young stranger within her gates how sorry she was for her; but she had
heard how haughty she was from Lily, and she was afraid of saying
anything for fear of giving offence. For one thing she was very
thankful: and that was that Lily had gone to some friends at a distance
to spend the half-term holiday, so there was no fear of her turning up
to make a fuss.
Every one breathed a sigh of relief when Dr. Franklyn was announced.
"Oh, father, I _am_ glad you were in!" said Olive, as she caught
impetuously at his arm.
"I hope you had no hand in this, Olive," he said, as he began, with
professional touch, to examine the swollen ankle.
"No, father, no; indeed I didn't; it was no one's fault, but quite an
accident," she assured him, so earnestly, that he was fain to believe
that his careless, heedless child was not to blame in this instance.
"Well, well," he said, "it might have been much worse. There are no
bones broken, but it is a nasty sprain; you won't do much walking for a
little while, young lady." And he looked with compassion at the girl,
who he knew was so full of energy.
"How long?" was all Monica's quivering lips could articulate. Her ankle
was suffering so acutely from the doctor's handling, gentle as it had
been, that it took all her courage to keep the tears back.
"Oh, two or three weeks, perhaps," was the reply, kindly but truthfully
given. It was never his way to tell his patients half-truths, and buoy
them up with hopes that had not a shadow of a chance of being realised.
"It will all depend upon whether you obey orders or not, how soon it
will get better."
At the word "obey," a pang of remorse seized Monica; how she had failed
in obedience, and how bitterly she was suffering the penalty for a very
little act of disobedience (as she thought) even now. A sob rose in her
throat, but she gulped it down, and turned her face slightly away.
"Now, Olive, my child, if Mrs. Howell will excuse you, come home with
me," said Dr. Franklyn, as, having done all he could to relieve the
sprained ankle, he prepared to depart. "Mr. Howell has sent to Mrs.
Beauchamp, and your friend will be able to go home in her grandmother's
carriage when it arrives, and your mother will be anxious about you. By
the way, I can't imagine where Elsa is," he added as they reached the
hall door; and for the first time Olive remembered the other two girls.
"Oh, father, suppose they have been waiting all this time for us? What
a dreadful afternoon this has been!" And she felt ready to cry.
"Cheer up, Olive," said her father kindly, pitying her unhappiness;
"we'll send some one to the white gate in case they should be there; but
I expect they gave you up long since, and we shall hear that they went
on to Carson Rise as you arranged."
Meanwhile, how had Elsa and Amethyst been faring?
In spite of her reassuring words to Amethyst, Elsa felt a considerable
amount of trepidation as she and her companion mounted the flight of
wide, stone steps, and rang the bell at the front door of Mrs.
Beauchamp's residence. She was mentally deciding what it would be best
to say, when the door opened, and the trim parlourmaid appeared. Elsa
had half hoped that Monica would have been on the look-out, and have
opened the door herself, so as to make the late-comers feel more
comfortable. So she was astounded when the maid replied, in answer to
her diffident enquiry, that the other young ladies had not arrived yet.
Elsa and Amethyst looked askance at each other, one thought uppermost in
both their minds. "Suppose they should be waiting for us at the white
gate!"
"My mistress is rather put about to think Miss Monica should be so late
coming back; would you please to walk in and explain, miss?" suggested
the maid to Elsa, who seemed to be spokeswoman.
"Oh, yes, of course, we will tell all we know," said Elsa, and she and
Amethyst silently followed the maid to the drawing-room, where Mrs.
Beauchamp was sitting by one of the open French windows, which
overlooked part of the prettily laid-out gardens.
"Well, my dear, how are you?" she said, as Elsa approached, and held out
a timid hand; "and is this your little friend?" And the old lady looked
approvingly at the pretty, childish face and simple attire of the
vicar's little daughter. "But how is it you have arrived alone? Where
are Monica and your sister?"
"Oh, Mrs. Beauchamp, we can't think what they are doing!" And Elsa told
the whole story of what had occurred that afternoon, at least, as far as
the present state of affairs was concerned; finishing up by saying, "We
wouldn't have been so long, indeed we wouldn't, if we had known how late
it was. I am almost sorry, now, that we went all the way with the old
woman, but we thought it was right at the time." And Elsa's eyes filled
with tears.
"You did quite right, children, no one could blame you," said Mrs.
Beauchamp, more kindly than Monica ever heard her speak. "I am only
sorry that my granddaughter did not wish to act as you did." And the
old lady sighed as she thought of the difference between self-pleasing,
self-willed Monica, and this nice-speaking, unselfish girl; and the
advantage was all on Elsa's side. "The thing to be considered is, where
are they now?"
"Do you think they might still be waiting for us?" queried Amethyst, who
had been a silent spectator so far. "Shall we go back and see?"
Mrs. Beauchamp smiled. "I think we can manage better than that," she
said. "I will send a messenger to the gate in West Lane, in case they
should be there, and we will have some tea, for I am sure you must be
thirsty after hurrying so, on this hot day. I quite expect that before
very long they will come rushing in."
The two girls were very glad to wash their hands and smooth their
dishevelled hair; and Amethyst was delighted to see Monica's room (where
Barnes had taken them) for the first time.
Then they went into the dining-room, where a sumptuous repast had been
spread for the quartette, Mrs. Beauchamp knowing something, from
experience, of young people's appetites. If it had not been for the
suspense about the other girls, Elsa and Amethyst would have enjoyed
themselves immensely.
Mrs. Beauchamp was so very kind, and made herself quite agreeable to
these two well-behaved girls; indeed Amethyst, who was light-hearted by
nature, almost forgot the unfortunate ending to their picnic, but Elsa
was unable to banish the thought from her mind that something must have
happened to them to cause such delay, and she could see that Mrs.
Beauchamp was very much worried, although she strove to entertain her
little guests cheerfully.
"You are not making much of a tea, my dear. Try one of these," and Mrs.
Beauchamp held a plate of delicious looking macaroons toward Elsa.
"No, thank you, I don't feel as if I could eat another mouthful." And
Elsa's tears, which had been very near the surface for some time, rained
down her cheeks, while a sob choked her voice.
"Don't fret, my dear," said Mrs. Beauchamp, soothingly, albeit her own
voice shook.
"I am so afraid something has happened," sobbed Elsa, and she hid her
face in her hands.
"Let us hope not; they may have been hindered in some way," replied Mrs.
Beauchamp; but even as she spoke, a maid entered the room with an
expression of alarm on her face.
"If you please, ma'am----" she began.
"What is it, Harriet? Tell me at once?" And Mrs. Beauchamp clutched
the back of her chair for support, while her face assumed an ashen hue,
and poor Elsa felt inclined to scream.
"A man's come from Osmington, from Mr. Howell's place, ma'am, to say as
there's been an accident, ma'am, and Miss Monica's leg is hurt. It were
something to do with one of these motors, ma'am, but he says he was told
to say it weren't by no means serious."
A tinge of colour came into Mrs. Beauchamp's cheeks, as the servant
reached the end of her sentence; she had dreaded she knew not what.
"Is the man here, Harriet? Have him taken to the morning-room, and I
will see him," she faltered.
"Oh! please may we hear too?" asked Elsa, with quivering lips.
And the old lady, reading the alarm in the girl's tense young face,
said: "Of course, my dear."
By dint of much questioning they got some idea of what had occurred;
and, relieved to a certain extent by having definite news of her
grandchild, Mrs. Beauchamp made speedy arrangements for her conveyance
home.
In a very few minutes the brougham was at the door, and into it stepped
Mrs. Beauchamp and the two girls, followed by the reliable Barnes, who
was always to be depended upon in an emergency.
Elsa and Amethyst would dearly have liked to go as far as the Howells',
so as to know exactly how Monica was, but when Mrs. Beauchamp ordered
the coachman to put them down at Dr. Franklyn's, on his way through the
town, they did not dare to make the suggestion.
*CHAPTER X.*
*"I LIKE FUSSIN' OVER PEOPLE!"*
With a sigh of relief Monica heard the front door shut, and saw the
retreating figures of the doctor and Olive passing down the drive, from
her post of vantage in the great bay window. She wanted to think; at
least, she was not sure that she _wanted_ to, but ideas suggested
themselves to her brain and insisted upon being thought out.
How _could_ she, who never before had been actually laid up with any
ailment, endure the thought of being for three weeks, at least, chained
like a log to a sofa? And, just as likely as not, it would end in being
a month, or even more. Oh, it was unendurable! No school--no fun--no
daily meeting with all the girls, and Olive, of course, in particular:
and Monica realised how wonderfully attached she had become to
school-life and doings, even in seven short weeks. No pleasant German
lessons with kind little Fraeulein Wespe, which she so much enjoyed.
Nothing but day after day in one or other of the dull, lonely rooms at
Carson Rise, waited on by Barnes, and visited periodically by her
grandmother, who she was sure, from experience, would gladly seize every
available opportunity of improving the occasion by telling her she had
only herself to thank for the position in which she found herself!
How heartily Monica wished now that she had never seen the wretched
bicycle, as she styled it, much less have been persuaded into attempting
to ride it. In her vexation she blamed the bicycle, its owner, Elsa and
Amethyst for being late, and even poor, unfortunate old Granny Wood, for
being the primary cause of the mishap. It is a wonder that she did not
go one step farther, and credit Hero with originating the whole chapter
of accidents, for it certainly was his bark that started the ball
rolling. If Monica had heard any one else _saying_ what she was
_thinking_, she would have been exceedingly amused, for it sounded like
a modern version of the "House that Jack built." But she saw no fun in
anything just then, all was disappointment, discomfort, and pain; and
yet in her heart of hearts, Monica knew that it all arose from
disobedience.
Not for worlds would she have owned it even to herself, but as she lay
on that couch, looking out into the sunlit garden and thinking, her
better nature craved after a nobler, higher life, where disobedience and
its results would have no place. She thought of her father and his words
to her in that almost forgotten letter, and unwonted tears rose to her
eyes, as she realised that instead of becoming what he wanted her to be,
she seemed lately to have grown less and less like the ideal she had
even set up for herself in those days.
Monica's ruminations were brought to an abrupt termination at this
moment by the door opening, and a pleasant rattle of teacups sounded on
her ears as the footman appeared with the tea equipage. Mrs. Howell
followed him in, and busied herself in pouring out a cup of the fragrant
beverage, and placing it on a little table at Monica's elbow, saying in
her uncultured but kindly tones: "There's nothin' so comfortin' as a cup
of tea, to my mind; have a good drink, do 'ee now, my----"
The good soul paused, in confusion, at the words which had so nearly
slipped out. What would this haughty young maiden have said if she had
called her "my dear?" So she made a nervous little cough, and added, in
an apologetic voice, "Miss Beauchamp."
"Thanks, you're very kind," replied Monica, in her off-hand way. "I'm
sure I'm awfully sorry to give you such a lot of trouble."
"It's no trouble at all, my dear," said her hostess warmly, quite
forgetting to watch her words this time; but Monica did not appear to
mind the appellation, it seemed natural to be called "my dear" by a
person of Mrs. Howell's description. "I like fussin' over people." And
the good woman looked a wee bit wistful, for Lily hated above all things
to be "fussed over by ma."
"I don't think I should care about it always," said Monica candidly,
with a little laugh; "but just now it feels rather nice to be waited
on," and she smiled up into the homely face, surmounted by the
magnificent, but too lavishly trimmed cap, which was bending over her.
Mrs. Howell's heart went out to this girl, who seemed so different from
what Lily had declared her to be; and Monica, realising the motherliness
which underlay all the oddities and vulgarities, felt strangely drawn
towards her commonplace hostess. They were becoming quite at home with
each other, when carriage wheels were heard, and "Mrs. Beauchamp" was
announced.
A hasty glance at the visitor's aristocratic appearance, and the sound
of her well-modulated voice, made poor Mrs. Howell realise her many
deficiencies once again, and she relapsed into monosyllabic replies to
Mrs. Beauchamp's many enquiries. So Monica had perforce to be chief
spokeswoman.
"Well, I am glad that it is no worse than it is," said her grandmother
stiffly. "The anxiety your non-appearance caused me was intense; and
all this trouble and inconvenience to everybody would have been avoided,
if you had not disobeyed my commands." And she shook her head severely
at the culprit, who showed no sign of contrition for her misdeeds.
"Well, you will have plenty of time to reflect, so we will say no more
now," added the old lady, "but with Mrs. Howell's permission Barnes
shall help you out to the carriage, and we will not trespass further on
her kindness."
"Oh, I can hobble out by myself, somehow," said Monica, and she tried to
get up off the couch, but fell back among the cushions with a stifled
groan.
"Let me help you, my dear," whispered Mrs. Howell, so low that no one
but Monica heard her, and with a supreme effort the girl managed just to
stand, by holding tight to the velvet-covered arm which was offered for
her to lean on. But to walk was absolutely impossible, the mere
movement of the injured ankle (the pain had been tolerably easy while it
had been laid up) was so excruciating, that even strong-willed Monica
could not summon up courage to put it to the ground.
"I'm afraid I can't walk," she was obliged to confess, with white,
quivering lips, just as Mr. Howell appeared upon the scene.
"How now, young lady?" he said, in his bluff way; "not trying to walk,
surely? You don't look any too fit."
"Couldn't me an' you help her out to the carriage, Bob?" his wife said,
in a somewhat loud aside. "Her grandma wants to be off."
"If the young lady will allow me, I think the best plan will be for me
to pick her up and carry her out," he said, with a grandiloquent bow.
"Really, I cannot----" began Mrs. Beauchamp, in horrified tones.
And Monica said: "Oh! no, please."
But without more ado, the big burly man lifted her gently in his strong
arms, saying, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes: "It won't be the
first time to-day, missy," and before Mrs. Beauchamp had had time to
summon Barnes, Monica was comfortably settled in the brougham, with her
injured ankle resting on a board, and some cushions, which Barnes'
forethought had provided.
"Thank you ever so much, Mr. Howell," said Monica gratefully, "and Mrs.
Howell too."
"Tut, tut, missy! T'was a pleasure to her to have some one to coddle."
"I should like to come and see her some day, when my ankle is well
again, if I may."
"She'd be very glad if you would," was Mr. Howell's reply, as he handed
Mrs. Beauchamp into the carriage, and shut the door after Barnes had
squeezed herself into the tiny bit of space that was left.
"I am sure we are very much indebted to you for all your kindness," said
Mrs. Beauchamp, in her freezingly polite way, as he stood, hat in hand,
waiting to see the carriage off.
"Pray don't mention it, madam," was all he said, as he bowed in response
to her formal "good evening"; the smile that overspread his rugged,
good-tempered face was for the girl who nodded a bright farewell, albeit
her face was white and drawn with pain.
"A noble lass, that," was Mr. Howell's comment, as he sauntered round
the beautifully laid-out garden with his worthy spouse; "but a vixen of
a grandmother, to judge from looks."
Mrs. Howell, who had not been very prepossessed herself, felt it her
duty to remonstrate with him for judging hastily.
"The gentry always has such airs," she said; "I daresay the old lady
means well enough. But I must say I did take to the girl."
"And she to you, apparently." And her husband repeated what Monica had
said about coming again.
"Bless her!" ejaculated warm-hearted Mrs. Howell; and then she added
wistfully, "I wish, Bob----"
"What, old girl?"
"That our Lily was a bit more like her."
"Tut, tut!" he said. "This Miss Beauchamp is a lady, born and bred; and
our girl ain't got a drop of blue blood in her veins."
"Our Lily don't seem to have got no heart, somehow," sighed her mother.
"She's all for clothes, an' pleasure, an' pleasin' herself."
"It's the brass that's to blame for that," said the man who had amassed
a fortune of over a quarter of a million. "I'm almost sorry I had such
a streak of luck. We were happier in the old days, Caroline, when we
lived in the little house at Bermondsey, and went out marketing together
Saturday nights, guess the old proverb that 'money's the root of all
evil' is about right. It's all very well, but it don't buy happiness."
"That ain't a proverb, Bob," said his wife, reprovingly, "it's in the
Bible, and it says it's the love of money that makes all the mischief.
I sometimes think, Bob," she added, a trifle hesitatingly, for she was
treading on tender ground, "that if we were a bit religious, we should
be happier like."
"Time enough for religion when you get notice to quit," he replied with
a hard laugh, which had no mirth in it. "'Do as you would be done by'
is a good enough creed for me; and if everybody acted up to it the world
would be a better place than it is, with all its parsons and
church-going."
"That ain't enough to take you to heaven, Bob," said Mrs. Howell, sadly,
but as she knew no better way to suggest she said no more, and the
subject dropped. But in the plain, homely woman's breast there was a
deep, unsatisfied longing after a peace which she had never found, amid
all the luxuries and splendour of her surroundings.
While the above conversation was taking place, and Monica was being
driven slowly home, the story of that disastrous day was being eagerly
detailed by the other three girls at the Franklyns', whither Amethyst
had accompanied Elsa, and where to her great delight she found her
mother sitting with Mrs. Franklyn.
Fortunately for the invalid, no rumour of the accident had reached her
room, Mr. Howell's messenger having met the doctor after he had left
home a few minutes; so that she and Mrs. Drury had been enjoying a
little confidential chat about their children over a cup of tea; never
dreaming but that they were all having a splendid time at Carson Rise,
until Olive, who was followed by the other two girls before there had
been time to become anxious about them, told how differently they had
been placed.
Olive and Amethyst both talked together, and there was such a confused
jargon going on, that for some time neither of the ladies could get a
very clear idea of what had happened; but eventually Elsa was appealed
to for her version of the affair, and then they understood better.
"Dear me, I am sorry for Monica," said Mrs. Drury sympathetically; "it
will be a long business, I am afraid."
"Poor child!" murmured the invalid; "how will she bear it?"
"It's awfully hard lines on her," cried Olive vehemently, "shut up in
that great, dull house for weeks. And I shall miss her just
dreadfully."
"I'm glad it isn't me," said Amethyst; "not that I should mind being
laid up if mumsie nursed me," with an affectionate press of her mother's
hand, at whose feet she had thrown herself. "But you get so low in
class if you are away from school long."
"There are lessons to be learnt on a sofa, my child, that are more
important than all the school ones," said the invalid gently; "and by
learning them properly a higher place can be gained than any that the
High School can bestow."
"I don't think I understand, Mrs. Franklyn," said Amethyst, in a puzzled
tone, while Elsa crept nearer to her mother, and kissed her thin, white
hand, a little comprehensive smile flickering about her mouth. Olive
looked on, a trifle superciliously; if it had not been for Mrs. Drury's
presence, she would have said: "For goodness' sake, don't preach,
mamma!"
"I mean the lessons in God's school, dearie, the difficult things we are
so slow to learn. It is only when 'He teaches us of His ways' that we
can 'walk in His paths.' I was thinking perhaps God had allowed this
accident to happen to Monica, so that she might have time to think of
these things."
"Monica is good enough as she is," cried Olive tempestuously; "we don't
all want to be goody-goodies like some people I know. There would never
be a bit of fun left then." And she stood up defiantly.
With a significant glance at Mrs. Franklyn, whose pale face wore a
grieved, sad expression, Mrs. Drury took the matter into her own hands.
"I am sorry, Olive, that you should feel like that," she said calmly,
while she looked searchingly into the defiant face of the young girl,
who was picking a tea-rose to pieces with thoughtless fingers. "But it
is a good thing, sometimes, to say what one feels. You must have been
unfortunate in your acquaintance with Christians if you find them dull
and gloomy. They are not all so, I can assure you. Indeed there is no
one so light-hearted, no life so sunshiny, as that of a true follower of
the Lord Jesus Christ. It is just because we are so happy with Him as
our Friend, as well as Teacher, that we want all those whom we know, and
love, to become learners in His school. For we remember that the
Examination Day is coming, and unless we have Him as our helper, we
shall certainly 'fail,' instead of 'pass.' You know yourself from
school experience that there are only the two positions to be in; and it
rests with each one of us to decide, now, which state shall be ours
hereafter."
As Mrs. Drury ended her sentence, she lowered her voice, until it was
scarcely more than a whisper, but the silence which had fallen upon the
little group was so intense that every word was distinctly audible.
Amethyst looked up into her mother's face, and said, with real
earnestness: "I do want to pass _that_ examination, mumsie," and Mrs.
Drury bent down and kissed the upturned face with clinging tenderness,
for she knew that her little daughter's real desire was to please her
Saviour, although she very often failed to do so.
But just at that moment her heart went out with a great longing towards
that other mother's girl, who seemed so unwilling to put first things
_first_. Her eyes sought Olive's, so that she might, if possible, read
in them something of her thoughts, but Olive kept her head persistently
turned away, and so she could not gauge what was passing in her mind.
So, with a prayer in her heart (oft repeated as time passed) that God
would show Olive her need of a Saviour, she bade the invalid a tender
farewell, with a whispered word of hope, and after good-byes had been
exchanged, Mrs. Drury and Amethyst took their departure.