When I said "a pleasant day _for November_," I think I should have left
out the two last words. For they rather sound as if November was rarely
pleasant, and though this may be the case in some parts of England it is
certainly not so with us. Our Novembers are generally this way: there
are some perfectly horrible days, rain, rain, slow and hopeless; not
heavy, but so steady that you long to give a shake to the clouds and
tell them to be quick about it. And then for a day or two, everything
and everywhere are just _sopping_; it's almost worse than the rain, for
the sky still looks grim and sulky and as if it more than half thought
of beginning again. But _then_--there comes sometimes a little wind,
and faint gleams of sunshine, sparkle out, growing steadier and fuller,
and then we generally have a few days together of weather that for
pleasantness can scarcely be matched. They are soft, quiet, dreamy
days; the sunshine is never bright exactly, but gentle and a little
melancholy. There is a queer feeling of having been naughty and being
forgiven: the wind comes in little whispering sobs, like a tiny child
that can't leave off crying all at once; the whole world seems tired and
yet calm and hopeful in a far-off sort of way. Somehow these days make
me feel much _gooder_ ("better" doesn't do so well) than even the
brightest and loveliest spring or summer-time. They make me think more
of Heaven--and they make me dreadfully sorry for all the naughty selfish
thoughts and feelings I have had. Altogether there is something about
them I can't put in words, though once--I will come to that "once" later
on--some one said a thing that seemed to explain it almost exactly.
And this day--the day we went to the Yew Trees--it was the first time
mamma and I had been there for very long--was one of those days. It was
not late in November, so though it had been raining tremendously only
the day before, the clearing-up process had been got through much more
expeditiously than usual, and the sun had of course rather more strength
still with which to help.
"The wind has been pretty busy in the night," said papa. "He must have
sent out all his elves to work. I scarcely remember ever seeing the
roads dry up so quickly."
"But they are rather untidy elves all the same, papa," I replied--I do
like when papa says these funny kinds of things--"just look what a lot
of their brushes and dusters they have left about."
We were driving along Crook's Lane as I spoke--the road to the Yew Trees
goes that way, right through Crook's Wood, and I pointed to lots of
boughs and branches, many of them still with their leaves on, that had
been blown off in the night.
"Yes," said papa, laughing.
We were in the pony-carriage; at least we call it the pony-carriage,
though it is much too big for Hoppo to draw, and at that time we drove a
rather small horse, a cob, of papa's in it. I did feel so happy and
nice. Papa was driving and I was beautifully wrapped up in the seat
behind, which is really quite as comfortable as the front one. It
seemed to me I had never scented the air so fresh and sweet before, nor
heard the birds' mild autumn chirpings so touching and tender.
The Yew Trees is only about a mile from us, and over the fields it is
still nearer. We were soon there, and old Martha, knowing we were
coming, had got the door open and the front steps cleaned. It did not
look at all desolate outside, for the garden had been kept tidy in a
plain sort of way. The trees which give their name to the house make a
short avenue from the gate; some of them are very fine yews, I believe,
though I always think them rather gloomy.
Inside, the rooms of course seemed bare and chilly. I had never
thoroughly explored it before, and I was surprised to find how large it
was. Mamma, of course, knew every chink and cranny, and she took me all
over while papa was speaking to a man--a builder, who had come by
appointment to meet him. It was found that the partition between the
two odd little rooms on the ground floor was a very thin one and could
be taken away quite easily, and, to mamma's great pleasure, papa decided
on this.
"It will make such a nice bright schoolroom," she said, as we went
upstairs. "And here," she went on, "is the room Bessie and I used to
have. Isn't it a nice room, Connie? Long ago, I remember, I used to
fancy that if ever my little Evie had a sister, and we came to live here
some day, I would have it beautifully done up for my own girls."
Mamma's voice faltered a little as she said this. I was not feeling
cross or impatient just then, so I answered her more gently than I am
afraid I sometimes did when she alluded to my little dead brothers and
sister.
"Well, mamma dear," I said, "if you do it up very prettily now it will
be a great pleasure to the one little girl you still have beside you,
and _also_ to the two stranger little girls. I am sure, too, that if
Eva knew about it, _she_ would be pleased. And perhaps she does."
"Darling! My own Sweet Content!" said mamma. She thought me _so_ good
for what after all was a great deal a fancy, though a harmless one, to
please myself.
"It shall be done, Connie dearest, if I can possibly manage it," said
mamma. "I wonder if the man downstairs has anything to do with the
papering and painting?"
It turned out that he had--in little country towns you don't find
separate shops for everything, you know. This was the very man in whose
window I had seen the lovely rose paper. So it was settled that on our
way home we should call in and look at several wall papers. And soon
after, we left the Yew Trees and drove off again.
Mr Bickersteth's house was between the Yew Trees and the town. As we
were passing the gate it opened, and Lady Honor came out. She was
walking slowly, for she was not strong now, and she was an old lady. In
my eyes _very_ old, for I could not remember her anything else. Papa
drew up when he saw her, and jumped down.
"We have just been at the Yew Trees," he said. "My wife and Connie are
so interested in getting it made nice for your friends."
"Ah, yes!" said Lady Honor, looking pleased, "we heard from Frank Whyte
this morning that it is settled. Very good of you to go yourself to
look over the house, my dear Mrs Percy. And Connie, too! That is an
honour--however in this case you will be rewarded. You will find the
Whyte girls delightful and most desirable companions for her, Mrs
Percy, Evey especially."
Mamma grew rather white, and gave a little gasp.
"_Evie_," she whispered (I spell it "Evie," because I know that was how
mamma _thought_ it), "do you hear, Connie?"
"Yes, of course," I said rather sharply. No one else noticed mamma, for
Lady Honor had turned to papa. I felt half provoked. I wished the
little Whyte girl had not been called "Evie."
"Mamma will always be mixing her up with our Evie, and thinking her a
sort of an angel," I thought to myself, and something very like a touch
of ugly jealousy crept into my heart. Just at that moment, unluckily,
Lady Honor glanced my way again.
"Are you quite well again, Connie?" she said. "You don't look very
bright, my dear. She needs companionship, doctor--companionship of her
own age, as I have always told you. It will do her good in every way,
yes, in _every_ way," and she tapped the umbrella which she was carrying
emphatically on the ground, while she nodded her head and looked at me
with the greatest satisfaction in her bright old eyes. I am not sure
that there was not a little touch of mischief mingled with the
satisfaction--a sort of good-natured spitefulness, if there could be
such a thing! And perhaps it was not to be wondered at: "bright" I
certainly was not looking, and indeed I fear there must have been
something very like sulkiness in my face just then. "Sweet Content,"
Lady Honor went on, half under her breath, as if speaking to herself, "a
very pretty name and a very lovely character. I was telling the Whyte
children about it when I was with them the other day."
Mamma flushed with pleasure, but I felt inwardly furious. I was sure
the old lady was mocking at me; afterwards I felt glad that papa had not
seen my face just then.
For the rest of the way, after we had said good-bye to Lady Honor, I was
quite silent. If it had not been for very shame, I would have asked to
be put down at our own house when we passed it instead of going on to
Fuller's shop. And mamma's gentle coaxing only made me crosser.
"I am sure you are too tired, darling," she kept saying. "You don't
think you have caught cold? Do say, if you feel at all chilly?"
And when I grunted some short, surly reply, she only grew more and more
anxious, till at last papa turned round and looked at me.
"She is all right, Rose," he said. "It is as mild as possible--leave
the child alone. At the same time, Connie," he added to me, "you must
answer your mother more respectfully. You have nothing to be so cross
about, my dear."
I felt startled and almost frightened. It was very seldom papa found
fault with me. Yet there was something in his tone which prevented my
feeling angry; something in his tone and in his eyes too. It was as if
he was a little sorry for me. I felt myself redden, and I think one or
two tears crept up.
"I am sorry," I said, gently.
Papa's face brightened at once, and this made it easier for me to master
myself. We were just at Fuller's by this time. I went in with papa and
mamma, and after a minute or two I found it was not difficult to talk as
usual, and to feel really interested in the papers. Papa and mamma
chose very nice ones for the dining- and drawing-rooms, and I was asked
my opinion about them all, especially about the schoolroom one. Then
came the bedroom ones, most of which were quickly decided upon. I grew
very anxious indeed when mamma asked to see the pale-grey-with-roses
one, which had been in the window a week or two ago. Fuller's man knew
it at once and brought it out.
"It is beautiful," he said, "a French paper, but expensive."
And so it was, dearer than the one chosen for the dining-room! But papa
glanced at it and then at me with a smile.
"Yes," he said, "I will have that one for the bedroom to the right--the
room off the passage up the first stair."
"Oh, papa, _thank_ you," I said earnestly. And I meant it.
I have told all these little things to make you understand as well as I
can, the mixture of feelings I had about the Whyte children even before
I ever saw them. Now I will skip a bit of time, and go on to tell about
how things actually turned out.
Things _almost never_ turn out as one expects, the older one gets the
more one sees this, especially about things one has thought of and
planned a good deal. I had planned the first seeing the Whytes ever so
many times in my own mind, always in the same way, you know, but with
little additions and improvements the more I thought it over. The
general idea of my plan was this. It was to be a lovely day: I was to
ride over with papa one morning, Hoppie was to be looking his sweetest,
and as we rode up to the house I was to see (and pretend not to see, of
course) a lot of heads peeping out of a window to admire the little girl
and her pony. Then we should be shown into the drawing-room, which I
had furnished in my own mind rather shabbily and stiffly, and Captain
and Mrs Whyte would come in and begin thanking papa for all his
kindness, and would speak to me _very_ nicely and rather admiringly, and
Mrs Whyte would sigh a very little as if she wished her daughters were
more like me. She would say how _very_ much they wanted to know me, and
she would beg papa to stay a few minutes longer while she called them.
She would be very kind, but rather fussy and anxious. Then the girls
would come in, looking very eager but shy. They were to be smaller than
I, and younger-looking, very shabbily dressed, but nice, and very
admiring. I would talk to them encouragingly, and they would tell me
how beautiful they thought the rose paper, and that Lady Honor had told
them I had chosen it--at least, _perhaps_ it should be Lady Honor, I was
not quite sure--sometimes I planned that papa should smile and it should
come out by accident, as it were. Then this should lead us to talk of
flowers, and I would tell them how they might make winter nosegays to
brighten up the drawing-room a little, and I would promise them some
flowers out of our conservatory, and papa would ask Mrs Whyte to let
them come to have tea with me the next day, and they would look
delighted though half afraid, and they would all come to the door to see
me mount, and, and--on and on I would go for hours, in my fancies, of
which "I" and "we" were always the centre, the pivot on which everything
else revolved!
Now I will tell what really happened.
It was about six weeks after the day that I had gone with papa and mamma
to the Yew Trees. So it was within a fortnight of Christmas. Mamma and
I had been to the Yew Trees again once or twice to see how things were
getting on, but for the last ten days or so we had not gone, as the
Whytes' two servants and their furniture had come, and the house was
now, therefore, to all intents and purposes theirs, and one morning a
letter from Captain Whyte to papa announced that he and Mrs Whyte and
"some of our numerous youngsters" were to arrive the same day.
"Poor things," said mamma, with a little shiver, "how I do pity them
removing at this season."
"But it isn't cold," said papa. "So far it has been an unusually mild
winter, though certainly we have had a disagreeable amount of rain."
He glanced out as he spoke. It was not raining, but it looked dull and
gloomy.
"I suppose there is nothing we can do to help the Whytes?" said mamma.
"You will tell me, Tom, if you think there is."
"I almost think the kindest thing in such circumstances is to leave
people alone till they shake down a little," he replied. "However, I
shall be passing that way this evening, and I'll look in for a moment.
Captain Whyte won't mind me."
I didn't think any one could ever "mind" papa! I suppose it comes
partly from his being a doctor and knowing so much about home things,
children and illnesses, and so on, that he is so wonderfully sensible
and handy and tender in his ways--"like a woman," Prudence says; but
indeed I don't think there are many women like _him_--and I don't think
it can be all from his being a doctor, it must be a good deal from his
own kind, tender, sympathising heart.
"Please find out how soon we can go to see them at the Yew Trees," I
said. "Perhaps I might ride there with you some morning on
Hop-o'-my-thumb before mamma goes regularly to call."
"We'll see," said papa, as he went off. Of course, I was thinking of my
imaginary programme, but papa did not know that.
When he came home that night I was disappointed to find that he had not
seen any of the Whytes. Captain Whyte was out, and Mrs Whyte, after
all, had not yet come. "Only Miss Whyte and two of the young
gentlemen," the servant had said, and as papa had no very particular
reason for calling, he had not asked to see "Miss Whyte."
"Do you think she is one of the little girls?" I asked.
Papa shook his head.
"I don't know. She may be an aunt who has come to help," he said.
This idea rather annoyed me. I had not planned for a helpful aunt; it
disarranged things.
"Never mind, Connie," said mamma, thinking I was disappointed. "We
shall soon know all about them. I should think we might call early next
week. The old-fashioned rule in a country-place is to wait till you
have seen people in church," she added.
This was Wednesday. It was a good while to wait till next Monday or
Tuesday. However, I set to work at my fancies again, determining all
the same to ride past the Yew Trees, as often as I could this week. It
would be rather nice and romantic for them to have seen me riding about
without knowing who I was, before they actually met me.
Whom I meant by "they" I am not quite sure. I fancy I did the Whyte
girls the compliment of placing them _next_ in importance to myself in
my drama.
"I wonder," I thought, "if Lady Honor told them _nicely_ of my being
called `Sweet Content,' or if she said it mockingly. It was horrid of
her if she did."