UPS AND DOWNS.
"Mary, Mary, quite contrary."--NURSERY RHYME.
That night when Bee was in her little bed, though not yet asleep, for
the strangeness of everything, and all she had to think over of what
had happened in the day, had kept her awake longer than usual, she
heard some one softly open the door and look in.
"Are you awake still, dear?" said a voice which Bee knew in a moment
was that of Rosy's mother.
"Yes, oh yes. I'm quite awake. I'm not a bit sleepy," Beata answered.
"But you must try to go to sleep soon," said Mrs. Vincent. "Rosy is
fast asleep. I have just been in to look at her. It is getting late
for little girls to be awake."
"Yes, I know," said Bee. "But I often can't go to sleep so quick the
first night--while everything is--different, you know--and new."
"And a little strange and lonely, as it were--just at first. Don't be
afraid I would be vexed with you for feeling it so."
"But I don't think I do feel lonely," said Bee, sitting up and looking
at Rosy's mother quite brightly. "It seems quite natural to be with
you and Fixie again."
"I'm very glad of that," said Mrs. Vincent. "And was it not then the
strange feeling that made you so unhappy this afternoon for a little?"
Beata hesitated.
"Tell me, dear," said Mrs. Vincent. "You know if I am to be a 'make-up
mother' for a while, you must talk to me as much as you _can_, as
if I were your own mother."
She listened rather anxiously for Bee's answer, for two or three
little things--among them something Colin had said of the bad temper
Rosy had been in at tea-time--had made her afraid there had been some
reason she did not understand for Beata's tears. Bee lay still for a
minute or two. Then she said gently and rather shyly,
"I am so sorry, but I don't know what's right to do. Isn't it
sometimes difficult to know?"
"Yes, sometimes it is." Then Mrs. Vincent, in her turn, was silent for
a minute, and at last she said,
"Would you very much rather I did not ask you why you cried?"
"Oh yes," cried Bee, "much, much rather."
"Very well then, but you will promise me that if the same thing makes
you cry again, you _will_ tell me?"
"_Should_ I?" said Bee. "I thought--I thought it wasn't right to
tell tales," she added so innocently that Mrs. Vincent could not help
smiling to herself.
"It is not right," she said. "But what I ask you to promise is not to
tell tales. It is to tell me what makes you unhappy, so that I may
explain it or put it right. I could not do my duty among you and my
other children unless I knew how things were. It is the _spirit_
that makes tell-tales--the telling over for the sake of getting others
blamed or punished--_that_ is what is wrong."
"I see," said Beata slowly. "At least I think I see a little, and I'll
try to think about it. I'll promise to tell you if anything makes me
unhappy, _really_ unhappy, but I don't think it will now. I think
I understand better what things I needn't mind."
"Very well, dear. Then good-night," and Rosy's mother kissed Bee very
kindly, though in her heart she felt sad. It was plain to her that
Rosy had made Bee unhappy, and as she passed through Rosy's room she
stopped a moment by the bed-side and looked at the sleeping child.
Nothing could be prettier than Rosy asleep--her lovely fair hair made
a sort of pale golden frame to her face, and her cheeks had a
beautiful pink flush. But while her mother was watching her, a frown
darkened her white forehead, and her lips parted sharply.
"I won't have her put before me. I tell you I _won't_," she
called out angrily. Then again, a nicer look came over her face and
she murmured some words which her mother only caught two or three of.
"I didn't mean"--"sorry"--"crying," she said, and her mother turned
away a little comforted.
"O Rosy, poor Rosy," she said to herself. "You _do_ know what is
right and sweet. When will you learn to keep down that unhappy
temper?"
* * * * *
The next morning was bright and sunny, the garden with its beautiful
trees and flowers, which Beata had only had a glimpse of the night
before, looked perfectly delicious in the early light when she drew up
the window-blind to look out. And as soon as she was dressed she was
only too delighted to join Rosy and Colin for a run before breakfast.
Children are children all the world over--luckily for themselves and
luckily for other people too--and even children who are sometimes
ill-tempered and unkind are sometimes, too, bright and happy and
lovable. Rosy was after all only a child, and by no means
_always_ a disagreeable spoilt child. And this morning seeing Bee
so merry and happy, she forgot her foolish and unkind feelings about
her, and for the time they were all as contented and joyous as
children should be.
"Where is Fixie?" asked Beata. "May he not come out a little before
breakfast too?"
"Martha won't let him," said Rosy. "Nasty cross old thing. She says it
will make him ill, and I am sure it's much more likely to make him ill
keeping him poking in there when he wanted so much to come out with
us."
"I don't see how you can call Martha cross," said Colin. "And
certainly she's never _cross_ to Fixie."
"How do _you_ know?" said Rosy, sharply. "You don't see her half
as much as I do. And she can always pretend if she likes."
Beata looked rather anxiously at Colin. He was on the point of
answering Rosy crossly in his turn, and again Bee felt that sort of
nervous fear of quarrels or disagreeables which it was impossible to
be long in Rosy's company without feeling. But Colin suddenly seemed
to change his mind.
"Shall we run another race?" he said, without taking any notice of
Rosy's last speech.
"Yes," said Bee, eagerly, "from here to the library window. But you
must give me a little start--I can't run half so fast as you and
Rosy."
She said it quite simply, but it pleased Rosy all the same, and she
began considering how much of a start it was fair for Bee to have.
When that important point was settled, off they set. Bee was the first
to arrive.
"You must have given me too much of a start," she said, laughing.
"Look here, Colin and Rosy, there's the big cat on the window-seat.
Doesn't he look solemn?"
"He looks very cross and nasty--he always does," said Rosy. Then,
safely sheltered behind the window, she began tapping on the pane.
"Manchon, Manchon," she said, "you can't scratch me through the glass,
so I'll just tell you what I think of you for once. You're a cross,
mean, _pretending_ creature. You make everybody say you're so
pretty and so sweet when _really_ you're--" she stopped in a
fright--"Bee, Bee," she cried, "just look at his face. I believe he's
heard all I said."
"Well, what if he did?" said Beata. "Cats don't understand what one
means."
"_Manchon_ does," said Rosy. "Come away, Bee, do. Quick, quick.
We'd better go in to breakfast."
The two little girls ran off, but Colin stayed behind at the library
window.
"I've been talking to Manchon," he said when he came up to them. "He
told me to give you his compliments, Rosy, and to say he is very much
obliged to you for the pretty things you said to him, and the next
time he has the pleasure of seeing you he hopes to have the honour of
scratching you to show his gratitude."
Rosy's face got red.
"Colin, how _dare_ you laugh at me?" she called out in a fury.
She was frightened as well as angry, for she really had a strange fear
of the big cat.
"I'm not laughing," Colin began again, looking quite serious. "I had
to give you Manchon's message."
[Illustration: 'WHAT IS ZE MATTER WIF YOU, BEE?' HE SAID]
Rosy looked at Bee. If there had been the least shadow of a smile on
Bee's face it would have made her still more angry. But Beata looked
grave, because she felt so.
"Oh, I wish they wouldn't quarrel," she was thinking to herself. "It
does so spoil everything. I can't _think_ how Colin can tease
Rosy so."
And sadly, feeling already tired, and not knowing what was best to do,
Beata followed the others to the nursery. _They_ did not seem to
care--Colin was already whistling, and though Rosy's face was still
black, no one paid any attention to it.
But little Fixie ran to Bee and held up his fresh sweet face for a
kiss.
"What is ze matter wif you, Bee?" he said. "You's c'ying. Colin, Losy,
Bee's c'ying," he exclaimed.
"You're _not_, are you, Bee?" said Colin.
"Are you, really?" said Rosy, coming close to her and looking into her
face.
The taking notice of it made Bee's tears come more quickly. All the
children looked sorry, and a puzzled expression came into Rosy's face.
"Come into my room a minute, Bee," she said. "Do tell me," she went
on, "what are you crying for?"
Beata put her arms round Rosy's neck.
"I can't quite tell you," she said, "I'm afraid of vexing you. But,
oh, I do so wish--" and then she stopped.
"What?" said Rosy.
"I wish you would never get vexed with Colin or anybody, and I wish
Colin wouldn't tease you," said Bee.
"Was that all?" said Rosy. "Oh, _that_ wasn't anything--you
should hear us sometimes."
"_Please_ don't," entreated Beata. "I can't bear it. Oh, dear
Rosy, don't be vexed with me, but please do let us be all happy and
not have anything like that."
Rosy did not seem vexed, but neither did she seem quite to understand.
"What a funny girl you are, Bee," she said. "I suppose it's because
you've lived alone with big people always that you're like that. I
daresay you'll learn to tease too and to squabble, after you've been a
while here."
"Oh, I _hope_ not," said Bee. "Do you really think I shall,
Rosy?"
"I shall like you just as well if you do," said Rosy, "at least if you
do a _little_. Anyway, it would be better than setting up to be
better than other people, or _pretending_."
"But I _don't_ want to do that," said Beata. "I want to _be_
good. I don't want to think about being better or not better than
other people, and I'm _sure_ I don't want to pretend. I don't
ever pretend like that, Rosy. Won't you believe me? I don't know what
I can say to make you believe me. I can't see that you should think it
such a very funny thing for me to want to be good. Don't _you_
want to be good?"
"Yes," said Rosy, "I suppose I do. I do just now, just at this minute.
And just at this minute I believe what you say. But I daresay I won't
always. The first time Colin teases me I know I shall leave off
wanting to be good. I shall want nothing at all except just to give
him a good hard slap--really to hurt him, you know. I do want to
_hurt_ him when I am very angry--just for a little. And if you
were to say anything to me _then_ about being good, I'd very
likely not believe you a bit."
Just then Martha's voice was heard calling them in to breakfast.
"Be quiet, Martha," Rosy called back. "We'll come when we're ready. Do
leave us alone. Just when we're talking so nicely," she added, turning
to Bee. "What a bother she is"
"_I_ think she's very kind," said Bee, "but I don't like to say
anything like that to you, for fear you should think I'm pretending or
'setting up,' or something like that."
Rosy laughed.
"I don't think that just now," she said. "Well, let's go into the
nursery, then," and, as they came in, she said to Martha with
wonderful amiability, "We aren't very hungry this morning, I don't
think, for we had each such a big hunch of bread and some milk before
we ran out."
"That was quite right, Miss Rosy," said Martha, and by the sound of
her voice it was easy to see she was pleased. "It is never a good
thing to go out in the morning without eating something, even if it's
only a little bit."
Breakfast passed most comfortably, and by good luck Fixie hadn't
forgotten his promise to sit "aside Losy." "It was her turn," he said,
and he seemed to think the honour a very great one.
"Do you remember on the steamer, Fixie?" said Bee, "how we liked to
sit together, and how hot it was sometimes, and how we used to wish we
were in nice cool England?"
"Oh ses," said Fixie, "oh it _were_ hot! And the poor young lady,
Bee, that was so ill?"
"Oh, do you remember her, Fixie? What a good memory you have!"
Fixie got rather red.
"I'm not sure that I 'membered her all of myself," he said, "but mamma
telled me about her one day. Her's quite welldened now."
Bee smiled a little at Fixie's funny way of speaking, but she thought
to herself it was very nice for him to be such an honest little boy.
"How do you know she's got well?" said Rosy, rather sharply.
"Mamma telled me," said Fixie.
"Yes," said Colin, "it's quite true. And the young lady's father's
going to come to see us some day. I don't remember his name, do you,
Bee?"
"Not quite," said Bee, "yes, I think it was something like
_furniture_."
"Furniture," repeated Colin, "it couldn't be that. Was it 'Ferguson'?"
"No," said Bee, "it wasn't that."
"Well, never mind," said Colin. "It was something like it. We'll ask
mamma. He is going to come to see us soon. I'm sure of that."
Later in the day Colin remembered about it, and asked his mother about
it.
"What was the name of the gentleman that you said was coming to see us
soon, mamma?" he said--"the gentleman whose daughter was so ill in the
ship coming home from India."
"Mr. Furnivale," replied his mother. "You must remember him and his
daughter, Bee. She is much better now. They have been all these months
in Italy, and they are going to stay there through next winter, but
Mr. Furnivale is in England on business and is coming to see us very
soon. He is a very kind man, and always asks for Fixie and Bee when he
writes."
"That is very kind of him," said Bee, gratefully.
But a dark look came over Rosy's face.
"It's just as if _she_ was mamma's little girl, and not me," she
said to herself. "I hate people mamma knew when Bee was with her and I
wasn't."
"Mr. Furnivale doesn't know you are with us," Mrs. Vincent went on;
"he will be quite pleased to see you. He says Cecilia has never
forgotten you; Cecilia is his daughter, you know."
"Yes, I remember _her_ name," said Bee. "I wish she could come to
see us too. She was so pretty, wasn't she, Aunt--Lillias?" she added,
stopping a little and smiling. Lillias was Mrs. Vincent's name, and it
had been fixed that Beata should call her "aunt," for to say "Mrs.
Vincent" sounded rather stiff. "You would think her pretty, Rosy," she
went on again, out of a wish to make Rosy join in what they were
talking of.
"No," said Rosy, with a sort of burst, "I shouldn't. I don't know
anything about what you're talking of, and I don't want to hear about
it," and she turned away with a very cross and angry face.
Bee was going to run after her, but Mrs. Vincent stopped her.
"No," she said. "When she is so very foolish, it is best to leave her
alone."
But though she said it as if she did not think Rosy's tempers of very
much consequence, Beata saw the sad disappointed look on her face.
"Oh," thought the little girl, "how I _do_ wish I could do
anything to keep Rosy from vexing her mother."
It was near bed-time when they had been talking about Mr. Furnivale
and his daughter, and soon after the children all said good-night.
Rather to Bee's surprise, Rosy, who had hidden herself in the window
with a book, came out when she was called and said good-night quite
pleasantly.
"I wonder she doesn't feel ashamed," thought Bee, "I'm sure I never
spoke like that to my mamma, but if ever I had, I couldn't have said
good-night without saying I was sorry."
And it was with a slight feeling of self-approval that Beata went up
to bed. When she was undressed she went into the nursery for a moment
to ask Martha to brush her hair. Fixie was not yet asleep, and the
nurse looked troubled.
"Is Fixie ill?" said Bee.
"No, I hope not," said Martha, "but he's troubled. Miss Rosy's been in
to say good-night to him, and she's set him off his sleep, I'm sure."
"I'm so unhappy, Bee," whispered Fixie, when Beata stooped over him to
say good-night. "Losy's been 'peaking to me, and she says nobody loves
her, not _nobody_. She's so unhappy, Bee."
A little feeling of pain went through Bee. Perhaps Rosy _was_
really unhappy and sorry for what she had said, though she had not
told any one so. And the thought of it kept Bee from going to sleep as
quickly as usual. "Rosy is so puzzling," she thought. "It is so
difficult to understand her."