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 an unexpected 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 enquiringly at the boots and dress of his young mistress’s friend, and then, with a wag of his stumpy bit of tail, sat down on the floor at her feet, and rested 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 all my 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 to have, for she’s been in such a temper all the week. She’s tried every way she can to get Elsa and me into trouble, and when she finds she can’t manage it, she’s in a worse tantrum than ever. I can’t think why she’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 common and 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 as possible. 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 a peach, Olive; they’re awfully nice.”
And Monica, taking one herself, pushed the plate containing them nearer to 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 that he could share. “No, you won’t like this, old boy,” she said, with a merry laugh.
“He can beg beautifully,” said Monica. “When we’ve eaten these, I’ll put him through all his tricks.”
A merry quarter of an hour passed in watching Jack beg, and “trust for it,” and “die,” and “give three cheers for the king.” Then, when he was tired, and lay curled up asleep on Monica’s couch again, the two girls had a thorough good chat about everything dear to their school-girl hearts, until a clock striking the hour of four warned Olive that she must be going.
Monica begged her to stay to tea with her, saying: “Grandmother quite expects you to.”
But, much as Olive would have liked it, she was obliged to refuse, as she had promised her mother to meet Kathleen and the children at a quarter past, at a certain place, so as to walk home together.
“Oh, there’s heaps more I wanted to ask,” said Monica. “I never dreamt but that you would stay to tea. What did Fräulein say to my being away yesterday? 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 Monica looked rueful.
“Oh, she was very sorry about your ankle. She had heard from the other mistresses, 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, you won’t be away long, will you? Surely not three weeks?” And Olive’s bright face assumed a dismal expression at the thought of being so long without her friend.
“Dr. Marley said this morning it might be better before then, but not fit 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 apparently taking into consideration that the bicycle was quite the least guilty of everything 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 Miss Grant’s class in the afternoon. Besides, mother doesn’t let us go for walks on Sundays.”
“What a funny idea! I never go, because there’s nothing to go for; but I don’t think grandmother would mind. She dozes all the afternoon, and I 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 the closely 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 said doubtfully.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” was Monica’s rather rude reply. “You take it home and read it on the quiet, and if you don’t want to borrow some more next time you come, I shall be very much mistaken. Your mother can’t expect to keep you tied to her apron-strings always.” And there was again that suggestion of a sneer underlying the words which Olive could not stand.
A girl with higher principles would have said: “No, thank you, Monica; I would rather not have anything to do with it.” And if Olive Franklyn had had the courage to refuse the evil that afternoon, she would have saved herself much sorrow. But she weakly gave in, and slipped the book into her string-bag, well knowing that she was flatly disobeying her mother’s commands.
Poor Olive! She carried more away with her from Carson Rise than the novel; already the poison was beginning its deadly work. How could she manage so that not even Elsa should know she had it in her possession? She was very differently situated from Monica: in their large family they had no secret drawers or private hiding-places, everything was common property, and she could depend on nowhere being absolutely safe.
She was so deep in thought about it, that she almost ran into Kathleen and the children before she knew they were approaching her, and she was so preoccupied during the walk home that Kathleen teased her about having left her tongue at Carson Rise. She pulled herself together then, but alas! the same complaint became an habitual one, as time went on and Olive Franklyn, careless, light-hearted, and fun-loving, but hitherto always open and frank, became moody, abstracted, peevish, and discontented.
That first book was but the forerunner of many more; she became absolutely possessed by an insatiable thirst for novel-reading. Indeed, the girl became so engrossed in them that ordinary, everyday life had no attraction for her, the distorted views of life which the novels gave her totally unfitting her for both school and home associations.
Lois and Kathleen noticed the change in their young sister and puzzled over 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 as possible,” said Mrs. Franklyn; “it is evident that they are very fond of one another, and she misses her companionship. It will be all right when 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 girl was living, her sisters accepted the mother’s verdict, and good-naturedly made it possible for Olive to go over to Carson Rise quite frequently, little dreaming that, each time she went, fresh fuel was added to the flame.
Monica, who, at first, had smiled with satisfaction when she found her prediction come true, began to be a little alarmed as time went on and Olive kept continually asking for a fresh book. She was rather a slow reader herself, but Olive seemed literally to devour them.
“How do you manage to find time to read such a lot?” she said incredulously one Monday afternoon, when they were sitting in a rustic summer-house, in a shady corner of the sheltered garden, and Olive had admitted that she had already finished a three-volume novel that she had taken 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 hard for 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 perfectly wretched when I can’t have a read.”
“But I thought your people objected to novel-reading. Do none of them ever catch you at it? and how do you manage to do your home-work?” said Monica, 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 along somehow.”
“Well, I’m almost sorry I ever lent you a book,” said Monica, who could detect a subtle difference in Olive, and felt uneasy.
“Oh, Monica, how often and often I’ve wished that I’d never borrowed that first one!” said the poor infatuated girl; “and, sometimes, I think I’ll never touch a novel again. But I always have to; I can’t seem to live without reading them now. There’s a hungry feeling in my brain. I can’t explain what I mean, but it feels quite empty, somehow, until I have a good read, and then I feel better. Don’t you ever get sensations like 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. I like reading, certainly, and there is more excitement in a regular novel than there is in ordinary little goody-goody books. But I’m not so keen on them as I was; they’re rather horrid sometimes. But I think you’d better 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 reluctantly gave in, saying: “That’s the only one I’ve got that you haven’t had, so you must make the most of it. I’m not sure that I’m going to have any more.”
“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 must go to the library.”
“No, I couldn’t; they would have made rather a large parcel, and I had no way of hiding it, especially as Elsa and Paddy came half-way with me.”
“Well, take good care no one spies them,” cautioned Monica. “I don’t want to have the credit of leading you astray.”
And Olive promised to be careful, as indeed she always was. As a matter of fact, not the least of the sins to be laid at the door of her novel-reading on the sly was the deceit she had to practise in order to hide the books.
Three weeks had already sped since the half-term holiday, and still Monica could scarcely bear to stand on her ankle, so severe had been the sprain. There was little likelihood of her being back at school for quite another week or ten days; indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp had hinted that it seemed hardly worth while for her to go again that term, at all. But the kindly old doctor, seeing that Monica’s heart was set upon it, had said: “Oh, yes, it will do her good to rub up against the other girls for a week or two. The holidays will be quite long enough, seven weeks or more.” And so it was settled that, as soon as the ankle was really to 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 grandmother company in the drawing-room after tea. The old lady had seemed much less stiff lately, and Monica had begun to think that she might grow fond of her in time. She was so kind, too, about Jack, who was allowed to be wherever his mistress was, even in the drawing-room; certainly he was a particularly good dog. He was lying on the hearth-rug now, fast asleep, 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 as she 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 next minute “Miss Franklyn” was announced.
Mrs. Beauchamp greeted the visitor cordially. She had met Lois once before and had been prepossessed by the gentle tones and ladylike bearing of the doctor’s eldest daughter.
Monica jumped up hastily, with a pleased exclamation, but she soon saw that something was wrong. There was a stern expression about Lois’ lips which was not habitual to her, and she had brought a parcel, which Monica could see only too well contained books.
She scarcely responded to Monica’s, “How do you do, Miss Franklyn?” but turned 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 library book on an octagonal table beside her. “It seems that for some weeks—all the time your granddaughter has been laid up, at any rate—she has been lending Olive books of this description. I do not know whether Monica has your permission to read them, but it has been one of my dear mother’s strictest rules that none of us should read any novel, except standard works, until we had left school; then we might do so if we wished. As it happens, neither my sister Kathleen, nor myself, has the slightest inclination for literature of that kind,” and here Lois glanced contemptuously at the books, “but Olive seems to have been thoroughly infatuated with them. We have all noticed a great change in her lately, but could not account for it, until, by mere accident this afternoon, three of these books were found by one of the children, carefully hidden in an old doll’s house which is rarely used. Seeing that it was useless to deny it, Olive has confessed to my mother the unhappy deceit that she has been practising, and produced the remaining book from her bedroom. She says she has been most miserable all the time, but was evidently frightfully fascinated, or she could never have been so wicked as to deceive our mother, who is very grieved and upset about it all. However, Olive has at length promised solemnly not to read any more of this kind of book, and I believe she will keep her word, unless she is tempted. That is why I have come to ask you to forbid Monica lending any more to Olive, if she is allowed to read them herself.”
Lois paused, and Mrs. Beauchamp, after a glance at the title-pages of the books, looked severely at Monica, who had sat perfectly still, with her 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 gain time than anything else, for she had resolved to make a clean breast of it.
“More I did,” admitted Mrs. Beauchamp ruefully. “I am afraid I never realised that you would choose this style of literature; I have thought of you as a mere child, still. Oh, dear me, what a terrible responsibility girls are!” And the old lady sighed feebly, and looked at 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 to disobey 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 one if I hadn’t persuaded her to; she knew she ought not. I would give anything, now, not to have lent them to her. Indeed, last time she was here I told her so, and said I was half-inclined not to read any more myself.”
“I don’t know what Mrs. Beauchamp’s opinion may be,” said Lois, to whose face Monica’s honest avowal had brought a pleased expression, “but if you 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 all events.”
“I will,” Monica replied, without hesitation; the reality in her tones betokening steadfastness of purpose.
“I am very glad,” said Lois, and there was distinct approval in the expressive glance her grey eyes flashed on Monica, as she rose. “I will tell Olive of your resolve, and it will help her to be true to her promise.”
Mrs. Beauchamp, looking alternately from one to the other, as the conversation seemed to be carried on without her help, suddenly realised that the question was settled, and she had no battle to fight with Monica. She could not help thinking how differently she would have gone to work, and how unsuccessful she would, in all probability, have been.
“I am sure, Miss Franklyn, I hope that your mother will accept my apologies for all this trouble. There seems no end to the anxiety my granddaughter causes every one!”
“It was an anxiety to her, I must confess,” said Lois, “but now that Olive has told her everything, she feels easier about it. She has such an abhorrence of anything approaching deceit.”
“Of course,” murmured Mrs. Beauchamp.
“Can Olive come to tea to-morrow, grandmother?” Monica’s face was pleading.
“I really don’t know, I’m sure. I hardly think you deserve——” began the old lady hesitatingly.
“May I interrupt?” said Lois, quickly. “I was to tell you that my mother felt that the most suitable punishment she could inflict upon Olive 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 not but admit that the punishment was a just one.