That winter and spring and summer, and the winter that followed them
too, were, happy as my life had been in many ways, the happiest I had
ever known. I was not, of course, constantly with the Whytes, for we
had our lessons separately, and they had a great many other things to do
beside lessons, things which it had never entered my head that a little
girl could help in, though, once I made a start, I found that this had
been quite a mistake.
I have marked down a few special days to write about--for looking back
upon your life after a few years you can see what were the really
important things that happened, the events which were the first links in
a chain that led to lasting effects--little and trifling as these events
may have seemed at the time.
Yvonne's birthday was in November. Not a very nice month for a
birthday, one might think. But, as I have said before, November in our
part of the world is often very nice. _Some_ days in it are sure to be
so, and of course we made up our minds that _the_ day could not but be
one of the nicest.
"I have always been sorry my birthday was in November," said Evey one
afternoon, a week or two before the important date, "but Connie has
almost made me change my mind."
"I think it rather suits you," I said. "You wouldn't seem in your place
on a very hot, lazy, full-summer day, when one _can't_ be active and
energetic and useful: the sort of day when you feel you _may_ be idle
and of no use for once," and I gave a little sigh. They all laughed.
"Poor Connie," said Mary, "Evey has bullied you out of your nice
comfortable lazy ways rather too much, hasn't she? Well, I'll tell you
what, when your birthday comes you shall stay in bed and we'll all come
and pay you a visit."
They were paying me a visit that day. We were at tea in my schoolroom:
I was making the tea--pouring it out I mean--and mamma, who had come in
to see how we were getting on, was sitting knitting in the window, where
Evey had just carried her a cup. Two of the boys were with us; Addie,
whom they always tried to get any treat for, as he was kept out of so
many boys' pleasures; and Charley, the next in age to him. Lancelot and
Jocelyn did not often honour us with their society; they were working
very hard now, at their particular studies.
Mamma looked up at this speech of Mary's, and said quickly:
"I am sure that way of spending her birthday would not be at all to
Connie's taste. She has _never_ been lazy, though of course in a large
family there are a great many things to do that it would be absurd to
spend time over where there is only one child and plenty of servants."
I felt a little vexed. Mamma need not have started up in my defence,
and _I_ knew that even if I had never been actually lazy, I had, before
I began to think about such things, been often very, very _idle_. I
could tell by mamma's tone that she was annoyed, though she spoke as
usual quite gently. I could see, too, that Yvonne and Mary felt it, but
then they were so simple and downright that they never took things in a
hurt, _self_ sort of way. Mary's face shadowed over a little--she was
just sorry to have vexed mamma, and ready to blame herself.
"Oh, dear Mrs Percy," she exclaimed, "_please_ don't think I was in
earnest. It would have been very unkind and--impertinent. Do you know
we often say Connie is the most active of us all, and it's all the more
credit to her, for she doesn't _need_ to be, like us. You couldn't
fancy one of us ever able to sit with our hands before us doing
nothing--up at the Yew Trees. Now could you?"
And she broke into a merry sweet little laugh, for, indeed, the idea of
any one at the Yew Trees indulging in much _dolce far niente_, was
rather comical. They had only two servants, and the odd man, for all
there was to do, and yet everything was nice and comfortably done, and
there was never any "fussing," which _is_ so disagreeable.
The laugh made Mary's peace.
"It is all right, my dear," said mamma, kindly. "I daresay I take up
things mistakenly sometimes," she added. "You must forgive me; I fear I
lost some of my capacity for fun long ago."
She spoke in the rather touching way she sometimes, but rarely, did,
when one could see she was thinking of that sad long ago time. Yvonne
and Mary glanced at each other, and then at her half wistfully. They
knew the story, of course, and even if mamma had been cross and
disagreeable, I don't believe they would ever have found it in their
hearts to blame her. Still, there was no doubt mamma had never taken to
Mary in the same way as to Evey. It was partly, I think, because of the
name, "Evey" I mean, which mamma loved so; and partly--now I _hope_ it
is not wrong or disrespectful of me to say this--that Mary was like me,
only _much_ prettier, and I am afraid poor little darling mamma was a
tiny atom jealous _for_ me.
However, it was all smoothed down now about Mary's little speech, and
the boys' talk soon took away any feeling of constraint.
"The worst of a birthday so near Christmas," said Charley, thoughtfully,
"is that it muddles the presents. Either you feel as if you'd got too
much, or else people give you less than if Christmas wasn't coming, and
that isn't fair."
"It doesn't matter so much now we've made a new rule," said Addie. "We
all give birthday presents to each other, but at Christmas we only give
them to father and mother, and they give to us. It's a good plan."
"Yes," said Mary, "there are so many of us, you see, that the lots of
Christmas presents were really dreadful."
You might think from this that the Whytes were very rich--but if you had
seen the simple presents they gave each other! Yet they weren't silly
or rubbishing, though as often as not home-made, and if not home-made,
useful and practical--like gloves or neckties--the kind of presents _I_,
I am afraid, would rather have despised. I once heard a rather spoilt
little girl call such things "at any rate presents," meaning that she
would have got them _any way_. But new gloves and so on were too rare
among my nine friends for them to be looked on in this way.
"Mother made another rule," said Charley, who was rather a chatterbox,
"at least it wasn't a settled rule--it was one we might keep or not and
nobody need know--it was about birthdays, for everybody on their
birthday to promise themselves that they'd do something kind to
somebody--I mean something _extra_, you know, like Addie writing a long
letter to old nurse, which is rather a bore. But he did it."
Addie grew red.
"And," pursued the irrepressible Charley. "I _think_ I know what Evey's
fixed for her private birthday treat, that's what we call it. I
couldn't help hearing, Evey--your door was wide open when you were
telling Mary. She's going to ask An--"
"Charley, _hush_," cried Evey, for once almost cross. "If you couldn't
help hearing, you could help telling it over. And I hadn't settled--I
haven't yet."
"If it's anything about Anna Gale, I just hope you haven't settled," I
said, _very_ crossly. "At least I hope you won't go and do anything
that will spoil your birthday for other people."
Yvonne did not answer, but Mary began talking rather eagerly about a new
game we were going to try, and for the time I forgot about Anna Gale.
I was very anxious and important about _my_ present to Evey. I had
plenty of pocket-money, and I would have loved to give Evey something
_very_ nice. But mamma--I rather think it was papa who put it into her
head to say so to me--told me that she did not think it would do to give
Yvonne anything very expensive. It might rather annoy the Whytes
instead of pleasing them. I felt very disappointed at first, till mamma
reminded me that if my real wish was to give pleasure to Evey, I should
not risk mingling anything uncomfortable with it.
"That would be selfish," she said, "pleasing yourself instead of her,"
and I saw that that was true.
Indeed, everything in this world that is worth anything seems mixed up
with self-denial! The longer one lives the more one sees this--I
suppose it is _meant_ to be so.
There did seem rather more self-denial than need have been about Evey's
birthday. I don't think so _now_; it was my own fault that things went
wrong. If I had been different about it, lots of going wrong would have
been avoided, but I must tell it all straight on as well as I can, and
as nearly as it happened.
Two or three days before the birthday, Evey came to me looking rather
grave.
"Connie," she said, "I've something to tell you which I'm afraid will
vex you rather. It's about my birthday. You remember what Charley said
the other day?"
"About doing something nice for other people on your birthday," I said.
"Oh, you needn't tell me anything more, Evey. I know what it is--you're
going to ask that horrid Anna Gale; well, I must say, I don't see that
you've any right to spoil _other_ people's pleasure, whatever you choose
to do about your own. That is a queer sort of self-sacrifice."
Yvonne looked very distressed, I had never seen her bright face so
troubled before.
"Connie," she said, "you do make me feel so unhappy, and rather puzzled.
I wonder if really I have been selfish when I was so wanting to be
unselfish. But it can't be helped now. I'm not _going_ to ask Anna,
because I _have_ asked her."
Poor Evey; she got red and blurted it out. I think she was a little
afraid of me. I was very angry, and I fear something mean in me made me
get still more so when I saw that she was frightened.
"Upon my word," I said, "you're a queer sort of friend. If it _had_ to
be done, you might at least have told me about it, and given me the
chance of being self-denying too--it wouldn't have seemed _quite_ so bad
then. But to be forced into joining in a horrid thing and not to get
any credit for it, I don't think _that's_ fair. I won't come to your
birthday, Evey, that'll be the best way out of it; and if you do care
for me as you make out, that'll be a little more self-denial, as you're
so fond of it."
Evey looked on the point of crying, and she very seldom cried.
"Oh, Connie," she said, "you _can't_ be in earnest."
But that was all.
I only saw her once again before the birthday, and that was after church
on Sunday, when Mary came running after mamma and me--we were walking
home rather quickly--to say that Evey had sent her to remind me not on
any account to be later than three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon.
Tuesday was _the_ day.
"Certainly, dear," mamma replied, as I hesitated a little, "Connie will
be in good time. If it is a wet day she must have a fly, for our pony--
the one we drive--has got a cold, unluckily."
"But it's not going to be a rainy day," said Mary, brightly. "It's
going to be lovely. So if it's fine, Connie, do walk, and we'll meet
you. I hope the field path won't be too muddy with the rain last week."
And off she flew again, before I had time to say anything. But mamma
looked at me inquiringly.
"Is there anything the matter, darling?" she said, anxiously. I had not
told her about Anna--I was ashamed of myself in my heart.
"_Everything's_ the matter," I said, shaking myself, crossly. And then
I told her. Mamma was sorry for me, and sorry about the thing itself.
"I do think Evey might have--" she began, but then she stopped. Her
conscience would not let her say more. It was so very clear a case of
right and wrong, of selfishness and unselfishness. For she knew, and I
knew, that it was not often the Whytes could afford, any sort of
"treat"--they lived very simply and plainly, and the cakes for the
birthday were thought of a long time before. They were glad to ask Anna
to an entertainment which would really please her and her friends, much
more than being invited to tea with them quite in an every-day way.
"Dear Connie," mamma went on, "you must try to be self-denying too.
After all, I daresay Anna won't interfere much with your amusement."
"Yes she will," I said, kicking the pebbles on the road; "she'll quite
spoil it. And then she'll go telling everybody--all Miss Parker's girls
that she's such friends with--about having been at the Yew Trees for
Evey's birthday. It'll make it seem so _common_."
"You can any way go early," said mamma, "and be there with your friends
before she comes. Then you can give your present by yourself. I don't
suppose Anna will have a present, so it is better on all accounts for
you to give yours alone."
This smoothed me down a little. Then the interest of the present itself
was very great--it was a very pretty little silver brooch, made of the
letters "C" and "Y" twisted together, and in those days monogram
brooches were not yet common. It had been made to order of course, and
though it looked simple, it had really cost a good deal. Still there
was nothing about it to make the Whytes feel as if it were too handsome.
By Tuesday morning, especially when the day proved clear and fine--one
of our very sweetest November days--I had pretty well recovered my good
temper, and was prepared to make myself agreeable. But I had not really
struggled against my selfishness--I had just got tired of being cross,
and let my ill-humour drop off--so I was not at all in a firm state of
mind for resisting any new trial.
And the trial came.
It came that very morning about twelve o'clock, and it was brought by
the "boy" from the Vicarage, in the shape of a note to mamma, from Miss
Gale, senior--that is Anna's aunt--asking if her niece might call for me
on her way to the Yew Trees that afternoon, and walk there with me, as
it was not convenient to send a maid with her. There was no question of
its being much of a favour on my side. Old Miss Gale, as I called her,
seemed quite comfortably assured that it would be a pleasant arrangement
for all parties. I was with mamma when the note came; I saw there was
something wrong, and I insisted upon her telling me what it was. I
listened in silence. Then I broke out: "I _won't_ go with her; I say I
_won't_" I exclaimed loudly. "You may just write and say so, mamma."
But at that moment papa put his head in at the door. I had not known
that he was in the house.
"What is all this?" he said, and his face and his voice were as I had
never seen them before. Mamma explained, as gently as she could, of
course, and so as to throw the least possible blame on me.
"It is rather trying for Connie, you see, Tom," she finished up.
"And does Connie expect never to be tried?" he answered, sternly. "Why
are you to be exempt from the common lot?" he went on, turning to me.
"Where is your principle, your boasted superiority--yes, child, you may
not exactly say so in words, but you _do_ think yourself superior to
others," he went on, seeing that I was about to interrupt him--"if at
the very first little contradiction you are to lose your temper, and
forget yourself so shamefully? You have no right to feel it a
contradiction even--it is only proper and natural that Anna should
sometimes share your pleasures."
"Then I won't go," I said sulkily; "I will stay at home Anna may have
the Whytes all to herself."
Papa looked at me. It was like the waiting for the thunderclap one
knows must come.
"If you do not go, and, what is more, behave like a lady, I shall tell
the reason in plain words to Captain and Mrs Whyte, and leave them to
judge if you are a fitting associate for their children."
I said nothing more. I knew I must give in. I had met with my master!
Mamma was nearly crying by this time, but I was not the least sorry for
her, I was only angry. I turned and left the room, saying as I did so,
in a cool, hard voice, that I hardly recognised as my own:
"Very well. I will be ready in time."