"She is thinking that I don't do much, I can see," I began fancying.
But Evey broke in upon my disagreeable thoughts.
"I don't think it's any credit to me that I can play the organ a little,
truly," she said. "I've had such good lessons every year in London,
where we never really have anything to do except things like that. And
at Southsea I was always allowed to practise on the church organ. We
have a harmonium of our own," she went on to me. "It's very nice, but
of course not as nice as this dear organ," and she touched the keys
lovingly. Mr Bickersteth's organ was a very nice one indeed.
And, a few minutes after that, we went home. The Whytes, all six of
them, escorted me all the way, as Lady Honor's is not far from our
house, and I showed them the short cut across the fields to the Yew
Trees through a turnstile close to us. It was very kind of them all the
same, for they had to hurry a good deal after that to get home in time
to send the servants to church.
I found mamma by herself in the study. We don't use the drawing-room on
Sunday.
"Well, darling?" she said. I knew that meant a tender inquiry as to how
I had enjoyed myself, but a rather contradictory mood had come over me.
"It was very nice," I said. "But, they're not a bit like what I thought
they would be, mamma. You know--when we heard they were so poor--"
"But they _are_ poor," she replied, "and I'm sure they are not--they
would not set themselves up in any disagreeable way. They seem so
well-bred."
"Ye-es," I said. "They're--oh I think they are just everything they
should be, whether they're poor or not. They're _much_ cleverer than
me, mamma. They've learnt so many things I haven't, and seen so much
more--they go to London _every_ year--and--"
My depressed, discontented tone must have hurt and troubled mamma, for
she answered indignantly:
"It is very wrong and unkind of them--of that girl," she said, "to boast
and show off to you, darling. You are too sensitive. I am quite sure
they are not cleverer than my Connie, and as for looks--You shall not
see any more of them, dear. It would be quite new indeed for my Sweet
Content to be made discontented. I am disappointed in Evey Whyte. I
was sure she was so nice."
There was a hot, red spot on each of poor mamma's cheeks; this state of
things was not at all what I had bargained for. I had only wanted to
work off my own dissatisfaction, which was partly jealousy, but partly
too, I hope, a less unworthy feeling, by grumbling and by trying to put
blame on those who had had the care of me. I was punished.
"Oh no, no, mamma dear," I said eagerly. "Evey's _not_ like that.
She's not the least _atom_ boasting; it was more--things I noticed and
asked about, myself. It's not only that she's clever--you should hear
how she can play the organ; but I daresay you'd let me learn it too, if
I liked--it's--it's partly, mamma, that I can feel she's so much more
useful, and--and unselfish than I am. I can see it quite well; she does
such a lot to help her mother and them all."
And, greatly to mamma's surprise and distress, I leaned my head down on
her lap and burst into tears.
How she consoled and petted me! How she assured me I was _everything_
to her; the very light of her eyes; her comfort, her blessing--that she
could not wish me any different from what I was, and ever so much more
in the same strain. It was very sweet, and to a certain extent
soothing, but in the end it only deepened the impression. For it made
me feel how utterly unselfish and self-forgetting mamma was, above all
wherever I was concerned, and it made me feel, too, how little I
deserved such devotion. Then the thought of her cruel trials came over
me as it had never done before--how often I had grudged my sympathy to
her? Even if she were almost weakly and foolishly indulgent to me, she
was scarcely to be blamed. Instead of taking advantage of it and
treating her fondness with something very like contempt, as I had often
done, would not the right way be to try my best to be more worthy of it?
I don't know what put the thought into my head just then. I had a
queer feeling that if I had been talking it all over with Yvonne, it was
what _she_ would have said, for it had struck me once or twice that in
her way of speaking to and of mamma there had been a special sort of
tenderness, almost reverence, as if she had heard her sad story, and I
remembered the anxious, half-reproachful way she had glanced at me when
I seemed so indifferent about mamma's walking home alone. Yes; I felt
and knew that the sudden thought was one Evey would have approved of,
and I grew calmer. I wiped my eyes and kissed mamma as I had seldom
done before: a new kind of strength seemed to come into me, and I
resolved that from that moment I would care for her in quite a new way.
"Mamma dear," I whispered, "you are too good to me. But I will try to
be better. Only will you please let me be more useful to you? I am
sure," I added, and if this was a _very_ little cunning, I don't think
it was in a naughty way--"I am sure I should be far happier if I felt I
were of use."
And of course mamma promised. What would she not have promised me! I
think she told over this conversation to papa, and if any lingering
feeling of indignation against Evey had still been in her mind, I am
sure what he said must have removed it. For the next morning they were
both full of plans for my being a great deal with the Whytes, and of
little kindnesses we might do to them, without, as papa said, seeming
officious or--he hesitated for a word.
"Patronising," mamma suggested. He smiled at this.
"My dear," he said, "_that_ we could not possibly be accused of towards
the Whytes. You scarcely realise--"
But there he stopped. I felt a little ashamed when I recalled one or
two of my speeches to Evey.
"Papa has always such _perfectly_ nice feelings," I thought; and as I
glanced at his kind, quiet face I said to myself that I might indeed be
proud of him. And when he kissed me that morning before he went out, I
felt something in his kiss that seemed to say he understood me and my
new resolutions, better even than mamma did.