Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "Not in bed yet? Do you know it is
half-past ten?" said Aunt Jessie.]
_Life-Tangles:_
OR,
THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH.
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"IDA'S SECRET," "FLOSS SILVERTHORN," "LIFE IN A NUTSHELL,"
ETC.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE RETURN FROM INDIA
CHAPTER II.
RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES
CHAPTER III.
UPS AND DOWNS
CHAPTER IV.
I AND MYSELF
CHAPTER V.
BANISHMENT DECREED
CHAPTER VI.
AT WAYATFORD
CHAPTER VII.
DERWENTWATER
CHAPTER VIII.
PEOPLE'S RIGHTS
CHAPTER IX.
SUPPOSITIONS
CHAPTER X.
THE CHOICE GIVEN AND TAKEN
CHAPTER XI.
A DAY OF DELIGHTS
CHAPTER XII.
A NEW PHASE OF LIFE
CHAPTER XIII.
UNDER THE YOKE
CHAPTER XIV.
EXCEEDINGLY HORRID
CHAPTER XV.
AFTER SIX WHOLE YEARS
CHAPTER XVI.
ABOUT THE PAST
CHAPTER XVII.
WISE WORDS AND UNWISE DEEDS
CHAPTER XVIII.
OUT OF THE QUESTION!
CHAPTER XIX.
AND YET!—
CHAPTER XX.
INEXPLICABLE
CHAPTER XXI.
TANGLED STILL
CHAPTER XXII.
WAS IT HAPPINESS?
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW THINGS WERE AND MIGHT HAVE BEEN
[Illustration]
LIFE-TANGLES:
OR,
_THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH._
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
_THE RETURN FROM INDIA._
_December 12th._
THE day after to-morrow will be a great day in my life, for my mother
is coming home with the dear little twins, and they are expected to
arrive early in the afternoon. What joy!
It is nearly seven years since my father and mother went out last
to India; and the twins were only one year old when I saw them. How
changed they will be.
Seven long years! But my mother's face is as clear as daylight in my
mind, so young and pretty, with its soft colour and gentle smile. I do
not remember my father's face quite so clearly; he was a good deal more
away from us children. But I could paint every line of hers from memory
if I were able to take likenesses. I should know her, oh! anywhere in
the world. I can recollect telling her one day that she looked younger
than Clarissa, who was only twenty-one then. Mother said, "Hush! Hush!"
And Clarissa tilted her head in the offended manner she often has, but
I don't think I cared.
Then the last day before they left us, how pale Mother was, and how she
and Connie clung together! We little thought then that she would never
see Connie again—I mean, of course, in this life.
If it were not for the thought of Connie, and of my father being still
away, I think I should be too happy to-night. No more of aunt Jessie;
no more schooling; no more spending of holidays where I am not wanted.
It is too delightful!
To be sure, Clarissa and Juliet will be living with us, and that is
a great disappointment to me. I have always fancied that they would
stay with aunt Jessie when my mother should come home alone, but they
do not seem to have an idea of any such thing. Somehow they always do
and always did make me naughty when, but for them, I know I should
be perfectly good. They have such a way of upsetting me. It isn't my
fault, I am sure.
But I shall have my mother now, and that will make up for everything.
Aunt Jessie has been their aunt, not mine. Mother will be mine—not
theirs—my very own! That will make all the difference in the world. I
shall have the first right to her love, and the first right to take
care of her. I mean to be such a help to her in every possible way,
and to do exactly what Connie would have done. Connie was always
her comfort, I know, even though she was so young, because she was
so unselfish, everyone says. Well, and I mean to be unselfish, like
Connie, and so to be my mother's greatest comfort. I have to take
Connie's place, and Mother will be lonely away from my father, and
will need comfort. Clarissa and Juliet are always saying how useless I
am, but they shall see the difference now. When I have a mother to do
things for, I shall never mind how hard I work. It is so stupid being
ordered about by them. I never feel inclined to do anything then.
Before Christmas we are to move to the new little house in the
country—Woodbine Cottage. Aunt Jessie and Clarissa and Juliet have
settled everything. It seems to me that they ought to have waited till
my mother should arrive, to see what she would like; but such an idea
never enters their heads. I cannot make out that she has sent any
directions; and if I ask, I get no answer, or else I am told that it is
not my business. If it is not my business, I don't see whose it is, for
I am my mother's eldest daughter, and I do think I have a right to know
things, now I am seventeen years old, and have done with school.
It puzzles me why they should have fixed upon that place to live in.
We know nobody there, and I can see no particular reason for going. It
is just a whim of Clarissa's, I suppose; and yet she is not fond, in a
general way, of living in the country.
_December 13th. Thursday Morning._
While I was writing in my journal yesterday evening, aunt Jessie rapped
at my door and walked in without waiting for an answer. She was vexed
to find me still dressed, and said,—
"Not in bed yet? Do you know it is half-past ten?"
I said I had not hurried because I was not sleepy. And I shut-up my
journal and slipped it into a drawer, lest she should see what I had
written.
"That is no excuse," aunt Jessie replied. "I sent you to bed early,
because I knew that to-morrow would be a fatiguing day; and you are
wrong to disobey me—this last evening especially."
I think I could have kept my temper if Clarissa had not come gliding in
after aunt Jessie.
"You had much better take Rhoda's pen and ink away," she said. "There
is no dependence to be placed on her. I do not know what her mother
will say to such ways."
That made me fire up before I knew what I was about.
"It will be Mother's business, not yours!" I said.
Clarissa's lip curled as it always does when she is put out. People
say she is very handsome, but I never can see it; I cannot think her
good-looking. Then aunt Jessie told me that I was extremely naughty—she
always says "naughty" still, just as if I were only six years old. I
am afraid I pouted, and she said I was to be in bed in ten minutes. So
I was, but I had no time to say my prayers. I didn't feel like saying
them, even if I had had time.
Aunt Jessie came back exactly at the ten minutes' end, and she put out
my light and left me without saying, "Good night."
Then I knew that I could not go comfortably to sleep without at least
trying to say my prayers; and I crept out of bed and had a good cry on
my knees, for everybody seemed unkind. That sort of thing always makes
me miserable, though people think I don't care; and I do not see how
one can say one's prayers properly when one feels so. I know I could
not. I did try, but I was only able to think about Clarissa; so at last
I got up and crept back into bed.
After breakfast this morning aunt Jessie gave me a regular lecture
about my faults. She began with a present of a gold pencil-case, and
that was uncomfortable. I have wanted one for a long time, and this is
a beauty. But I wish people would choose some other time than before
a lecture for giving one presents. If we had been alone when she
lectured, I should not have minded so much—at least I think not! But
aunt Jessie never thinks of waiting till we are alone.
Clarissa was arranged in one of her attitudes, doing crewel work; and
Juliet was mending the dress that I tore yesterday. I cobbled up the
hole in a hurry, but Juliet spied it out, and she has undone my cobble
and has darned it most beautifully. Of course I ought to be grateful,
but I do not think I am. It is so difficult to feel grateful to people
when one does not love them; and I certainly do not love Juliet. Not
what I call really loving, I mean.
While aunt Jessie talked, I was wondering whether Mother would admire
those two as much as other people do. I was too young, when she went
out, to know anything about her tastes. They are often called "the
handsome Miss Friths" by strangers. Clarissa is tall with a good
figure, and Juliet is shorter and rather plump, with pretty features
and a very quick manner. I am not at all pretty, and I know it very
well. Connie was lovely, but my face is not like hers. I am said to be
like nobody in the family. Well, my mother will not love me less for my
want of prettiness, and other people do not matter.
I was thinking this, yet I heard aunt Jessie. She said that if I did
not take care, I should be a great trouble to my mother. She told me
that I was forgetful, untidy, impatient, ill-tempered, wilful,—such
a string of hard words. She complained especially of my want of
gentleness, and of "my unpleasant manner to the girls." Aunt Jessie
always calls them "the girls" still, and counts me a mere child in
comparison, though I do not feel like a child any longer. I did not
know that my manner was unpleasant, except perhaps when they vex me,
and then how can one help it? Aunt Jessie said it was un-Christian, and
she wished I would pray for a better spirit. Very likely some of what
she said was true, because, of course, I am not perfect, and I do not
pretend to be, but then I am sure other people are anything but perfect
also. And there are different ways of being told that one is in the
wrong; and her way never does me good, it only makes me feel cross.
Besides, as for meekness—and she talked ever so much about meekness—I
suppose I am not particularly meek, but most certainly Clarissa and
Juliet are not! Why doesn't she lecture them?
I bore it all pretty well, I do think, till she began to say that my
mother would be disappointed in me. Then I could not help bursting into
tears, and I ran away up to my own room, where I have been ever since.
Why must people say such things?
_December 15th._
We went to the station yesterday afternoon to meet my mother and the
twins. On the way, I was picturing to myself the meeting—how I would
be the first to catch sight of Mother's face, and how she would hold
me in her arms, and would have no eyes for anybody else, and how the
twins would cling to me—their only sister. I almost forgot that aunt
Jessie and the girls would be there, only perhaps I was glad down below
to know that they would see for once the difference between them and
me. I mean the difference as to my mother. The girls may talk of being
her adopted children, and I am sure she has been the best of mothers to
them ever since they were quite tiny, as much as she possibly could.
Having to be away in India, has kept her from them, just as it has kept
her from me. But still, all the time she is "not" their mother, but
only their aunt; and they are "not" her children, but only her nieces;
and nothing can make her the same to them that she is to me. And for
once I thought they would feel it.
Then when the train steamed in, and we were on the tip-toe of
expectation, Mother was not there at all! They had not come by that
train. I don't know when in my whole life I have been so dreadfully
disappointed. It made everything seem unreal. I almost felt as if the
coming home from India were all a mistake, and as if I should never see
my mother again. The others took it much more philosophically, even
though they have talked as if they cared any amount about having her
back. Juliet laughed at me for looking glum, and aunt Jessie said how
wrong it was to be sulky. I wonder why people think one sulky when one
is only unhappy!
Clarissa was sure my mother had only missed her train. Indian ladies
never were punctual, she said, with a disagreeable little laugh. And I
felt like saying almost anything, for I knew it was not Mother's fault,
whatever the reason might be.
When we got indoors, a telegram was awaiting us. Mother had found
at the very last moment that she would be hindered in Bristol by
business, and she could not say what hour she might arrive. I wanted to
look-out the trains from Bristol, and to meet each one, but aunt Jessie
objected. She and the girls were tired, she said, and she could not let
me hang about in the station alone. The telegram said, "Do not meet
us;" and that quite satisfied aunt Jessie, but it was not enough for me.
The next few hours were the longest and dreariest I have ever passed.
I could not read or work or settle down to anything. But at last they
came, just when nobody happened to be on the look-out, my mother and
the twins, all alone. The ayah who was to have travelled with them had
made a sudden engagement to go back to India, and Mother had let her
off, leaving her behind in London.
The meeting was not in the very least like what I had pictured.
Mother was tired out with the journey, and with having to manage
for herself and the children all day. She has grown thin and pale,
almost sallow, and has lost all her pretty young looks. I could hardly
believe, at the first moment, that it was really herself; she is so
changed. She walked in slowly and languidly, and seemed as if she had
not strength or spirit to be glad about anything. When I rushed into
her arms, she just gave me a quiet kiss, and said nothing. Then she put
me aside, and kissed Clarissa and Juliet in exactly the same manner. I
did not see one grain of difference. And yet I am her own, and they are
not. And those two took possession of her, making her sit down, while
Clarissa untied her bonnet strings, and Juliet loosened her cloak.
Mother smiled at them in a worn-out way, and let them do as they liked.
I wanted to kiss Addie and Emmie, but they clung to Mother, and would
not so much as look at me. When I took hold of Emmie, she shrieked, and
Addie struck at me with her little fist. Mother said, "Don't, Addie!"
Yet the moment I came near, she did it again.
They are such an odd little pair, exactly alike, with tiny white faces,
and big black eyes, and fluffy fair hair. Not nearly so pretty as I
expected, for they are said to be like Connie.
It seemed as if I had no chance of reaching my mother, while those two
clutched her in front, and the elder girls sat one on each side. Aunt
Jessie kept talking about the voyage, and asking questions about my
father. Mother answered in a patient tired out voice, almost as if she
did not know what she was saying.
Presently Juliet coaxed the children off to look at the kitten. They
would go to her, though I might not touch them.
Then Mother spoke my name, and I came close. She took my hand, and
gazed at me, as if she were trying to understand something. I felt so
hurt about the little ones, and so flat and chilled altogether that
I could not look pleased or bright. It was impossible. Nobody could
have done so in my place. Mother said, "How altered!" I knew she was
dreadfully disappointed, and a lump in my throat half-choked me.
"Rhoda has changed a good deal the last half-year." Aunt Jessie seemed
to think she had to apologise for the fact. "But she does not grow
fast. She will never be tall."
Mother said, "Perhaps not," keeping her eyes on me still.
"I am almost as tall as Juliet," I said, and I know my voice sounded
curt.
"Within two inches," Juliet remarked; but the difference is less than
one inch.
"She will be tall enough," Mother replied; and that was my first scrap
of comfort. If "she" is satisfied, I don't care about other people.
When the twins' bedtime came, she insisted on taking them upstairs
herself. I wanted to help, and the moment I came near, they began to
shriek. Juliet ordered me off, and took my place, and they were good
directly. I cannot understand it. I did feel so sore and miserable at
not being able to do anything. And it has been just the same since.
_December 19th._
We go to our new little country home the day after to-morrow.
Everything is ready for us, settled by Clarissa and Juliet. Mother just
submits. She doesn't seem to have any will of her own. I have hardly
heard her ask a single question about the house or the place, or why we
are to be there at all.
Though she has lost her old colour and prettiness, there is still
something about her unlike other people, and I am proud of her. But I
am afraid she is not proud of me. Clarissa and Juliet are always trying
to show me off in the worst lights before her.
As for my being the eldest daughter of the house, nobody could guess
it. Mother behaves exactly as if I were only her third daughter. She
puts Clarissa and Juliet first in every single thing. Of course it is
all right that she should be kind to her nieces, especially as they
are orphans, and have no real home of their own. But then they are not
poor, and I have my rights as well as they; and I must say I did not
expect things to be like this. I did think that with my mother I should
find a difference, however other people might treat me. I do long to
know that I have the "first" place in her heart. If once I could be
sure of that, nothing else would matter so much.
Johnnie has come, and I can see how dearly she loves him. He is her
only boy, and he always is so good-humoured and pleasant. Nobody counts
him handsome or clever, but he does his lessons fairly, and he is good
at games, and he is a thorough gentleman,—much more so than most boys
of fourteen,—and everybody likes him. Of course, I do too; only somehow
he and I don't quite fit in together, as Connie and I did. He has such
a provoking admiration for Clarissa. It is absurd.
Yesterday evening Mother came to my room late, for the first time. She
has been too tired on other nights. I thought she wanted to speak about
Connie, and I wanted it too; but a shy fit seized me, and I talked so
fast about all sorts of stupid things that she had not a chance.
After she was gone, I did wish I had not been so foolish. I know she
has already spoken of Connie to others, for I heard Clarissa say so.
[Illustration]