*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 anunexpected 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 enquiringlyat the boots and dress of his young mistress's friend, and then, with awag of his stumpy bit of tail, sat down on the floor at her feet, andrested 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 allmy 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 tohave, for she's been in such a temper all the week. She's tried everyway she can to get Elsa and me into trouble, and when she finds shecan't manage it, she's in a worse tantrum than ever. I can't think whyshe'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 commonand 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 aspossible. 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 apeach, Olive; they're awfully nice."
And Monica, taking one herself, pushed the plate containing them nearerto 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 thathe could share. "No, you won't like this, old boy," she said, with amerry laugh.
"He can beg beautifully," said Monica. "When we've eaten these, I'llput him through all his tricks."
A merry quarter of an hour passed in watching Jack beg, and "trust forit," and "die," and "give three cheers for the king." Then, when he wastired, and lay curled up asleep on Monica's couch again, the two girlshad a thorough good chat about everything dear to their school-girlhearts, until a clock striking the hour of four warned Olive that shemust be going.
Monica begged her to stay to tea with her, saying: "Grandmother quiteexpects you to."
But, much as Olive would have liked it, she was obliged to refuse, asshe had promised her mother to meet Kathleen and the children at aquarter past, at a certain place, so as to walk home together.
"Oh, there's heaps more I wanted to ask," said Monica. "I never dreamtbut that you would stay to tea. What did Fraeulein say to my being awayyesterday? 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 Monicalooked rueful.
"Oh, she was very sorry about your ankle. She had heard from the othermistresses, 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, youwon't be away long, will you? Surely not three weeks?" And Olive'sbright face assumed a dismal expression at the thought of being so longwithout her friend.
"Dr. Marley said this morning it might be better before then, but notfit 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 apparentlytaking into consideration that the bicycle was quite the least guilty ofeverything 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 MissGrant's class in the afternoon. Besides, mother doesn't let us go forwalks on Sundays."
"What a funny idea! I never go, because there's nothing to go for; butI don't think grandmother would mind. She dozes all the afternoon, andI 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 theclosely 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 saiddoubtfully.
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" was Monica's rather rude reply. "You take it homeand read it on the quiet, and if you don't want to borrow some more nexttime you come, I shall be very much mistaken. Your mother can't expectto keep you tied to her apron-strings always." And there was again thatsuggestion of a sneer underlying the words which Olive could not stand.
A girl with higher principles would have said: "No, thank you, Monica; Iwould rather not have anything to do with it." And if Olive Franklynhad had the courage to refuse the evil that afternoon, she would havesaved herself much sorrow. But she weakly gave in, and slipped the bookinto her string-bag, well knowing that she was flatly disobeying hermother's commands.
Poor Olive! She carried more away with her from Carson Rise than thenovel; already the poison was beginning its deadly work. How could shemanage so that not even Elsa should know she had it in her possession?She was very differently situated from Monica: in their large familythey had no secret drawers or private hiding-places, everything wascommon property, and she could depend on nowhere being absolutely safe.
She was so deep in thought about it, that she almost ran into Kathleenand the children before she knew they were approaching her, and she wasso preoccupied during the walk home that Kathleen teased her abouthaving left her tongue at Carson Rise. She pulled herself togetherthen, but alas! the same complaint became an habitual one, as time wenton and Olive Franklyn, careless, light-hearted, and fun-loving, buthitherto always open and frank, became moody, abstracted, peevish, anddiscontented.
That first book was but the forerunner of many more; she becameabsolutely possessed by an insatiable thirst for novel-reading. Indeed,the girl became so engrossed in them that ordinary, everyday life had noattraction for her, the distorted views of life which the novels gaveher totally unfitting her for both school and home associations.
Lois and Kathleen noticed the change in their young sister and puzzledover 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 aspossible," said Mrs. Franklyn; "it is evident that they are very fond ofone another, and she misses her companionship. It will be all rightwhen 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 girlwas living, her sisters accepted the mother's verdict, andgood-naturedly made it possible for Olive to go over to Carson Risequite frequently, little dreaming that, each time she went, fresh fuelwas added to the flame.
Monica, who, at first, had smiled with satisfaction when she found herprediction come true, began to be a little alarmed as time went on andOlive kept continually asking for a fresh book. She was rather a slowreader herself, but Olive seemed literally to devour them.
"How _do_ you manage to find time to read such a lot?" she saidincredulously one Monday afternoon, when they were sitting in a rusticsummer-house, in a shady corner of the sheltered garden, and Olive hadadmitted that she had already finished a three-volume novel that she hadtaken 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 hardfor 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 perfectlywretched when I can't have a read."
"But I thought your people objected to novel-reading. Do none of themever catch you at it? and how do you manage to do your home-work?" saidMonica, 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 alongsomehow."
"Well, I'm almost sorry I ever lent you a book," said Monica, who coulddetect a subtle difference in Olive, and felt uneasy.
"Oh, Monica, how often and often I've wished that I'd never borrowedthat first one!" said the poor infatuated girl; "and, sometimes, I thinkI'll never touch a novel again. But I always have to; I can't seem tolive without reading them now. There's a hungry feeling in my brain. Ican't explain what I mean, but it feels quite empty, somehow, until Ihave a good read, and then I feel better. Don't you ever get sensationslike 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. Ilike reading, certainly, and there is more excitement in a regular novelthan there is in ordinary little goody-goody books. But I'm not so keenon them as I was; they're rather horrid sometimes. But I think you'dbetter 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 reluctantlygave in, saying: "That's the only one I've got that you haven't had, soyou must make the most of it. I'm not sure that I'm going to have anymore."
"Oh, Monica, _do_, to please me!" pleaded Olive. "I'm not at all sure.By the way, did, you bring back those you've finished, because they mustgo to the library."
"No, I couldn't; they would have made rather a large parcel, and I hadno way of hiding it, especially as Elsa and Paddy came half-way withme."
"Well, take good care no one spies them," cautioned Monica. "I don'twant to have the credit of leading you astray."
And Olive promised to be careful, as indeed she always was. As a matterof fact, not the least of the sins to be laid at the door of hernovel-reading on the sly was the deceit she had to practise in order tohide the books.
Three weeks had already sped since the half-term holiday, and stillMonica could scarcely bear to stand on her ankle, so severe had been thesprain. There was little likelihood of her being back at school forquite another week or ten days; indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp had hinted thatit seemed hardly worth while for her to go again that term, at all. Butthe kindly old doctor, seeing that Monica's heart was set upon it, hadsaid: "Oh, yes, it will do her good to rub up against the other girlsfor a week or two. The holidays will be quite long enough, seven weeksor more." And so it was settled that, as soon as the ankle was reallyto be depended upon, Monica should go back to finish out the term.
She was thinking of it a few days later, as she kept her grandmothercompany in the drawing-room after tea. The old lady had seemed muchless stiff lately, and Monica had begun to think that she might growfond of her in time. She was so kind, too, about Jack, who was allowedto be wherever his mistress was, even in the drawing-room; certainly hewas a particularly good dog. He was lying on the hearth-rug now, fastasleep, while Mrs. Beauchamp was knitting some fleecy wool into a wrap;and Monica, who was no longer compelled to keep her leg up, so long asshe did not walk on it much, was lazily, and by no means elegantly,lounging in the depths of an easy chair.
Suddenly Jack pricked up his ears, and gave a short, sharp little bark,there was the sound of the front door opening and shutting, and the nextminute "Miss Franklyn" was announced.
Mrs. Beauchamp greeted the visitor cordially. She had met Lois oncebefore and had been prepossessed by the gentle tones and ladylikebearing of the doctor's eldest daughter.
Monica jumped up hastily, with a pleased exclamation, but she soon sawthat something was wrong. There was a stern expression about Lois' lipswhich was not habitual to her, and she had brought a parcel, whichMonica could see only too well contained books.
She scarcely responded to Monica's, "How do you do, Miss Franklyn?" butturned to Mrs. Beauchamp and began to explain her errand without delay.
"I am very sorry to have to draw your attention to these books, Mrs.Beauchamp," she said, laying a three-volume novel and another librarybook on an octagonal table beside her. "It seems that for someweeks--all the time your granddaughter has been laid up, at anyrate--she has been lending Olive books of this description. I do notknow whether Monica has your permission to read them, but it has beenone of my dear mother's strictest rules that none of us should read anynovel, except standard works, until we had left school; then we might doso if we wished. As it happens, neither my sister Kathleen, nor myself,has the slightest inclination for literature of _that_ kind," and hereLois glanced contemptuously at the books, "but Olive seems to have beenthoroughly infatuated with them. We have all noticed a great change inher lately, but could not account for it, until, by mere accident thisafternoon, three of these books were found by one of the children,carefully hidden in an old doll's house which is rarely used. Seeingthat it was useless to deny it, Olive has confessed to my mother theunhappy deceit that she has been practising, and produced the remainingbook from her bedroom. She says she has been most miserable all thetime, but was evidently frightfully fascinated, or she could never havebeen so wicked as to deceive our mother, who is very grieved and upsetabout it all. However, Olive has at length promised solemnly not toread any more of this kind of book, and I believe she will keep herword, unless she is tempted. That is why I have come to ask you toforbid Monica lending any more to Olive, if she is allowed to read themherself."
Lois paused, and Mrs. Beauchamp, after a glance at the title-pages ofthe books, looked severely at Monica, who had sat perfectly still, withher eyes fixed on Lois, during the recital of Olive's wrong-doing.
"How came you to get books of this description from the library,Monica?"
"You never forbade me to, grandmother," murmured the girl, more to gaintime than anything else, for she had resolved to make a clean breast ofit.
"More I did," admitted Mrs. Beauchamp ruefully. "I am afraid I neverrealised that you would choose this style of literature; I have thoughtof you as a mere child, still. Oh, dear me, what a terribleresponsibility girls are!" And the old lady sighed feebly, and lookedat Lois for assistance.
"Perhaps Monica will ask your advice in future," was all Lois could say,for she felt she was in a somewhat difficult position. "At any rate,for my mother's sake, I am sure she will promise not to help Olive todisobey her again."
The kind tone was too much for Monica, and she said impulsively: "Oh,Miss Franklyn, I am so awfully sorry! Olive never would have read oneif I hadn't persuaded her to; she knew she ought not. I would giveanything, now, not to have lent them to her. Indeed, last time she washere I told her so, and said I was half-inclined not to read any moremyself."
"'OH, MISS FRANKLYN, I AM SO AWFULLY SORRY!'"]
"I don't know what Mrs. Beauchamp's opinion may be," said Lois, to whoseface Monica's honest avowal had brought a pleased expression, "but ifyou took _my_ advice, Monica, you would make up your mind to be _quite_inclined to let them severely alone, for the next few years, at allevents."
"I will," Monica replied, without hesitation; the reality in her tonesbetokening steadfastness of purpose.
"I am very glad," said Lois, and there was distinct approval in theexpressive glance her grey eyes flashed on Monica, as she rose. "I willtell Olive of your resolve, and it will help her to be true to herpromise."
Mrs. Beauchamp, looking alternately from one to the other, as theconversation seemed to be carried on without her help, suddenly realisedthat the question was settled, and she had no battle to fight withMonica. She could not help thinking how differently she would have goneto work, and how unsuccessful she would, in all probability, have been.
"I
am sure, Miss Franklyn, I hope that your mother will accept myapologies for all this trouble. There seems no end to the anxiety mygranddaughter causes every one!"
"It _was_ an anxiety to her, I must confess," said Lois, "but now thatOlive has told her everything, she feels easier about it. She has suchan abhorrence of anything approaching deceit."
"Of course," murmured Mrs. Beauchamp.
"Can Olive come to tea to-morrow, grandmother?" Monica's face waspleading.
"I really don't know, I'm sure. I hardly think you deserve----" beganthe old lady hesitatingly.
"May I interrupt?" said Lois, quickly. "I was to tell you that mymother felt that the most suitable punishment she could inflict uponOlive was to forbid her to see Monica again until she returns to school,whenever that may be."
And although Monica said, "Oh!" and looked disconsolate, she could notbut admit that the punishment was a just one.