One of the hardest things about trying to be good, particularly about
trying to be _better_, for that means getting out of bad ways as well as
getting into good ones, is the dreadful persistence of bad habits. Even
when your heart is quite, _quite_ in earnest, and your mind too, and
often at the very time you're planning beautifully about keeping your
new resolutions, and quite bubbling over with eagerness about them, you
get a sudden shock, just as if you had walked straight into a bath of
cold water that you didn't know was there--and oh, dear, you stop to
find you have done the exact wrong or foolish thing you had been fixing
so to avoid.
How many times this happened to me about the new resolutions I wrote of
in the last chapter I should be afraid to say. Sometimes it was almost
laughable. One morning I remember I was busy writing down one or two
rules I had thought might help me, when I heard mamma's voice calling
me.
"Bother," I said to myself in my old way, "I shall never remember about
the third rule, if I leave it just now."
And I went on calmly writing, just calling to mamma, "Yes, yes, I'll
come directly;" and so absorbed was I, that when, a full quarter of an
hour afterwards, I happened to glance out of the window, and saw mamma
hot and out of breath from a chase after my new Persian kitten, who had
escaped through the conservatory and might _very_ easily have got lost
or stolen, or even killed, it never struck me that I might have saved
her this trouble. Trouble on my account, too!
"What _is_ the matter, mamma?" I exclaimed as I ran out, half crossly,
for I could not bear to see her so tired and breathless. "How you do
fuss--why didn't you make the servants fetch Persica in?"
"My dear," said mamma, as gently as if I had any right to find fault
with her, "you know she won't come to any one but you or me; and I did
call you."
How ashamed I felt! I tore up the rules, and called them nasty things
in my own mind, which was exceedingly silly. Afterwards, when I had had
more talk with Yvonne, and Mary, I made some others. Not half such
grand ones. Only very, very simple ones, which I almost despised on
that account; but they were useful to me, by showing me that, simple as
they were, it was no easy matter to keep them, even for a few hours at a
time.
You see I had been selfish all my life. I had never even _thought_ of
its being wrong. Once I did begin to think about it, I was perfectly
startled and horrified to find how wide-spreading and deep-rooted my
selfishness was. I should often have lost heart altogether had it not
been for my new friends. Not that they ever "preached" to me or to
anybody, it was just the seeing and _feeling_ how different they were,
from what a different point of view they looked at everything, that made
me understand better where I was wrong, and take courage to go on
trying. And now and then nice things happened to make me feel I was
getting on a little; some of these I will tell you about, though I have
also to tell you of some rather dreadful things that showed how very
naughty and horrid--oh! I get hot still when I think of one of these--I
still was.
It was not only selfishness I had to fight against I was exceedingly,
absurdly, really _vulgarly_ self-conceited and stuck-up. I don't think
Evey and Mary really ever knew the worst of me; for one thing, I began
to _try_ almost from the first of knowing them; for another, just as an
honest person cannot believe, and never suspects another of dishonesty
till he is actually _forced_ to do so, the dear Whytes were too sincere
and simple and single-minded to understand or take in my ridiculous
vanity and affectations.
But I must tell about my first visit to the Yew Trees--I mean my first
visit to its new inhabitants. It was two or three days after the Sunday
at Lady Honor's. I was fidgeting dreadfully to see Evey again, and I
think one of my first real "tries" at not being selfish was doing my
best not to tease mamma about when we should go, and worrying her all
day long to fix the exact day and hour.
It was not a very hard "try" certainly, for it was only on Wednesday
morning that papa told us at breakfast that he had met Captain Whyte the
evening before, and had been told by him that Mrs Whyte and the other
children had arrived that morning.
"He said," papa went on, "that Mrs Whyte would be very pleased to see
you, Rose; and when you go to call on her, you are to be sure to take
Connie."
"When should we go, do you think?" asked mamma.
"Not to-day--they will hardly be settled enough to see us."
"I don't know that," papa replied. "Captain Whyte said _any_ time; the
sooner the better. Mrs Whyte may have little things to ask you about;
and I fancy they are very methodical, sensible people, who will soon get
into order."
"They all help so; they're so useful," I could not help saying with a
little sigh.
"Well, dear," said mamma, with an encouraging glance, "other little
daughters are useful, too. You should have seen how beautifully Connie
dusted and rearranged the bookshelves for me yesterday, Tom," she went
on to papa, for which he gave me one of his nicest smiles.
And it was settled that mamma and I should go that very afternoon.
I felt a very little nervous about seeing Mrs Whyte. Somehow the
mother of such very well brought up children, and a person, too, whom
Lady Honor evidently approved of so thoroughly, must, it seemed to me,
be rather alarming; and I am not sure but that dear mamma was a very
little nervous too.
"We won't stay long, Connie," she said, as we drew near the Yew Trees.
"Very likely they are still busy, though they don't mind us. I have
been thinking we might ask Evey and her sister to spend an afternoon
with you--to-morrow perhaps, or the day after."
"Yes," I said. "I should like that. If their mother can spare them,
and if all their time isn't settled out for lessons, and sewing, and
taking care of the little ones, like dreadfully good girls in
story-books. I'm afraid they're a _little_ that way, mamma--very, very
regular and punctual, and their mother rather severe and particular.
I'll tell you what I'm sure she's like, mamma. Very tall, much taller
than you,"--and mamma is not little--"and black hair, quite straightly
done, and rather small eyes, and a prim way of speaking."
Mamma began to laugh.
"Hush, Connie," she said, "you mustn't upset my gravity. Once I begin
laughing,"--poor mamma, it wasn't very often she was really merry,
though she tried to seem so for other people's sake--"I can't leave
off."
We were close to the house by this time, though the thick-growing shrubs
hid the lower part of it from view, and as mamma spoke, sounds of
ringing laughter--the most ringing, happy, _pretty_ laughter I ever
heard--reached our ears; and then voices.
"Joss, Evey, come to my rescue; catch him, the great, silly boy. No,
no, Lancey--" and then as we came right in front, we saw what it was. A
lady, a rather little lady, with dark hair--nice, wavy dark-brown hair,
like what Evey's would have been if it hadn't been so short--and the
brightest, sweetest, dark-eyed, rather gipsy-looking face, was running
at full speed across the little lawn before the door, with Lancey, the
biggest boy of all, you know, after her. She was waving something
white, a roll of paper, above her head, which Lancey was evidently
determined to get possession of, and behind him, in every direction it
seemed at the first glance, were all the rest of the young Whytes--the
three sailor-suits, two girls, Evey and a fair-haired one, and two or
three more boys. Such a lot they looked! All rushing about, shouting
and laughing at the top of their voices. Suddenly somebody--Evey, I
think--caught sight of us. There came an instant hush.
"Oh dear," were the first words the lady uttered, as she hastened up to
us. "I am so ashamed. You must think me out of my mind, Mrs Percy--it
is Mrs Percy?" with a quick bright glance of questioning. "How good of
you to come! We have been hoping you would. And this is Connie? I am
so pleased to see you, dear."
How charming she was. Not exactly pretty, but so bright and sweet and
irresistible--prettier than Evey and not as grave, but yet quite like
enough to be her mother.
"You must think me a terrible tomboy," she said, laughing again, and
blushing a very little. "But we are in such spirits. It's so long
since we've been all together like this, for the big boys only came from
school last week, and--"
"Mother _is_ rather a tomboy," said Lancelot, coolly. "I think Mrs
Percy had best understand the truth from the first, and then she will
never be shocked at our goings on."
"You impertinent boy," said his mother, laughing up at him. He was a
great deal taller than she. "You shouldn't waste your time in writing
verses, instead of doing your lessons, should he, Mrs Percy?"
This hint silenced Lancey effectually. And soon all the children
dispersed, and Mrs Whyte took mamma away into the house. Only Yvonne
and the fair-haired girl, who, I knew, must of course be Mary, stayed
with me. I had not yet spoken--I had felt so completely bewildered by
the contrast between the real Mrs Whyte and the fancy picture I had
been drawing of her just the moment before, that no words came to my
lips.
Yvonne thought that I was feeling shy, I suppose, and to put me at my
ease she drew forward her sister.
"This is `plain Mary,' Connie," she said. "I see I must introduce you
formally. Doesn't she suit her name?" she added, and I could hear in
her tone how proud she was of Mary.
No wonder. Mary was _so_ pretty. She was very, very fair--and she
seemed even fairer beside her rather gipsy-like mother and sister. But
she had dark eyes, much darker than mine; I am not speaking of myself
out of conceit, truly, but because I know that fair hair and dark eyes
are thought pretty, as mamma has often praised mine, and Mary's hair is
fairer and her eyes darker than mine, and she has a very sweet
expression, what is called an "appealing" expression, I think. She
stood there glancing up at Evey in a little timid way, as if accustomed
to be protected and directed by her, that I did think so sweet. I had
not one atom of jealousy--I am so glad I hadn't--in my thoughts as I
looked at her, even though there was a _sort_ of likeness between her
and me that might have made me feel jealous of her being so much
prettier. But then, this particular kind of envy has not been my
temptation; so it wasn't any goodness in me not to feel it. I just
stood looking at Mary with a real nice pleasure in her sweetness. And
she looked at me with a shy smile in her eyes, and Yvonne looked at us
both for a moment in silence. Then she gave a sort of jump and clapped
her hands.
"Connie," she said, "I knew there was something that made me feel sure
I'd love you at once. Do you know you and Mary are really rather like
each other? I wonder if the others have seen it?"