Sweet Content

"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 is _so_ brave. I think it's almost more brave of _him_ to 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 do _love_ Addie. 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."

"How _horrible_," 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 I _mightn't_ be 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, he _is_ so 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 a _shop_," 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 mother _quite_ comfortable when they get old, really not to have any bother at all and not to need to think about money, why, what _would_ we care what we did? We'd be--" here Evey stopped to find a sufficiently strong expression--"we'd be _chimney-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. _They_ say 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 were _so_ nice, 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.

"_How_ nice!" 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 smiles _sometimes_ are. "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 they _are_ poor," 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're _much_ cleverer than me, mamma. They've learnt so many things I haven't, and seen so much more--they go to London _every_ year--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's _not_ like that. She's not the least _atom_ boasting; 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 was _everything_ to 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 what _she_ would 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 a _very_ little 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, "_that_ we 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 such _perfectly_ nice 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.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A TRIO OF FRIENDS.

One of the hardest things about trying to be good, particularly about trying to be _better_, for that means getting out of bad ways as well as getting into good ones, is the dreadful persistence of bad habits. Even when your heart is quite, _quite_ in earnest, and your mind too, and often at the very time you're planning beautifully about keeping your new resolutions, and quite bubbling over with eagerness about them, you get a sudden shock, just as if you had walked straight into a bath of cold water that you didn't know was there--and oh, dear, you stop to find you have done the exact wrong or foolish thing you had been fixing so to avoid.

How many times this happened to me about the new resolutions I wrote of in the last chapter I should be afraid to say. Sometimes it was almost laughable. One morning I remember I was busy writing down one or two rules I had thought might help me, when I heard mamma's voice calling me.

"Bother," I said to myself in my old way, "I shall never remember about the third rule, if I leave it just now."

And I went on calmly writing, just calling to mamma, "Yes, yes, I'll come directly;" and so absorbed was I, that when, a full quarter of an hour afterwards, I happened to glance out of the window, and saw mamma hot and out of breath from a chase after my new Persian kitten, who had escaped through the conservatory and might _very_ easily have got lost or stolen, or even killed, it never struck me that I might have saved her this trouble. Trouble on my account, too!

"What _is_ the matter, mamma?" I exclaimed as I ran out, half crossly, for I could not bear to see her so tired and breathless. "How you do fuss--why didn't you make the servants fetch Persica in?"

"My dear," said mamma, as gently as if I had any right to find fault with her, "you know she won't come to any one but you or me; and I did call you."

How ashamed I felt! I tore up the rules, and called them nasty things in my own mind, which was exceedingly silly. Afterwards, when I had had more talk with Yvonne, and Mary, I made some others. Not half such grand ones. Only very, very simple ones, which I almost despised on that account; but they were useful to me, by showing me that, simple as they were, it was no easy matter to keep them, even for a few hours at a time.

You see I had been selfish all my life. I had never even _thought_ of its being wrong. Once I did begin to think about it, I was perfectly startled and horrified to find how wide-spreading and deep-rooted my selfishness was. I should often have lost heart altogether had it not been for my new friends. Not that they ever "preached" to me or to anybody, it was just the seeing and _feeling_ how different they were, from what a different point of view they looked at everything, that made me understand better where I was wrong, and take courage to go on trying. And now and then nice things happened to make me feel I was getting on a little; some of these I will tell you about, though I have also to tell you of some rather dreadful things that showed how very naughty and horrid--oh! I get hot still when I think of one of these--I still was.

It was not only selfishness I had to fight against I was exceedingly, absurdly, really _vulgarly_ self-conceited and stuck-up. I don't think Evey and Mary really ever knew the worst of me; for one thing, I began to _try_ almost from the first of knowing them; for another, just as an honest person cannot believe, and never suspects another of dishonesty till he is actually _forced_ to do so, the dear Whytes were too sincere and simple and single-minded to understand or take in my ridiculous vanity and affectations.

But I must tell about my first visit to the Yew Trees--I mean my first visit to its new inhabitants. It was two or three days after the Sunday at Lady Honor's. I was fidgeting dreadfully to see Evey again, and I think one of my first real "tries" at not being selfish was doing my best not to tease mamma about when we should go, and worrying her all day long to fix the exact day and hour.

It was not a very hard "try" certainly, for it was only on Wednesday morning that papa told us at breakfast that he had met Captain Whyte the evening before, and had been told by him that Mrs Whyte and the other children had arrived that morning.

"He said," papa went on, "that Mrs Whyte would be very pleased to see you, Rose; and when you go to call on her, you are to be sure to take Connie."

"When should we go, do you think?" asked mamma.

"Not to-day--they will hardly be settled enough to see us."

"I don't know that," papa replied. "Captain Whyte said _any_ time; the sooner the better. Mrs Whyte may have little things to ask you about; and I fancy they are very methodical, sensible people, who will soon get into order."

"They all help so; they're so useful," I could not help saying with a little sigh.

"Well, dear," said mamma, with an encouraging glance, "other little daughters are useful, too. You should have seen how beautifully Connie dusted and rearranged the bookshelves for me yesterday, Tom," she went on to papa, for which he gave me one of his nicest smiles.

And it was settled that mamma and I should go that very afternoon.

I felt a very little nervous about seeing Mrs Whyte. Somehow the mother of such very well brought up children, and a person, too, whom Lady Honor evidently approved of so thoroughly, must, it seemed to me, be rather alarming; and I am not sure but that dear mamma was a very little nervous too.

"We won't stay long, Connie," she said, as we drew near the Yew Trees. "Very likely they are still busy, though they don't mind us. I have been thinking we might ask Evey and her sister to spend an afternoon with you--to-morrow perhaps, or the day after."

"Yes," I said. "I should like that. If their mother can spare them, and if all their time isn't settled out for lessons, and sewing, and taking care of the little ones, like dreadfully good girls in story-books. I'm afraid they're a _little_ that way, mamma--very, very regular and punctual, and their mother rather severe and particular. I'll tell you what I'm sure she's like, mamma. Very tall, much taller than you,"--and mamma is not little--"and black hair, quite straightly done, and rather small eyes, and a prim way of speaking."