_I AND MYSELF._
_May 1st, Wednesday._
UNCLE Basil Ramsay is coming for a fortnight's visit, and I have not
seen him for years and years; indeed, I can hardly remember him at all.
He lives so far off, and goes about so little,—I suppose on account of
his wife's health. I believe she never leaves home. He is my mother's
only brother, so I ought to like him, but somehow I do not manage to
like people "to order," merely because it is expected of me. Mother
seems rather nervous about having him. I do not know why. Perhaps he is
fussy, and, if so, I certainly shall not take to him.
_May 5th, Sunday._
This morning I woke up quite early, almost before it began to be light,
and for a long while I lay thinking. I cannot tell what set me off.
In the night, everything seems so different from the day, when people
are bustling about and talking. It came over me how very short life
is, and how little all the small bothers and worries really matter,
compared with what is to come by-and-by. I thought of Connie, and tried
to picture her where she is. She must care now not in the very least
whether she had or had not the things she wanted in this world, but
only whether she did what was right. And I made up my mind that I would
turn over a perfectly new leaf, that I would never again be vexed with
Juliet or anybody, because it was not worth while, but would always
keep in mind how fast the years are going, and how soon I shall be old.
I saw a sort of picture of myself passing through life in a perfectly
calm gentle way, never flurried or worried, never saying a sharp word
to any single person, and so full of the thought of Heaven and the
future that nothing here could possibly disturb me or make me cross.
I thought how sorry Juliet would be then for having treated me so
unkindly as she certainly has done; and I thought how fond everybody
would get of me, and how the twins would lean to run to me for whatever
they wanted, and how my mother would lean upon me, and how sweet I
should be to them all!
Such a life looked beautiful, as I lay there in the dark:—so beautiful
to be able to forget self altogether, and to live for others, and
not to be upset by trifles, but to think of this world as a mere
stepping-stone to Heaven.
Uncle Basil arrived late yesterday evening, too late for me to see much
of him; only I fancied I should like him, and I wanted him to like me.
And I felt sure he "would" like such a gentle calm niece as I meant to
be from that time, never flurried or vexed, but always perfectly kind
and composed and collected. It seemed quite simple and easy.
Then I dropped asleep, and somehow when I woke up again, things did
not look exactly the same. I could not help caring for one thing very
much indeed, and that was having to get up in time for breakfast. Of
course I had not to practise, as it was Sunday, but it was every inch
as hard to be ready for breakfast as on other days for music. I suppose
one always wants just a degree more than one is allowed in the way
of comfort. Anyhow, I was late for prayers, and I knew my mother was
sorry, because she had told me that uncle Basil is very particular
about punctuality. I saw him put up his eyebrows, and Juliet said,—
"Rhoda all over! If half-an-hour's grace is allowed, she must needs
take a full hour."
It was not the words, it was the manner. Mother says Juliet does not
mean anything by her manner, but she drives me frantic. As for not
minding—I do mind, and I must mind, and I don't believe any single
human being could go through what I go through and not mind. It did not
help me in the very least to think about life being short, or about
what lies beyond. Life does not seem to me to be short; it seems very
long and fearfully difficult, and every minute has to be lived through,
and sometimes one does not know how to live through them.
I did think it too unkind of Juliet to try and set uncle Basil against
me, when she knows how my mother wishes him and me to like one another.
Why Mother should care so much, I cannot tell, but it is easy to see
that she does. It was too bad of Juliet; and I coloured up scarlet, and
flew out at her for meddling. Perhaps I said rather more than I ought,
though Juliet richly deserved every word. Clarissa muttered a—"Really!"
And uncle Basil's eyebrows went up again, and my mother said in her
most pained voice, "Rhoda, you had better leave the room."
Of course I went, for I always do what "she" tells me, and my breakfast
was sent after me. I should have liked to leave it all, quite
untouched, but somehow, being unhappy does not take away my appetite. I
wish it did.
So that was a nice beginning of Sunday, and of my uncle's visit! And I
had meant everything to be so different.
Is it any use trying—any use making resolutions—if one must always
fail? I feel hopeless and out of heart.
Uncle Basil will not like me now of course. That is settled. I am not
sure how far I like him. He is good-looking, but not like my mother.
He has rather a slow way of talking and doing things. When he smiles,
he has a pleasant look, but he does not smile often. Mother seems very
fond of him. But I should think he is very particular, perhaps fussy;
and I do not care for fussy people.
_May 8th, Wednesday._
Yesterday, uncle Basil gave me a present of a five-pound note. So I
suppose he does at least feel kindly towards me. It means the more from
him, because he is not, I believe, particularly well off. I am planning
all sorts of things to do with the money. Some present for my mother
certainly, and for Johnnie. It might be rather nice if I were to get
something for the girls, but I do not feel at all inclined to do that.
Not at all.
_Same Evening._
Uncle Basil has been—I do not know what to call it. He asked me to go
out for a long walk with him, and of course I went. And when he had me
all alone, away from everybody, he gave me such a talking. I cannot
think what made him do so,—unless Juliet has put the idea into his head.
He told me I was making everybody miserable with my temper; and he said
that, if I were not careful, I should end by making my mother ill. I
tried to defend myself; and then he spoke of the "great kindness,"
as he called it, of Clarissa and Juliet, and told me that I was most
ungrateful. That was bad enough, but it was not all. He went on to ask
me questions which I did not choose to answer, because I felt vexed,
and besides I could not. There are things which one can't say to
everybody. And he said to me in plain words that I did not love God, or
care to serve Him. He warned me not to go on fluttering away my whole
life like a butterfly, only trying to please myself. As if he knew! I
am not a mere butterfly; and I do care for a great deal more than mere
self-pleasing. I don't see what business it is of uncle Basil's either;
and I wish he had not begun by giving me a present, and then I could
have said anything I liked to him,—at least, not anything, but a great
deal more than I did say.
All I did was to answer as little as possible. And on the way home, I
hardly replied to a single thing that he said. So of course, he counted
me dreadfully hardened. But I felt so miserable, it was the utmost
I could do to keep from crying. And when I got home, I had a good
breakdown in my own room. Mother found me in the middle of it; and she
would not leave me till I told her the reason. I am afraid I called
uncle Basil "horrid," and "meddlesome;" for she said, "Hush!" two or
three times. As usual, she would not blame him, and only said,—"He
meant it kindly, Rhoda."
"Mother, you think everybody means everything kindly."
[Illustration: Uncle Basil asked me to go out for a long walk
with him, and of course I went.]
"I am sure of it in this case. And what if you are intended to learn
something from what he said?"
"It wasn't his business to say anything to me."
"I do not see that," Mother answered slowly. "It is everybody's
business to help other people."
"But if I don't want his help—"
"Then I want it for you, Rhoda."
"I shall never learn anything from uncle Basil—never. He had no right
to lecture me. And I don't see why he should be so sure that I am
altogether and utterly bad."
"Not—surely—altogether!"
"Well, he seemed to think I did not care in the very least for doing
what is right."
Mother was silent.
"And I do care."
But she was silent still.
"Mother, I care a great deal. You know I do."
And all she answered was, very low,—"I wish with all my heart that I
did know it, Rhoda!" Then she got up, and went away; and I saw that she
was in tears.
_May 9th, Thursday._
I cannot get over what my mother said to me. What uncle Basil thinks
matters very little, but that "she" should have such an opinion,—hardly
anything could have touched me so closely!
All I can do is to resolve from this time to be different. She shall
see that I do really care, and that I do wish to do what is right.
_May 17th, Friday._
The fortnight of my uncle's visit has gone all right till to-day,
hardly a rub since the very beginning. Juliet has been tiresome, and I
have borne it patiently; and uncle has seemed rather to take to me. And
now all the good has been undone, and everything is wrong.
At breakfast, he said he hoped I would pay him a long visit soon. I
did not know what to answer; for it did not sound delightful. Mother
thanked him, and said that perhaps some day we could arrange it; and I
mumbled some sort of response, awkwardly enough. There the matter might
have rested, but Clarissa chose to drawl out a—"When do you want her?"
"Any time. The sooner the better. Next month," uncle Basil said at once.
And Clarissa, to my amazement, answered,—"That would do very nicely,
would it not?" She was looking at my mother, not at me. "We shall be
glad of the second spare-room about then."
"To be sure. I did not think of that," Juliet added, in her brisk way.
And, still more to my amazement, Mother said quietly,—"We will think
about it."
"Mother!" I cried indignantly.
If only I had let matters alone! I might have known better than to
speak just then.
"What now?" Juliet asked.
"I am not going. I don't want to go. I shall stay at home. The idea of
turning me away because you want my room!"
"We had better drop the subject," Mother said gravely.
And I saw uncle Basil looking me all over, as if he were trying to make
me out. But I was in no mood to take my mother's hint.
"You don't see,—you don't understand," I cried passionately. "Clarissa
and Juliet have made up their minds to get rid of me, that they may
have friends of their own in my room. I don't choose my room to be used
when I am away. It is too horrid of them. And I don't mean to go."
"Highty-tighty, what is all this about?" asked uncle Basil, in his most
deliberate tone. "Because I want my niece for a visit? Is that the
trouble?"
"Mother does not want to get rid of me. It is only the girls," I burst
out again, almost beside myself.
I know now how I must have looked, though at the time I only saw
Clarissa's sneer, and heard Juliet's laugh. Mother says that Clarissa
did not sneer, and that Juliet's little laugh is part of herself, but
at the time it seemed to me so.
"But suppose my wife and I are dull at home, and wish for the pleasure
of our niece's company?"
"You don't. It is not that, I understand. It is only that the girls
want to get me out of their way. And I don't intend to be managed. I do
not mean to go."
I saw Mother look at Juliet as if she were apologising for me; and
Juliet smiled and shook her head.
"Well, we need not settle the matter now. As your mother says, we'll
wait. Time enough before next month."
I don't know what more I might have said, but my uncle went out of the
room with Mother. And only the two girls stayed behind.
"You have made a nice exhibition of yourself now, certainly," Clarissa
observed in her coldest tone. "A grateful way of receiving an
invitation!"
"I don't care. It is your fault, the way you both treat me—"
Clarissa shrugged her shoulders. Juliet came a step nearer.
"Hardly worth arguing with you in your present state of mind," she
said. "But perhaps, when you recall what is past, you may find that,
after all, nothing so desperately cruel was said."
"I know what was said. You want to send me away from Mother that you
may have the use of my room."
"And if it were so, would that be very surprising? Have you never
wished to get rid of Clarissa and me?"
I had nothing to say. "That" was true enough.
"The kind of feeling is generally mutual." Juliet stood still, looking
at me. "Things might have been very different," she said gravely. "But
it seems to be a hopeless case. For your comfort, Rhoda, I may as well
tell you that your persistent efforts to get rid of us are likely to
succeed. We have borne a good deal, but we have pretty well arrived at
the outer edge of our patience. I do not fancy we shall trouble you
much longer. Except for your mother's sake, we should not be here now.
No need to say more. Come, Clarissa."
My passion was gone. I remembered that conversation with my mother, and
all she had told me. Had I at last done what then I had feared? Would
the girls stop helping us? And in that case, would our little home be
broken up, and would my mother be driven back to India before the right
time?
It was like a shower of ice falling. I did not know what to think or to
do, and it is the same now. Mother has hardly been near me all day; and
I cannot get to see her alone. Is she very much displeased?
The whole scene comes back to me, and I begin to see how little real
cause I had for my anger. It was so rude to uncle Basil, too. For after
all he meant kindly. I will never never behave so again.
[Illustration]