Sweet Content

"White?" I repeated. I think I pictured it with an "i," not a "y." "White: what a common name!"

Mamma smiled. I think my pert speech seemed to her rather clever; but papa turned upon me almost sharply.

"Nonsense, child!" he said; "where do you get such ridiculous notions from?"

"_Our_ name is so pretty," I replied, "and not at all common. It is a very old name, everybody says."

Our name is Percy; papa is Dr Percy. I don't think "Dr" suits it as well as "Major," or "Colonel," or "Sir." "Sir something Percy," not "Thomas," which is papa's name, but some grander name, like "Harold" or "Bevis," would sound lovely before "Percy."

Papa looked at me, and he, too, smiled a little.

"It is a pretty name if you like, my dear," he said, "and I am glad it pleases you. But as for our family being `old' in the usual sense, don't get any fancies into your head. My father was an honest yeoman, and _his_ father was only a head-man on a farm, though thrifty and hardworking, and, best of all, God-fearing. So that, bit by bit, he came to own land himself, and my father, following in his steps, was able to give me a first-rate education."

I had heard this before, or some of it, but it rather suited me to ignore it. I gave my head a little toss.

"I don't see that that has anything to do with `White' being a common name," I said.

"Perhaps not. But I don't want you to get silly fancies in your head, dear," said papa, gently. "Trust me that Captain Whyte and his family are _not_ common. It would be a pity for you to lose the chance of nice companions by any prejudice."

"Oh, Connie would never be so foolish as that," said mamma; "and the Bickersteths' friends are sure to be nice people."

Mr and Lady Honor Bickersteth, I may as well explain, were the former rector of Elmwood and his wife. Mr Bickersteth was a very old man now, and had resigned the living some years ago in favour of Mr Gale, Anna's father, who had been his curate. Lady Honor was quite an old lady, and though she was very kind, I think most of our neighbours were a little afraid of her. She was what is called "a lady of the old school," and had very precise ideas about how children should be brought up. I think she was the only person who ever dared to hint that I was at all spoilt. The Bickersteths still lived at Elmwood, in a pretty house a little way out of the town. They had never inhabited the vicarage, but had let the curate have it, so when Mr Gale became vicar it made no difference in that way. And even now Mr Bickersteth still preached sometimes when he was feeling well enough.

"I am quite sure the Whytes are nice people," papa repeated in a settled sort of way; "and I shall be very glad for Connie to make friends with them."

His tone was so decided that neither mamma nor I _could_ have made any kind of objection. In my heart, too, I was really pleased, and not a little excited, at the idea of some new friends of my own age.

"Have they only those two children--the girls you spoke of?" asked mamma.

"Those are the only girls, but there are ever so many boys of all ages-- from fifteen or sixteen down to a baby, I believe," papa answered. "The elder boys are to be weekly boarders at Leam; that is one reason why they have chosen Elmwood."

Mamma raised her eyebrows a very little.

"Then they are not--not rich?" she said.

"Not at all rich," papa replied promptly. "I want to spare them all the expense I can. Captain Whyte is to pay a very fair rent for the Yew Trees--the same that old Mrs Nesbitt paid. I would have taken less had he pressed it, but he did not. He is very gentlemanlike and liberal--it is curious how you can see the liberal spirit even when people are poor--so I want to meet him half-way. I shall have his final decision to-morrow morning, and if it is closing with the thing, I should like you to drive over with me to the Yew Trees and have a look round. There are some things it is only fair we should do, and as it is your house, Rose, you have a voice in it."

The Yew Trees had been mamma's own home as a girl. Her father had been the Elmwood doctor before papa, and this house was left to her as she was older than her sister. Yet she had never lived there since her parents' death; it was larger than we required, and mamma fancied it was lonely.

"I should like very much to go with you," she replied. "Except--Connie, dear, I don't like leaving you alone."

"Connie is much better," said papa; "and I think the wind is changing. I should not wonder if we have a bright, mild day to-morrow. If so, she might come too. Old Martha always has a good fire in the kitchen at the Yew Trees, and if the rest of the house is draughty, she can wait for us there."

I was very pleased at this. Strange to say, the little prejudice, though it seems exaggerated to speak of it as that, which I had so ridiculously taken up on the mention of the Whyte family, had quite melted away when I heard they were not rich. I liked the idea of being kind and generous to people less well off than ourselves, and though there was, perhaps, a little love of patronage in this, I hope it was not _only_ that.

"I should _so_ like to go too," I exclaimed. "I do hope it will be a fine day. Papa, if you are going to paint and paper any of the rooms, _mayn't_ I choose the paper for the little girls."

Papa smiled. I saw he was pleased.

"How can we tell which room will be theirs?" he said.

"Oh, I _think_ we can guess. They're sure to have a room together as they're so near of an age. I daresay their papa and mamma will let them choose, and if the paper is the kind of one I mean, it would _make_ them fix on the room where it is. I saw it in Fuller's shop-window the other day; roses, mamma, little climbing ones on a pale grey ground. And the painting shall be pale grey with a pink line. It'll be lovely."

I felt so eager about it I could scarcely sit still.

"I'm afraid that kind of paper is rather expensive," said papa. "And though I want to make the house neat and nice, still I can't spend very much. However, we shall see."

"The room my sister and I had would be the nicest," said mamma, quite entering into my plans. Dear mamma is not _very_ sensible about money-- she won't mind my saying so, for she says it herself. She leaves everything to papa, and a good deal _now_, I am proud to say, to me. "You remember it, Connie? Mrs Nesbitt called it her best room. It looks out to the side with a sort of square bow-window, though that sounds very Irish!" she added, laughing.

Papa glanced at her with such pleasure. He is always _so_ delighted when mamma laughs.

"I do hope it will go through with the Whytes," I heard him say to himself in a low voice.

"I am so glad they are not rich," I said, with such satisfaction that papa and mamma really looked rather startled.

"Dear child--" mamma began.

I had scarcely known I was speaking aloud. I felt myself grow a little red.

"I mean," I began confusedly--"If they had been rich, you know, we couldn't have done anything for them, and--and--they might have been spoilt, and very likely they would have looked down on us."

"Even though they have such a common name," said papa, mischievously. "Eh, Connie? Try and keep your mind clear of all those prejudices, my dear. Take people as they really are, and be as good and kind to them in deed and thought, rich or poor, grand or lowly, as you _can_ be, and you will find it will be all right. The real way to get on happily is to think as little of _yourself_ as possible: then you will neither despise those below you, nor expect to be despised by those above you."

I don't know that I quite understood papa then; I think I understand it better now. But that night my dreams were very pleasant; they were not about myself at all, nor even about the unknown Whytes. They were all about a lovely room with roses growing up the walls, and as they grew higher and higher the walls seemed to melt away and I found myself in a beautiful garden. But just as I was rushing forward in delight I caught sight of old Lady Honor sitting in an arbour, knitting.

"Connie Percy," she said solemnly, in her rather peculiar voice; "remember, the true way to gather roses is first to plant them."

Wasn't it a funny dream?

The postman's knock came, as it generally does, while we were sitting at breakfast. There were two letters for papa, only. I had forgotten about Captain Whyte's answer being expected by post; my head was full of the Yew Trees and the climbing rose paper, and wondering if it was going to be a fine enough day for papa to say I might drive out. It was only when he looked up with a pleased exclamation that I remembered what a disappointment that letter _might_ have brought.

"It is all right," said papa. "Captain Whyte agrees to my terms. Indeed, I almost wish," he went on less brightly, "that I had not named so high a rent. I'm afraid they are very--well, not at all rich, to put it mildly. He says they cannot afford to do anything to the house, and as it is quite healthy, they will be satisfied if it is just clean and tidy. Strictly speaking, you see, I am not bound to do much to it; I did it up so thoroughly for Mrs Nesbitt, and it is in perfectly good order, substantially speaking, only--"

"The papers are _so_ ugly," said mamma. "You know Mrs Nesbitt chose them all, and her taste was dreadful, and there are several little things that would make it much nicer for a family of younger people. These two poky little rooms at the back would make a nice schoolroom if thrown into one."

"Just what Captain Whyte said himself," papa agreed. "Well, we must go over it, and I will see what I can afford."

"If they are paying a good rent," said mamma, "that might make up a little."

Dear mamma! she looked quite delighted with herself for being so business-like.

"Any way," I said, "you really _must_ let me choose a paper for the girls' room. I'd rather pay for it myself, or count it as one of my birthday presents, papa, than not have it."

Papa laughed at us both.

"What delightful `landladies,' I suppose that's the feminine of `landlord,' even in the sense of a `proprietor,' you would make, you two," he said.

But by the way he stroked my head when he went out I could tell he was pleased. I think, though he very seldom found fault with me, that papa was terribly afraid of my becoming selfish. Ah, dear, I see now that I was that already!

To my great delight papa's prophecy about the weather proved true. The wind _had_ changed; it was mild, and, for November, pleasant. If only a little bit of sun would come out, said mamma, it would be perfect.

And after luncheon--which was my dinner--the sun _did_ come out, and papa came driving up just as we were beginning to be afraid he was going to be late.

"I've two hours free," he called out cheerfully, as he came in. "I only want a scrap of luncheon, Rose; I won't be two minutes. Run and get your hat, Connie. Wrap up well, though it is a fine day, for you've not been out lately."

CHAPTER THREE.

THE YEW TREES.

When I said "a pleasant day _for November_," I think I should have left out the two last words. For they rather sound as if November was rarely pleasant, and though this may be the case in some parts of England it is certainly not so with us. Our Novembers are generally this way: there are some perfectly horrible days, rain, rain, slow and hopeless; not heavy, but so steady that you long to give a shake to the clouds and tell them to be quick about it. And then for a day or two, everything and everywhere are just _sopping_; it's almost worse than the rain, for the sky still looks grim and sulky and as if it more than half thought of beginning again. But _then_--there comes sometimes a little wind, and faint gleams of sunshine, sparkle out, growing steadier and fuller, and then we generally have a few days together of weather that for pleasantness can scarcely be matched. They are soft, quiet, dreamy days; the sunshine is never bright exactly, but gentle and a little melancholy. There is a queer feeling of having been naughty and being forgiven: the wind comes in little whispering sobs, like a tiny child that can't leave off crying all at once; the whole world seems tired and yet calm and hopeful in a far-off sort of way. Somehow these days make me feel much _gooder_ ("better" doesn't do so well) than even the brightest and loveliest spring or summer-time. They make me think more of Heaven--and they make me dreadfully sorry for all the naughty selfish thoughts and feelings I have had. Altogether there is something about them I can't put in words, though once--I will come to that "once" later on--some one said a thing that seemed to explain it almost exactly.

And this day--the day we went to the Yew Trees--it was the first time mamma and I had been there for very long--was one of those days. It was not late in November, so though it had been raining tremendously only the day before, the clearing-up process had been got through much more expeditiously than usual, and the sun had of course rather more strength still with which to help.

"The wind has been pretty busy in the night," said papa. "He must have sent out all his elves to work. I scarcely remember ever seeing the roads dry up so quickly."

"But they are rather untidy elves all the same, papa," I replied--I do like when papa says these funny kinds of things--"just look what a lot of their brushes and dusters they have left about."

We were driving along Crook's Lane as I spoke--the road to the Yew Trees goes that way, right through Crook's Wood, and I pointed to lots of boughs and branches, many of them still with their leaves on, that had been blown off in the night.

"Yes," said papa, laughing.

We were in the pony-carriage; at least we call it the pony-carriage, though it is much too big for Hoppo to draw, and at that time we drove a rather small horse, a cob, of papa's in it. I did feel so happy and nice. Papa was driving and I was beautifully wrapped up in the seat behind, which is really quite as comfortable as the front one. It seemed to me I had never scented the air so fresh and sweet before, nor heard the birds' mild autumn chirpings so touching and tender.

The Yew Trees is only about a mile from us, and over the fields it is still nearer. We were soon there, and old Martha, knowing we were coming, had got the door open and the front steps cleaned. It did not look at all desolate outside, for the garden had been kept tidy in a plain sort of way. The trees which give their name to the house make a short avenue from the gate; some of them are very fine yews, I believe, though I always think them rather gloomy.

Inside, the rooms of course seemed bare and chilly. I had never thoroughly explored it before, and I was surprised to find how large it was. Mamma, of course, knew every chink and cranny, and she took me all over while papa was speaking to a man--a builder, who had come by appointment to meet him. It was found that the partition between the two odd little rooms on the ground floor was a very thin one and could be taken away quite easily, and, to mamma's great pleasure, papa decided on this.

"It will make such a nice bright schoolroom," she said, as we went upstairs. "And here," she went on, "is the room Bessie and I used to have. Isn't it a nice room, Connie? Long ago, I remember, I used to fancy that if ever my little Evie had a sister, and we came to live here some day, I would have it beautifully done up for my own girls."

Mamma's voice faltered a little as she said this. I was not feeling cross or impatient just then, so I answered her more gently than I am afraid I sometimes did when she alluded to my little dead brothers and sister.

"Well, mamma dear," I said, "if you do it up very prettily now it will be a great pleasure to the one little girl you still have beside you, and _also_ to the two stranger little girls. I am sure, too, that if Eva knew about it, _she_ would be pleased. And perhaps she does."

"Darling! My own Sweet Content!" said mamma. She thought me _so_ good for what after all was a great deal a fancy, though a harmless one, to please myself.

"It shall be done, Connie dearest, if I can possibly manage it," said mamma. "I wonder if the man downstairs has anything to do with the papering and painting?"

It turned out that he had--in little country towns you don't find separate shops for everything, you know. This was the very man in whose window I had seen the lovely rose paper. So it was settled that on our way home we should call in and look at several wall papers. And soon after, we left the Yew Trees and drove off again.

Mr Bickersteth's house was between the Yew Trees and the town. As we were passing the gate it opened, and Lady Honor came out. She was walking slowly, for she was not strong now, and she was an old lady. In my eyes _very_ old, for I could not remember her anything else. Papa drew up when he saw her, and jumped down.

"We have just been at the Yew Trees," he said. "My wife and Connie are so interested in getting it made nice for your friends."

"Ah, yes!" said Lady Honor, looking pleased, "we heard from Frank Whyte this morning that it is settled. Very good of you to go yourself to look over the house, my dear Mrs Percy. And Connie, too! That is an honour--however in this case you will be rewarded. You will find the Whyte girls delightful and most desirable companions for her, Mrs Percy, Evey especially."

Mamma grew rather white, and gave a little gasp.

"_Evie_," she whispered (I spell it "Evie," because I know that was how mamma _thought_ it), "do you hear, Connie?"

"Yes, of course," I said rather sharply. No one else noticed mamma, for Lady Honor had turned to papa. I felt half provoked. I wished the little Whyte girl had not been called "Evie."

"Mamma will always be mixing her up with our Evie, and thinking her a sort of an angel," I thought to myself, and something very like a touch of ugly jealousy crept into my heart. Just at that moment, unluckily, Lady Honor glanced my way again.

"Are you quite well again, Connie?" she said. "You don't look very bright, my dear. She needs companionship, doctor--companionship of her own age, as I have always told you. It will do her good in every way, yes, in _every_ way," and she tapped the umbrella which she was carrying emphatically on the ground, while she nodded her head and looked at me with the greatest satisfaction in her bright old eyes. I am not sure that there was not a little touch of mischief mingled with the satisfaction--a sort of good-natured spitefulness, if there could be such a thing! And perhaps it was not to be wondered at: "bright" I certainly was not looking, and indeed I fear there must have been something very like sulkiness in my face just then. "Sweet Content," Lady Honor went on, half under her breath, as if speaking to herself, "a very pretty name and a very lovely character. I was telling the Whyte children about it when I was with them the other day."

Mamma flushed with pleasure, but I felt inwardly furious. I was sure the old lady was mocking at me; afterwards I felt glad that papa had not seen my face just then.

For the rest of the way, after we had said good-bye to Lady Honor, I was quite silent. If it had not been for very shame, I would have asked to be put down at our own house when we passed it instead of going on to Fuller's shop. And mamma's gentle coaxing only made me crosser.

"I am sure you are too tired, darling," she kept saying. "You don't think you have caught cold? Do say, if you feel at all chilly?"

And when I grunted some short, surly reply, she only grew more and more anxious, till at last papa turned round and looked at me.