Sweet Content

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 Honor _were_ something 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, she _was_ a 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 out _quite_ early, 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, I _needn't_ be 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 scolded _my_ daughter 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 I _felt_ she 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 not _usually_ going 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; rather _too_ handsome 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 was _not_ vain 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're _all_ going--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 mother _must_ be 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 a _little_ out of politeness. I think grown-up people all do like to be alone _sometimes_."

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't _know_ how 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? You _will_ learn 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 just _quite_ good."

I could not say anything more after that, and Evey evidently wanted to change the subject.

"Shall I tell you _us_, 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's _impossible_, 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, and _how_ kind 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 it _might_ be 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 been _very_ much 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 we _are_ always 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 have _so_ wanted 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, and _perhaps_ pink 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 we _have_ to 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.