Sweet Content

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Sweet Content By Mrs Molesworth Illustrations by W. Rainey Published by E.P. Dutton and Co, 31 West 23rd Street, New York. This edition dated 1891.

Sweet Content, by Mrs Molesworth.

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________________________________________________________________________ SWEET CONTENT, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.

CHAPTER ONE.

AN "ONLY" BABY.

"Sweet Content." That was my name when I was a very tiny child. It may sound rather conceited to tell this of myself, but when I have told all the story I am now beginning, I don't _think_, at least I _hope_, you, whoever you are that read it, won't say I am conceited. Indeed, if I thought any one I knew, or rather that knew me, would be likely to read it and to know that the "I" of it was _me_, I am not by any means sure that I would write it. But, of course, it is not at all certain that it ever will be printed or seen by any one (except, perhaps, by my children, if, when I am grown up, I am married and have any) who ever heard of me. The world seems to me a very big place; there are such lots and lots of people in it, old ones and children, and middling ones; and they are all busy and taken up about their own affairs.

Some other children might like to read my story, just _as_ a story, for I do think some parts of it are rather _extra_ interesting; but it is not probable that any of them would recognise _me_, or the other "characters" (I think that is the right word) in it. Except--except some of the other characters themselves! They don't know I am writing it, perhaps they never will know about it; but if they did--yes, even if they read every word of it--I don't think I'd mind. They are so truly-- no, I mustn't begin telling about them like that; you will understand, all in good time, why, least of any people in the world, perhaps, I should mind their reading the exactly how it was of everything I have to tell. This shows how perfectly I can trust them.

And in saying even that, though I really couldn't help it, I'm afraid I have already got rather out of the proper orderly way of telling a story.

I will start clearly now. What I have written already is a sort of preface or introduction. And it has a much better chance of being read than if I had put it separately.

As I began about my baby name, and as I am going to use it for a title-- for several reasons, as you will see--I will first explain about it.

I have been an only child ever since I can remember. But I was not always an only child. When I was a baby of a very few months old, a terrible trouble came to our house: scarlet fever broke out very badly in the little town or big village, whichever you like to call it, where we lived then, and where we still live. And among the first deaths from it were those of my brothers and sister, the doctor's own children! Fancy--_three_ dear little children all dying together--in two days at least, I think it was. No one was to blame for their catching the infection; the fever broke out so suddenly that there was no time to send them away, and though papa, as the doctor, had of course to be constantly attending the fever cases, his own children must have caught it before there could possibly have been time for him to bring it to them. Even if he _could_ have done so, which was doubtful, as for the two or three days before they got ill he never came into the house at all, and did not even see mamma, but eat his meals and slept in a room over the stables. I have always been glad for papa to know it could not have come through him, for even though it would have been in the way of duty--and papa is a perfect _hero_ about duty--he might have blamed himself for some carelessness or forgetfulness. And once--though they seldom speak of that awful time--mamma said something of the kind to me.

I was the baby, as I have told you. A tiny, rather delicate little thing. And, strange to say, I did not catch the fever. They did not send me away; it seemed no use after all the risks I had already run. I could almost think that poor mamma must have felt as if it would not so very much matter whether I got it or not; _my_ dying then could not have made things much worse for her to bear! For, after all, a very little baby, even though it is nice and funny and even sweet in its way, can't be anything like as interesting or as much a part of your life as talking, understanding, loving children. So it seems to me, though mamma doesn't quite agree with me. She loves me so very much that I think she couldn't bear to think there ever was a time when I was less to her. I fancy the truth is that she does not very clearly remember what she felt during those dreadful days; I hope she does not, for even to think of them makes me shiver. They were such dear children; so bright and healthy and happy. Mamma seemed like a person in a dream or a trance, our old Prudence has often told me, after the last, Kenneth, the eldest, it was, died. Fancy the empty nurseries, fancy all the toys and books, and, worst of all, the little hats, and jackets, and _shoes_ lying about just as usual! For they were only ill four days--oh, I think it must have been _awful_. And yet so beautiful too.

And the little, stupid, crying baby lived, and throve, and grew well and strong. When papa, weeks after, ventured at last to look at me, he could not believe I was the same! I _hope_ he felt it was a little tiny bit of a reward to him for his goodness to others. To think of him going about as usual, no, not as usual, for he worked like _ten_, I have been told, to save others, though his own poor heart was breaking. And he did save many--that, too, must have been a real reward.

He kissed me gravely--Prudence told me this, too--but just then I smiled, a slow-coming baby smile, I think it must have been; you know how a baby stares first before it makes up its mind to smile--and he stopped; he had been turning away, and took me in his arms.

"My poor little darling," he said, "I feel almost afraid to love you. But no, that would be faithless."

And he carried me downstairs to mamma in the drawing-room. I can fancy how she must have been sitting there alone, looking out on to the pretty old-fashioned garden behind the house, and watching the spring flowers blossoming out, for it was in spring that all this happened, and thinking of _her_ spring flowers. I have so often fancied it, and seen her there in her deep black dress, in my mind, that it has come to be like a real picture to me. But of course I don't know what actually happened, for Prudence wasn't there to see. Only I _think_ that from that day they took me into their hearts in a quite wonderful way, for, ever since I can remember, they have been, oh, so _very_ good to me--too good, I am afraid. I fear they spoilt me. And I for long, long, was not a good and grateful little daughter to them.

It is difficult to blame them for spoiling me; is it not? And perhaps there is just a _little_ excuse for me in its having been so. I don't want to make excuses for myself, but looking back I do see that I didn't know in the least how selfish, and self-seeking, and vain and proud and stuck-up, and everything horrid like that, I was. Jealous, too; but that, you see, I had no reason to find out for a long while. What a good thing it was for me that a day came when I was really tested!

I was a fat, healthy, perfectly happy baby, and I grew into a fat, healthy, perfectly happy little girl. Nothing seemed to come wrong to me. I never got ill, and by nature I think I must have had a very even, comfortable temper. I was always smiling and satisfied. Now you see how I came by my name of "Sweet Content." Mamma kept it for a sort of private pet name, but it did very well with my real name, which is Constantia. And this was naturally shortened into "Connie." I remember papa and mamma laughing very much one day at a new servant, who must, I suppose, have overheard my private name, and wishing to be very respectful, spoke of me as "Miss _Content_."

"Never let it get into `Discontent,' Connie," said papa.

"That she never will," said mamma fondly. "I am sure all the good fairies, and none of the spiteful ones, were at my Sweet Content's christening."

I was quite used to hearing pretty things like that said to me or of me, and I took them as a matter of course, never doubting that I deserved them. And as no one contradicted me, and I had everything I wanted, and as I was not naturally a cross-grained or ill-tempered child, the spoiling did not show as quickly, or quite in the same ways, that it usually does, though I cannot help thinking that some people must have noticed it and thought me a selfish little goose. If they did, however, they were too kind to mamma, remembering her sad story, ever to say so. Besides, mamma was gentle and sweet to everybody, and she had too much good taste and feeling to go on fussing about me before people, in the way some _very_ foolish parents do.

So altogether, up to the time I was ten or eleven years old, my fool's paradise was a very perfect one. I was quite satisfied that I was a model of every virtue, as well as _exceedingly_ clever, and I am afraid papa and mamma thought so too; as to my looks, I have no doubt they were more than satisfied too; though to do myself justice, I really did not trouble myself about that part of my perfections, beyond being very particular indeed about my clothes, which I never would wear if they were the least shabby or spoilt. And as I was careless and extravagant, I must have cost a good deal in this way.

"Connie has such wonderful taste for a child of her age," I remember hearing mamma say. "She cannot bear anything ugly, or ill-assorted colours."

All the same, Connie had no objection to fishing for minnows in the pond with a perfectly new white muslin frock on, which was not rendered lovelier by streaks of green slime and brown mud stains all over the sash. I don't know if I thought those "well-assorted colours." And though I told mamma that my every-day hat was very common-looking without ostrich feathers, I never troubled myself that my best one was left out in the garden one Sunday afternoon, so that on Monday morning it was found utterly ruined by a shower of rain that had come on in the night!

If I had had any brothers or sisters I _could_ not have been so indulged, for papa was not a rich man--no country doctors ever are, I think--though he was not poor. But no more babies came, and, in her devotion to me, I hardly think mamma wished for them. I remained the undisputed queen of my kingdom.

Mamma was never very strong after her three children's deaths I was obliged to be gentle and quiet; I learnt to be so almost unconsciously, and this, I think, helped to make me seem much sweeter and better than I really was. I had almost no companions; there did not happen to be many children near my age in the neighbourhood, and even if there had been I doubt if mamma would have thought them good enough to be allowed to play with me. Though she never actually spoke against any one to me, I saw things quickly, and I know I had this feeling myself. Once or twice papa, who was too wise not to know that companionship is good for children, tried to bring about more friendship between me and our clergyman's daughters. But I did not take to them. Anna, the eldest, was "stupid," I said, so old for her age (she was really three years older that I), and always "fussing about her Sunday-school class, and helping her father, as if she was his curate." How well I remember mamma's smiling at this clever speech! And the two little ones were "babyish." Then some other girls at Elmwood went to school, and even in their holiday time I did not care to play with "school-girls." Besides which poor mamma was quite dreadfully afraid of infection, and perhaps this was only to be expected.

Once during some summer holidays when we happened to be at home, for mamma and I generally went to the seaside in July, a little cousin came to stay with us. He was two years younger than I and the only first cousin I had, for papa was an only child. He was mamma's nephew, and I know now that he was really a nice little boy; he is a nice big boy now, and we are great friends. But perhaps he was rather spoilt too, though in a different way from me, and I, as I have said, was very selfish indeed. So we quarrelled terribly, and the end of it was that poor Teddy was sent home in disgrace; no one dreaming that it _could_ have been "Connie's" fault in the least.

I think, now, I have explained pretty well about myself and my home when I was very little. Nothing very particular happened till after my tenth birthday. I had scarcely a wish ungratified, and yet everybody praised me for my sweet contented disposition! There were times when I used to wish or to _fancy_ I wished for a sister, though if this wish had magically come true, I don't believe I _would_ have liked it really, and now and then papa and mamma would pity me for having no friends of my own age. But I do not think I was to be pitied for this, except that it certainly is better training for a child to have companions of one's own standing, instead of grown-up people who can see no fault in you.

Things happen queerly sometimes. What are called "coincidences" are not so uncommon after all. The first great change in my life happened in this way. It was in the autumn of the year in which I was ten. The weather had been dull and rainy. I had caught cold and was not allowed to go out for some days. I was tired of the house and of myself, and though no one ever thought of saying so to me, I feel sure I was very cross. I took it into my head to begin grumbling about being lonely; grumbling, it is true, was not usually a fault of mine, and it distressed mamma very much.

"My darling, it must be that you are not at all well," she said, one dreary afternoon--afternoon just closing into evening--when she and I were sitting in the drawing-room waiting for papa to come in. He had told mamma he might be late, so that she had had dinner early with me, and there was only some supper ready waiting for him in the dining-room, beside our tea. I always dined early of course, but when papa expected to be home pretty early and not to go out again, he and mamma dined at half-past six or seven.

"No, it isn't that at all," I replied to mamma's anxious question. "I'm not a bit ill. I'm quite well, and I'm sure it couldn't have hurt me to go a ride on Hop-o'-my-thumb to-day."

Hop-o'-my-thumb was my pony. I often called him "Hoppo" for short.

"Dearest Connie, in the rain?" said mamma.

"Well--I forgot about the rain. But to-morrow, mamma, I really must go out. It isn't for me like for most children, you know. _They_ have each other to play with in the house if they have to stay in. My only pleasure is being out-of-doors," and I sighed deeply.

"You wouldn't like to send for Anna Gale or the twins to spend the day with you to-morrow, would you?" mamma suggested. "I am so afraid that if this east wind continues papa won't let you go out."

"Oh, mamma dear, how you do fuss about me," I said. "No, I don't care for any of the Gales. Anna doesn't know how to play: when she's not cramming at her lessons, she's cleaning the store-closet or making baby-clothes for the parish babies," I said contemptuously.

"Poor girl! I don't think she is a very lively companion," mamma agreed. "But then she has no mother, and her aunt is a dull sort of woman."

It never struck me that, whether _I_ cared for her or not, an afternoon among my pretty toys and books, and other luxuries, might have been a pleasant change for Anna, even if she were rather commonplace and very overworked.

"I wish," I remarked, "I do wish there were some nicer people at Elmwood. I wish you knew some nice companions for me, mamma."

"So do I, darling. But you know, dearest, _how_ different all would have been if--" But here there came a sort of break in mamma's voice, and she turned away.

I gave myself an impatient wriggle; not so that she could see it, but still it was horrid of me.

"I know what she was going to say," I thought; "`if Eva and the others had lived.' But they _didn't_ live. I wish mamma would leave off thinking about them and think more about me who _am_ alive."

In my heart I did feel tenderly for mamma about her lost children; but I was so selfish that whatever came before _me_, even for a moment, annoyed me.

I sighed again more deeply. I have no doubt mamma thought it was out of sympathy with her. But just then there came the sound of wheels-- faintly, for the drawing-room was at the back of the house, and the street at the front; up I jumped, delighted at the interruption.

"It's papa," I said, as I ran off to welcome him.

CHAPTER TWO.

PAPA'S BIT OF NEWS.

Yes, it was papa. I opened the front-door a tiny bit just to make sure. He had already sprung out of the dog-cart, throwing the reins to the groom, who went round by a back way to the stables. As papa came close to the door he caught sight of me.

"Connie!" he exclaimed; "my child, keep out of the draught. Well, dear," when he had come in and was standing by me in the hall, where a bright little fire was burning--we have such a nice hall in our house, old-fashioned and square, you know, with a fireplace--"well, dear, how are you? And what have you been doing with yourself this dull day?"

"Oh, I _have_ been so tired of myself, papa," I said, nestling up to him. If there is, or could be, any one in the world I love better than mamma, it's papa! "I am so glad you've come home, and now we may have a nice evening, mayn't we?"

"I hope so. Mamma must let you come in at the end of dinner, to make up for your dull day," said papa. But I interrupted him eagerly:

"It's not dinner to-night, papa--not proper dinner--because you were so uncertain, you know."

"All the better," he replied, "for I have some news for mamma and you."

News! What could it be? It was not often that news of much interest came to enliven our quiet life. I felt so curious and excited about it that by the time we were all three comfortably settled round the dining-table, my cheeks were quite rosy and my eyes bright.

"Connie is looking quite herself again," said papa. "I don't like to hear her complain of being dull and tired. It isn't like you, my little girl."

"No, indeed," mamma agreed, "it isn't like our Sweet Content."

"But I'm not Sweet Content at all just now," I said. "I've been just _boiling_ for Peter to go out of the room so that papa can tell us his news."

Mamma had not heard of it. She, too, glanced up with interest in her eyes.

"It isn't anything _very_ important," said papa. "No one has left us a fortune, and all my patients are much the same; it is only that I think--nay, I may say I am sure--I have got a tenant for the Yew Trees."

Mamma looked pleased.

"I am very glad indeed," she replied. "I am quite tired of seeing the place deserted, and it is a good deal of expense to keep it at all tidy. I hope the offer is from some nice people."

I had not spoken. I was very disappointed. I did not care at all whether the Yew Trees was let or not. I was far too unpractical to think anything about the money part of it. I suppose papa saw the expression on my face, for he turned to me as he answered mamma's question.

"Yes," he said, "that is the best part of it. I think they are certainly very nice people. And, Connie, there will be some companions for you among them--two girls just about your age, perhaps a little older. Their name is Whyte--a Captain Whyte and his family; he has been in the navy, but is shelved for the present. They are old friends of the Bickersteths."