_RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES._
_December 20th._
WE start early to-morrow. I have only time for a few words to-night.
My mother and I were out alone together this afternoon, for once. As we
were passing through the shrubbery, I suddenly found myself saying:
"You haven't spoken one word to me about Connie since you came!"
She turned her face away.
"I have not been able," she said. "Another time—"
"If only you could!"
I saw her throat working. She said after a little pause,—
"You remind me of her incessantly."
It was a great surprise to me.
"Why, Mother! I am not like Connie."
"Sometimes. More than you used to be."
"But Connie was so pretty."
Mother looked at me in a curious steady way.
"It is not a question of prettiness," she said, "nor of features at
all. The look comes and goes. And you are pretty enough for my eyes. A
mother sees differently, you know, from other people. Perhaps others
would not see the likeness, but I do."
I am very glad. If "she" thinks so, it matters very little what anybody
else thinks.
I mean to devote my life to her, and not to care for any single thing
except her comfort and happiness. Then, perhaps, in time, she will love
me as I want to be loved, and as I love her, not merely as she loves
Clarissa and Juliet, or because of my likeness to Connie.
_January 2nd, Wednesday._
After a busy Christmas, we are pretty well settled in our new home.
On the whole, I do not dislike the little place; and the house is
comfortable, only small. The garden will be nice in summer. I have a
room opening into my mother's, and the elder girls, as usual, sleep
together.
We have no friends yet in the place, but there are a few neighbours
whom we expect in time to know. Nobody that I shall care for, most
likely. Clarissa will monopolise everybody, and give me no chance. But
if I can have Mother sometimes to myself, I care very little about
other friends.
We have had a very dull Christmas—more dull than I could have thought
possible, so soon after their coming home—but at Christmas it does seem
natural to have a little excitement of some sort. And we have had none
whatever. I do not seem to have anything particular to write about.
_February 3rd._
I have been thinking lately how terribly difficult a thing it is to
keep straight, and how hopeless to manage to please everybody, and what
a puzzle life is altogether.
Only a few weeks ago, I was looking forward in a perfect rapture of
delight to my mother's coming home.
I thought everything was sure to go right, when once I had her. I
thought worries and misunderstandings would be at an end. And it has
not been so at all. There are just as many worries and rubs here as
there used to be at school, or at aunt Jessie's in my holidays. I am
quite as often fretted and vexed. And I can find no way of keeping out
of troubles—little stupid needless bothers, which are almost the worst
of all to bear.
If Connie had but lived! I do feel so lonely without her. She always
understood me, and I never was put out with her, or, at least, scarcely
ever. I hardly knew I had a temper till Connie was gone. She seemed to
come between me and aunt Jessie, between me and the girls. She seemed
to smooth down everything, and to make life go right. And everybody
loved Connie.
Perhaps I did not get vexed then, because Connie never did anything to
vex me. But other people are so unreasonable. I don't see how I can
be expected not to mind. Clarissa is always saying, "There you are
again!" And Juliet says, "Sulking as usual!" And an hour ago, my mother
herself found fault with me. I had not meant to be cross, and indeed
this morning I went downstairs with a particular resolution to let
nothing whatever vex me, no matter what might happen. But resolutions
don't seem to be of much use. Clarissa does set one down so, and Juliet
meddles, and both of them sneer. If only they would let me alone!
I said so to my mother, and she said that was a childish wish, for
nobody could be "let alone" in life. She told me that I must expect
little contradictions, and that I was old enough to be able to take
them patiently.
I am afraid she thought me hard, for I did not know what to say, and
so I made no answer. I could not possibly say that I thought Clarissa
and Juliet were not to blame, because I do think they are very much to
blame. If they were different, I should never feel cross. They do worry
me so fearfully! Perhaps I ought to have said that I was sorry; for I
suppose I did not speak exactly as I ought to Juliet—but still—Well, if
it had been anybody else, I would have said so, but I couldn't! And I
came up here for a little peace. I don't mean to go down yet.
Mother always seems to be sure that I am the one who is most to blame.
And yet why should I be? She never blames Clarissa or Juliet, at least
I never hear her do so. And yet I am her own child, and they are only
her nieces, but really it almost seems as if she forgot that.
She does not know how dearly I love her, or how utterly miserable it
makes me to think that she is the very least displeased with me.
I do wish, too, that she would sometimes make a stand for her own way.
One might almost think that the house belonged to Clarissa and Juliet.
To be sure, they are very fond of her, or they seem so—after a fashion.
But Clarissa calls her "the dear little mother," in a petting
patronising way which I detest. She is not their mother, to begin with;
and though she is very slight, she is taller than Juliet, and almost
as tall as Clarissa. I can't bear Clarissa to speak in that horrid
patronising way. And Juliet is for ever trying to get things into
her own hands, managing this and deciding that without so much as a
reference to her. She pretends that it is all to save her trouble, but
I know better! She gives my mother no choice; and things are constantly
arranged as Mother would not have chosen, and as she does not really
like, only she is too gentle to complain. I do wish she would now and
then make a stand. And I don't see why I am never to have a voice in
any single thing!
_February 9th, Saturday._
A pouring wet day, and no going out; and I am thoroughly out of sorts.
Everything has gone wrong the whole morning.
I have been in such a stupid unhappy state lately. Life seems so tame
and dull and disappointing. Before we came here, and still more before
my mother came home, I meant to be so busy and useful to everybody,
and I thought I should be perfectly happy. But I can't! It is not the
very least use trying! I feel inclined just to give up, and not try
any more. If Clarissa and Juliet were not here, that would make all
the difference; but while they are in the house, nothing ever can or
will go straight. I hate to do things just because they tell me that I
ought. It only makes me want to do exactly the opposite directly. And
really I don't see any need for me to do things.
I did mean to be my mother's companion everywhere, and to save her
trouble with the housekeeping, and to do everything for the twins.
But when she does want to go anywhere, Clarissa is almost always her
companion, and then I don't care to go too. And Juliet has taken up
the housekeeping. And as for the twins, they are so dreadfully spoilt
that I can do nothing for them. If I say a word, they begin to shriek,
and then my mother is worried. They are always good with Juliet, and I
wonder Mother isn't hurt at their devotion to her. But, at all events,
it is of no use for me to interfere. Sometimes, when they are good, I
play with them, but it is sure to end in a fit of naughtiness; and all
the blame is laid upon me.
I cannot imagine how it is that so many people go through life in
such a steady jog-trot fashion, taking each day as it comes, and
never seeming to mind what happens. Perhaps they think and worry more
than one would suppose; for, after all, nobody would guess what I go
through in that way. I don't talk about it, and I am supposed to be
quite wrapped up in my own interests. I like reading story-books; and
sometimes I get into a merry mood, and talk and laugh. And people think
me just an empty-headed school-girl—at least I am sure some do.
But I am not. I do think—oh, a great deal! And sometimes I do so wonder
how it will all look to me by-and-by, when life is over. And then I
make up my mind that I will be quite different, and nothing shall put
me out. I go downstairs, feeling so good, and ready to do or bear
anything. And then Clarissa puts on one of her airs, or Juliet says
some sharp thing, or somebody tells me to do what I shouldn't in the
very least mind doing if only I were asked nicely, and not told as if
I ought,—and in a moment I am upset, and I speak out, and I am treated
like a naughty child for the rest of the day. I really do not see that
I am to blame when things happen so. It seems as if one could not
possibly keep right with some people.
After breakfast, I was trying to forget everything and everybody in an
interesting book, when suddenly Juliet began reminding me that I had
not practised for three days past. I knew I had not, but I had not felt
inclined—one does not in some moods—and she might have seen that I was
not in the mood for it. Some people are so stupid! I told her I did
not want to play just then; and of course I said it sharply. Anybody
would, who felt as I had been feeling all the week past. Juliet began
to argue, and I said I wished she would not meddle; and then Mother
told me to go at once to the piano. It was so provoking of Juliet! When
Mother spoke, I went, of course, but it was of no use. I really could
not take pains, or help striking false notes. Presently Clarissa said,
"Torture!" with a groan. And my mother said, "You are not doing your
best, Rhoda. Go upstairs instead, and mend your stockings. When you
feel happier, you may come down again."
And here I have been ever since. I don't mean to go down till it is
time for our walk.
I wish nobody ever was tiresome. O Journal, you don't get cross with me.
_February 11th, Monday._
To-day has been just as bad as yesterday. Mother looks so sad that I
hate myself for giving way to temper; and I think I detest certain
other people still more, for making it impossible for me to keep
good-humoured. I have tried praying that things might be different, and
it doesn't seem to have done the smallest good.
_February 12th, Tuesday._
Yesterday evening, Mother sent me away from the dinner-table for
answering Juliet. Juliet spoke to me about stooping at meal-times. I
know it is a bad habit, and makes one look awkward and lazy; and I mean
to get over it in time. But I didn't think Juliet had any business to
find fault with me before the children; and they are generally allowed
to play about in the room all dinner-time. So I told her it was no
concern of hers. Juliet answered me sharply; and I answered her again;
and then Mother told me I had better go to my own room. So I went off
with a bounce, and slammed the door, because I thought they deserved
it—Juliet, I mean, not Mother. I didn't think at the moment that I was
punishing her as well.
About half-an-hour later, she came to me. I had not been doing anything
except sit at the window to watch three or four children playing in the
back field. I felt so dull and moody still that I did not even look
round when my mother opened the door. She shut it, and the next thing I
knew was her hand on my shoulder.
"Are you quite well, Rhoda?" It was not at all what I had expected her
to say.
"Quite."
"Nothing wrong in that line? Then what has been the matter lately?"
I do not know what I wanted to say, but I know that the only word which
would come to my lips was, "Connie." I smothered it back; but when
Mother put the question again, I could not help myself. The name seemed
to force its way out; and then her arm came round me, and in a moment,
I was crying as I have not cried once since the night when Connie was
taken from us.
Mother did not say a word. She only held me fast, and just touched my
face now and then with her lips; and presently, when I was better, I
found her struggling not to give way too. For a long while neither of
us could speak, and we only clung together. But it seemed such a help
to know that she was going through it all too. I don't think I can ever
again have quite that lonely feeling, as if nobody in the world knew
anything of what I felt.
Then I wondered whether, perhaps, Juliet might be coming after us, so I
went and bolted the door; and the very next moment, there was a rattle
of the handle outside, and Juliet's voice called my name.
"You can't come in just now," I said.
And she spoke indignantly,—"Rhoda, how can you go on in this foolish
way? You will make your mother ill."
But I only repeated, "You can't come in just now;" and when she had
argued a little, she went away.
Mother was herself again by that time. She made me sit down beside her,
and said, "Perhaps we shall both feel better for this by-and-by. But
now you must bear a few words from me, which you will not exactly like.
Words of something like blame, I mean."
"I can bear anything from you," I replied. "It is Juliet's worrying
that I can't stand."
"Sometimes we 'have' to stand things that we should not choose, if the
choice were given to us. And it will not do to make sorrow an excuse
for ill tempers." Then she told me plainly how disappointed she had
been in me lately. She said she had expected things to be so different
on her return.
"Yes, I know. That is just how I feel," I said. "Everything goes wrong;
and I am sure it is not my fault. It is all the fault of Carissa and
Juliet."
"Not altogether, not nearly altogether, Rhoda. Think for yourself,
and you will see it." Then she reminded me of her wish that I should
practise regularly before breakfast; and she asked how often I had
taken the trouble to do so. I could not say that I had done it. "The
girls are hardly to blame for your remissness in that line, at all
events." She went on to explain that my father had spent a great deal
on my education, and that the least I could do was to take care that
the money spent should not have been thrown away.
Of course, all that was reasonable enough, and I am not so stupid as
not to see it. I do not think in fact that I am a stupid girl, though I
make no pretensions to cleverness.
"Everything that you have learnt at school will soon become useless
if you do not keep up what you know. And you hardly attempt to do so.
There is little enough to occupy your time, yet you never seem to have
leisure for what ought to be done. If an interesting story-book comes
in your way, all else goes down before it. Is that right? You are not a
little child any longer; and duty ought to stand before amusement."
I did not find it easy to bear all this, even from my mother. Once or
twice I tried to interrupt her, but she went on to the end.
"If only Juliet would not meddle so!"
"Juliet means it kindly. You must remember that she is five years
older than you. If you cannot remember your own duties, you ought to
be grateful to her for bringing them to mind. To refuse to do right,
merely because one is told of it, is really too childish."
"I don't always forget. But reminding does no good. I mean, reminding
in Juliet's way. And even when I remember, it is so hard always to
leave off doing what one likes, for the sake of doing something that
one detests."
"For the sake of doing what is right!"
"One can't be always in the mood for work."
"No, one cannot. And those times when one is least in the mood are
often the times when it is most one's duty to do the work."
"Only people do have lazy moods now and then," I could not help saying,
though I did not really mean to be perverse.
"People do undoubtedly."
"And one can't help it."
"One cannot help having the mood, I grant you. One can certainly help
yielding to it. There is hardly any more miserable slavery than the
slavery of those who are victims to every passing mood and humour. It
is in just such little fights that the real battle of life is carried
on. If you do not discipline yourself in little duties, you will never
be fit to undertake great duties."
"But still—"
"Still, you think people may please themselves. A governess may teach
when she is in the mood, and let teaching alone when she is not in the
mood. The captain of a ship may attend to the navigation of his vessel
so long as he feels inclined; and when he gets a lazy fit, he may
retire to his cabin, and leave the ship to take care of itself. Is that
the sort of thing you mean?"
I could not help laughing.
"But such stupid little things as half-an-hour's practice, or a page of
French translation—"
"Or such stupid little things as putting aside a delightful story, for
the sake of a French translation; or getting up early, for the sake of
the morning practice; or overcoming small tricks, for the sake of being
more agreeable to other people—"
"Mother, if only you would always tell me, and no one else!"
"But I cannot promise that, Rhoda. What right have I to seal other
people's mouths? Juliet is very good to take the trouble to look after
you. She is a great help to me."
"I don't think she is good at all!" I burst out. "She interferes and
meddles, and makes herself perfectly unbearable."
Mother looked really displeased, and her hand came over my mouth.
"Hush, Rhoda! I will not have you speak in that manner. Juliet is to
all intents and purposes your elder sister, and I expect her to be
treated as such. You have given way far too much to these feelings.
Instead of helping me to keep a peaceful atmosphere in the house, you
are doing your best to stir up strife."
Then my mother went on to say that she had always hoped I was one with
Connie in desiring above all things to serve God, to do the will of
Christ. She is very shy in speaking on such subjects; and I could see
her hands trembling. But I thought it rather hard that she should seem
to doubt whether I cared at all about such things, when I am sure I
mean to do right as much as any one does. Of course it is difficult for
me, as it is for everybody, but I am sure I do try. And if it wasn't
for Clarissa and Juliet, I should be quite good-tempered. It is only
they who put me out so horribly; and anybody else would be put out in
my place.
I did tell Mother that I would see if I could do better; but she did
not seem satisfied, and I could not say more. Only I have written all
this down, as a sort of punishment to myself, and because I mean to
try. I intend if possible to make myself not care what the elder girls
say or do.
[Illustration]