Chapter 6 HE WEREN'T CALLED 'SEIZE-'ER' FOR NOTHIN'!

The following day was Saturday, and therefore a whole holiday. Monica, who had grown quite accustomed to the new life among companions of her own age, felt quite dismal when she rose in the morning, and remembered there were two long, long days to be got through before she could expect to see any of them again. She fully intended asking her grandmother if Olive might come to Carson Rise (as Mrs. Beauchamp's residence was called) to tea, at least, if not to spend the greater part of the day.

But Olive had told her of the previous arrangement that she and Elsa should go to the vicarage (an invitation, by the way, which she now wished she had not been so eager to accept!), so that Monica was compelled to give up her plans for that week.

Whether it was that she missed the wholesome control of school régime, or whether, to use a common phrase, "she got out of bed the wrong side" that Saturday morning, it would be difficult to say; but at any rate, things went very much wrong.

To begin with, Mrs. Beauchamp was confined to her bed with a feverish cold, and Barnes came down at breakfast time to say "would Miss Monica please have her breakfast, and then amuse herself as quietly as possible, so that grandmother could get a little sleep, as she had had a very restless night."

Now Monica was not really an unfeeling girl, but being abnormally healthy and vigorous herself, she had scant sympathy with ailing people, and was of opinion that her grandmother coddled herself frightfully. Added to this, she knew that Mrs. Beauchamp had intended driving into Osmington that day, to call on some friends who would be likely to be able to tell her more about the Franklyns, and whether Monica might safely be allowed to mix with them. Now, with this cold, the drive would be impossible, and perhaps several days would elapse before she would get full permission to make a friend of Olive. It certainly was vexing; it almost seemed to the disappointed girl as if her grandmother had caught cold on purpose; and Olive had hinted only the day before that perhaps Mrs. Beauchamp would let Monica come to tea, one day, with them, and the lonely girl was longing to have her first glimpse of real home life, and make the acquaintance of the "Pickle," and see the girls' "den."

And, in her chagrin, Monica, with a hasty movement, pushed the hot water jug roughly out of her way, as she reached after the butter dish, with the result that the silver cream jug, which she had carelessly placed near the edge of the table, tipped over, and spilling its contents on the handsome felt carpet, fell with sufficient force to bend the handle, and to make a very nasty dent in its pretty fluted side.

"Oh, horrors!" ejaculated Monica, "there will be a row!" and she endeavoured to mop up the cream with her serviette, and tried what she could do with the jug.

"I suppose I must ring for Harriet," she muttered, in despair, as the carpet seemed to get worse under her treatment and the jug certainly no better!

Her hasty ring brought the parlourmaid quickly on the scene, and that worthy held up her hands in horror at the dreadful state of the carpet.

"Oh! Miss Monica," she gasped, "whatever will your grandma say? The carpet will be ruined, you may depend. There'll be a nasty looking stain, however much we get it out. That's the worst of these felts," and she hastened away, to return in a moment with cloths and hot water and various remedies for the mishap.

Harriet went down on her knees and applied them vigorously, but an ugly dark patch remained, and, as she seemed to take great pleasure in reminding poor Monica, "it always would." She turned her attention to the cream jug next, but, of course, could do nothing to remove the dent, or straighten the twisted handle.

"Oh, my!" she said; "your grandma will be vexed, Miss Monica, so partikler as she always is about the silver things, on account of their anticwitty, as she calls it. Well, well!"

Poor Monica! How she ached to box the ears of this Job's comforter; and it is to be feared the only motive that she had in refraining from doing so, was that she considered it infra dig. of a lady to strike a menial! She had not learnt the lesson "that he that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city." So, merely shrugging her shoulders, she said not one syllable to the retreating parlourmaid, as she departed with her cloths, and the final remark "that it was unfortunate, the missis laid up, and all."

Monica finished her interrupted meal in gloomy silence, meditating upon the scene that would be enacted later on, when her grandmother was made aware of the mishap.

Having made a bad start, unfortunately Monica thought it didn't much matter now if she got into more trouble. So after lounging about in the schoolroom for half an hour, and finding nothing to amuse herself with, she decided upon a visit to the stables.

She knew very well that in going there she was acting in defiance of her grandmother's expressed wish; but the spirit of insubordination had seized hold of Monica, and she felt absolutely reckless. Old Richards was nowhere to be seen, so she proceeded to enjoy herself thoroughly, by visiting "Belle" and "Beauty," the handsome pair of greys in their loose boxes, and then passed on to inspect the new pony "C?sar," who was fastened in his stall.

She had just leaned over the door, the upper half of which was open, when she espied Tom, the stable-boy, in the harness-room beyond, busy over polishing the harness, and humming a tune.

"Mornin', miss," he grinned, as he touched his ragged cap with delight, and went on with his work with extra briskness. He was a bright little chap of fourteen, only recently introduced into the Carson Rise stables, and he appreciated to the full the magnificent opportunity of "getting on" that the situation afforded.

For Tom White meant to "get on" to the very best of his ability; and even Richards, who was rather grudging of praise, could find no fault in the little lad, who was as willing as willing could be, and took the greatest possible pains over all his jobs.

"Is the new pony all right, Tom?" queried Monica, as she stood looking admiringly at C?sar, as he pawed the ground impatiently, and tossed his silky brown mane. "Will he let me pat him?"

"Better not, miss," suggested Tom, with an elderly air, which sat comically upon his young shoulders. "Mr. Richards, he said this mornin' that he thought he were a bit of a tartar, miss." And Tom put down a piece of harness with evident pride in the high state of polish which his efforts had produced. He was just going to attack another vigorously, when Monica bade him come and unfasten the pony, so that she could see his head better.

"Please, miss, I'd rather not." And Tom came slowly out of the harness-room, but made no effort to do as Monica said.

"Why not, pray? You surely aren't afraid he'll bite you?" said Monica sharply. She had an intense scorn for those who were afraid. "You'll never be any good for a coachman if you're afraid of a pony." And her proud young face expressed disgust.

"Please, miss, 'tisn't that a bit," said the boy, his big grey eyes upraised to hers pleadingly; for he was devoted to Miss Monica. "I ain't a mite afraid of 'im, but Mr. Richards 'e said, said 'e: 'Now, Tom, you leave that there pony alone,' says 'e. 'If 'e don't bite, if 'e gits a chance, my name ain't Richards. You may depend,' says 'e, ''e weren't called "Seize-'er" for nothin'.'"

"Nonsense!" said Monica, scornfully, although she was tickled with the man's unconscious pun. "You wouldn't bite me, would you, old boy?" she added to the little chestnut, who eyed her rather maliciously as she entered the stall, and put out her hand to rub his soft brown nose.

"Oh, don't, miss, please don't!" cried the little stable-boy, as he tried to snatch her hand away. But even as he spoke the pony made a grab at the girlish fingers, and Monica realised too late that she would have been wiser to pay attention to the boy's warning, for her hand ached terribly, and there were ugly tooth marks on the palm and one or two fingers.

"You little wretch! You horrid little vixen!" she cried, in pain and anger, as she bound her hand, fortunately the left one, in her handkerchief, and tried to still the throbbing.

The pony, quiet enough now, appeared to take no notice of the epithets she poured out upon him, and Tom stood helplessly by, his very soul in his liquid grey eyes, wishing with all his heart, poor little chap, that it had happened to him instead of to his adored young lady.

"Please, miss," he suggested timidly, "'adn't you better go indoors, and get something to do your 'and good. Shall I run round to the kitchen and tell 'em?"

Monica blessed the warm-hearted little lad for his evident desire to make matters a little easier for her indoors, and gladly assented to his plan.

She was thankful when she reached the house that she was saved the effort of telling what had happened, for she felt a curious sensation all over her, and was seized with a desire to fall into the first chair she came to. Surely she was not going to faint? Monica Beauchamp had never been known to have nerves before!

"Mercy on us, Miss Monica, you do look bad!" cried the kindly old cook, as she called to one of the maids for a glass of water, and sent another for the vinegar bottle. "La, what a nasty grip the little beast give you!" she added, as the handkerchief fell off, and revealed the extent of the damage. "Get a bowl of warm water, Mary Ann, quick!" And in another minute she was gently bathing the injured hand in the water, to which she had added a little Condy's fluid.

"Is that better, miss?" she asked, with kindly sympathy, glad to notice that the colour was returning to Monica's cheeks. She was, perhaps, the only one of all the servants who had any affection for the girl whose coming had upset the even tenor of the quiet household, and whose pranks gave them so much extra trouble.

"Oh! yes, thanks, cook, it doesn't ache quite so horribly now," she said, with a sigh of relief, as the woman bound the hand up in some soft old linen, and Monica prepared to leave the kitchen regions. But when she let her hand fall for a moment, a stifled groan escaped her lips, and she raised it quickly.

"Let me make a sling of this old scarf, Miss Monica," said cook, suiting the action to the word, and hastily improvising a sling from a black and white check tie, which she produced from one of the huge dresser drawers. "It's a mercy the skin ain't broke."

"Thanks," was all Monica could manage to say, for it required all her self-control to keep her lips firmly clenched, the aching was so intense.

"Perhaps Barnes could find some soothin' stuff to put on it, miss," she called after the girl, as she slowly ascended the kitchen stairs.

Monica managed to reach the schoolroom door, where she came face to face with Barnes, who had been in search of her; and she had to tell the maid what had befallen her.

"Dear, dear, Miss Monica," said Barnes, "'tis nothing but a chapter of accidents this morning; the missis so poorly, too. But there, 'tis one consolation the doctor will be here in a few minutes to see her (for she told me I'd better send for him), and he'll soon put your hand to rights."

She spoke more cheerfully than she felt, for Monica looked very unlike her usual self, and she feared she was going to be ill. "Just you have a bit of rest in this easy chair, miss," she said, pushing forward a cosy basket chair, and Monica sank among the cushions with relief. "Why, there's the doctor's gig, I do declare," added the maid, with satisfaction, as wheels sounded on the carriage drive.

The fatherly old doctor, who knew Monica very well, although she had seldom required any of his physic, paid her a visit after he had attended to her grandmother. He examined the bite carefully, and commiserated with her on the unfortunate mishap, but said it was not at all a serious matter. He promised to send some lotion, and told her to keep her hand in a sling, and he hoped in a day or two there would be little more than bruises left.

"But you mustn't go and put your hand into the pony's mouth again, my dear child," said he with a smile, "or you might not get off so easily again. I can't quite understand how it happened yet."

"Oh! it was all my own fault," admitted Monica, frankly. "I was warned that the pony might bite, but, of course, I didn't think he would! In fact, I ought not to have gone into the stables at all." And she looked up saucily into the kind old face bending over her. But the expression in the keen eyes which looked searchingly at her made her lower her own, while something akin to shame filled her heart.

"I suspect the colonel would say that obedience was one of the first duties of a recruit," he said, slowly; "at any rate, it is one of the hardest lessons that a soldier of the King of kings has to learn. My lassie," he added, tenderly, but solemnly, as he smoothed her ruffled hair with a fatherly touch, "how much longer are you going on fighting against Him? Why don't you surrender arms, and begin to fight for Him, and with Him? You see, I know that I am talking to a soldier's daughter. Won't you think about what I have said?" And he took up his hat and gloves, preparatory to departing.

Monica, remembering her father's last letter, thought how strange it was that the old doctor should speak in the same strain, but she was too shy to mention it, and Dr. Marley feeling that, at any rate, the seed had been sown in the rebellious young heart, forbore to say more. But as he drove on to his next patient he prayed that it might take root; for the old doctor had known Colonel Beauchamp since he was a little lad, and he took a warm interest in his only child.

Monica passed a bad five minutes in her grandmother's room after the doctor had gone, but the influence of his words remained with her, and she refrained from being saucy or off-hand. Indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp began to fear that the accident had made her really ill, so wonderfully subdued and penitent was she.

Considering that she would have to bear the pain and inconvenience of her injured hand for some little time, the old lady excused Monica from further punishment, on condition that she did not disobey again. Fully intending at the moment to keep her promise, Monica said she would remember her grandmother's wishes in future, and the latter dismissed her, feeling more hopeful about her grandchild than she had done for a long time.

As she did not feel up to any great exertion, Monica spent the greater part of the afternoon and evening in writing a long letter to her father, telling him, in detail, all about her new school, and, above all, about her new-found friend. She also described the happenings of that unfortunate morning, taking care not to spare herself in the least; but she felt too shy to say much in reply to his letter, the only remark she made being: "I have been thinking about what you wrote, dad dear, and I mean to try and learn the hard lesson, but I haven't found a teacher yet." And when the father read the girlish, blotted, and rather badly spelt letter, some weeks later, in far off Simla, the tears rose to his eyes, while he bowed his head and prayed that God would send some one to guide his little daughter into the only safe path.

While Monica was engaged in writing her letter, Amethyst Drury was busy playing hostess to the two Franklyns. It was such a lovely sunny afternoon that Mrs. Drury had given permission for the trio to have tea in the little rustic summer-house overlooking the pretty, but by no means large, lawn.

"Isn't it fun having tea out here?" remarked Amethyst, as the three girls sat lazily in the garden chairs, having done ample justice to the cocoanut cake and raspberry jam sandwiches, which had been provided for the feast by kind Mrs. Drury.

"Awfully nice," admitted Olive, "but I must say I wish Monica could have been here too."

"Oh! Ollie," said Elsa, hastily, with an apologetic glance at Amethyst, for she feared she would think her sister rude.

Amethyst's eyes flashed, and she burst out indignantly: "I can't bear that girl! She's going to spoil everything, and we had such lovely times together before she came." And her lips trembled, and in a minute more there would have been an April shower. But Elsa the peacemaker interposed.

Putting her arm lovingly round the little hostess, she said, soothingly: "Olive didn't mean anything unkind, dear, I am sure. And I don't think Monica will make much difference, because, you see, she lives so far away. And besides, if Olive and Monica become great friends, that leaves me out in the cold; and I want you, Thistle."

"Of course," added Olive. "You two are cut out for each other, and I always feel like a fish out of water amongst you. But let's have a game now, shall we?"

And in the intricacies of playing croquet-golf, as best they could, all against all, the little unpleasantness blew over.