as they walked home in the pleasant coolness which had succeeded the
heat of that June day, but Mrs. Drury was a trifle abstracted. She was
thinking of the friend she had left, who appeared to her to be losing,
rather than gaining strength, of the sorrow that the indecision of some
of her children, with regard to spiritual things, caused the patient
invalid. For a moment, a subtle temptation presented itself: why did
not a gracious Father answer His children's prayers for their loved ones
more speedily. But she thrust the thought from her, knowing well that
God both could, and would, do all things well, in His own good time.
"Father will be astonished when we tell him, won't he?" piped Amethyst,
in her childish treble, and Mrs. Drury's eyes lost their far-away look
as she smiled into the animated little face, which only reached to her
shoulder.
"Yes, very," she replied, "but you won't see him to-night, dearie, for
he has gone to a big meeting at Alwinton and he will not be home until
quite late."
"Oh!" Amethyst's face fell somewhat; she rather liked telling her own
news, and the events of that day had been quite exciting ones to her.
"Well, you will have to tell him then, mumsie, I suppose. But couldn't
you only say just enough, and leave the rest for me to tell at
breakfast?"
And her mother promised she would.
*CHAPTER XI.*
*"A NICE ENOUGH LITTLE DOG, AS DOGS GO."*
"Is there anything else you're wanting, Miss Monica?"
And Mary Ann, who had been for the last half-hour engaged in arranging
everything for the comfort and convenience of her young mistress, paused
as she reached the door of the apartment, half-schoolroom, half-boudoir,
which Monica called her "prison-house," and looked towards the occupant
of a low couch that had been drawn up to the open window.
"Oh, yes, you might put those books where I can reach them," and Monica
indicated a pile of library books which were lying on a low bookcase in
a corner of the room. The maid obeyed, and placed them on a table by
Monica's side, on which she kept the various things with which she
vainly endeavoured to while away the tedium of the long, long days.
"Are you sure there's nothing else, miss?"
"I don't think there is, thanks." And the housemaid was just departing,
when she was recalled by the sound of her name.
"Oh, Mary Ann!"
"Yes, miss?"
"Which is your evening out?"
"Fridays, Miss Monica," said the girl, astonishment expressed in both
face and voice. Whatever could be coming to their young lady? Never
before had she taken the slightest interest in the outings of her
grandmother's domestics!
"Let me see, to-day is Friday," mused Monica, "could you do an errand
for me while you are out this evening, Mary Ann?"
"Well, miss, it all depends," replied the under-housemaid, cautiously.
"Where would it be, miss?"
"Oh, it's only to take back these books and get me some fresh ones from
Bell's Library," said Monica. "Are you fond of reading, Mary Ann?"
"La, yes, miss," admitted the girl with a giggle. "Cook says I get right
down wropt up in my book, and they have to shake me sometimes, when I'm
sittin' readin' in the kitchen of a evening, for I never 'ears no one
a-speakin' when I'm deep in my story."
"Well, I daresay I could lend you a book, now and again," said Monica
graciously. "And you think you could go to Bell's this evening?"
"Why, yes, Miss Monica, I'll go with pleasure," said the girl, delighted
at the prospect of the loan of some books. "Me and Jim (that's my young
man, miss," she explained with a simper and a blush) "we generally
strolls down High Street, and I can easy pop in and get 'em."
"Well, here is a list of half a dozen," said Monica, handing her a
paper. "Ask them to give you any three that are in, and tell them who
they're for."
"Very good, Miss Monica," and Mary Ann finally departed.
Left to herself, Monica began to wonder how she should pass the weary
hours of that hot June day.
"I wish Olive hadn't been yesterday, now," she mused; "because there is
not the faintest chance of her coming over again to-day; she said she
would come to-morrow if she could. Oh, dear! I do think some of the
girls might come. I'd rather have Elsa, or even that little Amethyst
Drury, than nothing but my own company all day long. I do wish I could
have a dog, it would not be so sickeningly dull then." And she heaved a
weary sigh of discontent. "What a nuisance this horrid sprain is! You
simply can't do anything but read, when you can't move your leg, and I
hate needlework. I'm glad I thought of getting Mary Ann to go for some
fresh books. Heigho! I wish I hadn't hurried so over the last one
yesterday, I should have had some left to read now, but it was so
fascinating I couldn't leave off once I began."
At that moment a footfall was heard on the richly carpeted stairway, and
Mrs. Beauchamp opened the door. Monica looked up in astonishment; it
was quite an hour earlier than her grandmother usually paid her morning
visit.
"Good morning, Monica," she said, as she bent and just touched the
girl's forehead with cold, undemonstrative lips, "I hope your ankle is
going on well."
"Oh, I suppose it is, but I wish it had never been ill," replied Monica
with grim humour. "I'm sick of lying here."
"You have only yourself to blame," was the old lady's unconsoling reply;
"if you had not been disobedient, all this would have been avoided."
And she waved her slender white hand expressively towards Monica's
injured limb.
With a pout, Monica looked out of the window, muttering something about
"the same old tale."
Her grandmother, who was slightly deaf, did not catch the words, but she
saw the gesture, and drew her own conclusions. With a sigh, Mrs.
Beauchamp wished, for the hundredth time, that she had never undertaken
the charge of this troublesome granddaughter; her coming into the prim
household had made an end of all its restful quiet, and she never seemed
free from anxiety about her. And yet--Conrad had intreated her so
earnestly to have his only and much-loved child, and at the time she had
seemed tractable enough. But oh! how greatly Monica had altered in
eighteen short months; perhaps she had had mistaken ideas about her
upbringing; perhaps, if she had been a little less strict in minor
matters, things might have gone more smoothly; perhaps old Dr. Marley
was right when he said: "It is easier to lead than to drive young
people."
With these thoughts in her mind, the old lady made a proposition that
nearly took Monica's breath away; so unexpected was it.
"I have been thinking that perhaps you might have a small dog of some
kind, Monica; it would be company for you while you are laid up."
"Oh, grandmother!" was all the girl could find to say; but the look of
intense pleasure which irradiated her whole face, entirely transforming
it, was sufficient reward to Mrs. Beauchamp for the very real concession
she was making; for, of all things, a mischievous, gambolling dog
_indoors_, who would be sure to bark or whine just when she was having a
little nap, was one that she objected to most.
"Of course, it must be a very nice quiet one, Monica, small and
well-trained. Perhaps Richards might hear of one somewhere."
"Oh! grandmother, do you remember that day you decided I was to go to
school?" Monica questioned, eagerly; "because Tom had just been telling
me about a jolly little wire-haired terrier his father wanted a home
for, when you sent for me."
"I do remember something of the sort, Monica," said the old lady, "but
even if the dog were still to be had, it might not be just what we
want."
"Well, I do wish you would send round to the stables and ask,
grandmother," said Monica, coaxingly "because we could have him at once,
I expect. We might have to wait ever so long before Richards came
across one, he is so dreadfully slow. And it _is_ so dull up here, all
alone."
"Well, I will see what can be done."
And the old lady departed, a comfortable feeling of having given
pleasure warming her cold, reserved heart; while Monica reiterated again
and again, in words which jarred terribly on her aristocratic nerves:
"It's most awfully kind of you, grandmother! It _will_ be jolly to have
a dog of my own."
To say that Monica waited patiently for results would be untrue. She
was far too excited and eager about the matter to do that; but as she
was alone, except for a flying visit from Barnes, who brought her some
lunch, and as she could not move her leg, her impatience had a salutary
amount of check. She could not think how it was her grandmother had ever
brought her mind to think of such a thing, knowing well how keenly she
objected to animals indoors; it puzzled her a good deal, especially
after her disobedience earlier in the week. And Monica grew quite
repentant for her misdeeds, as she considered the unexpected favour she
was being granted.
An hour or so later a peculiar scratching noise along the corridor
outside made Monica listen intently, and a second after there came a
hesitating knock at the door.
"Come in," cried Monica, who was all excitement; and the door opened to
admit Tom, the little stable-boy, who was leading the cutest looking
wire-haired terrier imaginable, and was closely followed by Barnes.
"Oh, you darling!" cried Monica, who was infatuated with the dog at
first sight; "do bring him close, Tom."
"Yes, miss," said Tom, with alacrity, pulling his forelock, and grinning
all over his bright little face, as he clutched hold of the bit of strap
that did duty for a collar, and dragged the terrier up to Monica's
couch. "I hope you're better, miss," he ventured to say shyly, for
Barnes, of whom he stood greatly in awe, was looking severely at him,
and he had been bidden "to mind his behaviour."
"Oh, yes," said Monica, carelessly; she had no thoughts to spare on
herself just then. "What's his name, Tom? Do put him up beside me."
"Be careful, now," said Barnes, a trifle sharply; she was not best
pleased at this introduction into the household. "Remember your leg,
Miss Monica."
"All right, Barnes, don't fidget! See, he's as quiet as possible. Good
boy, dear old fellow!" and Monica stroked the ginger coloured head, and
looked into the liquid brown eyes which had a wistful expression in
them. He pricked up his ears at the tones of endearment, and licked her
hands in response.
"'E 'ave took to you, an' no mistake, miss," said Tom, with huge
delight. "Jack 'e 'ave been called, miss," he added, in answer to
Monica's query, "but you'll find 'im a grander name, miss, now."
"No, I think Jack will do very well," said Monica, and the little dog,
who knew by her fondling that he was being loved and made much of, gave
a little grunt of satisfaction, and curled himself round on the couch
beside his new mistress.
"Isn't he sweet, Barnes?"
"Oh, he's a nice enough little dog, as dogs go, Miss Monica, but I have
no particular fancy for them," was the maid's somewhat grudging reply.
And then she added: "Now then, my boy, you'd better be off to your work
again."
"Yes'm. Good mornin', miss," stammered Tom, in confusion, for Barnes'
repelling tones made him feel as if he had done something wrong.
"Oh, good-bye, Tom. I'm awfully glad to have Jack," said Monica, with a
bright smile, which made the little lad feel at ease again, and remained
in his memory for many a day. "I shall be coming out on the lawn in a
few days' time, and then you must come round and see him."
The little newcomer proved an endless source of pleasure and amusement
to Monica; he had such quaint ways, and made himself thoroughly happy
and contented in his new home. Even Mrs. Beauchamp was obliged to
confess that he was no trouble; he spent hours curled up on the rug
which was thrown over Monica's knees, as if he had been accustomed to an
invalid mistress all his life.
"You wait until this tiresome sprain is well," Monica would often say to
him, "and then you shall have a very different existence, Jack."
The old doctor made great friends with him when he came to see his
patient the next morning, and went off chuckling with pleasure over the
result of his plain-speaking to Mrs. Beauchamp, a few days before.
"She'll get on fast enough now," he said to himself, as he trotted down
the drive; "young folk want young things about them, and up there," with
a suggestive glance backward at the stately residence he had just left,
"they are all as old as Methuselah. She looked a totally different being
this morning, from the sulky, discontented girl I saw last time. But I
don't deny she's a handful--takes after her mother, I suppose. Conrad
was as nice a fellow as ever breathed, but I never had much of a fancy
for his wife, poor thing; she was too much of a woman of the world for
old Henry Marley. But there, he isn't, by any means, all he ought to
be." And the dear old doctor sighed as he realised how far short he was
of being a true copy of the Great Example.
The doctor had not long left, when a footman called at Carson Rise, with
a basket containing some magnificent peaches and hot-house flowers,
"with Mrs. Howell's compliments, and she would be glad to know how the
young lady was."
Mrs. Beauchamp was out for a drive, so the parlourmaid came up to Monica
for a message.
"Oh, Harriet, how lovely!" cried the girl; "do take them out carefully
while I write a little note to send back. How very kind of Mrs.
Howell."
"The same lady has sent every day to enquire for you, miss," said the
maid, who was very much impressed by the grandeur of the Howell livery,
and the importance of the individual who wore it.
"Has she really? No one has mentioned it before," said Monica; "I ought
to have been told." And there was a suggestion of displeasure in her
tones.
"Mrs. Beauchamp knew, miss, of course, and so did Barnes," Harriet
hastened to say, in defence of herself.
"Very well, Harriet, it was not your fault," said Monica, and she busied
herself in writing a little girlish note of thanks, which brought tears
of pleasure and gratification to the eyes of the good-natured, motherly
woman who received it, and then slipped it into her pocket for fear her
tyrannical young daughter should come across it, and make fun of it. For
Lily Howell had not yet grown reconciled to the idea of "_that_ Monica
Beauchamp" getting into her home, and prying into everything, and then
going off to make fun of all the mistakes she knew her mother must have
made.
There had been a great scene upon her return home, on the Monday
evening, and she had exclaimed long and loudly against the fate which
had allowed such an unfortunate thing to come to pass.
Mrs. Howell, instead of severely reprimanding her daughter for being so
insulting and rude, had wept feebly, and bowed beneath the angry girl's
storm of words; but in her heart she treasured the remembrance of the
kind words and very real gratitude of a daughter of the aristocracy to a
poor, common-place woman, such as she was allowed no opportunity of
forgetting that she, Caroline Howell, was.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*"A HUNGRY FEELING IN MY BRAIN."*
"What do you think of this?" said Monica, that same Saturday afternoon,
as she pointed to Jack, who was lying curled up on her rug.
And Olive was astounded, as her friend knew she would be, at such an
unexpected sight.
"Oh! isn't he a dear fellow?" she cried, rapturously, patting his head,
and playing with his well-shaped ears, as Jack first sniffed enquiringly
at the boots and dress of his young mistress's friend, and then, with a
wag of his stumpy bit of tail, sat down on the floor at her feet, and
rested his head against her knees. "He is going to like me at once."
"Of course, he is," said Monica; "it will be Jack's business to like all
my friends and hate all my enemies."
"Oh, Monica, I don't think you've got any enemies!"
"Haven't I?" enquired Monica quizzically; "what about Lily Howell?"
"Oh, I forgot her," replied the other merrily; "and yet I ought not to
have, for she's been in such a temper all the week. She's tried every
way she can to get Elsa and me into trouble, and when she finds she
can't manage it, she's in a worse tantrum than ever. I can't think why
she's in such a mood," continued Olive, meditatively, "unless it is----"
"Oh, I expect she's huffy because Mr. Howell took me into his house,"
interrupted Monica, "and she wasn't at home to see all that went on.
But I don't care a straw for her, or what she thinks; she's too common
and vulgar to think about. Now her mother is the dearest old creature,"
she went on, in quite a different tone; "she was as kind and nice as
possible. And Harriet tells me she's sent every day to ask how I am,
and it was she who sent those lovely peaches and flowers. Do have a
peach, Olive; they're awfully nice."
And Monica, taking one herself, pushed the plate containing them nearer
to her friend.
"How nice of her!" said Olive, taking a bite of the luscious fruit,
while Jack looked up to ascertain whether she was eating anything that
he could share. "No, you won't like this, old boy," she said, with a
merry laugh.
"He can beg beautifully," said Monica. "When we've eaten these, I'll
put him through all his tricks."
A merry quarter of an hour passed in watching Jack beg, and "trust for
it," and "die," and "give three cheers for the king." Then, when he was
tired, and lay curled up asleep on Monica's couch again, the two girls
had a thorough good chat about everything dear to their school-girl
hearts, until a clock striking the hour of four warned Olive that she
must be going.
Monica begged her to stay to tea with her, saying: "Grandmother quite
expects you to."
But, much as Olive would have liked it, she was obliged to refuse, as
she had promised her mother to meet Kathleen and the children at a
quarter past, at a certain place, so as to walk home together.
"Oh, there's heaps more I wanted to ask," said Monica. "I never dreamt
but that you would stay to tea. What did Fraeulein say to my being away
yesterday? There will be no chance now of my coming out top in German,
and that's the only thing I had a shadow of a chance about." And Monica
looked rueful.
"Oh, she was very sorry about your ankle. She had heard from the other
mistresses, I expect, for when I tried to explain she said: 'No, yes,
but that is ver' sad!' in her broken English. You know how she says it;
I can't imitate her properly," said Olive. "But, I say, Monica, you
won't be away long, will you? Surely not three weeks?" And Olive's
bright face assumed a dismal expression at the thought of being so long
without her friend.
"Dr. Marley said this morning it might be better before then, but not
fit for school. It is a bore; I wish that old bicycle was further."
And the girl groaned.
"So do I," acquiesced Olive sympathetically; neither of them apparently
taking into consideration that the bicycle was quite the least guilty of
everything and everybody concerned.
"Well, I must go now, but I'll come over as often as I can next week."
"Not to-morrow?"
"Why, that's Sunday!" said Olive, in astonishment.
"What of that?" queried Monica.
"Why, there's no time on Sundays: we go to church twice, and to Miss
Grant's class in the afternoon. Besides, mother doesn't let us go for
walks on Sundays."
"What a funny idea! I never go, because there's nothing to go for; but
I don't think grandmother would mind. She dozes all the afternoon, and
I read. Oh, that reminds me: here is the book I promised to lend you,
Olive," and she drew it from under her cushions.
"'_A Cruel Fate_';" Olive read the title aloud, and glanced at the
closely printed pages. "It doesn't look _very_ interesting, Monica."
"Oh, it is, awfully. You can't think how it fascinated me."
"I'm sure mother would not think it was a nice book," she said
doubtfully.
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" was Monica's rather rude reply. "You take it home
and read it on the quiet, and if you don't want to borrow some more next
time you come, I shall be very much mistaken. Your mother can't expect
to keep you tied to her apron-strings always." And there was again that
suggestion of a sneer underlying the words which Olive could not stand.
A girl with higher principles would have said: "No, thank you, Monica; I
would rather not have anything to do with it." And if Olive Franklyn
had had the courage to refuse the evil that afternoon, she would have
saved herself much sorrow. But she weakly gave in, and slipped the book
into her string-bag, well knowing that she was flatly disobeying her
mother's commands.
Poor Olive! She carried more away with her from Carson Rise than the
novel; already the poison was beginning its deadly work. How could she
manage so that not even Elsa should know she had it in her possession?
She was very differently situated from Monica: in their large family
they had no secret drawers or private hiding-places, everything was
common property, and she could depend on nowhere being absolutely safe.
She was so deep in thought about it, that she almost ran into Kathleen
and the children before she knew they were approaching her, and she was
so preoccupied during the walk home that Kathleen teased her about
having left her tongue at Carson Rise. She pulled herself together
then, but alas! the same complaint became an habitual one, as time went
on and Olive Franklyn, careless, light-hearted, and fun-loving, but
hitherto always open and frank, became moody, abstracted, peevish, and
discontented.
That first book was but the forerunner of many more; she became
absolutely possessed by an insatiable thirst for novel-reading. Indeed,
the girl became so engrossed in them that ordinary, everyday life had no
attraction for her, the distorted views of life which the novels gave
her totally unfitting her for both school and home associations.
Lois and Kathleen noticed the change in their young sister and puzzled
over it, but their mother put it down to Monica being laid up.
"See how anxious she is to go over to see her friend as often as
possible," said Mrs. Franklyn; "it is evident that they are very fond of
one another, and she misses her companionship. It will be all right
when Monica gets back to school; Olive will be her usual happy,
contented self again then."
And as they had no inkling of the land of unrealities in which the girl
was living, her sisters accepted the mother's verdict, and
good-naturedly made it possible for Olive to go over to Carson Rise
quite frequently, little dreaming that, each time she went, fresh fuel
was added to the flame.
Monica, who, at first, had smiled with satisfaction when she found her
prediction come true, began to be a little alarmed as time went on and
Olive kept continually asking for a fresh book. She was rather a slow
reader herself, but Olive seemed literally to devour them.
"How _do_ you manage to find time to read such a lot?" she said
incredulously one Monday afternoon, when they were sitting in a rustic
summer-house, in a shady corner of the sheltered garden, and Olive had
admitted that she had already finished a three-volume novel that she had
taken home only the Saturday before. "I can't think how you do it!"
"I can't leave off," said Olive. "As it happens, Elsa is grinding hard
for her music exam., so she spends hours in the drawing-room practising,
and that leaves me the 'den' pretty much to myself. But if she weren't,
I should just _have_ to make opportunities somehow, for I am perfectly
wretched when I can't have a read."
"But I thought your people objected to novel-reading. Do none of them
ever catch you at it? and how do you manage to do your home-work?" said
Monica, still incredulous.
"No, they haven't yet; but I live in dread of discovery every day,"
confessed her friend. "As to lessons, I manage to scrape along
somehow."
"Well, I'm almost sorry I ever lent you a book," said Monica, who could
detect a subtle difference in Olive, and felt uneasy.
"Oh, Monica, how often and often I've wished that I'd never borrowed
that first one!" said the poor infatuated girl; "and, sometimes, I think
I'll never touch a novel again. But I always have to; I can't seem to
live without reading them now. There's a hungry feeling in my brain. I
can't explain what I mean, but it feels quite empty, somehow, until I
have a good read, and then I feel better. Don't you ever get sensations
like that?" and the poor child looked pitifully at her companion.
"No, I can't say I do," admitted Monica; "and I hope I never shall. I
like reading, certainly, and there is more excitement in a regular novel
than there is in ordinary little goody-goody books. But I'm not so keen
on them as I was; they're rather horrid sometimes. But I think you'd
better give them up, Olive."
"Oh, I can't, Monica!"
"Well, I really don't think I shall lend you any more."
But Olive pleaded so pitifully for just one, that Monica reluctantly
gave in, saying: "That's the only one I've got that you haven't had, so
you must make the most of it. I'm not sure that I'm going to have any
more."