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 do _wish_ Monica 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 if
_she_ forsook 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!
"Paddy _was_ whipped that night," interpolated Joan solemnly, and Pat
added innocently, "Yes, _naughty_ Paddy; 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----"