ROSY THINKS THINGS OVER.
"Whenever you find your heart despair
Of doing some goodly thing,
Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the spider and king."
--TRY AGAIN.
She did go to sleep at last, and she slept for a while very soundly.
But suddenly she awoke, awoke quite completely, and with the feeling
that something had awakened her, though what she did not know. She sat
up in bed and looked about her, if you can call staring out into the
dark where you can see nothing "looking about you." It seemed to be a
very dark night; there was no chink of moonlight coming in at the
window, and everything was perfectly still. Beata could not help
wondering what had awakened her, and she was settling herself to sleep
again when a little sound caught her ears. It was a kind of low,
choking cry, as if some one was crying bitterly and trying to stuff
their handkerchief into their mouth, or in some way prevent the sound
being heard. Beata felt at first a very little frightened, and then,
as she became quite sure that it was somebody crying, very sorry and
uneasy. What could be the matter? Was it Fixie? No, the sounds did not
come from the nursery side. Beata sat up in bed to hear more clearly,
and then amidst the crying she distinguished her own name.
"Bee," said the sobbing voice, "Bee, I wish you'd come to speak to me.
Are you asleep, Bee?"
In a moment Beata was out of bed, for there was no doubt now whose
voice it was. It was Rosy's. Bee was not a timid child, but the room
was very dark, and it took a little courage to feel her way among the
chairs and tables till at last she found the door, which she opened
and softly went into Rosy's room. For a moment she did not speak, for
a new idea struck her,--could Rosy be crying and talking in her sleep?
It was so very unlike her to cry or ask any one to go to her. There
was no sound as Beata opened the door; she could almost have believed
it had all been her fancy, and for a moment she felt inclined to go
back to her own bed and say nothing. But a very slight sound, a sort
of little sobbing breath that came from Rosy's bed, made her change
her mind.
"Rosy," she said, softly, "are you awake? Were you speaking to me?"
She heard a rustle. It was Rosy sitting up in bed.
"Yes," she said, "I am awake. I've been awake all night. It's dedful
to be awake all night, Bee. I've been calling and calling you. I'm so
unhappy."
"Unhappy?" said Bee, in a kind voice, going nearer the bed. "What are
you so unhappy about, Rosy?"
"I'll tell you," said Rosy, "but won't you get into my bed a little,
Bee? There is room, if we scrudge ourselves up. One night Fixie slept
with me, and you're not so very much bigger."
"I'll get in for a little," said Beata, "just while you tell me what's
the matter, and why you are so unhappy."
She was quite surprised at Rosy's way of speaking. She seemed so much
gentler and softer, that Bee could not understand it.
"I'll tell you why I'm so unhappy," said Rosy. "I can't be good, Bee.
I never have cared to be good. It's such a lot of trouble, and lots of
peoples that think they're very good, and that other peoples make a
fuss about, are very pretending. I've noticed that often. But when we
had been talking yesterday morning all of a sudden I thought it would
be nice to be good--not pretending, but _real_ good--never cross,
and all that. And so I fixed I would be quite good, and I thought how
pleased you'd be when I never quarrelled with Colin, or was cross to
Martha, or anything like that. And it was all right for a while; but
then when mamma began talking about Mr. Furniture, and how nice he
was, and his daughter, and you knew all about them and I didn't, it
_all went away_. I told you it would--all the wanting to be
good--and I was as angry as angry. And then I said that, you remember,
and then everybody thought I was just the same, and it was all no
use."
"Poor Rosy," said Bee. "No, I don't think it was no use."
"Oh yes," persisted Rosy, "it was all no use. But nobody knew, and I
didn't mean anybody to know. Mamma and Colin and nobody could see I
was sorry when I said good-night--_could_ they?" she said, with a
tone of satisfaction. "No, I didn't mean anybody to know, only after I
was in bed it came back to me, and I was so vexed and so unhappy. I
thought everybody would have been _so_ surprised at finding I
could be just as good as anybody if I liked. But I don't like; so just
remember, Bee, to-morrow morning I'm not going to try a bit, and it's
no use saying any more about it. It's just the way I'm made."
"But you do care, Rosy," said Bee, "I know you care. If you didn't you
wouldn't have been thinking about it, and been sorry after you were in
bed."
"Yes, I _did_ care," said Rosy, with again a little sob. "I had
been thinking it would be very nice, But I'm not going to care--that's
just the thing, Bee--that's what I wanted to tell you--I'm not going
to go on caring."
"Don't you always say your prayers, Rosy?" asked Bee, rather solemnly.
"Yes, _of course_ I do. But I don't think they're much good. I've
been just as naughty some days when I'd said them _beautifully_,
as some days when I'd been in a hurry."
Beata felt puzzled.
"I can't explain about it properly," she said. "But that isn't the
way, I don't think. Mother told me if I thought just saying my prayers
would make me good, it was like thinking they were a kind of magic,
and that isn't what we should think them."
"What good are they then?" said Rosy.
"Oh, I know what I mean, but it's very hard to say it," said poor Bee.
"Saying our prayers is like opening the gate into being good; it gives
us a sort of feeling that _He_, you know, Rosy, that God is
smiling at us all day, and makes us remember that He's _always_
ready to help us."
"_Is_ He?" said Rosy. "Well, I suppose there's something worser
about me than other peoples, for I've often said, 'Do make me good, do
make me good, quick, quick,' and I didn't get good."
"Because you pushed it away, Rosy. You're always saying you're not
good and you don't care. But I think you _do_ care, only," with a
sigh, "I know one has to try a great, great lot."
"Yes, and I don't like the bother," said Rosy, coolly.
"There, now you've said it," said Bee. "Then that shows it isn't that
you can't be good but you don't like to have to try so much. But
please, Rosy, don't say you'll leave off. _Do_ go on. It will get
easier. I know it will. It's like skipping and learning to play on the
piano and lots of things. Every time we try makes it a little easier
for the next time."
"I never thought of that," said Rosy, with interest in her tone.
"Well, I'll think about it any way, and I'll tell you in the morning
what I've settled. Perhaps I'll fix just to be naughty again
to-morrow, for a rest you know. How would it do, I wonder, if I was to
be good and naughty in turns? I could settle the days, and then the
naughty ones you could keep out of my way."
"It wouldn't do at all," said Bee, decidedly. "It would be like going
up two steps and then tumbling back two steps. No, it would be worse,
it would be like going up two and tumbling back three, for every
naughty day would make it still harder to begin again on the good
day."
"Well, I won't do that way, then," said Rosy, with wonderful
gentleness. "I'll either _go on_ trying to climb up the steps--how
funnily you say things, Bee!--or I'll not try at all. I'll tell you
to-morrow morning. But remember you're not to tell anybody.
If I fix to be good I want everybody to be surprised."
"But you won't get good all of a sudden, Rosy," said Bee, feeling
afraid that Rosy would again lose heart at the first break-down.
"Well, I daresay I won't," returned Rosy. "But don't you see if nobody
but you knows it won't so much matter. But if I was to tell everybody
then it would all seem pretending, and there's nothing so horrid as
pretending."
There was some sense in Rosy's ideas, and Bee did not go against them.
She went back to her own bed with a curious feeling of respect for
Rosy and a warm feeling of affection also.
"And it was very horrid of me to be thinking of her that way
to-night," said honest Bee to herself. "I'll never think of her that
way again. Poor Rosy, she has had no mother all these years that I've
had my mother doing nothing but trying to make me good. But I am so
glad Rosy is getting to like me."
For Rosy had kissed her warmly as they bade each other good-night for
the second time.
"It was very nice of Bee to get out of bed in the dark to come to me,"
she said to herself. "She is good, but I don't think she is
pretending," and it was this feeling that made the beginning of Rosy's
friendship for Beata--_trust_.
The little girls slept till later than usual the next morning, for
they had been a good while awake in the night. Rosy began grumbling
and declaring she would not get up, and there was very nearly the
beginning of a stormy scene with Martha when the sound of Bee's voice
calling out "Good-morning, Rosy," from the next room reminded her of
their talk in the night, and though she did not feel all at once able
to speak good-naturedly to Martha, she left off scolding. But her face
did not look as pleasant as Beata had hoped to see it when she came
into the nursery.
"Don't speak to me, please," she said in a low voice, "I haven't
settled yet what I'm going to do. I'm still thinking about it."
Bee did not say any more, but the morning passed peacefully, and once
or twice when Colin began some of the teasing which seemed as
necessary to him as his dinner or his breakfast, Rosy contented
herself with a wriggle or a little growl instead of fiery words and
sometimes even blows. And when Colin, surprised at her patience went
further and further, ending by tying a long mesh of her hair to the
back of her chair, while she was busy fitting a frock on to one of the
little dolls, and then, calling her suddenly, made her start up and
really hurt herself, Beata was astonished at her patience. She gave a
little scream, it is true--who could have helped it?--and then rushed
out of the room, but not before the others had seen the tears that
were running down her cheeks.
"Colin," said Bee, and, for a moment or two, it almost seemed to the
boy as if Rosy's temper had passed into the quiet little girl, "I am
ashamed of you. You naughty, _cruel_ boy, just when poor Rosy
was----"
She stopped suddenly--"just when poor Rosy was beginning to try to be
good," she was going to have said, forgetting her promise to tell no
one of Rosy's plans,--"just when we were all quiet and comfortable,"
she said instead.
Colin looked ashamed.
"I won't do it any more," he said, "I won't really. Besides there's no
fun in only making her cry. It was only fun when it put her into a
rage."
"Nice _fun_," said Bee, with scorn.
"Well, you know what I mean. I daresay it wasn't right, but I never
meant really to hurt her. And all the fellows at school tease like
that--one can't help getting into the way of it."
"I never heard such a foolish way of talking," answered Bee, who was
for once quite vexed with Colin. "I don't think that's a reason for
doing wrong things--that other people do them.'"
"It's bad example--the force of bad example," said Colin so gravely
that Beata, who was perhaps a little matter-of-fact, would have
answered him gravely had she not seen a little twinkle in his eyes,
which put her on her guard.
"You are trying to tease _me_ now, Colin," she said. "Well, I
don't mind, if you'll promise me to leave Rosy alone--any way for a
few days; I've a very particular reason for asking it. Do promise,
won't you?"
She looked up at him with her little face glowing with eagerness, her
honest gray eyes bright with kindly feeling for Rosy. "You may tease
me"--she went on--"as much as you like, if you must tease somebody."
Colin could not help laughing.
"There wouldn't be much fun in teasing you, Bee," he said. "You're far
too good-natured. Well, I will promise you--I'll promise you more than
you ask--listen, what a grand promise--I'll promise you not to tease
Rosy for three whole months--now, what do you say to that, ma'am?"
Bee's eyes glistened.
"Three whole months!" she exclaimed. "Yes, that is a good promise.
Why, by the end of the three months you'll have forgotten how to
tease! But, Colin, please, it must be a secret between you and me
about you promising not to tease Rosy. If she knew I had asked you it
wouldn't do half as well."
"Oh, it's easy enough to promise that," said Colin. "Poor Bee," he went
on, half ashamed of having taken her in, "you don't understand why I
promised for three months. It's because to-morrow I'm going back to
school for three months."
"_Are_ you?" said Beata, in a disappointed tone. "I'm very sorry.
I had forgotten about you going to school with your being here when I
first came, you know."
"Yes; and your lessons--yours and Rosy's and Fixie's, for he does a
little too--they'll be beginning again soon. We've all been having
holidays just now."
"And who will give us lessons?" asked Beata.
"Oh, Miss Pink, Rosy's governess. Her real name's Miss Pinkerton, but
it's so long, she doesn't mind us saying Miss Pink, for short."
"Is she nice?" asked Bee. She felt a little dull at the idea of having
still another stranger to make friends with.
"Oh yes, she's nice. Only she spoils Rosy--she's afraid of her
tempers. You'll see. But you'll get on all right. I really think Rosy
is going to be nicer, now you've come, Bee."
"I'm so glad," said Bee. "But I'm sorry you're going away, Colin. In
three months you'll have forgotten how to tease, won't you?" she said
again, smiling.
"I'm not so sure of that," he answered laughingly. In her heart Bee
thought perhaps it was a good thing Colin was going away for a while,
for Rosy's sake. It might make it easier for her to carry out her good
plans. But for herself Bee was sorry, for he was a kind, merry boy,
and even his teasing did not seem to her anything very bad.
Rosy came back into the nursery with her eyes rather red, but the
other children saw that she did not want any notice taken. She looked
at Colin and Bee rather suspiciously. "Have you been talking about
_me_?" her look seemed to say.
"I've been telling Bee about Miss Pink," said Colin. "She hadn't heard
about her before."
"She's a stupid old thing," said Rosy respectfully.
"But she's kind, isn't she?" asked Beata.
"Oh yes; I daresay you'll think her kind. But I don't care for
her--much. She's rather pretending."
"I can't understand why you think so many people pretending," said
Bee. "I think it must be very uncomfortable to feel like that."
"But if they _are_ pretending, it's best to know it," said Rosy.
Beata felt herself getting puzzled again. Colin came to the rescue.
"I don't think it is best to know it," he said, "at least not Rosy's
way, for she thinks it of everybody."
"No, I don't," said Rosy, "not _everybody_."
"Well, you think it of great lots, any way. I'd rather think some
people good who aren't good than think some people who _are_ good
_not_ good--wouldn't you, Bee?"
Beata had to consider a moment in order to understand quite what Colin
meant; she liked to understand things clearly, but she was not always
very quick at doing so.
"Yes," she said, "I think so too. Besides, there _are_ lots of
very kind and good people in the world--really kind and good, not
pretending a bit. And then, too, mother used to tell me that feeling
kind ourselves made others feel kind to us, without their quite
knowing how sometimes."
Rosy listened, though she said nothing; but when she kissed Beata in
saying good-night, she whispered, "I did go on trying, Bee, and I
think it does get a very little easier. But I don't want
_anybody_ to know--you remember, don't you?"
"Yes, I won't forget," said Bee. "But if you go on, Rosy, everybody
will find out for themselves, without _my_ telling."
And in their different ways both little girls felt very happy as they
fell asleep that night.