"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."