After they had gone, neither mamma nor I spoke for a minute or two. I
did not quite know what to say, and I was not sorry to have some little
time to consider, while mamma quickly wrote a few words on a sheet of
paper, which she folded and addressed to Mrs Green. Then she rang for
Benjamin, and told him to take the note at once and bring back an
answer.
"I could have taken it, mamma," I said. "Mrs Green's is so near."
It was not often I volunteered any little service of this kind, but
somehow I had a wish to be of use to Evey Whyte, too, and I spoke in a
matter-of-fact way, as if it was quite a usual thing for me to do.
"Thank you, dear," said mamma. "I don't think you should go out till we
see what the day is going to be. Your cold is not quite gone yet."
"Oh, bother!" I said, crossly. "Mamma, I wish you would not fuss so.
I'm sure that little girl looks far more delicate than I, and she's out.
I only wish I had gone out _quite_ early, and then they wouldn't have
come in and found everything in such a mess."
"I mind the most their seeing you yourself in such a mess," said mamma,
regretfully. "I don't think you should do the flowers if it dirties you
so."
"Oh, I _needn't_ be so dirty," I said. "But I didn't mind that half as
much as the drawing-room;" and then I had to explain how I had
interfered with the housemaid.
"It can't be helped," mamma replied. "They are nice, kind people, I am
sure, and the next time they come we must have things ready. Besides,
such a large family as they are, they can't be always in apple-pie order
themselves. Connie," she went on, "did you hear that dear child's
name?"
"Of course," I said, rather sharply. "They call her Evey, but her
name's not `Eva,' nor `Evelyn'--she told me so, and she was just going
to tell me her real name, when Captain Whyte called to her. I daresay
it's some name not the least like `Eva.'"
"Oh," said mamma, in a tone of disappointment, "I had hoped it was."
In my heart I was sorry for her; how gentle and kind she was! And when
I went upstairs to wash my hands, I had even more reason to think so,
for when I looked in the glass--oh dear!--what an untidy, dirty little
girl I saw! There was a smear of mould all down one cheek, some of
which I had rubbed on to my nose, and my hair was straggling and my
frock torn, as I have said. "I would have scolded _my_ daughter
dreadfully if I had been mamma," I said to myself. And I got hot and
red all over when I thought of my grand plans and pictures of my first
meeting with our new friends.
My next meeting with them, though different from this first one, was
also quite different from my fancies. We saw the Whytes in church on
Sunday--not Mrs Whyte, she was not to come until Monday--but Captain
Whyte and Evey and a big boy--quite big, looking almost grown up, and
three small ones--dear little fellows in sailor-suits, all in a row,
between Evey and the big brother. And they were so good! Evey herself
was as neat as could be, and her jacket and hat were a very nice shape,
and her hair prettily done. Altogether I began to be afraid the Whytes
were not the sort of people I could at all "show off" to--(not that I
called it "showing off" to myself). And after church I saw Lady Honor
hurry up to them, and I _felt_ she was asking them all to go home with
her to luncheon. So I walked on rather gloomily beside mamma.
"I don't think I want to know the Whytes," I said; "I think they're very
stuck-up."
Mamma stared at me in astonishment.
"Connie, dear?" she said, "that simple child! And so plainly dressed,
too. She might rather think it of you, I'm afraid."
But she glanced at me so proudly as she said it, that my self-love felt
rather smoothed down than otherwise.
"I am glad for little Miss Whyte to see that you are not _usually_ going
about in a torn frock and with a dirty face," mamma went on. "Of
course, Mrs Whyte could not afford to dress several children as one can
dress an only one, though they certainly look very neat. I am sure
every one must admire that jacket of yours, Connie; it is really very
pretty."
It was a new jacket, dark-brown velvet, very handsomely trimmed with
fur; rather _too_ handsome altogether, I now think, for a girl of the
age I was then. But I had been very well pleased with it and the cap to
match, and it had struck me--though really I was _not_ vain of my looks,
nor much interested in my clothes--as I was dressing, that my fair, long
hair looked nice on the rich, dark velvet. Now, however, I gave myself
a dissatisfied shake.
"I don't think I like it, mamma. I would much rather have a tweed
jacket and frock the same. I think velvet and fur are rather vulgar.
And--mamma--I wish you'd cut my hair off--I think Evey Whyte looks so
nice with her short, dark, curly hair." I forget if I have said that
Evey's hair was almost as short as a boy's.
Mamma gasped. "Cut off your hair, Connie!" she said. "My Sweet
Content's great beauty! Cut off your hair, Connie?"
I was beginning a rather cross reply, when steps behind us--short,
quick, pattering steps--made both mamma and me look round. A little boy
in a sailor suit was running after us, and behind him again, at some
little distance, we saw Evey, also running.
"Oh, please, please stop," panted the small boy. He was the biggest of
the three we had seen in church. "Evey's got something to say to you,
Mrs Percy."
He tugged off his cap as he spoke, and stood smiling up at us--his
round, rosy face all in a glow. He was a dear, sunburnt little fellow,
not the least shy, and yet not a bit forward.
"I am so sorry we did not hear you coming before," said mamma, kindly.
"You have run so far. I hope you won't get cold from being so
overheated," she added, anxiously.
"Oh no, thank you. I never catch cold. It's only Addie that catches
cold," the boy replied. He evidently thought we must know who Addie
was, and all about him or her. And by this time Evey's voice was heard
near at hand.
"How do you do, Mrs Percy?" she said. "I hope you didn't mind Charley
running after you? It was Lady Honor sent him, and I've come to
explain. She wants to know if you will let Connie--mayn't I say
`Connie'?--come to luncheon at her house with all of us? We're _all_
going--isn't it kind?--Charley and Douglas and Tot and Papa and Lancey,
too. Oh, do let Connie come. I'm the only girl, and I do feel so funny
without Mary."
She was so bright and eager it would have been difficult to refuse. My
contradictory humour melted away before her heartiness, and I smiled
back in answer to the unspoken inquiry in mamma's face.
"Certainly, my dear; I shall be delighted for Connie to go. Please
thank Lady Honor very much. Shall I send for her in the afternoon?"
"Oh, please, we can bring her home. We aren't going to church, because
we're not very settled yet, and the servants couldn't go this morning,
so we shall be going home by ourselves and passing your house before
four o'clock. Connie won't spoil her things," she added considerately,
glancing at my smart attire, "for we shan't be romping, as it is
Sunday."
"Oh, I'm not afraid. Connie is not a great frock-tearer," said mamma,
smiling, though she spoke quickly. I think she was afraid that my
appearance the other day was still in Evey's memory. "Then good-bye,
Connie, till four o'clock. And good-bye, Master Charley, and many
thanks. Thank you, too, Miss Whyte, very much."
Then we separated. Mamma continuing her way home, quite happy in my
happiness, while I retraced my steps with Evey and her brother. Evey
glanced over her shoulder at mamma.
"You don't mind Mrs Percy going home alone, I hope?" she said, half
anxiously.
It had never struck me that there was anything to mind!
"Oh, of course not," I said.
Evey looked a little sorry, but walked on.
"I didn't mean--" she began. "At least, I only meant--" then her face
cleared. She evidently thought she had hit upon an explanation of my
indifference. "I see," she said; "it must be quite different when one
is an only child. Your mother _must_ be alone, sometimes; it isn't like
ours. You see there are such a lot of us; she would feel quite
miserable if there weren't some of us with her. At least, she says so,"
and Evey laughed merrily.
"Perhaps," I said, half mischievously, "she says it a _little_ out of
politeness. I think grown-up people all do like to be alone
_sometimes_."
We both laughed at this, and then the remains of shyness that had hung
about seemed quite to disappear. But I did not forget Evey's gentle
anxiety about mamma.
We soon came up to the others, who were all walking on slowly together--
such a party they looked! Captain Whyte and old Mr Bickersteth in
front, then Lady Honor and the big boy, Lancey, and the two smaller
sailor-suits, Tot and Douglas, as Evey had called them, now joined by
Charley, bringing up the rear.
"What a lot of you there must be when you are all together," I
exclaimed, not very politely, I am afraid, to Evey. She smiled, as if
she thought it rather a compliment.
"Yes," she said--we were walking rather more slowly now to get back our
breath, as Lady Honor had nodded back to us to show it was all
right--"yes, eight are a good many, and somehow, so many being boys,
makes it seem even more--in the house above all. Boys can't help being
noisy, you see."
She said it in such an old-fashioned way that I couldn't help smiling.
"I don't know much about boys," I said. "I think I'd rather have
sisters."
"Oh, no, you wouldn't," replied Evey quickly. "You don't _know_ how
nice brothers are. When you see Joss--" but here she had to break off.
Lady Honor had stepped back a pace or two to speak to us. Her face
looked very kind and pleased, and there was nothing the least "mocking,"
as I called it to myself, in her tone.
"That's right, Connie, my dear," she said, as she shook hands with me.
"Very good of your dear mother to let you come. Now, is it your place
or mine, Evey, to introduce all these brothers of yours to Miss Percy,
or shall we let things settle themselves? You _will_ learn them all in
time, Connie, though it may seem at first as if you never would."
In Evey's place I should probably have been rather offended at this,
but, on the contrary, both she and her brothers seemed to think the old
lady's joke very amusing.
"I'll introduce them by telling Connie all their names and ages, thank
you, Lady Honor," she answered brightly. "Come on, Connie; it will take
some time, I warn you." We ran on a little way together, Lady Honor
looking quite pleased. It was easy to see that she really wanted Evey
and me to be friends, and I felt gratified at this.
"It will be nice for Evey sometimes to get out of all that crowd of
boys," I thought to myself. "I daresay Lady Honor thinks being with me
may make her quiet and refined," though, truth to tell, for all her
simplicity, I had seen no touch of anything the least rough or hoydenish
in my new friend.
"Lady Honor is always so funny, isn't she?" was Evey's first remark, as
soon as we were out of hearing. "Papa says it's delightful to see an
old person so fresh and merry. But she has such a kind heart: that
keeps people young more than anything," she added, in her wise way.
"Yes," I agreed, "she is very kind; but sometimes she's rather"--"rather
sharp," I was going to say, but something in Evey's eyes made me
hesitate--"I mean I sometimes am a very little frightened of her."
"You needn't be," said Evey, composedly. "If you had ever stayed in the
house with her for weeks together as we do at my uncle's at Christmas,
you would see that she's just _quite_ good."
I could not say anything more after that, and Evey evidently wanted to
change the subject.
"Shall I tell you _us_, now?" she began again, laughingly. "That big
Lancey is the eldest of us--he's sixteen, and, of course, his name's
Lancelot. Then comes Joss--he's Jocelyn--those two names and mine are
very--what's the word--not `fanciful,' but something like that."
"Fantastic," I suggested.
"Yes, that's it. How clever of you to know!" she said, admiringly. "At
least they sound so, though really the boys' names are both family
ones."
"But yours," I interrupted, "isn't a very fanciful one--`Eva' or
`Evelyn'--oh, no; you said it wasn't one of these. I forgot."
"It's Yvonne," said Evey. "It's a French name--a very old French name.
A cousin of mother's was called Yvonne first, and I'm named after her.
Then, after these three names, we get quite sensible. Next to me is
Mary, `plain Mary' we call her in fun, because she's the prettiest of
us! And then come Addie and Charley and Douglas and Tot. Addie's the
delicate one, and Charley and the two little ones you've seen."
"What a lot of boys!" I said, my breath nearly taken away.
"Yes," said Evey, laughing; "and fancy, now they'll all be living at
home. Won't it be nice? Till now, you know, Lancey and Joss have been
at school away, but now they'll all be at home; at least till Lancey
goes to India," and for the first time Evey sighed a little at this
doleful prospect.
"Dear me," I thought to myself, "surely they'll be glad to get rid of a
few of them. I should think their mother would, any way."
But, as if she answered my thought, Evey went on: "Mother can't bear to
think of Lancey going; nor Joss either, and I suppose he'll have to go,
too. We have an uncle there who is a tea-planter; they're going to him.
Joss would give anything not to--he wants to go to college, but of
course it's _impossible_, so we never speak about it."
"And doesn't Lancey mind?" I said.
"Not so much, except just for leaving us. But it's no good thinking of
things long before they come. We've settled that we're going to be as
happy as anything at the Yew Trees for two years at least. Oh, how nice
it is, and _how_ kind your father has been about putting it in order.
We've never had a house at all like it before; our house at Southsea was
so--just like other houses you know."