"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.