TEARS.
"'Twere most ungrateful."--V. S. LAKDOH.
Beata was not pretty. That was the first thing Rosy decided about her.
She was small, and rather brown and thin. She had dark hair, certainly
like Lady Albertine's in colour, but instead of splendid curls it was
cut quite short--as short almost as Colin's--and her eyes were neither
very large nor very blue. They were nice gray eyes, that could look
sad, but generally looked merry, and about the rest of her face there
was nothing very particular.
Rosy looked at her for a moment or two, and she looked at Rosy. Then
at last Rosy said,
"Will you come into the drawing-room?" for she saw that her mother and
Beata's uncle were already on their way there.
"Thank you," said Beata, and then they quietly followed the big
people. Rosy's father was not at home, but he would be back soon, her
mother was telling the gray-haired gentleman, and then she went on to
ask him how "they" had got off, if it had been comfortably, and so on.
"Oh yes," he replied, "it was all quite right. Poor Maud!--"
"That's my mamma," said Beata in a low voice, and Rosy, turning
towards her, saw that her eyes were full of tears.
"What a queer little girl she is!" thought Rosy, but she did not say
so.
"--Poor Maud," continued the gentleman. "It is a great comfort to her
to leave the child in such good hands."
"I hope she will be happy," said Rosy's mother. "I will do my best to
make her so."
"I am very sure of that," said Beata's uncle. "It is a great
disappointment to her grandmother not to have her with her. She is a
dear child. Last week at the parting she behaved like a brick."
Both little girls heard this, and Beata suddenly began speaking rather
fast, and Rosy saw that her cheeks had got very red.
"Do you think your mamma would mind if I went upstairs to take off my
hat? I think my face must be dirty with the train," said Beata.
"Don't you like staying here?" said Rosy, rather crossly. "_I_
think you should stay till mother tells it to go," for she wanted to
hear what more her mother and the gentleman said to each other, the
very thing that made Beata uncomfortable.
Beata looked a little frightened.
"I didn't mean to be rude," she said. Then suddenly catching sight of
Manchon, she exclaimed, "Oh, what a beautiful cat! May I go and stroke
him?"
"If you like," said Rosy, "but he isn't _really_ a nice cat." And
then, seeing that Beata looked at her with curiosity, she forgot about
listening to the big people, and, getting up, led Beata to Manchon's
cushion.
"Everybody says he's pretty," she went on, "but I don't think so,
because _I_ think he's a kind of bad fairy. You don't know how he
froos sometimes, in a most horrible way, as if he was mocking you. He
knows I don't like him, for whenever I'm vexed he looks pleased."
"Does he really?" said Beata. "Then I don't like him. I shouldn't look
pleased if you were vexed, Rosy."
"Wouldn't you?" said Rosy, doubtfully.
"No, I'm sure I wouldn't. I wonder your mamma likes Manchon if he has
such an unkind dis--I can't remember the word, it means feelings, you
know."
"Never mind," said Rosy, patronisingly, "I know what you mean. Oh, its
only _me_ Manchon's nasty to, and that doesn't matter. _I'm_
not the favourite. I _was_ at my aunty's though, that I was--but
it has all come true what Nelson told me," and she shook her head
dolefully.
"Who is Nelson?" asked Beata.
"Aunty's maid. She cried when I came away, and she said it was because
she was so sorry for me. It wouldn't be the same as _there_, she
said. I shouldn't be thought as much of with two brothers, and Nelson
knew that my mamma was dreadfully strict. I daresay she'd be still
more sorry for me if she knew--" Rosy stopped short.
"Why don't you go on?" said Beata.
"Oh, I was going to say something I don't want to say. Perhaps it
would vex you," said Rosy.
Beata considered a little.
"I'm not very easily vexed," she said at last. "I think I'd like you
to go on saying it if you don't mind--unless its anything naughty."
"Oh no," said Rosy, "it isn't anything naughty. I was going to say
Nelson would be still more sorry for me if she knew _you_ had
come."
"_Me!_" said Beata, opening her eyes. "Why? She can't know
anything about me--I mean she couldn't know anything to make her think
I would be unkind to you."
"Oh no, it isn't that. Only you see some little girls would think that
if another little girl came to live with them it wouldn't be so
nice--that perhaps their mammas and brothers and everybody would pet
the other little girl more than them."
"And do you think that?" said Beata, anxiously. A feeling like a cold
chill seemed to have touched her heart. She had never before thought
of such things--loving somebody else "better," not being "the
favourite," and so on. Could it all be true, and could it,
_worst_ of all, be true that her coming might be the cause of
trouble and vexation to other people--at least to Rosy? She had come
so full of love and gratitude, so ready to like everybody; she had
said so many times to her mother, "I'm _sure_ I'll be happy. I'll
write and tell you how happy I am," swallowing bravely the grief of
leaving her mother, and trying to cheer her at the parting by telling
her this--it seemed very hard and strange to little Beata to be told
that _anybody_ could think she could be the cause of unhappiness
to any one. "Do _you_ think that?" she repeated.
Rosy looked at her, and something in the little eager face gave her
what she would have called a "sorry" feeling. But mixed with this was
a sense of importance--she liked to think that she was very good for
not feeling what she said "some little girls" would have felt.
"No," she said, rather patronisingly, "I don't think I do. I only said
_some_ little girls would. No, I think I shall like you, if only
you don't make a fuss about how good you are, and set them all against
me. I settled before you came that I wouldn't mind if you were pretty
or very clever. And you're not pretty, and I daresay you're not very
clever. So I won't mind, if you don't make everybody praise you up for
being so _good_."
Beata's eyes filled with tears.
"I don't want anybody to praise me," she said. "I only wanted you all
to love me," and again Rosy had the sorry feeling, though she did not
feel that she was to blame.
"I only told her what I really thought," she said to herself; but
before she had time to reflect that there are two ways of telling what
one thinks, and that sometimes it is not only foolish, but wrong and
unkind, to tell of thoughts and feelings which we should try to
_leave off_ having, her mother turned round to speak to her.
"I think we should take Beata upstairs to her room, Rosy," she said.
"You must be tired, dear," and the kind words and tone, so like what
her own mother's would have been, made the cup of Beata's distress
overflow. She gave a little sob and then burst into tears. Rosy half
sprang forward--she was on the point of throwing her arms round Beata
and whispering, "I _will_ love you, dear, I _do_ love you;"
but alas, the strange foolish pride that so often checked her good
feelings, held her back, and jealousy whispered, "If you begin making
such a fuss about her, she'll think she's to be before you, and very
likely, if you seem so sorry, she'll tell your mother you made her
cry." So Rosy stood still, grave and silent, but with some trouble in
her face, and her mother felt a little, just a very little vexed with
Beata for beginning so dolefully.
"It will discourage Rosy," she said to herself, "just when I was so
anxious for Beata to win her affection from the first."
And Beata's uncle, too, looked disappointed. Just when he had been
praising her so for her bravery!
"Why, my little girl," he said, "you didn't cry like this even when
you said good-bye at Southampton."
"That must be it," said Rosy's mother, who was too kind to feel vexed
for more than an instant; "the poor child has put too much force on
herself, and that always makes one break down afterwards. Come, dear
Beata, and remember how much your mother wanted you to be happy with
us."
She held out her hand, but to her surprise Beata still hung back,
clinging to her uncle.
"Oh, please," she whispered, "let me go back with you, uncle. I don't
care how dull it is--I shall not be any trouble to grandmother while
she is ill. Do let me go back--I cannot stay here."
Beata's uncle was kind, but he had not much experience of children.
"Beata," he said, and his voice was almost stern, "it is impossible.
All is arranged here for you. You will be sorry afterwards for giving
way so foolishly. You would not wish to seem _ungrateful_, my
little girl, for all your kind friends here are going to do for you?"
The word ungrateful had a magical effect. Beata raised her head from
his shoulder, and digging in her pocket for her little handkerchief,
wiped away the tears, and then looking up, her face still quivering,
said gently, "I won't cry any more, uncle; I _will_ be good.
Indeed, I didn't mean to be naughty."
"That's right," he answered, encouragingly. And then Rosy's mother
again held out her hand, and Beata took it timidly, and followed by
Rosy, whose mind was in a strange jumble, they went upstairs to the
room that was to be the little stranger's.
It was as pretty a little room as any child could have wished
for--bright and neat and comfortable, with a pleasant look-out on the
lawn at the side of the house, while farther off, over the trees, the
village church, or rather its high spire, could be seen. For a moment
Beata forgot her new troubles.
"Oh, how pretty!" she said, "Is this to be my room? I never had such a
nice one. But when they come home from India for always, papa and
mamma are going to get a pretty house, and choose all the
furniture--like here, you know, only not so pretty, I daresay, for a
house like this would cost such a great deal of money."
She was chattering away to Rosy's mother quite in her old way, greatly
to Rosy's mother's pleasure, when she--Mrs. Vincent, opened a door
Beata had not before noticed.
"This is Rosy's room," she said. "I thought it would be nice for you
to be near each other. And I know you are very tidy, Bee, so you will
set Rosy a good example--eh, Rosy?"
She said it quite simply, and Beata would have taken it in the same
way half an hour before, but looking round the little girl caught an
expression on Rosy's face which brought back all her distress. It
seemed to say, "Oh, you're beginning to be praised already, I see,"
but Rosy's mother had not noticed it, for Rosy had turned quickly
away. When, however, Mrs. Vincent, surprised at Beata's silence,
looked at her again, all the light had faded out of the little face,
and again she seemed on the point of tears.
"How strangely changeable she is," thought Mrs. Vincent, "I am sure
she used not to be so; she was merry and pleased just as she seemed a
moment or two ago."
"What is the matter, dear?" she said. "You look so distressed again.
Did it bring back your mother--what I said, I mean?"
"I think--I suppose so," Beata began, but there she stopped. "'No,"
she said bravely, "it wasn't that. But, please--I don't want to be
rude--but, please, would you not praise me--not for being tidy or
anything."
How gladly at that moment would she have said, "I'm not tidy. Mamma
always says I'm not," had it been true. But it was not--she was a very
neat and methodical child, dainty and trim in everything she had to do
with, as Rosy's mother remembered.
"What _shall_ I do?" she said to herself. "It seems as if only my
being naughty would make Rosy like me, and keep me from doing her
harm. What _can_ I do?" and a longing came over her to throw her
arms round Mrs. Vincent's neck, and tell her her troubles and ask her
to explain it all to her. But her faithfulness would not let her think
of such a thing. "That _would_ do Rosy harm," she remembered, "and
perhaps she meant to be kind when she spoke that way. It was kinder
than to have kept those feelings to me in her heart and never told me.
But I don't know what to do."
For already she felt that Mrs. Vincent thought her queer and
changeable, _rude_ even, perhaps, though she only smiled at
Beata's begging not to be praised, and Rosy, who had heard what she
said, gave her no thanks for it, but the opposite.
"That's all pretence," thought Rosy. "Everybody likes to be praised."
Mrs. Vincent went downstairs, leaving the children together, and
telling Rosy to help Beata to take off her things, as tea would soon
be ready. Beata had a sort of fear of what next Rosy would say, and
she was glad when Martha just then came into the room.
"Miss Rosy," she said, "will you please to go into the nursery and put
away your dolls' things before tea. They're all over the table. I'd
have done it in a minute, but you have your own ways and I was afraid
of doing it wrong."
She spoke kindly and cheerfully.
"What a nice nurse!" thought Beata, with a feeling of relief--a sort
of hope that Martha might help to make things easier for her somehow,
especially as there was something very kindly in the way the maid
began to help her to unfasten her jacket and lay aside her travelling
things. To her surprise, Rosy made no answer.
"Miss Rosy, please," said Martha again, and then Rosy looked up
crossly.
"'Miss Rosy, please,'" she said mockingly. "You're just putting on all
that politeness to show off. No, I won't please. You can put the dolls
away yourself, and, if you do them wrong, it's your own fault. You've
seen lots of times how I do them."
"Miss Rosy!" said Martha, as if she wanted to beg Rosy to be good, and
her voice was still kind, though her face had got very red when Rosy
told her she was "showing off."
Beata stood in shocked silence. She had had no idea that Rosy could
speak so, and, sad as it was, Martha did not seem surprised.
"I wonder if she is often like that," thought little Bee, and in
concern for Rosy her own troubles began to be forgotten.
They went into the nursery to tea. Martha had cleared away Rosy's
things and had done her best to lay them as the little girl liked. But
before sitting down to the table, Rosy would go to the drawer where
they were kept, and was in the middle of scolding at finding something
different from what she liked when Colin and Fixie came in to tea.
"I say, Rosy," said Colin, "you might let us have one tea-time in
peace,--Bee's first evening."
Rosy turned round upon him.
"_I_'m not a pretender," she said. "_I_'m not going to sham
being good and all that, like Martha and you, because Bee has just
come."
"I don't know what you've been saying to Martha," said Colin, "but I
can't see why you need begin at me about shamming before Bee. You've
not seen me for two minutes since she came. What's the matter, Fix?
Wait a minute and I'll help you," for Fixie was tugging away at his
chair, and could not manage to move it as he wanted.
"I want to sit, aside Bee," he said.
Rosy threw an angry look at him--he understood what she meant.
"I'll sit, aside you again to-morrow, Losy," he hastened to say. But
it did no good. Rosy was now determined to find nothing right. There
came a little change in their thoughts, however, for the kitchen-maid
appeared at the door with a plate of nice cold ham and some of the
famous strawberry jam.
"Cook thought the young lady would be hungry after her journey," she
said.
"Yes, indeed," cried Colin, "the young lady's very hungry, and so are
the young gentlemen, and so is the other young lady--aren't you,
Rosy?" he said good-naturedly, turning to her. "He is really a very
kind boy," thought Beata. "Tell cook, with my best compliments, that
we are very much obliged to her, and she needn't expect to see any of
the ham or the strawberry jam again."
It was later than the usual tea-hour, so all the children were hungry
and, thanks to this, the meal passed quietly. Beata said little,
though she could not help laughing at some of Colin's funny speeches.
But for the shock of Rosy's temper and the confusion in her mind that
Rosy's way of speaking had made, Bee would have been quite happy, as
happy at least, she would have said, "as I can be till mamma comes
home again," but Rosy seemed to throw a cloud over everybody. There
was never any knowing from one minute to another how she was going to
be. Only one thing became plainer to Bee. It was not only because
_she_ had come that Rosy was cross and unhappy. It was easy to
see that she was at all times very self-willed and queer-tempered,
and, though Bee was too good and kind to be glad of this, yet, as she
was a very sensible little girl, it made things look clearer to her.
"I will not begin fancying it is because I am in her place, or
anything like that," she said to herself. "I will be as good as I can
be, and perhaps she will get to like me," and Rosy was puzzled and
perhaps, in her strange contradiction, a little vexed at the brighter
look that came over Bee's face, and the cheery way in which she spoke.
For at the first, when she saw how much Bee had taken to heart what
she said, though her _best_ self felt sorry for the little
stranger, she had liked the feeling that she would be a sort of master
over her, and that the fear of seeming to take _her_ place would
prevent Bee from making friends with the others more than she, Rosy,
chose to allow.
Poor Rosy! She would have herself been shocked had she seen written
down in plain words all the feelings her jealous temper caused her.
But almost the worst of jealousy is that it hides itself in so many
dresses, and gives itself so many names, sometimes making itself seem
quite a right and proper feeling; often, very often making one think
oneself a poor, ill-treated martyr, when in reality, the martyrs are
the unfortunate people that have to live with the foolish person who
has allowed jealousy to become his master.
Beata's uncle left that evening, but before he went away he had the
pleasure of seeing his little niece quite herself again.
"That's right," he said, as he bade her good-bye, "I don't know what
came over you this afternoon."
Beata did not say anything, but she just kissed her uncle, and
whispered, "Give my love to dear grandmother, and tell her I am going
to try to be very good."