ever so much."
"Oh, yes!" said Olive, with good-humoured benignity; "let her come if she likes. But Monica doesn't care for small girls."
"I really don't know anything about children," said Monica, as Elsa went off at Olive's request.
"Well, I think, myself, that they are a perfect nuisance," admitted her friend; "they are always in the way, or getting into mischief, but Paddy is such a jolly little chap, everybody takes a fancy to him."
And as soon as Monica saw him, she added yet another to the number of those whom Master Pat, the Pickle, had slain with the sword of his fascinations. He came peeping in the door, demurely twisting his clean holland overall in restless little fingers, as he looked shyly out of his lovely blue eyes at the tall girl who had not the least idea of what to say to "small fry."
"Come here, little man," she ventured somewhat stiffly at length, holding out a hand to him.
"Don't fink I will, big girl," was the unexpected reply, which sent them off into roars of laughter. Paddy, perceiving he had said something comical, laughed gleefully, and added, drolly: "Aren't I a pickle?" which, of course, amused them all the more.
The laugh set them all at their ease, and a happy half-hour was spent over one thing and another; Joan sitting quietly looking on, while her little brother received most of the attention. Monica had to be told of some of Paddy's escapades--how once he had got hold of the garden hose, and hiding behind some shrubs, had squirted the water all over Nanny, who was searching everywhere for him. And how another time father had come in one evening to find a stream of water running out at the front door, and they found the mischievous little boy had turned the bathroom tap on, and left it, and the bath overflowing; the water, of course, was running like a river down the stairs and through the hall!
"Paddywaswhipped that night," interpolated Joan solemnly, and Pat added innocently, "Yes,naughtyPaddy; but you can't 'spect no better of a 'pickle.'"
The tea-bell rang before they could have imagined it was time for that meal, and Monica, who was really somewhat shy of strangers, had to make the acquaintance of the twins' elder sisters. But Lois' kindly courtesy and Kathleen's merry chatter soon made her feel quite at home amongst them. The doctor, too, came in just as they had begun tea, the result of Olive's persistent pleading that he would be sure to be early so as to see her "dear Monica," and as he exerted himself to help entertain the young guest a sigh of regret rose to the latter's lips when the happy, homely meal was over.
A stroll round the old-fashioned garden with Olive and Elsa included a visit to the rabbit-hutch and dovecot, and ended with a splendid swing; the twins, who were by no means novices at swinging, being really frightened at the height to which Monica worked herself up. But she knew no fear, and rather enjoyed seeing the anxiety which Elsa evinced every time the ropes creaked uneasily.
"Oh, do go lower, Monica!" she pleaded; but the wayward girl only laughed. Even Olive tried to dissuade her from going so recklessly high, but Monica showed no sign of lessening her speed, and would doubtless have eventually overbalanced herself, had not little Joan run out to say that her mother was ready to see Monica now.
With a merry laugh the girl slowed down, and finally dropped from the seat and catching hold of Olive, said mischievously: "Were you afraid you would have to pick up a bundle of broken bones? I am sure Dr. Franklyn would have liked mending them up again!"
"Oh, don't, Monica!" was all Olive said, but her silence and Elsa's still scared-looking face, made Monica realise that she had gone a little too far, and she felt somewhat subdued as they retraced their steps to the house.
Kathleen came out of her mother's room as the girls tapped at the door.
"Mother is very anxious to see your friend, Olive," she said, with a bright little smile; "she is feeling fairly well to-day."
Monica was seized with a sudden fit of intense shyness, and would gladly have escaped the ordeal, but Olive, never dreaming that her haughty young friend was troubled with any such thing as nervousness, pushed her forward as the door closed after Kathleen's retreating figure, saying: "This is Monica Beauchamp, mother."
And Monica looking straight before her, saw a pale, gentle face, with large luminous eyes, and heard a sweet, soft voice murmuring words of welcome, while the thin white hands clasped her strong young ones, and drew her proud young head down low enough for the invalid to print a loving motherly kiss upon the frank, open brow.
"You do not mind, dear?" said Mrs. Franklyn gently, as she scanned the face of Olive's new friend with eager intensity. "If you are Olive's friend, you must be mine, too."
And Monica murmured something to the effect that she would like to be.
A few minutes were spent in pleasant chatter, about the school, and one thing and another, and Mrs. Franklyn, reading between the lines, got a very good insight into the character of Olive's friend. "A girl with wonderful possibilities before her," she thought to herself, "but----" The unfinished sentence ended in a sigh, for she was thinking of this stranger's influence over her little girl.
Meanwhile Olive was showing the photographs of all the brothers and sisters, which made quite a picture gallery of the mantelpiece; but remembering yet another of her two brothers, taken together, which was in the drawing-room, she ran off to get it, saying: "Monica must see that one, mother; take care of each other until I come back."
The door had no sooner closed after Olive than Mrs. Franklyn, turning to the girl who was sitting beside her couch, said, in the tenderest of tones, "My child, are you a Christian?"
Monica started with astonishment, for she had no idea the Franklyns were what she called "religious," and scarcely knew what to answer, but the kind, motherly eyes seemed to read her very thoughts, and she felt constrained to reply as she did.
"No,--I am not. But my father wants me to be."
"Then, oh! my child, why don't you?"
"I don't think I want to be one," said Monica, slowly; "at least, not yet."
"Don't put it off, childie; life is very short. If you know the way----"
"But I don't," interrupted Monica; "that's just what I don't know. Perhaps if I knew how to set about it I might be one."
"The Lord Jesus----" began Mrs. Franklyn.
But, alas! Olive came bursting into the room, and the precious opportunity had gone. The invalid could only whisper: "Read the 3rd chapter of St. John, and ask God to show you the way, dear child," when, a few moments later, Monica bent over her to say, "Good-bye."
And Monica said she would. But, alas! she put the thought aside that night, thinking Sunday afternoon would be a good opportunity for reading the chapter; and when the next day came she was deep in the pages of a fascinating book, and had completely forgotten her promise to Mrs. Franklyn.
CHAPTER VIII.
"MIND YOU ARE NOT LATE!"
The days and weeks passed quickly at school, once the new term's work was well begun, and the half-term holiday was drawing near.
Monica had never forgotten Lily Howell's trick to get her into trouble, but she felt above paying her out, so she left her severely alone. As it happened, that was perhaps the most trying punishment she could have devised for a girl of Lily's disposition, who ardently longed to be "taken up" by people such as the Beauchamps, whom her father called "The Quality"; and Monica's absolute indifference to her piqued her terribly.
Lily was telling her mother about it one day, and complaining of being sent to Coventry by "that Monica Beauchamp, who gives herself such airs, just for all the world as if she was a duchess!"
Mrs. Howell, a kindly creature of ample proportions, who always felt impelled to address her magnificent housekeeper as "ma'am," and who never ceased to wish for the happy olden days when first she had married Bob Howell, and kept house on little less than a pound a week, sighed feebly as she looked helplessly at her young daughter, who tyrannised frightfully over her "Ma," as she called her.
"Well, I'm sure, my dear," she ventured, "you might be content with havin' such nice young ladies as the Miss Masters to make friends of, without 'ankerin' after the gentry."
"I do wish you wouldn't leave out all your 'g's,' ma," cried Lily, pettishly; "it's dreadful the way you talk. And as for the Masters, they're only butchers, and I detest being mixed up with shop people." And the girl stamped her foot in disgust.
Mrs. Howell, who was shedding a quiet tear or two over her child's unkindness, sniffed loudly, and said: "I'm sure shop people is plenty good enough for girls as behaves to their poor ma like you do, and I don't wonder as this Miss Beauchamp don't take up with you. I wish to goodness your pa had never made a fortune, that I do; for it's a worry from mornin' to night, a-mindin' my manners here, and a-shuttin' up my mouth there!" And the poor, lonely woman, surrounded with every luxury and elegance that money could buy, but who felt less free than a canary in its cage, wept silently.
For a minute, Lily regarded her with some sort of compunction, but she was afraid of giving way to her better nature, so merely saying: "Well, I'm sure, ma, there's nothing to cry about," turned on her heel, and left the room.
And the poor mother, who had strained every nerve, in her younger days, to make her only child's life one of cloudless happiness, realised that she and her husband had made a bitter mistake in educating Lily "as a lady," for it was only too evident that she now considered herself immensely superior to her parents; and as for affection for them she had little or none.
There was little talked of at the High School that second week in June but the approaching half-term holiday, and various ways of spending it. Some of the girls, whose homes were at a distance, but who either lived or boarded with friends in Osmington, so as to attend the High School, were looking forward to a week-end at home; while others were going to stay from the Friday to Monday night with relations.
Monica and Olive had discussed several plans for spending the long-looked-forward-to holiday, each of which was delightful in its own way. But eventually, with Mrs. Beauchamp's consent, it was decided that the first part of the day should be spent picnic-fashion, the girls returning to a substantial tea at Carson Rise.
Monica would have preferred having Olive only to spend a long day with her, but Mrs. Beauchamp, who had made the acquaintance of the Franklyn twins, and had taken a great fancy to quiet, nicely behaved Elsa, stipulated that if one sister came, both did; so as Monica said: "To make it all square, let's have Amethyst Drury as well."
Accordingly, on the most perfect of sunny June mornings the quartette having met at a given spot at eleven o'clock made their way to a favourite place in Disbrowe woods, and prepared to enjoy themselves to the full.
The same river which ran past the bottom of the Franklyns' garden, a mile away, flowed through the pretty little copse which enjoyed the above grand cognomen, because it was included in the Disbrowe estate, and the few acres of cherished copse seemed like "woods" in that suburban neighbourhood. It was in this copse that the Osmington people gathered their spring flowers, for the ground was carpeted with primroses during the month of April; and here, too, the boys and girls went nutting in the autumn.
But in June there was nothing to gather, so the girls who had brought well-filled lunch baskets and books with which to while away the time, gave themselves up to what Olive called "a thorough laze."
Seating themselves in characteristic fashion, Monica and Olive up amongst the low-spreading branches of an old oak, while Amethyst and Elsa chose the grassy hillocks caused by its roots, the quartette soon opened their baskets, and the contents disappeared with startling rapidity. As Monica said, "the river smelt quite sea-i-fied," and gave them an extra good appetite; indeed, if it had not been for Elsa, poor Hero, the collie, who Mrs. Beauchamp had suggested should accompany the girls for protection's sake, would have fared badly.
However, he managed to make a very good meal, and was lying down fast asleep in the shade, while the girls, whose tongues had grown tired with talking, were either reading, or lying curled up half asleep on the grassy slope, gazing dreamily at the river, as it flowed smoothly and silently on, when they were all aroused by a short sharp bark, followed by a low growl, and Hero had bounded up the slope to a path which ran along at the top, and which was one of the least frequented paths in the wood.
"Whatever can he see?" cried Monica; "a rabbit, I expect."
"Oh, call him back, Monica, do! Perhaps he will do some mischief," said Elsa.
"Nonsense! He's only chasing a rabbit or a bird."
But even as she spoke there came the sound of feeble crying, as of some one in trouble, and all four girls dropped their books, and ran swiftly up the incline. Arrived there they found Hero, who was still growling at intervals, sniffing suspiciously at a large bundle, done up in a red cotton handkerchief, which was lying on the path: and a few steps away, a poor old body, in a quaint poke bonnet and black shawl, was holding herself up with one hand on the limb of an ash tree, while her other, all knotted with rheumatism, was grasping a stout walking-stick.
Her gown bore traces of Hero's paws, and it was evident from her panting and half-sobbing breath that she had been very much upset.
As the girls drew near she raised her stick and shook it at the dog, crying, "Oh, the beast, the beast, the wicked beast!" while Monica caught hold of Hero by his collar and dragged him away from the bundle which had great attractions for him.
The situation was not without its comical side, and Olive and Monica, seeing no tragedy in it, both began to titter quite audibly.
"Ah, you may laugh; mebbe 'tis nothin' but sport to young leddies like you," cried the little old woman, as she glanced angrily at them. "But 'tis a sorry thing for me; I'm fair shattered wi' fright."