Sweet Content

Mamma began to laugh.

"Hush, Connie," she said, "you mustn't upset my gravity. Once I begin laughing,"--poor mamma, it wasn't very often she was really merry, though she tried to seem so for other people's sake--"I can't leave off."

We were close to the house by this time, though the thick-growing shrubs hid the lower part of it from view, and as mamma spoke, sounds of ringing laughter--the most ringing, happy, _pretty_ laughter I ever heard--reached our ears; and then voices.

"Joss, Evey, come to my rescue; catch him, the great, silly boy. No, no, Lancey--" and then as we came right in front, we saw what it was. A lady, a rather little lady, with dark hair--nice, wavy dark-brown hair, like what Evey's would have been if it hadn't been so short--and the brightest, sweetest, dark-eyed, rather gipsy-looking face, was running at full speed across the little lawn before the door, with Lancey, the biggest boy of all, you know, after her. She was waving something white, a roll of paper, above her head, which Lancey was evidently determined to get possession of, and behind him, in every direction it seemed at the first glance, were all the rest of the young Whytes--the three sailor-suits, two girls, Evey and a fair-haired one, and two or three more boys. Such a lot they looked! All rushing about, shouting and laughing at the top of their voices. Suddenly somebody--Evey, I think--caught sight of us. There came an instant hush.

"Oh dear," were the first words the lady uttered, as she hastened up to us. "I am so ashamed. You must think me out of my mind, Mrs Percy--it is Mrs Percy?" with a quick bright glance of questioning. "How good of you to come! We have been hoping you would. And this is Connie? I am so pleased to see you, dear."

How charming she was. Not exactly pretty, but so bright and sweet and irresistible--prettier than Evey and not as grave, but yet quite like enough to be her mother.

"You must think me a terrible tomboy," she said, laughing again, and blushing a very little. "But we are in such spirits. It's so long since we've been all together like this, for the big boys only came from school last week, and--"

"Mother _is_ rather a tomboy," said Lancelot, coolly. "I think Mrs Percy had best understand the truth from the first, and then she will never be shocked at our goings on."

"You impertinent boy," said his mother, laughing up at him. He was a great deal taller than she. "You shouldn't waste your time in writing verses, instead of doing your lessons, should he, Mrs Percy?"

This hint silenced Lancey effectually. And soon all the children dispersed, and Mrs Whyte took mamma away into the house. Only Yvonne and the fair-haired girl, who, I knew, must of course be Mary, stayed with me. I had not yet spoken--I had felt so completely bewildered by the contrast between the real Mrs Whyte and the fancy picture I had been drawing of her just the moment before, that no words came to my lips.

Yvonne thought that I was feeling shy, I suppose, and to put me at my ease she drew forward her sister.

"This is `plain Mary,' Connie," she said. "I see I must introduce you formally. Doesn't she suit her name?" she added, and I could hear in her tone how proud she was of Mary.

No wonder. Mary was _so_ pretty. She was very, very fair--and she seemed even fairer beside her rather gipsy-like mother and sister. But she had dark eyes, much darker than mine; I am not speaking of myself out of conceit, truly, but because I know that fair hair and dark eyes are thought pretty, as mamma has often praised mine, and Mary's hair is fairer and her eyes darker than mine, and she has a very sweet expression, what is called an "appealing" expression, I think. She stood there glancing up at Evey in a little timid way, as if accustomed to be protected and directed by her, that I did think so sweet. I had not one atom of jealousy--I am so glad I hadn't--in my thoughts as I looked at her, even though there was a _sort_ of likeness between her and me that might have made me feel jealous of her being so much prettier. But then, this particular kind of envy has not been my temptation; so it wasn't any goodness in me not to feel it. I just stood looking at Mary with a real nice pleasure in her sweetness. And she looked at me with a shy smile in her eyes, and Yvonne looked at us both for a moment in silence. Then she gave a sort of jump and clapped her hands.

"Connie," she said, "I knew there was something that made me feel sure I'd love you at once. Do you know you and Mary are really rather like each other? I wonder if the others have seen it?"

I felt myself get rosy with pleasure.

"Are we really?" I said. "I am so glad."

And sweet Mary grew red too, when I said that. "I'm very glad you're glad," she said, shyly. "Of course _I_ would like to be like you."

And I think that afternoon sealed our friendship. How happy we were! We explored all the garden together, making plans for all sorts of nice things, out-of-door teas, games of hide-and-seek, gardening and flower-shows (I will tell you about our flower-shows some other time-- they were such fun), when the summer came; then we went into the house and explored it too, spending most of our time in the girls' room, the room with the rose paper, where the two little white beds were standing side by side and everything as neat as could be, though to my eyes, accustomed to much more luxury, it looked rather bare. But Evey was full of her plans for dressing up the toilet-table and adorning the windows with blinds and ribbons to match.

"I've been waiting for you to come to talk about it with us," she said. "Connie has such good taste," she went on to Mary; "you know she chose this paper."

And though I had always fancied and had even, I fear, been rather proud of saying that I hated needlework, I found myself undertaking a share in it all, quite cheerfully.

"You'll join our poor work, won't you, Connie?" said Evey; "unless, of course, you've got a club of your own already."

And when I stared, she went on to explain that, busy as they were, busier still as their mother was, they all gave a certain amount of time regularly every week to sewing for the poor.

"You wouldn't believe how much one can do if one keeps to it," said Evey. "And you know things that are neatly made are so much more good to poor people than what one can buy. Once we had quite a proper club, and twice a year we had a shop--it was such fun. Mother says it is best to let them buy the things when they can, though we always gave away _some_. I wonder if we can have a club here."

"There is a sort of one I think," I said. "Anna Gale and her aunt manage it. But I'm sure it is stupidly done. They are so dull and stupid about everything."

Evey glanced up quickly.

"Mother is so clever about things like that," she said. "Perhaps something might be done about it. I daresay she would talk about it to Miss Gale. There are a good many new ideas about such things now, and perhaps--perhaps it is a little old-fashioned here, and mother might improve it. I think Anna Gale must be a very good girl."

"Oh, yes," I said contemptuously; "she's _good_ enough." Again Evey's quick little glance. I didn't quite like it.

"Evey," I said, "you needn't look at me that way. I know it's wrong to say unkind things of people, but when any one _is_ very dull and stupid, you can't say they're interesting and clever."

"I don't think you needed to say anything. I wasn't asking you about what the Gales were," said Evey, in her rather blunt way. "I don't mean to be rude or laying down the law, Connie, only--"

"Mother says," Mary interrupted in her shy way--"mother says it is always so very easy to find fault and to see the worst of people. It takes much more cleverness trying to see the best of them."

I had begun to feel rather angry, but Mary's words made me think a little.

"Well," I said, "I daresay that's true. But, I don't like Anna Gale, I suppose, and I daresay I've never tried to. Do you think that's wrong? You can't like everybody the same."

"No," said Evey, "not the same. That's just the difference. But there's _something_ to like in nearly everybody. And I think we should try to see that part of them most. But, _of course_, you don't need to like everybody the same; that would do away with friends and friendship. One thing I do like you for, Connie, is that you're frank and honest."

I smiled.

"Well, then, try to think most of that part of me," I said, repeating her own words. "No, I'd like you to see the bad parts of me too, and help me to be better."

Evey opened wide her bright brown eyes, and for once she got a little red.

"My dear Connie," she said, "I'm far too full of bad things myself to be able to make any one else better," and I saw she quite meant it.

A nice little thing happened that afternoon as we were leaving, which was great encouragement to me. It had grown rather chilly, and at the door I was helping mamma on with some extra wraps we had brought.

"You mustn't catch cold, mamma dear," I said.

We thought we were alone, but just then Evey ran out again with some forgotten message to mamma, and as they two were speaking I heard voices just behind the inner door.

"I like to see how gentle and tender Connie Percy is to her mother," one said--it was Mrs Whyte's. "I might have been sure any girl Lady Honor liked would be _that_."

Where were all my unworthy fears that Lady Honor had spoken "against me" to the Whytes?

CHAPTER EIGHT.

FOUND WANTING.

That winter and spring and summer, and the winter that followed them too, were, happy as my life had been in many ways, the happiest I had ever known. I was not, of course, constantly with the Whytes, for we had our lessons separately, and they had a great many other things to do beside lessons, things which it had never entered my head that a little girl could help in, though, once I made a start, I found that this had been quite a mistake.

I have marked down a few special days to write about--for looking back upon your life after a few years you can see what were the really important things that happened, the events which were the first links in a chain that led to lasting effects--little and trifling as these events may have seemed at the time.

Yvonne's birthday was in November. Not a very nice month for a birthday, one might think. But, as I have said before, November in our part of the world is often very nice. _Some_ days in it are sure to be so, and of course we made up our minds that _the_ day could not but be one of the nicest.

"I have always been sorry my birthday was in November," said Evey one afternoon, a week or two before the important date, "but Connie has almost made me change my mind."

"I think it rather suits you," I said. "You wouldn't seem in your place on a very hot, lazy, full-summer day, when one _can't_ be active and energetic and useful: the sort of day when you feel you _may_ be idle and of no use for once," and I gave a little sigh. They all laughed.

"Poor Connie," said Mary, "Evey has bullied you out of your nice comfortable lazy ways rather too much, hasn't she? Well, I'll tell you what, when your birthday comes you shall stay in bed and we'll all come and pay you a visit."

They were paying me a visit that day. We were at tea in my schoolroom: I was making the tea--pouring it out I mean--and mamma, who had come in to see how we were getting on, was sitting knitting in the window, where Evey had just carried her a cup. Two of the boys were with us; Addie, whom they always tried to get any treat for, as he was kept out of so many boys' pleasures; and Charley, the next in age to him. Lancelot and Jocelyn did not often honour us with their society; they were working very hard now, at their particular studies.

Mamma looked up at this speech of Mary's, and said quickly:

"I am sure that way of spending her birthday would not be at all to Connie's taste. She has _never_ been lazy, though of course in a large family there are a great many things to do that it would be absurd to spend time over where there is only one child and plenty of servants."

I felt a little vexed. Mamma need not have started up in my defence, and _I_ knew that even if I had never been actually lazy, I had, before I began to think about such things, been often very, very _idle_. I could tell by mamma's tone that she was annoyed, though she spoke as usual quite gently. I could see, too, that Yvonne and Mary felt it, but then they were so simple and downright that they never took things in a hurt, _self_ sort of way. Mary's face shadowed over a little--she was just sorry to have vexed mamma, and ready to blame herself.

"Oh, dear Mrs Percy," she exclaimed, "_please_ don't think I was in earnest. It would have been very unkind and--impertinent. Do you know we often say Connie is the most active of us all, and it's all the more credit to her, for she doesn't _need_ to be, like us. You couldn't fancy one of us ever able to sit with our hands before us doing nothing--up at the Yew Trees. Now could you?"

And she broke into a merry sweet little laugh, for, indeed, the idea of any one at the Yew Trees indulging in much _dolce far niente_, was rather comical. They had only two servants, and the odd man, for all there was to do, and yet everything was nice and comfortably done, and there was never any "fussing," which _is_ so disagreeable.

The laugh made Mary's peace.

"It is all right, my dear," said mamma, kindly. "I daresay I take up things mistakenly sometimes," she added. "You must forgive me; I fear I lost some of my capacity for fun long ago."

She spoke in the rather touching way she sometimes, but rarely, did, when one could see she was thinking of that sad long ago time. Yvonne and Mary glanced at each other, and then at her half wistfully. They knew the story, of course, and even if mamma had been cross and disagreeable, I don't believe they would ever have found it in their hearts to blame her. Still, there was no doubt mamma had never taken to Mary in the same way as to Evey. It was partly, I think, because of the name, "Evey" I mean, which mamma loved so; and partly--now I _hope_ it is not wrong or disrespectful of me to say this--that Mary was like me, only _much_ prettier, and I am afraid poor little darling mamma was a tiny atom jealous _for_ me.

However, it was all smoothed down now about Mary's little speech, and the boys' talk soon took away any feeling of constraint.

"The worst of a birthday so near Christmas," said Charley, thoughtfully, "is that it muddles the presents. Either you feel as if you'd got too much, or else people give you less than if Christmas wasn't coming, and that isn't fair."

"It doesn't matter so much now we've made a new rule," said Addie. "We all give birthday presents to each other, but at Christmas we only give them to father and mother, and they give to us. It's a good plan."

"Yes," said Mary, "there are so many of us, you see, that the lots of Christmas presents were really dreadful."

You might think from this that the Whytes were very rich--but if you had seen the simple presents they gave each other! Yet they weren't silly or rubbishing, though as often as not home-made, and if not home-made, useful and practical--like gloves or neckties--the kind of presents _I_, I am afraid, would rather have despised. I once heard a rather spoilt little girl call such things "at any rate presents," meaning that she would have got them _any way_. But new gloves and so on were too rare among my nine friends for them to be looked on in this way.

"Mother made another rule," said Charley, who was rather a chatterbox, "at least it wasn't a settled rule--it was one we might keep or not and nobody need know--it was about birthdays, for everybody on their birthday to promise themselves that they'd do something kind to somebody--I mean something _extra_, you know, like Addie writing a long letter to old nurse, which is rather a bore. But he did it."

Addie grew red.

"And," pursued the irrepressible Charley. "I _think_ I know what Evey's fixed for her private birthday treat, that's what we call it. I couldn't help hearing, Evey--your door was wide open when you were telling Mary. She's going to ask An--"

"Charley, _hush_," cried Evey, for once almost cross. "If you couldn't help hearing, you could help telling it over. And I hadn't settled--I haven't yet."

"If it's anything about Anna Gale, I just hope you haven't settled," I said, _very_ crossly. "At least I hope you won't go and do anything that will spoil your birthday for other people."

Yvonne did not answer, but Mary began talking rather eagerly about a new game we were going to try, and for the time I forgot about Anna Gale.

I was very anxious and important about _my_ present to Evey. I had plenty of pocket-money, and I would have loved to give Evey something _very_ nice. But mamma--I rather think it was papa who put it into her head to say so to me--told me that she did not think it would do to give Yvonne anything very expensive. It might rather annoy the Whytes instead of pleasing them. I felt very disappointed at first, till mamma reminded me that if my real wish was to give pleasure to Evey, I should not risk mingling anything uncomfortable with it.

"That would be selfish," she said, "pleasing yourself instead of her," and I saw that that was true.

Indeed, everything in this world that is worth anything seems mixed up with self-denial! The longer one lives the more one sees this--I suppose it is _meant_ to be so.

There did seem rather more self-denial than need have been about Evey's birthday. I don't think so _now_; it was my own fault that things went wrong. If I had been different about it, lots of going wrong would have been avoided, but I must tell it all straight on as well as I can, and as nearly as it happened.

Two or three days before the birthday, Evey came to me looking rather grave.

"Connie," she said, "I've something to tell you which I'm afraid will vex you rather. It's about my birthday. You remember what Charley said the other day?"

"About doing something nice for other people on your birthday," I said. "Oh, you needn't tell me anything more, Evey. I know what it is--you're going to ask that horrid Anna Gale; well, I must say, I don't see that you've any right to spoil _other_ people's pleasure, whatever you choose to do about your own. That is a queer sort of self-sacrifice."

Yvonne looked very distressed, I had never seen her bright face so troubled before.

"Connie," she said, "you do make me feel so unhappy, and rather puzzled. I wonder if really I have been selfish when I was so wanting to be unselfish. But it can't be helped now. I'm not _going_ to ask Anna, because I _have_ asked her."

Poor Evey; she got red and blurted it out. I think she was a little afraid of me. I was very angry, and I fear something mean in me made me get still more so when I saw that she was frightened.

"Upon my word," I said, "you're a queer sort of friend. If it _had_ to be done, you might at least have told me about it, and given me the chance of being self-denying too--it wouldn't have seemed _quite_ so bad then. But to be forced into joining in a horrid thing and not to get any credit for it, I don't think _that's_ fair. I won't come to your birthday, Evey, that'll be the best way out of it; and if you do care for me as you make out, that'll be a little more self-denial, as you're so fond of it."

Evey looked on the point of crying, and she very seldom cried.

"Oh, Connie," she said, "you _can't_ be in earnest."

But that was all.

I only saw her once again before the birthday, and that was after church on Sunday, when Mary came running after mamma and me--we were walking home rather quickly--to say that Evey had sent her to remind me not on any account to be later than three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday was _the_ day.