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."
[Illustration: "'AH, YOU MAY LAUGH; MEBBE 'TIS NOTHIN' BUT SPORT TO
YOUNG LEDDIES LIKE YOU.'"]
"Poor old thing!" whispered Amethyst to Elsa; "see how she is shuddering
still. I should have been afraid of Hero myself, if he had suddenly
bounced upon me."
"Yes," was all Elsa said, and the next moment she had slipped up to the
old woman, and with a pitiful look in her eyes had taken one of the
knotted, wrinkled hands in her own, while she said gently: "We are very
sorry, really we are. We wouldn't have let Hero frighten you for
anything, if we had known you were here. But people hardly ever come
along this path."
"Ah! little lady, you've got a kind heart, I can see," said the old
granny, as she looked up into the bright, young face, which evinced real
sympathy for her; "not like them two yonder, a-makin' sport o' an old
body like me. They'll be rewarded one of these days, though."
She clutched her stick tightly and prepared to pick up her bundle; but
Amethyst stooped for her and gave it to her with a smile.
"Thank you, my pretty dear. God bless you both for helpin' me. And now
I'll get on a bit, if that there beast 'll let me." But even as she
spoke, she tottered and would have fallen, but for a helping-hand from
Elsa.
"'Tis the rheumatizzy, missy; it ketches me all of a heap like, nows and
thens."
"Let us go a little way with her, Thistle," suggested Elsa, and Amethyst
agreed readily, although their companions tried to persuade them not to
go.
"Whereabouts are you going?" asked Elsa.
"To my darter's, missy; Joe Hodges' wife she be as lives over agin
Disbrowe House."
"Oh! I know Mrs. Hodges, Elsa," cried Amethyst; "she comes to the
mothers' meeting. Her husband works for Sir Tudor Disbrowe."
"So he do, missy, and they has a cottage on the estate, so they've
a-told me. But I be a stranger to these parts, and I must have mistook
my way a-crossin' the copse. I tried to foller the 'rections they gave
me at the station, but I made sure I'd took a wrong turn just as that
there animal a-bounced at me."
"It's more than a mile from here to Mrs. Hodges' cottage," said
Amethyst, somewhat dubiously. She was not quite sure that her good
nature was equal to traversing all that distance with the comical old
woman.
"Can you walk so far as that, if we help you, do you think?" asked Elsa.
"Oh, my dear young lady," expostulated Granny Wood (as she was generally
called), "I don't like to let you do it. I really don't."
"Oh, we don't mind, do we, Elsa?" said Amethyst, a little
grandiloquently. "Just look after our baskets and books till we come
back, you girls." This she called out to Monica and Olive, who had
retreated to a little distance and were watching the proceedings with
amusement and contempt.
"You won't find us here when you get back, you needn't fear," retorted
Olive. "It's likely to be a lengthy affair! If you're both determined
to go, you'd better take your things with you and meet us at the white
gate in West Lane. What is the time now, Monica?"
"Two o'clock," replied the only owner of a watch among the quartette.
"Well, we'll meet you about three o'clock, and mind you are not late."
"All right," called back Amethyst, as the queer little party set off,
the old woman supported by Elsa's strong, young arm on one side and her
stick in her right hand, while Amethyst carried the handkerchief bundle.
"We shan't wait after half-past three, whatever happens," shouted
Monica, "so if you're later than that, go straight to Carson Rise."
"Oh, we shall be there in time," returned Amethyst, and the trio
disappeared round a turn in the pathway.
"What a fuss about nothing," said Olive, as the girls returned to their
seat by the river, and Monica fastened Hero to the trunk of a tree.
"Yes, perfect twaddle I call it," returned her friend; "but there, if
they like to do it, it doesn't matter to us." And she took up the book
she had flung down in her hurry, and hunted about for her place.
"Babyish sort of story this," she added, as she turned over the pages,
"nothing at all exciting in it. How do you like yours, Olive?"
"Oh, pretty fair; it's rather childish, too, but mother is very
particular about what we read; she won't let us girls look at a novel."
"Grandmother never troubles about what I read," said Monica. "I've got
some jolly books at home, I'll show them to you after tea. I am reading
one now that I wanted to bring out with me, but that little Amethyst's
eyes are as sharp as needles, and she might have picked it up. I must
lend it to you when I've done. It's an awfully jolly story called A
Cruel Fate."
"It sounds nice," said Olive, "but if it's a novel, mother won't let me
read it."
"Surely you don't have to show her everything you read?" cried Monica,
and there was a suggestion of scorn in her tone, which touched a weak
spot in Olive's nature; she could not bear being sneered at.
"Of course not," she replied hastily.
"Well, you shall have it later on."
And then the conversation dropped, and they went on reading.
Meanwhile, the progress that the old granny and and her two young
companions made was very slow. The sudden, unexpected appearance of the
big dog had really upset her, and she was very shaky and nervous still.
By the time half a mile had been traversed, her feeble steps began to
flag, and it was only by dint of resting very often, and leaning very
heavily upon one or other of the girls, that at length the daughter's
cottage was reached.
Elsa and Amethyst were by no means sorry when their task was over. They
had not thought it would be such a tedious journey, and they were very
glad when they had left the old woman safely ensconced in an armchair by
Mrs. Hodges' fireside, while that worthy followed them to the gate,
overwhelming them with thanks for their very great kindness to her old
mother.
"I'm sure, miss, we never can thank you both enough," she repeated again
and again, as she held the little green gate open for them to go
through.
"Please don't say any more," replied Elsa, earnestly; "we were very glad
to do what we could to help your mother."
And as the two girls hastened off, the words the grateful old woman had
repeated reverently, as they bade her "good-bye," rang in Elsa's ears
like a benediction: "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these
... ye have done it unto ME."
But Amethyst's thoughts were in quite another direction.
"It must be awfully late, Elsa," she said, as they hurried along the
quiet road which skirted the copse, and which would bring them
eventually to West Lane, where they had arranged to meet the others. "We
were ages getting there."
"Yes, I suppose it is," replied Elsa, coming back to the present moment
with a start; "why, now I remember it, the grandfather's clock in Mrs.
Hodges' room was nearly three o'clock."
"Good gracious!" cried Amethyst. "I never noticed it; let's hope it was
fast. But, anyhow, we shall have a business to reach the white gate in
time;" and they quickened their footsteps into a run.
At length the trysting place was reached, and they were glad to find
that they were the first on the spot.
"Now we can have a rest and get back our breath," said Amethyst, as they
perched themselves on the white gate, and fanned their flushed faces
with their straw hats. "Oh, I say, how hot and tired I am!"
"I do wish we knew what the time was," said Elsa, who looked rather
worried.
"Yes, it's a great bother not having a watch, but I'm to have one next
Christmas, so there's not very much longer to wait;" and Amethyst heaved
a little sigh of satisfaction. Then she jumped off the gate and ran
into the road, as she heard footsteps approaching, expecting it to be
the other two girls, but it was only a nurse pushing a baby in a mail
cart.
"Do you think she'd know the time, Elsa?" she said, as she ran back to
the gate.
"You might ask her," replied the elder girl.
The next moment Amethyst returned with a look of incredulous horror on
her little flushed face.
"It's actually four o'clock, Elsa! What _shall_ we do?"
With a spring, Elsa was on the ground beside her, and the two girls
gazed at each other in consternation.
"Why, they said they would not wait after half-past three, and they must
have gone long before we came, and here we have been waiting ever so
long for them. Oh, it is _too_ bad!" cried Amethyst, nearly in tears.
"That clock must have been dreadfully slow," said Elsa. "Perhaps it was
not even going. But cheer up, Thistle, we can get to Carson Rise in
less than half an hour from here, and we shall be in time for tea. It
wasn't our fault, dear; we couldn't help it, if we are late."
"I don't half like going by ourselves," said Amethyst, as they hurried
along the hot, dusty road towards Mydenham; "you see, I've never been
there yet."
"Oh! it will be all right," returned Elsa consolingly. "Mrs. Beauchamp
is very kind, really, although Monica thinks she is strict. She will
understand when we explain. I daresay the other two had only just left
when we arrived."
*CHAPTER IX.*
*"HAVE A RIDE, MONICA?"*
"Oh, dear me!" yawned Monica, as she stretched herself lazily, and shut
up her book. "I feel awfully sleepy."
"Have a snooze, then," returned Olive, who was deep in the intricacies
of her story; "only just tell me the time first."
"Good gracious!" cried her friend, as she twisted her wristlet round, so
as to see the hands of the watch it enclosed; "it's just upon three."
"How the time has flown," said Olive, shutting up her book somewhat
reluctantly; "we must be going at once. I expect the other two are at
the white gate already."
"Not they," ejaculated Monica, as she unfastened Hero, and put her book
in her empty lunch basket. And when, five minutes later, they reached
the appointed meeting-place, and no trace of the others was to be seen,
she said: "I told you so."
"Well, I suppose we must wait about a bit for them," said Olive, "they
can't be many minutes. Let's perch on the gate posts and read a bit."
She had only a few pages left, and was anxious to see what became of her
heroine. But Monica's story was ended, so she looked about her for some
other amusement.
In less than a minute the gay chatter of girls sounded on the still,
summer air, and Olive, looking up from her book, said: "There they are."
But Monica, who had gone to reconnoitre, said: "No, it's only some of
the High School girls--Gipsy Monroe and her little sisters, with a
bicycle."
"Hullo!" they said, as they came up, "what are you up to?"
"Waiting for Elsa Franklyn and Thistle Drury," was Monica's reply.
"Seen anything of them?"
"No," replied the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, rightly nicknamed
"Gipsy," instead of the plainer appellation of Emily which she had been
given. She was holding a younger girl on the bicycle, who jumped off as
she brought it to a stand-still. "Have a ride, Monica?"
Now Monica knew that her grandmother had a great abhorrence of girls
riding bicycles, and, indeed, she had expressly forbidden her
granddaughter to attempt to mount one. But Monica, in this, as in most
things, entirely disagreed with her grandmother, and felt with the
boundless self-confidence of youth that her own opinion was far the
best. So without a qualm of conscience, she readily accepted the offer.
"I can't balance myself a bit," she said, as she mounted the machine,
while Gipsy held it steady. "I have tried once or twice, but I always
wobble frightfully." And her movements proved she was right.
"Oh, I say, how heavy you are!" cried Gipsy, in dismay, as Monica and
the bicycle rolled first one way and then the other. "Come and hold her
up, Olive."
Things went better then, with two to steady the uncertain rider, and
they had gone some little distance along the road, when the Monroe
children, who were a little behind, called out: "Look out, here's a
motor!" And in another second the car whizzed by them.
They never knew just how it happened; whether Monica overbalanced, or
whether she steered purposely into the hedge, so as to avoid the motor,
but the next instant the bicycle overturned, and Monica lay all huddled
up underneath it.
"Oh! Monica, are you hurt?" cried both girls simultaneously, as they
lifted up the bicycle, and stood it against the hedge. But Monica
neither moved nor spoke.
"Oh, she's dead!" cried the younger children, as they looked at the
inanimate form, lying so still on the dusty road.
"Nonsense!" said a loud, cheery voice beside them, and looking up,
startled, the girls saw that the motor had been brought to a standstill
not many yards off, and its occupant had come back to see what was the
matter. "Not a bit of it! The lass has only twisted her foot a bit, by
the look of it, and I expect she's either stunned or fainted. I'll lift
her up," and suiting the action to the word, the stranger, whom the
girls had recognised as Lily Howell's father, raised Monica gently in
his strong arms.
The movement roused Monica, and she opened her eyes, saying with a
shudder, "Oh, my foot, my foot!"
"Oh, Monica, Monica!" cried Olive, who was nearly beside herself with
fright, and who was terrified when she thought of Mrs. Beauchamp.
"There, that'll do, missy!" interposed Mr. Howell, in his bluff, hearty
voice; "just you let me carry her to the car there, and we'll have this
foot attended to in a jiffy."
And in another moment Monica was half-lying, half-sitting in the car,
supported by Mr. Howell and Olive, whom he had bade get up as well, when
he understood they were together; the Monroes following on foot with the
bicycle, which had been the innocent cause of the calamity.
"Drive on home, Cobb," said Mr. Howell to his chauffeur; while he added
to Olive, "It's the nearest place, and we shall soon see how much damage
is done."
"Oh, she's fainted again!" cried poor Olive, as Monica's head fell
helplessly against the broad shoulder which was supporting it.
"By Jove! she has," ejaculated the man under his breath, and he noticed
with relief that another minute would see them at his door.
It was the work of a very few moments to carry the injured girl into the
house, and lay her gently on a huge couch, which was placed under an
open window in one of the expensively furnished rooms. The next thing
was to remove the shoe from the fast-swelling foot, to find Mrs. Howell,
and send for the doctor.
"Franklyn is nearest," said the plutocrat to a smartly liveried footman,
who waited for orders. "Get him to come at once, or if he's out, bring
any one you can find."
"Oh, I hope father will come!" said Olive pitifully, as she rubbed
Monica's cold hands and tried to rouse her.
"Are you one of Franklyn's girls, then?" asked Mr. Howell; "and who is
this young lady?"
"Monica Beauchamp. Her grandmother lives at Carson Rise, Mydenham."
"Oh, I've heard of her from my girl," and Lily's father had a good look
at the object of his child's envious dislike. "We'll send a message to
her grandma as soon as the doctor's been."
The door opened, and Mrs. Howell appeared on the scene, followed by a
maid bringing water, smelling-salts, and various other remedies. Her
plain, homely face wore an expression of anxiety, and she had evidently
hurried so much in response to her husband's imperative summons, that
she was short of breath.
"Here, Caroline, you'll know best what to do," said Mr. Howell; "see if
you can pull her round. I'll be on the look out for the doctor," and he
left the room as he spoke.
"Bless me!" was all Mrs. Howell could find breath enough to say, but she
busied herself with trying the various restoratives the elderly servant
handed to her, and in a few moments Monica opened her eyes.
"Where am I?" she murmured, seeing strange faces bent over her, and Mrs.
Howell nudged Olive to speak to her friend.
"You're at Mrs. Howell's, Monica; you hurt your foot, you know. But
don't try to talk now. Father will be here directly." She spoke with a
confidence she was far from feeling, for it was quite possible that Dr.
Franklyn was some distance away.
A spasm of pain passed over Monica's white face. "Oh, my ankle, how it
does hurt!" she said, as she tried to alter the position of the injured
limb, but could not bear the agony the movement caused.
"Bathe it again, Martha," said Mrs. Howell, to the maid who was standing
by. Then she stroked Monica's rumpled hair, kindly, but somewhat
hesitatingly, while she murmured, "Poor dear."