_THE CHOICE GIVEN AND TAKEN._
_August 19th, Monday._
THIS day fortnight I go home. I am making, oh, such a lot of good
resolutions! I mean to be such a good, useful daughter to my mother!
_August 20th, Tuesday._
To-day I told aunt Marian a little of what I mean to be and do, and how
I intend to help Mother in every possible way. My head seemed so full
of the thought that I could not keep it to myself any longer. And when
we were sitting together, it all came out.
She said, "Yes; things ought to be different."
"Mother told you about it all, I suppose?"
"Your mother said there had been troubles. And your uncle saw a little
of what was going on. And you have told me a great deal more yourself."
"I! Aunt Marian?"
"Not intentionally. Never mind. You are going back now with at least
happier intentions."
"It will be so much easier."
"Will it?"
"Why, of course, aunt Marian! I don't mean that I wasn't in the wrong;
for I know I was, sometimes. But they were very tiresome, and very hard
to get on with. And now I shall not have them."
"'They,' and 'them'?"
"I mean Clarissa and Juliet. I suppose I was tiresome to them
sometimes. But—"
"From your own accounts, I should say you were a good deal more than
merely 'tiresome,' Rhoda, my dear!"
She was looking at me with such a kind smile that I could not well be
angry.
"But what have I told you?"
"A great many things, one way and another. Two people cannot live
together for ten weeks and not learn a little about each other's ways."
"I thought I had not said much about 'them!'" I said. And tears somehow
came into my eyes, because I really had meant not to talk.
"Not much! No, not a great deal. It is not the amount said, but the
spirit shown. Sometimes a tone and a look are sufficient. Sometimes the
absence of a tone or a look."
"Only you don't really know all about it," I could not resist saying.
"Nobody in this world ever knows 'all about' any single thing or
person. No, I do not know all about it, by any means. I only know
something."
"Aunt Marian, what 'do' you know?"
"Do you really wish to be told?" she inquired slowly. "I think I can
gather that there has been a good deal of egoism in the past, egoism
of a common girlish kind, self-seeking in little ways. The chief aim
of your life seems to have been self-pleasing. I think you would have
liked to alter the whole order of things. You would have preferred
to be the eldest, to have had all the money, and all the rights of
management. And since you could not have that, you have fought against
the order of things, bruising yourself and injuring others."
"Only they were so cross."
"You mean that they did not yield to you in every particular. Why
should they?"
And then there was a break. I could have cried heartily, if I would
have let myself do it.
"I know I was wrong," I said at length, trying not to show what I felt.
"And I did mean to do differently, I meant it before I heard about
Clarissa getting married. But of course I can't help thinking how much
easier things will be now."
"Because your mother is so gentle and yielding. But that will not put
you in the right, if you still take your own way."
"O no, I don't mean that. I only mean that it will be easier to keep my
temper."
"I would not be too sure as to the easiness, if I were you. One worry
is apt to come when another goes. It is a way things have."
"Only I don't see why I need expect it. And nothing else could be so
bad as this has been."
"The present worry generally seems the worst one could have. My dear,
you need not be dolefully looking out for troubles, of course. Still,
I should like to see you in a 'braced' condition, not bent on finding
things 'easier.' It matters very little whether the fight is hard or
easy. Whether you conquer, or whether you are beaten, is the question
which does matter."
But whatever aunt Marian may say, I know things "will" be easier. I
am perfectly sure they will. I shall not have Clarissa and Juliet to
plague and pester me at every turn.
_August 21st, Wednesday._
Mr. Derwentwater came in to-day, quite suddenly. Nobody had expected
him. He has been a little out of sorts, he says, and he has a
fortnight's holiday; and he is going to spend it down here, at the Park.
The last fortnight of my stay. That will be pleasant. I like him very
much. Anybody might like him. When he came in, I was alone in the
drawing-room and his face lighted up, as if he counted me an old friend.
"Then you are here still," he said. "I was not sure."
His manner said he was glad. And I am glad that I have not just missed
him.
_August 24th, Saturday._
Mr. Derwentwater comes in every day, for some reason or other. Always
to see aunt Marian; and if aunt Marian is down, he talks to her
chiefly; and if she is not, he stays for a little talk with me.
I have not seen Millicent since he came, and we have not talked about
her much.
To-day, however, something was said, which made me ask him, "Do you
think Millicent pretty?"
"Millicent? Pretty!" he said, and he gave a short laugh. "What makes
you ask?"
"I don't know. I always like her face so much, but I do not think it is
exactly pretty,—is it?"
Mr. Derwentwater laughed again, and said nothing.
Aunt Marian spoke for him. "Nobody could help liking Millicent's face.
Not because of beauty, but because of its truth and goodness."
"Only, mightn't a face be pretty as well as good?"
"Decidedly," aunt Marian replied.
And then I saw Mr. Derwentwater looking at me. I don't know what made
him do it, or what he was really thinking. But something or other in
his look made me, when I went upstairs, go straight to my glass.
Did he mean that "I" was pretty? And "am" I pretty? I have been used to
think of myself as plain. I was always told in the nursery that I was
so ugly compared with Connie; and aunt Jessie and the girls have seemed
to count me the same. Am I really and truly so very plain?
It was just that something for one moment in Mr. Derwentwater's look
which made me wonder about this. And I am not sure, but it does seem
to me that my face has improved a good deal of late; that if I used to
be ugly, I am not ugly any longer. Of course, I would not say this to
anybody except my own old private journal. Nobody is ever supposed to
think oneself pretty; and I should be considered awfully vain, if I
were to speak out all that I am thinking, in plain words.
But now that I have begun to think about it, I cannot help seeing that
I have a nice little straight nose, and not at all a bad mouth, and
lots of hair. And when I first came to the glass, I had such a bright
colour in my cheeks. I could not help feeling that if I saw that colour
in somebody else's face, I should certainly admire it.
It is nice to think that after all, perhaps, I am not so disagreeable
looking as some people have tried to make out.
_August 26th, Monday._
Millicent was so white in Church yesterday. I wonder why.
Afterwards, I walked with her as far as the gate of the Rectory garden,
and I told her I thought she was doing ever so much more than she ought.
And she said as she always does, indifferently, "Things have to be
done."
"But it is of no use to make yourself ill."
"I am not ill, thanks."
"And nothing is wrong?"
Nothing was wrong at all, she said; and she did not ask me to go
through the garden with her. I thought she was rather glad to get rid
of me.
It does not seem that much good is to be got out of that friendship. I
know Millicent just about as well now as I knew her after a fortnight's
acquaintance.
_August 27th, Tuesday._
Oh, delightful! Mr. and Mrs. Collins have got up a big excursion for
Thursday; and uncle Basil and I are going, and Millicent and Mr.
Farrars, and one or two of the boys. And of course, Mr. Derwentwater
will be there. I wonder whether Millicent will treat him kindly. She
will not be able to get off going, as she so often does, because Mr.
Farrars will be sure to want her.
The excursion is to be to a ruin, ten miles off,—"the Castle," it is
called. Nobody knows anything about the history of the castle, but it
seems to be rather old, and they say it is very prettily placed, on
a hill, with lovely views around. Provisions are to be taken, and we
shall all have a sort of heavy afternoon-tea on the grass. And then
those who like it will walk to a waterfall two miles off, and those who
don't can sit in the ruin, and enjoy a lazy time.
If only it will be fine. We are having lovely weather now, but how long
will that last?
Six more days, and then home. I begin to feel how very sorry I shall be
to say good-bye to everybody here.
One week more, and Clarissa will be "Miss Frith" no longer. They
say she is having beautiful presents. I am working a most difficult
chair-back for her; and it takes an enormous amount of patience. Aunt
Marian has shown me how to do it; and I bought the materials with the
last remains of my five pounds. And of course I must go on and get the
thing done, though I begin to detest it heartily.
_August 28th, Wednesday._
Weather still perfect, and very hot. The only fear is of a storm
coming. Aunt Marian is so exhausted with the heat that she can hardly
speak. And when Mr. Derwentwater came in to-day, she left him and me to
do all the talking.
"I wonder how many people are going to-morrow," I said.
"Somewhere about twenty," he told me. "But some come in their own
carriages. My uncle only undertakes the transporting of ourselves and
yourselves and the Rectory party."
[Illustration: Nothing was wrong at all, she said; and she did not ask
me to go through the garden with her.]
Then he asked suddenly, "Which way would you like to go?"
I did not know exactly what he meant, and I said so.
"There is a landau for my uncle and aunt, and Mr. Ramsay, and one lady
beside. And I shall drive the dog-cart."
"Who goes in the dog-cart?" I asked, for that sounded tempting.
"May Collins and Jack Farrars will be in the back seat. Mr. Farrars has
the offer of a seat in Lady Wills' carriage. And the old pony-trap will
take half a dozen children,—Rectory boys and others. It is all pretty
well arranged, except those two seats. One in the landau, and one in
the dog-cart. Which would you like best?"
"Oh, the dog-cart! Of course the dog-cart. I have never in my life
driven in a real high dog-cart." Then I thought of Millicent.
"You can choose whichever you prefer."
"But would not somebody else—I mean, where will Millicent be?"
"She will take whichever seat of the two you leave for her."
Mr. Derwentwater's face puzzled me. I could not make it out.
"Choose whichever you like best," he repeated.
I did not look at aunt Marian. It seemed too hard to think of giving
up what I should like so desperately. If it had been settled for
me,—but to go into the dull big carriage of my own free will, among the
dull elderly people, when I might have the front seat in that lovely
dog-cart—And of course I like to be with Mr. Derwentwater. Why should
I not? He is so nice-looking, and so polite, and so clever, and so
full of fun! Everybody likes him, and why should not I like him too?
It seems to me that the only one person who does not understand and
appreciate him is Millicent.
"Well?" he said, as I sat and thought.
"Of course I cannot help liking the dog-cart much the best. Only, if
Millicent would rather—"
"I have failed to get any expression of opinion from Millicent," he
said; and an odd hard look came into his mouth for a moment. "It rests
entirely with you. Choose for yourself, please, whichever you would
prefer."
"I should 'prefer' the dog-cart."
"Then the matter is settled." And almost directly, he went away.
When he was gone, I could not resist a glance towards aunt Marian. She
was looking at me.
"Ought I to have chosen the other?"
"My dear, you are perfectly right to do what your conscience dictates,"
she replied, in the faint voice she has had all day.
"I don't suppose it was conscience—exactly," I said, not very
willingly, but it did not seem honest to let that pass. "Only I do want
very much to go in the dog-cart."
"If you think it quite right,—why not go?"
"I can't see why it should not be right, aunt Marian."
"Then—go."
It was horribly unsatisfactory. All the time I knew quite well that she
was condemning me. And I could not think that fair.
"Millicent might have chosen, if she had liked. And she did not. Why am
I to choose for her? I don't see why she should be forced to go in the
dog-cart, against her will. And if she does not care,—and if I do care
very much—"
"My dear, do as you think right!" was all aunt Marian would say.
I could have had a good cry, it was so uncomfortable.
_August 28th; same evening; later._
Ought I to refuse? Ought I to give up the dog-cart? Ought I to make
Millicent have the pleasure?
Well, but how do I know that it would be any pleasure to Millicent? She
had the choice given her, and she would not take it. I did not try to
get this for myself. Now that it has come, I really cannot see why I
must throw it aside. I shall like, oh, how I shall like it!
The dog-cart itself will be so delightful; and the horse that always
goes at such a pace, and Mr. Derwentwater's driving. He drives
splendidly, I know, because uncle Basil says so. The whole thing will
be perfect. I could not really give it all up for nothing. Millicent
either does not care for Mr. Derwentwater, or else she has made up her
mind that she cannot be spared from home, and must not let herself
think of him, or be with him. And if she has made up her mind, nothing
in the world that "I" could say would alter it.
It isn't a question of conscience at all. What made aunt Marian say
such a stupid thing, I wonder? I don't see why it need be any matter
of conscience either way. I am not bound to choose for Millicent; and
certainly I am not bound to try and bring her and Mr. Derwentwater
together. If I did, I should only be snubbed for meddling. So I mean to
let things take their course.
Most likely Millicent would not say a kind word to Mr. Derwentwater. I
believe she is too proud,—and so he just came off to me instead.
And why should he not? And why should not I take what he has offered
me? What can be the harm?
It is not as if I were sure that Millicent really cared for him. I used
to think she did; and that must have been a fancy. Certainly she shows
no particular signs of caring now.
I do wonder if it is fearfully conceited of me to imagine that Mr.
Derwentwater thinks I have a—perhaps not exactly a pretty face, but
rather nice-looking? I only think so because of the way in which I
catch him looking at me now and then. And he seems to like to talk.
Would he have laughed at the idea of Millicent being pretty, if he were
really in love with her?
_Same evening; still later._
I did not mean to listen, but how could I help it? I was just going
into the drawing-room, and was behind the screen, when I overheard
uncle Basil's voice saying,—
"So Derwentwater is going to take the child with him in the dog-cart
to-morrow?"
"Yes; I am sorry for it," aunt Marian replied.
"Sorry!" And uncle laughed. "Why?"
"I have always reckoned on his liking for Millicent."
"You don't think he would ever be such a goose, my dear, as to prefer
that pussy-cat face of hers to Millicent's!"
I was drawing back noiselessly, as fast as I could, not wishing to be
discovered, or to hear any more. But when uncle spoke of me in such
a way, it gave me a shock of surprise; and I came to a stop in the
doorway, still hidden by the screen.
"Many a man prefers a pussy-cat face to one with character in it," aunt
Marian said.
As if there were no character in mine! It really was too bad.
"It is a pretty type of pussy-cat," she added. But that was not much of
a compliment.
"Derwentwater is a man of sense, my dear. Don't you be afraid. It will
be all right. He thought he would give the child a treat, no doubt—just
as she is going away."
I heard a little sigh from aunt Marian, and I knew she did not agree
with uncle. But I would not stay another moment. I slipped off,
dreadfully ashamed of having listened to so much, and dreadfully
insulted, too, at being said to have a pussy-cat face. After all
these months, I shouldn't have expected it from aunt Marian. And
yet—and yet—somehow I was quite as much pleased as vexed, to know
that aunt Marian could think there was the very tiniest danger of Mr.
Derwentwater liking me or admiring me more than Millicent. Uncle did
not think as she did, but I know how much more aunt Marian sees and
understands than he does. She is very seldom mistaken. There must be
something to make her afraid.
At all events, this has quite settled me. I shall let things go.
Whether I have a pussy-cat face or not—if Mr. Derwentwater likes it,
and likes to have me with him to-morrow, ever so tiny a little bit,
I don't mean to snub him or to refuse. And I mean to enjoy myself as
much as possible, and to be as pleasant as I can. I'll let things go. I
don't see why uncle and aunt should talk about me in that way—as if I
were worth just nothing at all, compared with Millicent. Millicent is
very good and useful, of course, but she is "not" pretty, and she is
"not" amusing, and I don't wonder at all if Mr. Derwentwater finds her
a little dull. I have found her so sometimes, even though I am really
fond of her—in a way.
I cannot help wishing now that I were going to stay here a few days
longer.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]