Part 7

"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."

The motherly woman would have liked to have said much more, to show this 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."