Chapter Four.All My Own Fault.“What are you in such a brown study about, Connie?” asked mamma at breakfast the next morning.I started.“Nothing very particular,” I said, and I felt myself get red. I should not have liked mamma to know my thoughts—I was rehearsing for the hundredth time the scene of my first meeting with the Whytes, or rather, I should say, of their first meetingme. Just as mamma spoke I was wondering how I could persuade papa to let me ride over with him before mamma paid her more formal call at the Yew Trees.Mamma smiled but did not press for an answer.“I must go and order dinner,” she said, rising from her seat rather wearily. Papa had already gone out. “How nice it will be when you are grown up, my Sweet Content, and able to help me with the housekeeping.”“Oh dear, I hope you will have a housekeeper when you get tired of it,” I said. “You never need count upon me for anything to do with eating and cooking, mamma. I should hate ordering dinners and looking over the butcher’s and grocer’s books. You wouldn’t like to see me a second Anna Gale, I hope?”“No, indeed, dear; that you never could be. Poor Anna has no brains, and she is so very dowdy—though, perhaps that sounds unkind, for she is a very good girl,” and mamma looked rather shocked at herself.“But one may be good without beingquiteso dull and ‘dowdy,’” I said, coaxingly.Mamma stooped to kiss me as she passed my chair. “I trust you will never have to do any uncongenial work, my darling,” she said. “You shall not if I can help it.”I remained where I was for a minute or two, thinking what I would best like to do that morning. It was a holiday, for my daily governess had got a slight cold and sore throat, and tillquitesatisfied that it was nothing infectious mamma had decided that she had better not come. I was rather sorry than otherwise, for I by no means disliked my lessons, and in dull weather the time was apt to hang heavily. There was no question of my going out for a ride, for, though not actually raining, it looked as if it might do so any moment.“I may as well do the flowers in the drawing-room,” I said to myself. This was one of the few things I did regularly for mamma, and I am afraid its being regularly done was greatly owing to mylikingit! I sauntered into the conservatory, glancing round to see what flowers I could cut without spoiling the appearance there; then through the conservatory, I sauntered on into the drawing-room. The housemaid, a young girl, whom I was not at all in awe of, was giving the room its morning cleaning. It wasnearlydone, but there remained the last touches—the laying down the hearthrug and removing one or two dust-sheets, and replacing some of the ornaments lying about—without which, however clean a room really is, it looks, of course, messy and disorderly.“Oh, Eliza, why isn’t the drawing-room done?” I exclaimed. “I want to arrange the flowers, and I can’t have you fussing about while I am doing them. You must leave it for a quarter of an hour.”The girl looked round regretfully.“I’d have done in five minutes, Miss Connie,” she said; “I would indeed. I’m no later than usual, but you don’t often come in here so early; and the fire isn’t lighted, and you with your cold,” she added, as if that would decide matters.“Oh, bother my cold,” I said. “It’s not chilly in here with the door open into the conservatory. Imustdo the Bowers now, or I can’t do them at all, and those in the glasses are very withered.”Eliza gave in. But as she was turning away, leaving her dustpan and brushes behind her, she stopped short again.“Oh, Miss Connie!” she exclaimed, “your frock’s all out of the gathers at the left side; and there’s a hole in your elbow.”“I know,” I said, composedly; “I caught it in the balusters—the skirt I mean; but I didn’t know about the elbow. That’s Prue’s fault, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll change it before luncheon;” and I set to work at my flowers.It was interesting work; there was a tap where you could draw cold water in the conservatory, and a little table on which I always arranged the flowers. And I had no trouble in getting rid of the withered ones; I threw them in a heap on the floor, and the gardener carried them away. But, all the same, I made myself rather dirty; my hands were smudged with mould, and some of it had got on to my face by the time I was half through my task. And as I had particular ideas about arranging the colours, and so on, I was very deliberate in my movements. Quite half an hour must have passed, and I had not begun to think of calling Eliza back to finish putting the drawing-room in order, when there came a ring at the front-door bell.“Who can that be?” I thought to myself, though without much interest in the matter. “Some one ringing by mistake for the surgery-bell; people are so stupid.”For rings at the front-door were comparatively rare, and really confined to the postmen and visitors for mamma, as, besides the surgery-bell, there is a side-door for tradespeople.I thought no more about it, till suddenly the drawing-room door opened, and I heard Benjamin the “boy”—Benjamin was not even a “buttons,” and he only answered the front-door bell in the morning, while Eliza was busy “with the rooms,” as housemaids say—in colloquy with some person or persons unseen.“Step this way, please sir,” he was saying with his broadest accent, as I ran forward, torn frock, dirty hands, smudged face and all, to see who it could possibly be.Oh, dear!HowI wished I had not yielded to my curiosity; how I wished I had run out by the door of the conservatory into the garden; how I wished I had not interrupted Eliza at her work, which would by this time have been neatly accomplished!For there stood before me a tall, handsome man, younger-looking than papa—very young-looking to be the father of the girl at his side—a girl quite half a head taller than I, with grave, considerate eyes, and a quiet, pale face. She was dressed very simply, but with extreme neatness; all that, I took in, in less than an instant, even while I felt my face growing scarlet, and I seemed conscious of but one intense wish—that the ground would open and swallow me and the drawing-room up! Yes—the room was worse than I—I did not care so much for my own appearance at any time, but the drawing-room— It looked so messy and horrid—socommon, too—“as if we only kept one servant,” I said to myself, “and could not afford to have the fire lighted early.” And to know that it was all my own doing!A smile flickered over the gentleman’s face; he must have seen how wretchedly awkward and ashamed I looked—my burning cheeks must have told their own tale. But the girl only looked at me gravely, though very gently. I am sure she was as sorry for me as she could be.“I am afraid,” Captain Whyte said at last—all this time I was blocking up the doorway, remember—“that we are taking a great liberty in disturbing Mrs Percy so very early, but—”Here the girl interrupted.“You are busy arranging your flowers,” she said. “Maywe look at the conservatory? Perhaps, papa, Miss Percy can tell us all we want to know?”And before I knew where I was she had crossed the room, not seeming even toseethat it was in a mess, and we were all three standing in the conservatory, which, of course, though rather untidy, did not look nearly so bad as the drawing-room.“Howpretty your flowers are!” she went on, and one could see that she meant it. “Papa, do look at those begonias—but—shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” And she gave a nice little kind sort of laugh.“I know who you are,” I said, as I awkwardly rubbed my hands on my apron to clean them from the mould. “I—I can’t shake hands—but—it’s all my fault that the fire isn’t lighted, and the room so messy. Mamma will be very vexed—she’s always ready as early as this to see any one.”“We have unfortunately lost the address of the ‘odd man’ that Dr Percy was so good as to give us, and we find ourselves sadly in want of his services already,” said Captain Whyte. “There are one or two other points we should be grateful for a little advice about, too, but these can wait.”I was beginning to recover my presence of mind a little by this time, though with it, alas! an increased feeling of mortification.“I will fetch mamma,” I began; but Captain Whyte interrupted: “Please don’t disturb her,” he said.I felt more and more vexed.“I believe they think she’s a vulgar, fussy old thing like Agnes Gale’s aunt,” I said to myself; “never fit to be seen till the afternoon.”“It won’t disturb her at all,” I said. “Mamma is never very busy.”And just as I spoke I heard her voice from the drawing-room.“Connie dear,” it said, “where are you, and what’s the matter with the drawing-room?” Oh, how glad I was that she said that! “Benjamin said some one wanted me;” and then catching sight of figures in the conservatory, in mamma came.They started a little, and no wonder that they were surprised. Thanks to me, they had small reason to expect much in Mrs Percy. Never in all my life did I feel prouder of mamma, or more grateful for her unfailing sweet temper. Just think—many a mother in such a case would have come through the drawing-room scolding for finding it in such a mess; her voice would have been heard sharp and angry before she was seen. And many, even sweet-tempered women, would have been upset and flurried. Not so my dear little mother. She came in looking so sweet, and so neat and pretty—with just a little half-smile of amusement on her face. “What is the matter, Connie dear?” she repeated, and then she caught sight of the strangers.I flew to her side.“Mamma dear,” I said—I was not often so gentle, but I was humbled for once—“it is Captain Whyte and Miss Whyte. It is all my fault about the drawing-room. I would not let Eliza finish it, because she was in the way when I was doing the flowers.”Then mamma glanced at me, and I saw that she had to make some effort not to look vexed at the state I myself was in.“My dear child!” she exclaimed. But in an instant she was shaking hands with our visitors.“I am so sorry,” she said.“Nay,” Captain Whyte replied, “it is our place to apologise. I only ventured to intrude so early—”But mamma interrupted him.“Won’t you come into the dining-room?” she said; “it will be more comfortable.”And so it certainly was, though it was the very thing of all others I would have hated. I had so often mocked at the Gales for never using their drawing-room except on great occasions, and always huddling together in the dining-room. But our dining-room did look nice that morning. It was as neat as could be, and the window was a tiny bit open, and a bright fire burning, and on a small table in the window stood a pretty glass with one or two late roses and a trail of ivy, which mamma had just gathered in the garden outside.Captain Whyte walked towards the fireplace and stood on the hearthrug, talking to mamma. Miss Whyte drew nearer the window, where I followed her.“How sweet these late roses are,” she said. “You and Mrs Percy must be very fond of flowers.”“Yes,” I said, stupidly enough. I could see she thought me shy and awkward, and that made me still more so.“And what a dear garden you have,” she went on, evidently anxious to set me at my ease, “just as if I had been Agnes Gale,” I thought. “Our garden at the Yew Trees will be very nice, but I do love those walled-in gardens at the back of a house in a street. I always think there’s a sort of surprise about them which makes them still nicer. Do you do much gardening yourself, Miss—no, won’t you tell me your first name?”“Connie,” I blurted out. A smile lighted up her grave little face.”‘Connie?’” she repeated. “Oh, yes, I remember. Is that the short for—” but then she stopped abruptly, murmuring something about “Lady Honor;” and for the first timeshelooked a little shy. It made me feel pleased.“I suppose,” I said, rather disagreeably—“I suppose Lady Honor made fun of my baby name?”Miss Whyte looked puzzled and surprised.“Made fun of it,” she said; “of course not. We all thought itsosweet—‘Sweet Content,’ I mean—and what Lady Honor said has made us look forward ever so much to knowing you. I think it was a littlethat,” she went on, smiling again, “that made me beg papa to bring me with him this morning.”How ashamed I felt! It seemed as if I were to do nothing but be ashamed this morning—and this time with more reason. My ugly suspicions of Lady Honorweresomething to be ashamed of. She had always been a true and kind friend; and just because she did not flatter and spoil me, I could not trust the good old lady.“Oh,” I began, “I didn’t mean—I thought perhaps—”Then I stopped short. “My real name is Constantia,” I went on hurriedly, “not Constance. I think Constantia prettier; don’t you?”“It is more uncommon; it’s like my name. People think mine is Eva or Evelyn, when they hear me called—”“Evey!” came her father’s voice across the room. We both laughed.“Wasn’t that funny?” said Evey, as she turned with a “Yes, papa.”“Wasn’t there something else rather particular, that you had to ask about, if possible, at once?” said Captain Whyte. “Mrs Percy is so kind.”Evey went towards my mother; a very business-like expression came over her face.“It’s about the laundress, Mrs Percy. Mother would be so glad to know of one at once. You see there are so many of us, it’s an important consideration. Mother will be here by Tuesday, we hope, and it would be nice for her to find it arranged, and all the things sent for the week. It was one of the reasons she was sorry not to come at once herself—to see about it.”“I hope it was not illness that delayed Mrs Whyte’s coming,” said mamma, kindly.“Not her own,” said Captain Whyte, “but one of the boys had caught cold—he’s our delicate one—and very subject to croup. So it was safer to wait, and Evey and I came on with the three other small ones and one big one, leaving Mary and Joss to help their mother with the invalid.”“I am sure I can find you a nice laundress,” said mamma, on which Evey’s brow cleared.“And not dear?” the little girl asked—for, after all, shewasa little girl, barely thirteen.Mamma could not help smiling. Evey was so business-like.“I think Mrs Whyte would find our laundress reason able,” she said. “Indeed, I don’t think any prices about here are extortionate.”“That is one of the recommendations of Elmwood to us,” said Captain Whyte, smiling. “But, Evey, we have really intruded on Mrs Percy too long. Thank you so very much for your kind help.”And he turned to go.“I will not forget to send Mrs Green, the washerwoman, to speak to you,” said mamma, as she shook hands with Evey.“Oh yes, thank you—this evening, please, if possible,” the little girl replied.
“What are you in such a brown study about, Connie?” asked mamma at breakfast the next morning.
I started.
“Nothing very particular,” I said, and I felt myself get red. I should not have liked mamma to know my thoughts—I was rehearsing for the hundredth time the scene of my first meeting with the Whytes, or rather, I should say, of their first meetingme. Just as mamma spoke I was wondering how I could persuade papa to let me ride over with him before mamma paid her more formal call at the Yew Trees.
Mamma smiled but did not press for an answer.
“I must go and order dinner,” she said, rising from her seat rather wearily. Papa had already gone out. “How nice it will be when you are grown up, my Sweet Content, and able to help me with the housekeeping.”
“Oh dear, I hope you will have a housekeeper when you get tired of it,” I said. “You never need count upon me for anything to do with eating and cooking, mamma. I should hate ordering dinners and looking over the butcher’s and grocer’s books. You wouldn’t like to see me a second Anna Gale, I hope?”
“No, indeed, dear; that you never could be. Poor Anna has no brains, and she is so very dowdy—though, perhaps that sounds unkind, for she is a very good girl,” and mamma looked rather shocked at herself.
“But one may be good without beingquiteso dull and ‘dowdy,’” I said, coaxingly.
Mamma stooped to kiss me as she passed my chair. “I trust you will never have to do any uncongenial work, my darling,” she said. “You shall not if I can help it.”
I remained where I was for a minute or two, thinking what I would best like to do that morning. It was a holiday, for my daily governess had got a slight cold and sore throat, and tillquitesatisfied that it was nothing infectious mamma had decided that she had better not come. I was rather sorry than otherwise, for I by no means disliked my lessons, and in dull weather the time was apt to hang heavily. There was no question of my going out for a ride, for, though not actually raining, it looked as if it might do so any moment.
“I may as well do the flowers in the drawing-room,” I said to myself. This was one of the few things I did regularly for mamma, and I am afraid its being regularly done was greatly owing to mylikingit! I sauntered into the conservatory, glancing round to see what flowers I could cut without spoiling the appearance there; then through the conservatory, I sauntered on into the drawing-room. The housemaid, a young girl, whom I was not at all in awe of, was giving the room its morning cleaning. It wasnearlydone, but there remained the last touches—the laying down the hearthrug and removing one or two dust-sheets, and replacing some of the ornaments lying about—without which, however clean a room really is, it looks, of course, messy and disorderly.
“Oh, Eliza, why isn’t the drawing-room done?” I exclaimed. “I want to arrange the flowers, and I can’t have you fussing about while I am doing them. You must leave it for a quarter of an hour.”
The girl looked round regretfully.
“I’d have done in five minutes, Miss Connie,” she said; “I would indeed. I’m no later than usual, but you don’t often come in here so early; and the fire isn’t lighted, and you with your cold,” she added, as if that would decide matters.
“Oh, bother my cold,” I said. “It’s not chilly in here with the door open into the conservatory. Imustdo the Bowers now, or I can’t do them at all, and those in the glasses are very withered.”
Eliza gave in. But as she was turning away, leaving her dustpan and brushes behind her, she stopped short again.
“Oh, Miss Connie!” she exclaimed, “your frock’s all out of the gathers at the left side; and there’s a hole in your elbow.”
“I know,” I said, composedly; “I caught it in the balusters—the skirt I mean; but I didn’t know about the elbow. That’s Prue’s fault, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll change it before luncheon;” and I set to work at my flowers.
It was interesting work; there was a tap where you could draw cold water in the conservatory, and a little table on which I always arranged the flowers. And I had no trouble in getting rid of the withered ones; I threw them in a heap on the floor, and the gardener carried them away. But, all the same, I made myself rather dirty; my hands were smudged with mould, and some of it had got on to my face by the time I was half through my task. And as I had particular ideas about arranging the colours, and so on, I was very deliberate in my movements. Quite half an hour must have passed, and I had not begun to think of calling Eliza back to finish putting the drawing-room in order, when there came a ring at the front-door bell.
“Who can that be?” I thought to myself, though without much interest in the matter. “Some one ringing by mistake for the surgery-bell; people are so stupid.”
For rings at the front-door were comparatively rare, and really confined to the postmen and visitors for mamma, as, besides the surgery-bell, there is a side-door for tradespeople.
I thought no more about it, till suddenly the drawing-room door opened, and I heard Benjamin the “boy”—Benjamin was not even a “buttons,” and he only answered the front-door bell in the morning, while Eliza was busy “with the rooms,” as housemaids say—in colloquy with some person or persons unseen.
“Step this way, please sir,” he was saying with his broadest accent, as I ran forward, torn frock, dirty hands, smudged face and all, to see who it could possibly be.
Oh, dear!HowI wished I had not yielded to my curiosity; how I wished I had run out by the door of the conservatory into the garden; how I wished I had not interrupted Eliza at her work, which would by this time have been neatly accomplished!
For there stood before me a tall, handsome man, younger-looking than papa—very young-looking to be the father of the girl at his side—a girl quite half a head taller than I, with grave, considerate eyes, and a quiet, pale face. She was dressed very simply, but with extreme neatness; all that, I took in, in less than an instant, even while I felt my face growing scarlet, and I seemed conscious of but one intense wish—that the ground would open and swallow me and the drawing-room up! Yes—the room was worse than I—I did not care so much for my own appearance at any time, but the drawing-room— It looked so messy and horrid—socommon, too—“as if we only kept one servant,” I said to myself, “and could not afford to have the fire lighted early.” And to know that it was all my own doing!
A smile flickered over the gentleman’s face; he must have seen how wretchedly awkward and ashamed I looked—my burning cheeks must have told their own tale. But the girl only looked at me gravely, though very gently. I am sure she was as sorry for me as she could be.
“I am afraid,” Captain Whyte said at last—all this time I was blocking up the doorway, remember—“that we are taking a great liberty in disturbing Mrs Percy so very early, but—”
Here the girl interrupted.
“You are busy arranging your flowers,” she said. “Maywe look at the conservatory? Perhaps, papa, Miss Percy can tell us all we want to know?”
And before I knew where I was she had crossed the room, not seeming even toseethat it was in a mess, and we were all three standing in the conservatory, which, of course, though rather untidy, did not look nearly so bad as the drawing-room.
“Howpretty your flowers are!” she went on, and one could see that she meant it. “Papa, do look at those begonias—but—shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” And she gave a nice little kind sort of laugh.
“I know who you are,” I said, as I awkwardly rubbed my hands on my apron to clean them from the mould. “I—I can’t shake hands—but—it’s all my fault that the fire isn’t lighted, and the room so messy. Mamma will be very vexed—she’s always ready as early as this to see any one.”
“We have unfortunately lost the address of the ‘odd man’ that Dr Percy was so good as to give us, and we find ourselves sadly in want of his services already,” said Captain Whyte. “There are one or two other points we should be grateful for a little advice about, too, but these can wait.”
I was beginning to recover my presence of mind a little by this time, though with it, alas! an increased feeling of mortification.
“I will fetch mamma,” I began; but Captain Whyte interrupted: “Please don’t disturb her,” he said.
I felt more and more vexed.
“I believe they think she’s a vulgar, fussy old thing like Agnes Gale’s aunt,” I said to myself; “never fit to be seen till the afternoon.”
“It won’t disturb her at all,” I said. “Mamma is never very busy.”
And just as I spoke I heard her voice from the drawing-room.
“Connie dear,” it said, “where are you, and what’s the matter with the drawing-room?” Oh, how glad I was that she said that! “Benjamin said some one wanted me;” and then catching sight of figures in the conservatory, in mamma came.
They started a little, and no wonder that they were surprised. Thanks to me, they had small reason to expect much in Mrs Percy. Never in all my life did I feel prouder of mamma, or more grateful for her unfailing sweet temper. Just think—many a mother in such a case would have come through the drawing-room scolding for finding it in such a mess; her voice would have been heard sharp and angry before she was seen. And many, even sweet-tempered women, would have been upset and flurried. Not so my dear little mother. She came in looking so sweet, and so neat and pretty—with just a little half-smile of amusement on her face. “What is the matter, Connie dear?” she repeated, and then she caught sight of the strangers.
I flew to her side.
“Mamma dear,” I said—I was not often so gentle, but I was humbled for once—“it is Captain Whyte and Miss Whyte. It is all my fault about the drawing-room. I would not let Eliza finish it, because she was in the way when I was doing the flowers.”
Then mamma glanced at me, and I saw that she had to make some effort not to look vexed at the state I myself was in.
“My dear child!” she exclaimed. But in an instant she was shaking hands with our visitors.
“I am so sorry,” she said.
“Nay,” Captain Whyte replied, “it is our place to apologise. I only ventured to intrude so early—”
But mamma interrupted him.
“Won’t you come into the dining-room?” she said; “it will be more comfortable.”
And so it certainly was, though it was the very thing of all others I would have hated. I had so often mocked at the Gales for never using their drawing-room except on great occasions, and always huddling together in the dining-room. But our dining-room did look nice that morning. It was as neat as could be, and the window was a tiny bit open, and a bright fire burning, and on a small table in the window stood a pretty glass with one or two late roses and a trail of ivy, which mamma had just gathered in the garden outside.
Captain Whyte walked towards the fireplace and stood on the hearthrug, talking to mamma. Miss Whyte drew nearer the window, where I followed her.
“How sweet these late roses are,” she said. “You and Mrs Percy must be very fond of flowers.”
“Yes,” I said, stupidly enough. I could see she thought me shy and awkward, and that made me still more so.
“And what a dear garden you have,” she went on, evidently anxious to set me at my ease, “just as if I had been Agnes Gale,” I thought. “Our garden at the Yew Trees will be very nice, but I do love those walled-in gardens at the back of a house in a street. I always think there’s a sort of surprise about them which makes them still nicer. Do you do much gardening yourself, Miss—no, won’t you tell me your first name?”
“Connie,” I blurted out. A smile lighted up her grave little face.
”‘Connie?’” she repeated. “Oh, yes, I remember. Is that the short for—” but then she stopped abruptly, murmuring something about “Lady Honor;” and for the first timeshelooked a little shy. It made me feel pleased.
“I suppose,” I said, rather disagreeably—“I suppose Lady Honor made fun of my baby name?”
Miss Whyte looked puzzled and surprised.
“Made fun of it,” she said; “of course not. We all thought itsosweet—‘Sweet Content,’ I mean—and what Lady Honor said has made us look forward ever so much to knowing you. I think it was a littlethat,” she went on, smiling again, “that made me beg papa to bring me with him this morning.”
How ashamed I felt! It seemed as if I were to do nothing but be ashamed this morning—and this time with more reason. My ugly suspicions of Lady Honorweresomething to be ashamed of. She had always been a true and kind friend; and just because she did not flatter and spoil me, I could not trust the good old lady.
“Oh,” I began, “I didn’t mean—I thought perhaps—”
Then I stopped short. “My real name is Constantia,” I went on hurriedly, “not Constance. I think Constantia prettier; don’t you?”
“It is more uncommon; it’s like my name. People think mine is Eva or Evelyn, when they hear me called—”
“Evey!” came her father’s voice across the room. We both laughed.
“Wasn’t that funny?” said Evey, as she turned with a “Yes, papa.”
“Wasn’t there something else rather particular, that you had to ask about, if possible, at once?” said Captain Whyte. “Mrs Percy is so kind.”
Evey went towards my mother; a very business-like expression came over her face.
“It’s about the laundress, Mrs Percy. Mother would be so glad to know of one at once. You see there are so many of us, it’s an important consideration. Mother will be here by Tuesday, we hope, and it would be nice for her to find it arranged, and all the things sent for the week. It was one of the reasons she was sorry not to come at once herself—to see about it.”
“I hope it was not illness that delayed Mrs Whyte’s coming,” said mamma, kindly.
“Not her own,” said Captain Whyte, “but one of the boys had caught cold—he’s our delicate one—and very subject to croup. So it was safer to wait, and Evey and I came on with the three other small ones and one big one, leaving Mary and Joss to help their mother with the invalid.”
“I am sure I can find you a nice laundress,” said mamma, on which Evey’s brow cleared.
“And not dear?” the little girl asked—for, after all, shewasa little girl, barely thirteen.
Mamma could not help smiling. Evey was so business-like.
“I think Mrs Whyte would find our laundress reason able,” she said. “Indeed, I don’t think any prices about here are extortionate.”
“That is one of the recommendations of Elmwood to us,” said Captain Whyte, smiling. “But, Evey, we have really intruded on Mrs Percy too long. Thank you so very much for your kind help.”
And he turned to go.
“I will not forget to send Mrs Green, the washerwoman, to speak to you,” said mamma, as she shook hands with Evey.
“Oh yes, thank you—this evening, please, if possible,” the little girl replied.
Chapter Five.A Large Family.After they had gone, neither mamma nor I spoke for a minute or two. I did not quite know what to say, and I was not sorry to have some little time to consider, while mamma quickly wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, which she folded and addressed to Mrs Green. Then she rang for Benjamin, and told him to take the note at once and bring back an answer.“I could have taken it, mamma,” I said. “Mrs Green’s is so near.”It was not often I volunteered any little service of this kind, but somehow I had a wish to be of use to Evey Whyte, too, and I spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as if it was quite a usual thing for me to do.“Thank you, dear,” said mamma. “I don’t think you should go out till we see what the day is going to be. Your cold is not quite gone yet.”“Oh, bother!” I said, crossly. “Mamma, I wish you would not fuss so. I’m sure that little girl looks far more delicate than I, and she’s out. I only wish I had gone outquiteearly, and then they wouldn’t have come in and found everything in such a mess.”“I mind the most their seeing you yourself in such a mess,” said mamma, regretfully. “I don’t think you should do the flowers if it dirties you so.”“Oh, Ineedn’tbe so dirty,” I said. “But I didn’t mind that half as much as the drawing-room;” and then I had to explain how I had interfered with the housemaid.“It can’t be helped,” mamma replied. “They are nice, kind people, I am sure, and the next time they come we must have things ready. Besides, such a large family as they are, they can’t be always in apple-pie order themselves. Connie,” she went on, “did you hear that dear child’s name?”“Of course,” I said, rather sharply. “They call her Evey, but her name’s not ‘Eva,’ nor ‘Evelyn’—she told me so, and she was just going to tell me her real name, when Captain Whyte called to her. I daresay it’s some name not the least like ‘Eva.’”“Oh,” said mamma, in a tone of disappointment, “I had hoped it was.”In my heart I was sorry for her; how gentle and kind she was! And when I went upstairs to wash my hands, I had even more reason to think so, for when I looked in the glass—oh dear!—what an untidy, dirty little girl I saw! There was a smear of mould all down one cheek, some of which I had rubbed on to my nose, and my hair was straggling and my frock torn, as I have said. “I would have scoldedmydaughter dreadfully if I had been mamma,” I said to myself. And I got hot and red all over when I thought of my grand plans and pictures of my first meeting with our new friends.My next meeting with them, though different from this first one, was also quite different from my fancies. We saw the Whytes in church on Sunday—not Mrs Whyte, she was not to come until Monday—but Captain Whyte and Evey and a big boy—quite big, looking almost grown up, and three small ones—dear little fellows in sailor-suits, all in a row, between Evey and the big brother. And they were so good! Evey herself was as neat as could be, and her jacket and hat were a very nice shape, and her hair prettily done. Altogether I began to be afraid the Whytes were not the sort of people I could at all “show off” to—(not that I called it “showing off” to myself). And after church I saw Lady Honor hurry up to them, and Ifeltshe was asking them all to go home with her to luncheon. So I walked on rather gloomily beside mamma.“I don’t think I want to know the Whytes,” I said; “I think they’re very stuck-up.”Mamma stared at me in astonishment.“Connie, dear?” she said, “that simple child! And so plainly dressed, too. She might rather think it of you, I’m afraid.”But she glanced at me so proudly as she said it, that my self-love felt rather smoothed down than otherwise.“I am glad for little Miss Whyte to see that you are notusuallygoing about in a torn frock and with a dirty face,” mamma went on. “Of course, Mrs Whyte could not afford to dress several children as one can dress an only one, though they certainly look very neat. I am sure every one must admire that jacket of yours, Connie; it is really very pretty.”It was a new jacket, dark-brown velvet, very handsomely trimmed with fur; rathertoohandsome altogether, I now think, for a girl of the age I was then. But I had been very well pleased with it and the cap to match, and it had struck me—though really I wasnotvain of my looks, nor much interested in my clothes—as I was dressing, that my fair, long hair looked nice on the rich, dark velvet. Now, however, I gave myself a dissatisfied shake.“I don’t think I like it, mamma. I would much rather have a tweed jacket and frock the same. I think velvet and fur are rather vulgar. And—mamma—I wish you’d cut my hair off—I think Evey Whyte looks so nice with her short, dark, curly hair.” I forget if I have said that Evey’s hair was almost as short as a boy’s.Mamma gasped. “Cut off your hair, Connie!” she said. “My Sweet Content’s great beauty! Cut off your hair, Connie?”I was beginning a rather cross reply, when steps behind us—short, quick, pattering steps—made both mamma and me look round. A little boy in a sailor suit was running after us, and behind him again, at some little distance, we saw Evey, also running.“Oh, please, please stop,” panted the small boy. He was the biggest of the three we had seen in church. “Evey’s got something to say to you, Mrs Percy.”He tugged off his cap as he spoke, and stood smiling up at us—his round, rosy face all in a glow. He was a dear, sunburnt little fellow, not the least shy, and yet not a bit forward.“I am so sorry we did not hear you coming before,” said mamma, kindly. “You have run so far. I hope you won’t get cold from being so overheated,” she added, anxiously.“Oh no, thank you. I never catch cold. It’s only Addie that catches cold,” the boy replied. He evidently thought we must know who Addie was, and all about him or her. And by this time Evey’s voice was heard near at hand.“How do you do, Mrs Percy?” she said. “I hope you didn’t mind Charley running after you? It was Lady Honor sent him, and I’ve come to explain. She wants to know if you will let Connie—mayn’t I say ‘Connie’?—come to luncheon at her house with all of us? We’reallgoing—isn’t it kind?—Charley and Douglas and Tot and Papa and Lancey, too. Oh, do let Connie come. I’m the only girl, and I do feel so funny without Mary.”She was so bright and eager it would have been difficult to refuse. My contradictory humour melted away before her heartiness, and I smiled back in answer to the unspoken inquiry in mamma’s face.“Certainly, my dear; I shall be delighted for Connie to go. Please thank Lady Honor very much. Shall I send for her in the afternoon?”“Oh, please, we can bring her home. We aren’t going to church, because we’re not very settled yet, and the servants couldn’t go this morning, so we shall be going home by ourselves and passing your house before four o’clock. Connie won’t spoil her things,” she added considerately, glancing at my smart attire, “for we shan’t be romping, as it is Sunday.”“Oh, I’m not afraid. Connie is not a great frock-tearer,” said mamma, smiling, though she spoke quickly. I think she was afraid that my appearance the other day was still in Evey’s memory. “Then good-bye, Connie, till four o’clock. And good-bye, Master Charley, and many thanks. Thank you, too, Miss Whyte, very much.”Then we separated. Mamma continuing her way home, quite happy in my happiness, while I retraced my steps with Evey and her brother. Evey glanced over her shoulder at mamma.“You don’t mind Mrs Percy going home alone, I hope?” she said, half anxiously.It had never struck me that there was anything to mind!“Oh, of course not,” I said.Evey looked a little sorry, but walked on.“I didn’t mean—” she began. “At least, I only meant—” then her face cleared. She evidently thought she had hit upon an explanation of my indifference. “I see,” she said; “it must be quite different when one is an only child. Your mothermustbe alone, sometimes; it isn’t like ours. You see there are such a lot of us; she would feel quite miserable if there weren’t some of us with her. At least, she says so,” and Evey laughed merrily.“Perhaps,” I said, half mischievously, “she says it alittleout of politeness. I think grown-up people all do like to be alonesometimes.”We both laughed at this, and then the remains of shyness that had hung about seemed quite to disappear. But I did not forget Evey’s gentle anxiety about mamma.We soon came up to the others, who were all walking on slowly together—such a party they looked! Captain Whyte and old Mr Bickersteth in front, then Lady Honor and the big boy, Lancey, and the two smaller sailor-suits, Tot and Douglas, as Evey had called them, now joined by Charley, bringing up the rear.“What a lot of you there must be when you are all together,” I exclaimed, not very politely, I am afraid, to Evey. She smiled, as if she thought it rather a compliment.“Yes,” she said—we were walking rather more slowly now to get back our breath, as Lady Honor had nodded back to us to show it was all right—“yes, eight are a good many, and somehow, so many being boys, makes it seem even more—in the house above all. Boys can’t help being noisy, you see.”She said it in such an old-fashioned way that I couldn’t help smiling.“I don’t know much about boys,” I said. “I think I’d rather have sisters.”“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” replied Evey quickly. “You don’tknowhow nice brothers are. When you see Joss—” but here she had to break off. Lady Honor had stepped back a pace or two to speak to us. Her face looked very kind and pleased, and there was nothing the least “mocking,” as I called it to myself, in her tone.“That’s right, Connie, my dear,” she said, as she shook hands with me. “Very good of your dear mother to let you come. Now, is it your place or mine, Evey, to introduce all these brothers of yours to Miss Percy, or shall we let things settle themselves? Youwilllearn them all in time, Connie, though it may seem at first as if you never would.”In Evey’s place I should probably have been rather offended at this, but, on the contrary, both she and her brothers seemed to think the old lady’s joke very amusing.“I’ll introduce them by telling Connie all their names and ages, thank you, Lady Honor,” she answered brightly. “Come on, Connie; it will take some time, I warn you.” We ran on a little way together, Lady Honor looking quite pleased. It was easy to see that she really wanted Evey and me to be friends, and I felt gratified at this.“It will be nice for Evey sometimes to get out of all that crowd of boys,” I thought to myself. “I daresay Lady Honor thinks being with me may make her quiet and refined,” though, truth to tell, for all her simplicity, I had seen no touch of anything the least rough or hoydenish in my new friend.“Lady Honor is always so funny, isn’t she?” was Evey’s first remark, as soon as we were out of hearing. “Papa says it’s delightful to see an old person so fresh and merry. But she has such a kind heart: that keeps people young more than anything,” she added, in her wise way.“Yes,” I agreed, “she is very kind; but sometimes she’s rather”—“rather sharp,” I was going to say, but something in Evey’s eyes made me hesitate—“I mean I sometimes am a very little frightened of her.”“You needn’t be,” said Evey, composedly. “If you had ever stayed in the house with her for weeks together as we do at my uncle’s at Christmas, you would see that she’s justquitegood.”I could not say anything more after that, and Evey evidently wanted to change the subject.“Shall I tell youus, now?” she began again, laughingly. “That big Lancey is the eldest of us—he’s sixteen, and, of course, his name’s Lancelot. Then comes Joss—he’s Jocelyn—those two names and mine are very—what’s the word—not ‘fanciful,’ but something like that.”“Fantastic,” I suggested.“Yes, that’s it. How clever of you to know!” she said, admiringly. “At least they sound so, though really the boys’ names are both family ones.”“But yours,” I interrupted, “isn’t a very fanciful one—‘Eva’ or ‘Evelyn’—oh, no; you said it wasn’t one of these. I forgot.”“It’s Yvonne,” said Evey. “It’s a French name—a very old French name. A cousin of mother’s was called Yvonne first, and I’m named after her. Then, after these three names, we get quite sensible. Next to me is Mary, ‘plain Mary’ we call her in fun, because she’s the prettiest of us! And then come Addie and Charley and Douglas and Tot. Addie’s the delicate one, and Charley and the two little ones you’ve seen.”“What a lot of boys!” I said, my breath nearly taken away.“Yes,” said Evey, laughing; “and fancy, now they’ll all be living at home. Won’t it be nice? Till now, you know, Lancey and Joss have been at school away, but now they’ll all be at home; at least till Lancey goes to India,” and for the first time Evey sighed a little at this doleful prospect.“Dear me,” I thought to myself, “surely they’ll be glad to get rid of a few of them. I should think their mother would, any way.”But, as if she answered my thought, Evey went on: “Mother can’t bear to think of Lancey going; nor Joss either, and I suppose he’ll have to go, too. We have an uncle there who is a tea-planter; they’re going to him. Joss would give anything not to—he wants to go to college, but of course it’simpossible, so we never speak about it.”“And doesn’t Lancey mind?” I said.“Not so much, except just for leaving us. But it’s no good thinking of things long before they come. We’ve settled that we’re going to be as happy as anything at the Yew Trees for two years at least. Oh, how nice it is, andhowkind your father has been about putting it in order. We’ve never had a house at all like it before; our house at Southsea was so—just like other houses you know.”I felt more on my own ground, now.“I am so pleased you like the Yew Trees,” I said, amiably. “It is a nice old house, and itmightbe made quite perfect. If we ever went to live in it ourselves, I daresay we should change it a good deal—but I don’t think we ever shall. When papa retires, and I hope he will before I’m grown up, mamma and I want to travel a good deal, and perhaps to live in London. One gets tired of a little country-place.”Yvonne looked at me quite simply.“Do you think so?” she said. “I feel as if we should never get tired of Elmwood. And the people all seem so kind. London seems so very big, but then, of course, I haven’t beenverymuch there.”My conscience pricked me.“Well, I haven’t, either,” I said; “but still—” I had really only been there once, and for one week!“We always stay with mother’s godmother for a month every summer in London, Mary and I, and mother comes for the last fortnight. Mother’s godmother is very kind, and we have very good music lessons—she gives us them—she is Lady Honor’s sister. But wearealways so glad to come home again.”I could not understand her, but I thought it wiser to say no more about London and its attractions. Nor was I sorry when Evey suddenly changed the conversation by exclaiming:“Oh, Connie, I havesowanted to thank you about the rose paper. Lady Honor told us. You can’t think how lovely it looks—you must come and see. Father says I may have pink ribbons to tie up the curtains, andperhapspink on the dressing-table—we shall fix when mother comes. I think we could trim the table ourselves. Perhaps you could help us, Connie? Are you clever at things like that?”“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I ever tried. The servants always do up the dressing-tables, I suppose.”“Oh, yes, of course, you have more servants, and they haven’t so much to do as ours. But you know, Connie, we’re really very poor indeed, so wehaveto do things ourselves, especially if we want any extra things—pretty things. I daresay you can’t understand how careful we have to be. But we’re very happy all the same.”“I suppose people get accustomed to things,” I said. “I don’t think I should like to be poor at all. You see I’ve always had everything I wanted. But I should like very much to help you if ever I could.”I meant to be gracious, I am afraid I was only patronising. Vague thoughts of presents to Evey and the others out of my lavish pocket-money were in my mind; fortunately, I did not express them, and Evey, in the dignity of her simplicity, took my offer of “help” quite differently.“I think very likely you could give me some ideas about the dressing-table,” she said consideringly. “I’m sure you have good taste—because of that lovely paper.”And just then we found ourselves at Mr Bickersteth’s gate.
After they had gone, neither mamma nor I spoke for a minute or two. I did not quite know what to say, and I was not sorry to have some little time to consider, while mamma quickly wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, which she folded and addressed to Mrs Green. Then she rang for Benjamin, and told him to take the note at once and bring back an answer.
“I could have taken it, mamma,” I said. “Mrs Green’s is so near.”
It was not often I volunteered any little service of this kind, but somehow I had a wish to be of use to Evey Whyte, too, and I spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as if it was quite a usual thing for me to do.
“Thank you, dear,” said mamma. “I don’t think you should go out till we see what the day is going to be. Your cold is not quite gone yet.”
“Oh, bother!” I said, crossly. “Mamma, I wish you would not fuss so. I’m sure that little girl looks far more delicate than I, and she’s out. I only wish I had gone outquiteearly, and then they wouldn’t have come in and found everything in such a mess.”
“I mind the most their seeing you yourself in such a mess,” said mamma, regretfully. “I don’t think you should do the flowers if it dirties you so.”
“Oh, Ineedn’tbe so dirty,” I said. “But I didn’t mind that half as much as the drawing-room;” and then I had to explain how I had interfered with the housemaid.
“It can’t be helped,” mamma replied. “They are nice, kind people, I am sure, and the next time they come we must have things ready. Besides, such a large family as they are, they can’t be always in apple-pie order themselves. Connie,” she went on, “did you hear that dear child’s name?”
“Of course,” I said, rather sharply. “They call her Evey, but her name’s not ‘Eva,’ nor ‘Evelyn’—she told me so, and she was just going to tell me her real name, when Captain Whyte called to her. I daresay it’s some name not the least like ‘Eva.’”
“Oh,” said mamma, in a tone of disappointment, “I had hoped it was.”
In my heart I was sorry for her; how gentle and kind she was! And when I went upstairs to wash my hands, I had even more reason to think so, for when I looked in the glass—oh dear!—what an untidy, dirty little girl I saw! There was a smear of mould all down one cheek, some of which I had rubbed on to my nose, and my hair was straggling and my frock torn, as I have said. “I would have scoldedmydaughter dreadfully if I had been mamma,” I said to myself. And I got hot and red all over when I thought of my grand plans and pictures of my first meeting with our new friends.
My next meeting with them, though different from this first one, was also quite different from my fancies. We saw the Whytes in church on Sunday—not Mrs Whyte, she was not to come until Monday—but Captain Whyte and Evey and a big boy—quite big, looking almost grown up, and three small ones—dear little fellows in sailor-suits, all in a row, between Evey and the big brother. And they were so good! Evey herself was as neat as could be, and her jacket and hat were a very nice shape, and her hair prettily done. Altogether I began to be afraid the Whytes were not the sort of people I could at all “show off” to—(not that I called it “showing off” to myself). And after church I saw Lady Honor hurry up to them, and Ifeltshe was asking them all to go home with her to luncheon. So I walked on rather gloomily beside mamma.
“I don’t think I want to know the Whytes,” I said; “I think they’re very stuck-up.”
Mamma stared at me in astonishment.
“Connie, dear?” she said, “that simple child! And so plainly dressed, too. She might rather think it of you, I’m afraid.”
But she glanced at me so proudly as she said it, that my self-love felt rather smoothed down than otherwise.
“I am glad for little Miss Whyte to see that you are notusuallygoing about in a torn frock and with a dirty face,” mamma went on. “Of course, Mrs Whyte could not afford to dress several children as one can dress an only one, though they certainly look very neat. I am sure every one must admire that jacket of yours, Connie; it is really very pretty.”
It was a new jacket, dark-brown velvet, very handsomely trimmed with fur; rathertoohandsome altogether, I now think, for a girl of the age I was then. But I had been very well pleased with it and the cap to match, and it had struck me—though really I wasnotvain of my looks, nor much interested in my clothes—as I was dressing, that my fair, long hair looked nice on the rich, dark velvet. Now, however, I gave myself a dissatisfied shake.
“I don’t think I like it, mamma. I would much rather have a tweed jacket and frock the same. I think velvet and fur are rather vulgar. And—mamma—I wish you’d cut my hair off—I think Evey Whyte looks so nice with her short, dark, curly hair.” I forget if I have said that Evey’s hair was almost as short as a boy’s.
Mamma gasped. “Cut off your hair, Connie!” she said. “My Sweet Content’s great beauty! Cut off your hair, Connie?”
I was beginning a rather cross reply, when steps behind us—short, quick, pattering steps—made both mamma and me look round. A little boy in a sailor suit was running after us, and behind him again, at some little distance, we saw Evey, also running.
“Oh, please, please stop,” panted the small boy. He was the biggest of the three we had seen in church. “Evey’s got something to say to you, Mrs Percy.”
He tugged off his cap as he spoke, and stood smiling up at us—his round, rosy face all in a glow. He was a dear, sunburnt little fellow, not the least shy, and yet not a bit forward.
“I am so sorry we did not hear you coming before,” said mamma, kindly. “You have run so far. I hope you won’t get cold from being so overheated,” she added, anxiously.
“Oh no, thank you. I never catch cold. It’s only Addie that catches cold,” the boy replied. He evidently thought we must know who Addie was, and all about him or her. And by this time Evey’s voice was heard near at hand.
“How do you do, Mrs Percy?” she said. “I hope you didn’t mind Charley running after you? It was Lady Honor sent him, and I’ve come to explain. She wants to know if you will let Connie—mayn’t I say ‘Connie’?—come to luncheon at her house with all of us? We’reallgoing—isn’t it kind?—Charley and Douglas and Tot and Papa and Lancey, too. Oh, do let Connie come. I’m the only girl, and I do feel so funny without Mary.”
She was so bright and eager it would have been difficult to refuse. My contradictory humour melted away before her heartiness, and I smiled back in answer to the unspoken inquiry in mamma’s face.
“Certainly, my dear; I shall be delighted for Connie to go. Please thank Lady Honor very much. Shall I send for her in the afternoon?”
“Oh, please, we can bring her home. We aren’t going to church, because we’re not very settled yet, and the servants couldn’t go this morning, so we shall be going home by ourselves and passing your house before four o’clock. Connie won’t spoil her things,” she added considerately, glancing at my smart attire, “for we shan’t be romping, as it is Sunday.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid. Connie is not a great frock-tearer,” said mamma, smiling, though she spoke quickly. I think she was afraid that my appearance the other day was still in Evey’s memory. “Then good-bye, Connie, till four o’clock. And good-bye, Master Charley, and many thanks. Thank you, too, Miss Whyte, very much.”
Then we separated. Mamma continuing her way home, quite happy in my happiness, while I retraced my steps with Evey and her brother. Evey glanced over her shoulder at mamma.
“You don’t mind Mrs Percy going home alone, I hope?” she said, half anxiously.
It had never struck me that there was anything to mind!
“Oh, of course not,” I said.
Evey looked a little sorry, but walked on.
“I didn’t mean—” she began. “At least, I only meant—” then her face cleared. She evidently thought she had hit upon an explanation of my indifference. “I see,” she said; “it must be quite different when one is an only child. Your mothermustbe alone, sometimes; it isn’t like ours. You see there are such a lot of us; she would feel quite miserable if there weren’t some of us with her. At least, she says so,” and Evey laughed merrily.
“Perhaps,” I said, half mischievously, “she says it alittleout of politeness. I think grown-up people all do like to be alonesometimes.”
We both laughed at this, and then the remains of shyness that had hung about seemed quite to disappear. But I did not forget Evey’s gentle anxiety about mamma.
We soon came up to the others, who were all walking on slowly together—such a party they looked! Captain Whyte and old Mr Bickersteth in front, then Lady Honor and the big boy, Lancey, and the two smaller sailor-suits, Tot and Douglas, as Evey had called them, now joined by Charley, bringing up the rear.
“What a lot of you there must be when you are all together,” I exclaimed, not very politely, I am afraid, to Evey. She smiled, as if she thought it rather a compliment.
“Yes,” she said—we were walking rather more slowly now to get back our breath, as Lady Honor had nodded back to us to show it was all right—“yes, eight are a good many, and somehow, so many being boys, makes it seem even more—in the house above all. Boys can’t help being noisy, you see.”
She said it in such an old-fashioned way that I couldn’t help smiling.
“I don’t know much about boys,” I said. “I think I’d rather have sisters.”
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” replied Evey quickly. “You don’tknowhow nice brothers are. When you see Joss—” but here she had to break off. Lady Honor had stepped back a pace or two to speak to us. Her face looked very kind and pleased, and there was nothing the least “mocking,” as I called it to myself, in her tone.
“That’s right, Connie, my dear,” she said, as she shook hands with me. “Very good of your dear mother to let you come. Now, is it your place or mine, Evey, to introduce all these brothers of yours to Miss Percy, or shall we let things settle themselves? Youwilllearn them all in time, Connie, though it may seem at first as if you never would.”
In Evey’s place I should probably have been rather offended at this, but, on the contrary, both she and her brothers seemed to think the old lady’s joke very amusing.
“I’ll introduce them by telling Connie all their names and ages, thank you, Lady Honor,” she answered brightly. “Come on, Connie; it will take some time, I warn you.” We ran on a little way together, Lady Honor looking quite pleased. It was easy to see that she really wanted Evey and me to be friends, and I felt gratified at this.
“It will be nice for Evey sometimes to get out of all that crowd of boys,” I thought to myself. “I daresay Lady Honor thinks being with me may make her quiet and refined,” though, truth to tell, for all her simplicity, I had seen no touch of anything the least rough or hoydenish in my new friend.
“Lady Honor is always so funny, isn’t she?” was Evey’s first remark, as soon as we were out of hearing. “Papa says it’s delightful to see an old person so fresh and merry. But she has such a kind heart: that keeps people young more than anything,” she added, in her wise way.
“Yes,” I agreed, “she is very kind; but sometimes she’s rather”—“rather sharp,” I was going to say, but something in Evey’s eyes made me hesitate—“I mean I sometimes am a very little frightened of her.”
“You needn’t be,” said Evey, composedly. “If you had ever stayed in the house with her for weeks together as we do at my uncle’s at Christmas, you would see that she’s justquitegood.”
I could not say anything more after that, and Evey evidently wanted to change the subject.
“Shall I tell youus, now?” she began again, laughingly. “That big Lancey is the eldest of us—he’s sixteen, and, of course, his name’s Lancelot. Then comes Joss—he’s Jocelyn—those two names and mine are very—what’s the word—not ‘fanciful,’ but something like that.”
“Fantastic,” I suggested.
“Yes, that’s it. How clever of you to know!” she said, admiringly. “At least they sound so, though really the boys’ names are both family ones.”
“But yours,” I interrupted, “isn’t a very fanciful one—‘Eva’ or ‘Evelyn’—oh, no; you said it wasn’t one of these. I forgot.”
“It’s Yvonne,” said Evey. “It’s a French name—a very old French name. A cousin of mother’s was called Yvonne first, and I’m named after her. Then, after these three names, we get quite sensible. Next to me is Mary, ‘plain Mary’ we call her in fun, because she’s the prettiest of us! And then come Addie and Charley and Douglas and Tot. Addie’s the delicate one, and Charley and the two little ones you’ve seen.”
“What a lot of boys!” I said, my breath nearly taken away.
“Yes,” said Evey, laughing; “and fancy, now they’ll all be living at home. Won’t it be nice? Till now, you know, Lancey and Joss have been at school away, but now they’ll all be at home; at least till Lancey goes to India,” and for the first time Evey sighed a little at this doleful prospect.
“Dear me,” I thought to myself, “surely they’ll be glad to get rid of a few of them. I should think their mother would, any way.”
But, as if she answered my thought, Evey went on: “Mother can’t bear to think of Lancey going; nor Joss either, and I suppose he’ll have to go, too. We have an uncle there who is a tea-planter; they’re going to him. Joss would give anything not to—he wants to go to college, but of course it’simpossible, so we never speak about it.”
“And doesn’t Lancey mind?” I said.
“Not so much, except just for leaving us. But it’s no good thinking of things long before they come. We’ve settled that we’re going to be as happy as anything at the Yew Trees for two years at least. Oh, how nice it is, andhowkind your father has been about putting it in order. We’ve never had a house at all like it before; our house at Southsea was so—just like other houses you know.”
I felt more on my own ground, now.
“I am so pleased you like the Yew Trees,” I said, amiably. “It is a nice old house, and itmightbe made quite perfect. If we ever went to live in it ourselves, I daresay we should change it a good deal—but I don’t think we ever shall. When papa retires, and I hope he will before I’m grown up, mamma and I want to travel a good deal, and perhaps to live in London. One gets tired of a little country-place.”
Yvonne looked at me quite simply.
“Do you think so?” she said. “I feel as if we should never get tired of Elmwood. And the people all seem so kind. London seems so very big, but then, of course, I haven’t beenverymuch there.”
My conscience pricked me.
“Well, I haven’t, either,” I said; “but still—” I had really only been there once, and for one week!
“We always stay with mother’s godmother for a month every summer in London, Mary and I, and mother comes for the last fortnight. Mother’s godmother is very kind, and we have very good music lessons—she gives us them—she is Lady Honor’s sister. But wearealways so glad to come home again.”
I could not understand her, but I thought it wiser to say no more about London and its attractions. Nor was I sorry when Evey suddenly changed the conversation by exclaiming:
“Oh, Connie, I havesowanted to thank you about the rose paper. Lady Honor told us. You can’t think how lovely it looks—you must come and see. Father says I may have pink ribbons to tie up the curtains, andperhapspink on the dressing-table—we shall fix when mother comes. I think we could trim the table ourselves. Perhaps you could help us, Connie? Are you clever at things like that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I ever tried. The servants always do up the dressing-tables, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, of course, you have more servants, and they haven’t so much to do as ours. But you know, Connie, we’re really very poor indeed, so wehaveto do things ourselves, especially if we want any extra things—pretty things. I daresay you can’t understand how careful we have to be. But we’re very happy all the same.”
“I suppose people get accustomed to things,” I said. “I don’t think I should like to be poor at all. You see I’ve always had everything I wanted. But I should like very much to help you if ever I could.”
I meant to be gracious, I am afraid I was only patronising. Vague thoughts of presents to Evey and the others out of my lavish pocket-money were in my mind; fortunately, I did not express them, and Evey, in the dignity of her simplicity, took my offer of “help” quite differently.
“I think very likely you could give me some ideas about the dressing-table,” she said consideringly. “I’m sure you have good taste—because of that lovely paper.”
And just then we found ourselves at Mr Bickersteth’s gate.
Chapter Six.New Ideas.That luncheon and afternoon, or part of an afternoon, at Lady Honor’s were very nice, and yet rather strange to me. I had so seldom been among several young people that I scarcely felt at home; and the Whytes in themselves were unlike any children I had ever known. They were not the least shy, far less so, really, than I was. I remember getting very hot and red when I knocked over a glass of water, and Evey, who was sitting next me, made me feel still worse by her open and outspoken fears that I would spoil my frock. She thought it was that that I was so distressed about.“I don’t care a bit about my frock,” I said to her quite crossly. “If it is spoilt, I can get another. It is only that I hate to look so awkward.”“Everybody does awkward things sometimes. If you don’t mind about your frock, I don’t see that a little spilt water matters much,” said Evey, looking at me in her straightforward way. “Lady Honor isn’t vexed, are you, Lady Honor?” she said loud out, turning to the old lady.“Of course not, there’s no harm done. Don’t look at me as if I were Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, my dear child,” she said in her funny way, meaning to be kind to me, of course; and Evey meant to be kind too, but I suppose it was that I didn’t know Lady Honor as well as they did; and still more, I daresay, it was from my habit of thinking about myself so much, and fancying other people were noticing me, when very likely they weren’t, that I felt so horrid.I forgot about it, however, after luncheon, when we all went out into the garden. Yvonne was so kind. She felt a little, I think, as if I were her visitor, and she just did everything she possibly could to make me enjoy myself; and the boys were all very nice, too. I could not have believed that boys could be so nice, for I had always had rather a horror of them. I said so to Evey; she seemed pleased at my liking her brothers, but amused, too, at my ideas about boys.“You must see us when we are all together,” she said. “Fancy, besides Mary, two more boys! Though Addie is scarcely like a boy, he’s the delicate one, you know. But he issobrave. I think it’s almost more brave ofhimto be brave than if he were strong and big, don’t you?”“Yes,” I said. “It’s what is called moral courage, isn’t it?”“It’s that, and the other too,” Evey replied. “Or perhaps he’s able to make himself brave the other way by having moral courage. I suppose it’s that; anyway I doloveAddie. Oh, Connie, you wouldn’t think that way about boys if you had brothers.”“Not if they were like yours,” I said; “but I have seen some brothers that weren’t at all nice to their sisters.”“Then I’m sure it was the sisters’ fault; anyway, a good deal their fault,” Evey returned promptly. “I’m just the opposite of you, for, do you know, I have often longed to be a boy, and so has Mary. If we had all been boys, it would have been easier for father and mother. I almost think they’d have gone to the Colonies.”“Howhorrible,” I said. “I am sure you should be glad you and Mary aren’t boys, just to have stopped that.”But Yvonne was not to be convinced.“No,” she said. “I think it would be delightful—all going together, you know; and perhaps we may, some day, after all. It would be much better than staying in England, and the boys by themselves all over the world, and father and mother looking anxious; and you know,” she added, “even Mary and Imightn’tbe able to stay at home. We, might have to work somehow, too.”“Do you mean to be governesses?” I asked, in a very appalled tone of voice. But Evey’s reply appalled me still more.“Perhaps, or, if not governesses, teachers of some kind, if we were good at teaching. But there are lots of other things for girls now. Father often talks about them. We might have some sort of business. Something like a big upholsterer’s, perhaps. That would be nice, for the boys might be in it too. And Joss could design things, heisso clever; and Lancey could keep the books. Lancey’s very good at figures. It would be almost as nice as going to the Colonies.”I stared at her.“Evey,” I said, “you are joking.”But a glance at her face showed me she was quite in earnest.“No, indeed,” she said. “If people are poor they must work. Indeed, rich people often work hard too, though in a different way. What’s there to be ashamed of?”“But ashop,” I said, with extreme disgust— “That’s not for ladies and gentlemen.”“I don’t see why, if they’re poor and could get on that way. Of course, if the boys and we two were all together in it, you may be sure Mary and I would be given the nicest part of the work,” she said, smiling. “And if we could earn enough to make father and motherquitecomfortable when they get old, really not to have any bother at all and not to need to think about money, why, whatwouldwe care what we did? We’d be—” here Evey stopped to find a sufficiently strong expression—“we’d bechimney-sweeps.”This was rather a relief to my feelings. “She knows they couldn’t be chimney-sweeps,” I thought to myself, “so very likely she’s joking about a shop too.”And I was still more satisfied when, a moment or two after, Yvonne added: “Of course, it’s all castles in the air. I daresay,” and she sighed, “we shall never be able to do anything much, any of us—not even for father and mother.Theysay the best thing we can all do for them is each to be good in his or her own way. But one can’t help sometimes wishing to do something big—oh, what heaps of nice things one could do for people if one were rich! We often plan them together—for father and mother first, you know.”“Yes, I suppose it would be nice to be rich,” I replied; “but I’ve never thought much about it,”—“Still, I don’t think going to the Colonies or keeping a shop would be ‘something big,’” I was on the point of saying, when Evey interrupted me.“No,” she said earnestly; “it’s not being rich, it’s the things one would do. There’s all the difference;” and perhaps it was as well I had not finished my sentence.This conversation was not the part of the afternoon I enjoyed the most, nor did it take very long. I have told it because it helps to show Yvonne Whyte’s way of looking at things, and the difference between her and me. I enjoyed much more talking about Evey’s room, and how it was to be dressed up in pink and white, and also the making plans for meeting often, and discussing the lawn-tennis ground at the Yew Trees with Lancey. It was not a very good one and had been neglected, but Captain Whyte and Lancey had great ideas about it, and Captain Whyte thanked me very nicely, though he smiled a little, when I said rather pompously that I was sure they could have our garden-roller and the under-gardener to help, when the time came for attending to it.Just before it was time to go, Lady Honor called us all in to sing a hymn. It was to please Mr Bickersteth, who was too feeble to go to church again. It was a long time since he had heard his young friends’ voices, he said, looking at Yvonne and her brother, and their hymn should be his vespers to-day. And when I heard them I was not surprised at his wanting them to sing. Their voices weresonice, and, to my surprise, Evey played the accompaniment on Mr Bickersteth’s chamber organ quite beautifully.I was very fond of music, so I really enjoyed it, and for once forgot that I was not the centre of it all.“Hownice!” I exclaimed heartily, when it was over. And Lady Honor smiled at me when I said this, in her very kindest way; for no one who does not know Lady Honor pretty well can fancy how kind her smilessometimesare. “How have you learnt to play the organ so beautifully? It takes a lot of time, doesn’t it?” I said to Evey.“Yes,” said Lady Honor, replying for her. “But I have always found in my life, my dear Connie, that it is the people who have the most to do who do the most. Think that over—you’ll find it’s not an Irish bull, though it sounds like one.”I was not so pleased at this speech.“She is thinking that I don’t do much, I can see,” I began fancying. But Evey broke in upon my disagreeable thoughts.“I don’t think it’s any credit to me that I can play the organ a little, truly,” she said. “I’ve had such good lessons every year in London, where we never really have anything to do except things like that. And at Southsea I was always allowed to practise on the church organ. We have a harmonium of our own,” she went on to me. “It’s very nice, but of course not as nice as this dear organ,” and she touched the keys lovingly. Mr Bickersteth’s organ was a very nice one indeed.And, a few minutes after that, we went home. The Whytes, all six of them, escorted me all the way, as Lady Honor’s is not far from our house, and I showed them the short cut across the fields to the Yew Trees through a turnstile close to us. It was very kind of them all the same, for they had to hurry a good deal after that to get home in time to send the servants to church.I found mamma by herself in the study. We don’t use the drawing-room on Sunday.“Well, darling?” she said. I knew that meant a tender inquiry as to how I had enjoyed myself, but a rather contradictory mood had come over me.“It was very nice,” I said. “But, they’re not a bit like what I thought they would be, mamma. You know—when we heard they were so poor—”“But theyarepoor,” she replied, “and I’m sure they are not—they would not set themselves up in any disagreeable way. They seem so well-bred.”“Ye-es,” I said. “They’re—oh I think they are just everything they should be, whether they’re poor or not. They’remuchcleverer than me, mamma. They’ve learnt so many things I haven’t, and seen so much more—they go to Londoneveryyear—and—”My depressed, discontented tone must have hurt and troubled mamma, for she answered indignantly:“It is very wrong and unkind of them—of that girl,” she said, “to boast and show off to you, darling. You are too sensitive. I am quite sure they are not cleverer than my Connie, and as for looks— You shall not see any more of them, dear. It would be quite new indeed for my Sweet Content to be made discontented. I am disappointed in Evey Whyte. I was sure she was so nice.”There was a hot, red spot on each of poor mamma’s cheeks; this state of things was not at all what I had bargained for. I had only wanted to work off my own dissatisfaction, which was partly jealousy, but partly too, I hope, a less unworthy feeling, by grumbling and by trying to put blame on those who had had the care of me. I was punished.“Oh no, no, mamma dear,” I said eagerly. “Evey’snotlike that. She’s not the leastatomboasting; it was more—things I noticed and asked about, myself. It’s not only that she’s clever—you should hear how she can play the organ; but I daresay you’d let me learn it too, if I liked—it’s—it’s partly, mamma, that I can feel she’s so much more useful, and—and unselfish than I am. I can see it quite well; she does such a lot to help her mother and them all.”And, greatly to mamma’s surprise and distress, I leaned my head down on her lap and burst into tears.How she consoled and petted me! How she assured me I waseverythingto her; the very light of her eyes; her comfort, her blessing—that she could not wish me any different from what I was, and ever so much more in the same strain. It was very sweet, and to a certain extent soothing, but in the end it only deepened the impression. For it made me feel how utterly unselfish and self-forgetting mamma was, above all wherever I was concerned, and it made me feel, too, how little I deserved such devotion. Then the thought of her cruel trials came over me as it had never done before—how often I had grudged my sympathy to her? Even if she were almost weakly and foolishly indulgent to me, she was scarcely to be blamed. Instead of taking advantage of it and treating her fondness with something very like contempt, as I had often done, would not the right way be to try my best to be more worthy of it? I don’t know what put the thought into my head just then. I had a queer feeling that if I had been talking it all over with Yvonne, it was whatshewould have said, for it had struck me once or twice that in her way of speaking to and of mamma there had been a special sort of tenderness, almost reverence, as if she had heard her sad story, and I remembered the anxious, half-reproachful way she had glanced at me when I seemed so indifferent about mamma’s walking home alone. Yes; I felt and knew that the sudden thought was one Evey would have approved of, and I grew calmer. I wiped my eyes and kissed mamma as I had seldom done before: a new kind of strength seemed to come into me, and I resolved that from that moment I would care for her in quite a new way.“Mamma dear,” I whispered, “you are too good to me. But I will try to be better. Only will you please let me be more useful to you? I am sure,” I added, and if this was averylittle cunning, I don’t think it was in a naughty way—“I am sure I should be far happier if I felt I were of use.”And of course mamma promised. What would she not have promised me! I think she told over this conversation to papa, and if any lingering feeling of indignation against Evey had still been in her mind, I am sure what he said must have removed it. For the next morning they were both full of plans for my being a great deal with the Whytes, and of little kindnesses we might do to them, without, as papa said, seeming officious or—he hesitated for a word.“Patronising,” mamma suggested. He smiled at this.“My dear,” he said, “thatwe could not possibly be accused of towards the Whytes. You scarcely realise—”But there he stopped. I felt a little ashamed when I recalled one or two of my speeches to Evey.“Papa has always suchperfectlynice feelings,” I thought; and as I glanced at his kind, quiet face I said to myself that I might indeed be proud of him. And when he kissed me that morning before he went out, I felt something in his kiss that seemed to say he understood me and my new resolutions, better even than mamma did.
That luncheon and afternoon, or part of an afternoon, at Lady Honor’s were very nice, and yet rather strange to me. I had so seldom been among several young people that I scarcely felt at home; and the Whytes in themselves were unlike any children I had ever known. They were not the least shy, far less so, really, than I was. I remember getting very hot and red when I knocked over a glass of water, and Evey, who was sitting next me, made me feel still worse by her open and outspoken fears that I would spoil my frock. She thought it was that that I was so distressed about.
“I don’t care a bit about my frock,” I said to her quite crossly. “If it is spoilt, I can get another. It is only that I hate to look so awkward.”
“Everybody does awkward things sometimes. If you don’t mind about your frock, I don’t see that a little spilt water matters much,” said Evey, looking at me in her straightforward way. “Lady Honor isn’t vexed, are you, Lady Honor?” she said loud out, turning to the old lady.
“Of course not, there’s no harm done. Don’t look at me as if I were Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, my dear child,” she said in her funny way, meaning to be kind to me, of course; and Evey meant to be kind too, but I suppose it was that I didn’t know Lady Honor as well as they did; and still more, I daresay, it was from my habit of thinking about myself so much, and fancying other people were noticing me, when very likely they weren’t, that I felt so horrid.
I forgot about it, however, after luncheon, when we all went out into the garden. Yvonne was so kind. She felt a little, I think, as if I were her visitor, and she just did everything she possibly could to make me enjoy myself; and the boys were all very nice, too. I could not have believed that boys could be so nice, for I had always had rather a horror of them. I said so to Evey; she seemed pleased at my liking her brothers, but amused, too, at my ideas about boys.
“You must see us when we are all together,” she said. “Fancy, besides Mary, two more boys! Though Addie is scarcely like a boy, he’s the delicate one, you know. But he issobrave. I think it’s almost more brave ofhimto be brave than if he were strong and big, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s what is called moral courage, isn’t it?”
“It’s that, and the other too,” Evey replied. “Or perhaps he’s able to make himself brave the other way by having moral courage. I suppose it’s that; anyway I doloveAddie. Oh, Connie, you wouldn’t think that way about boys if you had brothers.”
“Not if they were like yours,” I said; “but I have seen some brothers that weren’t at all nice to their sisters.”
“Then I’m sure it was the sisters’ fault; anyway, a good deal their fault,” Evey returned promptly. “I’m just the opposite of you, for, do you know, I have often longed to be a boy, and so has Mary. If we had all been boys, it would have been easier for father and mother. I almost think they’d have gone to the Colonies.”
“Howhorrible,” I said. “I am sure you should be glad you and Mary aren’t boys, just to have stopped that.”
But Yvonne was not to be convinced.
“No,” she said. “I think it would be delightful—all going together, you know; and perhaps we may, some day, after all. It would be much better than staying in England, and the boys by themselves all over the world, and father and mother looking anxious; and you know,” she added, “even Mary and Imightn’tbe able to stay at home. We, might have to work somehow, too.”
“Do you mean to be governesses?” I asked, in a very appalled tone of voice. But Evey’s reply appalled me still more.
“Perhaps, or, if not governesses, teachers of some kind, if we were good at teaching. But there are lots of other things for girls now. Father often talks about them. We might have some sort of business. Something like a big upholsterer’s, perhaps. That would be nice, for the boys might be in it too. And Joss could design things, heisso clever; and Lancey could keep the books. Lancey’s very good at figures. It would be almost as nice as going to the Colonies.”
I stared at her.
“Evey,” I said, “you are joking.”
But a glance at her face showed me she was quite in earnest.
“No, indeed,” she said. “If people are poor they must work. Indeed, rich people often work hard too, though in a different way. What’s there to be ashamed of?”
“But ashop,” I said, with extreme disgust— “That’s not for ladies and gentlemen.”
“I don’t see why, if they’re poor and could get on that way. Of course, if the boys and we two were all together in it, you may be sure Mary and I would be given the nicest part of the work,” she said, smiling. “And if we could earn enough to make father and motherquitecomfortable when they get old, really not to have any bother at all and not to need to think about money, why, whatwouldwe care what we did? We’d be—” here Evey stopped to find a sufficiently strong expression—“we’d bechimney-sweeps.”
This was rather a relief to my feelings. “She knows they couldn’t be chimney-sweeps,” I thought to myself, “so very likely she’s joking about a shop too.”
And I was still more satisfied when, a moment or two after, Yvonne added: “Of course, it’s all castles in the air. I daresay,” and she sighed, “we shall never be able to do anything much, any of us—not even for father and mother.Theysay the best thing we can all do for them is each to be good in his or her own way. But one can’t help sometimes wishing to do something big—oh, what heaps of nice things one could do for people if one were rich! We often plan them together—for father and mother first, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose it would be nice to be rich,” I replied; “but I’ve never thought much about it,”—“Still, I don’t think going to the Colonies or keeping a shop would be ‘something big,’” I was on the point of saying, when Evey interrupted me.
“No,” she said earnestly; “it’s not being rich, it’s the things one would do. There’s all the difference;” and perhaps it was as well I had not finished my sentence.
This conversation was not the part of the afternoon I enjoyed the most, nor did it take very long. I have told it because it helps to show Yvonne Whyte’s way of looking at things, and the difference between her and me. I enjoyed much more talking about Evey’s room, and how it was to be dressed up in pink and white, and also the making plans for meeting often, and discussing the lawn-tennis ground at the Yew Trees with Lancey. It was not a very good one and had been neglected, but Captain Whyte and Lancey had great ideas about it, and Captain Whyte thanked me very nicely, though he smiled a little, when I said rather pompously that I was sure they could have our garden-roller and the under-gardener to help, when the time came for attending to it.
Just before it was time to go, Lady Honor called us all in to sing a hymn. It was to please Mr Bickersteth, who was too feeble to go to church again. It was a long time since he had heard his young friends’ voices, he said, looking at Yvonne and her brother, and their hymn should be his vespers to-day. And when I heard them I was not surprised at his wanting them to sing. Their voices weresonice, and, to my surprise, Evey played the accompaniment on Mr Bickersteth’s chamber organ quite beautifully.
I was very fond of music, so I really enjoyed it, and for once forgot that I was not the centre of it all.
“Hownice!” I exclaimed heartily, when it was over. And Lady Honor smiled at me when I said this, in her very kindest way; for no one who does not know Lady Honor pretty well can fancy how kind her smilessometimesare. “How have you learnt to play the organ so beautifully? It takes a lot of time, doesn’t it?” I said to Evey.
“Yes,” said Lady Honor, replying for her. “But I have always found in my life, my dear Connie, that it is the people who have the most to do who do the most. Think that over—you’ll find it’s not an Irish bull, though it sounds like one.”
I was not so pleased at this speech.
“She is thinking that I don’t do much, I can see,” I began fancying. But Evey broke in upon my disagreeable thoughts.
“I don’t think it’s any credit to me that I can play the organ a little, truly,” she said. “I’ve had such good lessons every year in London, where we never really have anything to do except things like that. And at Southsea I was always allowed to practise on the church organ. We have a harmonium of our own,” she went on to me. “It’s very nice, but of course not as nice as this dear organ,” and she touched the keys lovingly. Mr Bickersteth’s organ was a very nice one indeed.
And, a few minutes after that, we went home. The Whytes, all six of them, escorted me all the way, as Lady Honor’s is not far from our house, and I showed them the short cut across the fields to the Yew Trees through a turnstile close to us. It was very kind of them all the same, for they had to hurry a good deal after that to get home in time to send the servants to church.
I found mamma by herself in the study. We don’t use the drawing-room on Sunday.
“Well, darling?” she said. I knew that meant a tender inquiry as to how I had enjoyed myself, but a rather contradictory mood had come over me.
“It was very nice,” I said. “But, they’re not a bit like what I thought they would be, mamma. You know—when we heard they were so poor—”
“But theyarepoor,” she replied, “and I’m sure they are not—they would not set themselves up in any disagreeable way. They seem so well-bred.”
“Ye-es,” I said. “They’re—oh I think they are just everything they should be, whether they’re poor or not. They’remuchcleverer than me, mamma. They’ve learnt so many things I haven’t, and seen so much more—they go to Londoneveryyear—and—”
My depressed, discontented tone must have hurt and troubled mamma, for she answered indignantly:
“It is very wrong and unkind of them—of that girl,” she said, “to boast and show off to you, darling. You are too sensitive. I am quite sure they are not cleverer than my Connie, and as for looks— You shall not see any more of them, dear. It would be quite new indeed for my Sweet Content to be made discontented. I am disappointed in Evey Whyte. I was sure she was so nice.”
There was a hot, red spot on each of poor mamma’s cheeks; this state of things was not at all what I had bargained for. I had only wanted to work off my own dissatisfaction, which was partly jealousy, but partly too, I hope, a less unworthy feeling, by grumbling and by trying to put blame on those who had had the care of me. I was punished.
“Oh no, no, mamma dear,” I said eagerly. “Evey’snotlike that. She’s not the leastatomboasting; it was more—things I noticed and asked about, myself. It’s not only that she’s clever—you should hear how she can play the organ; but I daresay you’d let me learn it too, if I liked—it’s—it’s partly, mamma, that I can feel she’s so much more useful, and—and unselfish than I am. I can see it quite well; she does such a lot to help her mother and them all.”
And, greatly to mamma’s surprise and distress, I leaned my head down on her lap and burst into tears.
How she consoled and petted me! How she assured me I waseverythingto her; the very light of her eyes; her comfort, her blessing—that she could not wish me any different from what I was, and ever so much more in the same strain. It was very sweet, and to a certain extent soothing, but in the end it only deepened the impression. For it made me feel how utterly unselfish and self-forgetting mamma was, above all wherever I was concerned, and it made me feel, too, how little I deserved such devotion. Then the thought of her cruel trials came over me as it had never done before—how often I had grudged my sympathy to her? Even if she were almost weakly and foolishly indulgent to me, she was scarcely to be blamed. Instead of taking advantage of it and treating her fondness with something very like contempt, as I had often done, would not the right way be to try my best to be more worthy of it? I don’t know what put the thought into my head just then. I had a queer feeling that if I had been talking it all over with Yvonne, it was whatshewould have said, for it had struck me once or twice that in her way of speaking to and of mamma there had been a special sort of tenderness, almost reverence, as if she had heard her sad story, and I remembered the anxious, half-reproachful way she had glanced at me when I seemed so indifferent about mamma’s walking home alone. Yes; I felt and knew that the sudden thought was one Evey would have approved of, and I grew calmer. I wiped my eyes and kissed mamma as I had seldom done before: a new kind of strength seemed to come into me, and I resolved that from that moment I would care for her in quite a new way.
“Mamma dear,” I whispered, “you are too good to me. But I will try to be better. Only will you please let me be more useful to you? I am sure,” I added, and if this was averylittle cunning, I don’t think it was in a naughty way—“I am sure I should be far happier if I felt I were of use.”
And of course mamma promised. What would she not have promised me! I think she told over this conversation to papa, and if any lingering feeling of indignation against Evey had still been in her mind, I am sure what he said must have removed it. For the next morning they were both full of plans for my being a great deal with the Whytes, and of little kindnesses we might do to them, without, as papa said, seeming officious or—he hesitated for a word.
“Patronising,” mamma suggested. He smiled at this.
“My dear,” he said, “thatwe could not possibly be accused of towards the Whytes. You scarcely realise—”
But there he stopped. I felt a little ashamed when I recalled one or two of my speeches to Evey.
“Papa has always suchperfectlynice feelings,” I thought; and as I glanced at his kind, quiet face I said to myself that I might indeed be proud of him. And when he kissed me that morning before he went out, I felt something in his kiss that seemed to say he understood me and my new resolutions, better even than mamma did.