Chapter 10 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 Fr?ulein 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.

The little girl chattered volubly of all the incidents of the afternoon, 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.