Part 6

The tea-bell rang before they could have imagined it was time for that meal, and Monica, who was really somewhat shy of strangers, had to make the acquaintance of the twins' elder sisters. But Lois' kindly courtesy and Kathleen's merry chatter soon made her feel quite at home amongst them. The doctor, too, came in just as they had begun tea, the result of Olive's persistent pleading that he would be sure to be early so as to see her "dear Monica," and as he exerted himself to help entertain the young guest a sigh of regret rose to the latter's lips when the happy, homely meal was over.

A stroll round the old-fashioned garden with Olive and Elsa included a visit to the rabbit-hutch and dovecot, and ended with a splendid swing; the twins, who were by no means novices at swinging, being really frightened at the height to which Monica worked herself up. But she knew no fear, and rather enjoyed seeing the anxiety which Elsa evinced every time the ropes creaked uneasily.

"Oh, do go lower, Monica!" she pleaded; but the wayward girl only laughed. Even Olive tried to dissuade her from going so recklessly high, but Monica showed no sign of lessening her speed, and would doubtless have eventually overbalanced herself, had not little Joan run out to say that her mother was ready to see Monica now.

With a merry laugh the girl slowed down, and finally dropped from the seat and catching hold of Olive, said mischievously: "Were you afraid you would have to pick up a bundle of broken bones? I am sure Dr. Franklyn would have liked mending them up again!"

"Oh, don't, Monica!" was all Olive said, but her silence and Elsa's still scared-looking face, made Monica realise that she had gone a little too far, and she felt somewhat subdued as they retraced their steps to the house.

Kathleen came out of her mother's room as the girls tapped at the door.

"Mother is very anxious to see your friend, Olive," she said, with a bright little smile; "she is feeling fairly well to-day."

Monica was seized with a sudden fit of intense shyness, and would gladly have escaped the ordeal, but Olive, never dreaming that her haughty young friend was troubled with any such thing as nervousness, pushed her forward as the door closed after Kathleen's retreating figure, saying: "This is Monica Beauchamp, mother."

And Monica looking straight before her, saw a pale, gentle face, with large luminous eyes, and heard a sweet, soft voice murmuring words of welcome, while the thin white hands clasped her strong young ones, and drew her proud young head down low enough for the invalid to print a loving motherly kiss upon the frank, open brow.

"You do not mind, dear?" said Mrs. Franklyn gently, as she scanned the face of Olive's new friend with eager intensity. "If you are Olive's friend, you must be mine, too."

And Monica murmured something to the effect that she would like to be.

A few minutes were spent in pleasant chatter, about the school, and one thing and another, and Mrs. Franklyn, reading between the lines, got a very good insight into the character of Olive's friend. "A girl with wonderful possibilities before her," she thought to herself, "but----" The unfinished sentence ended in a sigh, for she was thinking of this stranger's influence over her little girl.

Meanwhile Olive was showing the photographs of all the brothers and sisters, which made quite a picture gallery of the mantelpiece; but remembering yet another of her two brothers, taken together, which was in the drawing-room, she ran off to get it, saying: "Monica must see that one, mother; take care of each other until I come back."

The door had no sooner closed after Olive than Mrs. Franklyn, turning to the girl who was sitting beside her couch, said, in the tenderest of tones, "My child, are you a Christian?"

Monica started with astonishment, for she had no idea the Franklyns were what she called "religious," and scarcely knew what to answer, but the kind, motherly eyes seemed to read her very thoughts, and she felt constrained to reply as she did.

"No,--I am not. But my father wants me to be."

"Then, oh! my child, why don't you?"

"I don't think I want to be one," said Monica, slowly; "at least, not yet."

"Don't put it off, childie; life is very short. If you know the way----"

"But I don't," interrupted Monica; "that's just what I don't know. Perhaps if I knew how to set about it I might be one."

"The Lord Jesus----" began Mrs. Franklyn.

But, alas! Olive came bursting into the room, and the precious opportunity had gone. The invalid could only whisper: "Read the 3rd chapter of St. John, and ask God to show you the way, dear child," when, a few moments later, Monica bent over her to say, "Good-bye."

And Monica said she would. But, alas! she put the thought aside that night, thinking Sunday afternoon would be a good opportunity for reading the chapter; and when the next day came she was deep in the pages of a fascinating book, and had completely forgotten her promise to Mrs. Franklyn.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*"MIND YOU ARE NOT LATE!"*

The days and weeks passed quickly at school, once the new term's work was well begun, and the half-term holiday was drawing near.

Monica had never forgotten Lily Howell's trick to get her into trouble, but she felt above paying her out, so she left her severely alone. As it happened, that was perhaps the most trying punishment she could have devised for a girl of Lily's disposition, who ardently longed to be "taken up" by people such as the Beauchamps, whom her father called "The Quality"; and Monica's absolute indifference to her piqued her terribly.

Lily was telling her mother about it one day, and complaining of being sent to Coventry by "that Monica Beauchamp, who gives herself such airs, just for all the world as if she was a duchess!"

Mrs. Howell, a kindly creature of ample proportions, who always felt impelled to address her magnificent housekeeper as "ma'am," and who never ceased to wish for the happy olden days when first she had married Bob Howell, and kept house on little less than a pound a week, sighed feebly as she looked helplessly at her young daughter, who tyrannised frightfully over her "Ma," as she called her.

"Well, I'm sure, my dear," she ventured, "you might be content with havin' such nice young ladies as the Miss Masters to make friends of, without 'ankerin' after the gentry."

"I do wish you wouldn't leave out all your 'g's,' ma," cried Lily, pettishly; "it's dreadful the way you talk. And as for the Masters, they're only butchers, and I detest being mixed up with shop people." And the girl stamped her foot in disgust.

Mrs. Howell, who was shedding a quiet tear or two over her child's unkindness, sniffed loudly, and said: "I'm sure shop people is plenty good enough for girls as behaves to their poor ma like you do, and I don't wonder as this Miss Beauchamp don't take up with you. I wish to goodness your pa had never made a fortune, that I do; for it's a worry from mornin' to night, a-mindin' my manners here, and a-shuttin' up my mouth there!" And the poor, lonely woman, surrounded with every luxury and elegance that money could buy, but who felt less free than a canary in its cage, wept silently.

For a minute, Lily regarded her with some sort of compunction, but she was afraid of giving way to her better nature, so merely saying: "Well, I'm sure, ma, there's nothing to cry about," turned on her heel, and left the room.

And the poor mother, who had strained every nerve, in her younger days, to make her only child's life one of cloudless happiness, realised that she and her husband had made a bitter mistake in educating Lily "as a lady," for it was only too evident that she now considered herself immensely superior to her parents; and as for affection for them she had little or none.

There was little talked of at the High School that second week in June but the approaching half-term holiday, and various ways of spending it. Some of the girls, whose homes were at a distance, but who either lived or boarded with friends in Osmington, so as to attend the High School, were looking forward to a week-end at home; while others were going to stay from the Friday to Monday night with relations.

Monica and Olive had discussed several plans for spending the long-looked-forward-to holiday, each of which was delightful in its own way. But eventually, with Mrs. Beauchamp's consent, it was decided that the first part of the day should be spent picnic-fashion, the girls returning to a substantial tea at Carson Rise.

Monica would have preferred having Olive only to spend a long day with her, but Mrs. Beauchamp, who had made the acquaintance of the Franklyn twins, and had taken a great fancy to quiet, nicely behaved Elsa, stipulated that if one sister came, both did; so as Monica said: "To make it all square, let's have Amethyst Drury as well."

Accordingly, on the most perfect of sunny June mornings the quartette having met at a given spot at eleven o'clock made their way to a favourite place in Disbrowe woods, and prepared to enjoy themselves to the full.

The same river which ran past the bottom of the Franklyns' garden, a mile away, flowed through the pretty little copse which enjoyed the above grand cognomen, because it was included in the Disbrowe estate, and the few acres of cherished copse seemed like "woods" in that suburban neighbourhood. It was in this copse that the Osmington people gathered their spring flowers, for the ground was carpeted with primroses during the month of April; and here, too, the boys and girls went nutting in the autumn.

But in June there was nothing to gather, so the girls who had brought well-filled lunch baskets and books with which to while away the time, gave themselves up to what Olive called "a thorough laze."

Seating themselves in characteristic fashion, Monica and Olive up amongst the low-spreading branches of an old oak, while Amethyst and Elsa chose the grassy hillocks caused by its roots, the quartette soon opened their baskets, and the contents disappeared with startling rapidity. As Monica said, "the river smelt quite sea-i-fied," and gave them an extra good appetite; indeed, if it had not been for Elsa, poor Hero, the collie, who Mrs. Beauchamp had suggested should accompany the girls for protection's sake, would have fared badly.

However, he managed to make a very good meal, and was lying down fast asleep in the shade, while the girls, whose tongues had grown tired with talking, were either reading, or lying curled up half asleep on the grassy slope, gazing dreamily at the river, as it flowed smoothly and silently on, when they were all aroused by a short sharp bark, followed by a low growl, and Hero had bounded up the slope to a path which ran along at the top, and which was one of the least frequented paths in the wood.

"Whatever can he see?" cried Monica; "a rabbit, I expect."

"Oh, call him back, Monica, do! Perhaps he will do some mischief," said Elsa.

"Nonsense! He's only chasing a rabbit or a bird."

But even as she spoke there came the sound of feeble crying, as of some one in trouble, and all four girls dropped their books, and ran swiftly up the incline. Arrived there they found Hero, who was still growling at intervals, sniffing suspiciously at a large bundle, done up in a red cotton handkerchief, which was lying on the path: and a few steps away, a poor old body, in a quaint poke bonnet and black shawl, was holding herself up with one hand on the limb of an ash tree, while her other, all knotted with rheumatism, was grasping a stout walking-stick.

Her gown bore traces of Hero's paws, and it was evident from her panting and half-sobbing breath that she had been very much upset.

As the girls drew near she raised her stick and shook it at the dog, crying, "Oh, the beast, the beast, the wicked beast!" while Monica caught hold of Hero by his collar and dragged him away from the bundle which had great attractions for him.

The situation was not without its comical side, and Olive and Monica, seeing no tragedy in it, both began to titter quite audibly.

"Ah, you may laugh; mebbe 'tis nothin' but sport to young leddies like you," cried the little old woman, as she glanced angrily at them. "But 'tis a sorry thing for me; I'm fair shattered wi' fright."

"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.