Sweet Content

“I may as well do the flowers in the drawing-room,” I said to myself. This was one of the few things I did regularly for mamma, and I am afraid its being regularly done was greatly owing to my liking it! I sauntered into the conservatory, glancing round to see what flowers I could cut without spoiling the appearance there; then through the conservatory, I sauntered on into the drawing-room. The housemaid, a young girl, whom I was not at all in awe of, was giving the room its morning cleaning. It was nearly done, but there remained the last touches – the laying down the hearthrug and removing one or two dust-sheets, and replacing some of the ornaments lying about – without which, however clean a room really is, it looks, of course, messy and disorderly.

“Oh, Eliza, why isn’t the drawing-room done?” I exclaimed. “I want to arrange the flowers, and I can’t have you fussing about while I am doing them. You must leave it for a quarter of an hour.”

The girl looked round regretfully.

“I’d have done in five minutes, Miss Connie,” she said; “I would indeed. I’m no later than usual, but you don’t often come in here so early; and the fire isn’t lighted, and you with your cold,” she added, as if that would decide matters.

“Oh, bother my cold,” I said. “It’s not chilly in here with the door open into the conservatory. I must do the Bowers now, or I can’t do them at all, and those in the glasses are very withered.”

Eliza gave in. But as she was turning away, leaving her dustpan and brushes behind her, she stopped short again.

“Oh, Miss Connie!” she exclaimed, “your frock’s all out of the gathers at the left side; and there’s a hole in your elbow.”

“I know,” I said, composedly; “I caught it in the balusters – the skirt I mean; but I didn’t know about the elbow. That’s Prue’s fault, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll change it before luncheon;” and I set to work at my flowers.

It was interesting work; there was a tap where you could draw cold water in the conservatory, and a little table on which I always arranged the flowers. And I had no trouble in getting rid of the withered ones; I threw them in a heap on the floor, and the gardener carried them away. But, all the same, I made myself rather dirty; my hands were smudged with mould, and some of it had got on to my face by the time I was half through my task. And as I had particular ideas about arranging the colours, and so on, I was very deliberate in my movements. Quite half an hour must have passed, and I had not begun to think of calling Eliza back to finish putting the drawing-room in order, when there came a ring at the front-door bell.

“Who can that be?” I thought to myself, though without much interest in the matter. “Some one ringing by mistake for the surgery-bell; people are so stupid.”

For rings at the front-door were comparatively rare, and really confined to the postmen and visitors for mamma, as, besides the surgery-bell, there is a side-door for tradespeople.

I thought no more about it, till suddenly the drawing-room door opened, and I heard Benjamin the “boy” – Benjamin was not even a “buttons,” and he only answered the front-door bell in the morning, while Eliza was busy “with the rooms,” as housemaids say – in colloquy with some person or persons unseen.

“Step this way, please sir,” he was saying with his broadest accent, as I ran forward, torn frock, dirty hands, smudged face and all, to see who it could possibly be.

Oh, dear! How I wished I had not yielded to my curiosity; how I wished I had run out by the door of the conservatory into the garden; how I wished I had not interrupted Eliza at her work, which would by this time have been neatly accomplished!

For there stood before me a tall, handsome man, younger-looking than papa – very young-looking to be the father of the girl at his side – a girl quite half a head taller than I, with grave, considerate eyes, and a quiet, pale face. She was dressed very simply, but with extreme neatness; all that, I took in, in less than an instant, even while I felt my face growing scarlet, and I seemed conscious of but one intense wish – that the ground would open and swallow me and the drawing-room up! Yes – the room was worse than I – I did not care so much for my own appearance at any time, but the drawing-room – It looked so messy and horrid – so common, too – “as if we only kept one servant,” I said to myself, “and could not afford to have the fire lighted early.” And to know that it was all my own doing!

A smile flickered over the gentleman’s face; he must have seen how wretchedly awkward and ashamed I looked – my burning cheeks must have told their own tale. But the girl only looked at me gravely, though very gently. I am sure she was as sorry for me as she could be.

“I am afraid,” Captain Whyte said at last – all this time I was blocking up the doorway, remember – “that we are taking a great liberty in disturbing Mrs Percy so very early, but – ”

Here the girl interrupted.

“You are busy arranging your flowers,” she said. “May we look at the conservatory? Perhaps, papa, Miss Percy can tell us all we want to know?”

And before I knew where I was she had crossed the room, not seeming even to see that it was in a mess, and we were all three standing in the conservatory, which, of course, though rather untidy, did not look nearly so bad as the drawing-room.

“How pretty your flowers are!” she went on, and one could see that she meant it. “Papa, do look at those begonias – but – shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” And she gave a nice little kind sort of laugh.

“I know who you are,” I said, as I awkwardly rubbed my hands on my apron to clean them from the mould. “I – I can’t shake hands – but – it’s all my fault that the fire isn’t lighted, and the room so messy. Mamma will be very vexed – she’s always ready as early as this to see any one.”

“We have unfortunately lost the address of the ‘odd man’ that Dr Percy was so good as to give us, and we find ourselves sadly in want of his services already,” said Captain Whyte. “There are one or two other points we should be grateful for a little advice about, too, but these can wait.”

I was beginning to recover my presence of mind a little by this time, though with it, alas! an increased feeling of mortification.

“I will fetch mamma,” I began; but Captain Whyte interrupted: “Please don’t disturb her,” he said.

I felt more and more vexed.

“I believe they think she’s a vulgar, fussy old thing like Agnes Gale’s aunt,” I said to myself; “never fit to be seen till the afternoon.”

“It won’t disturb her at all,” I said. “Mamma is never very busy.”

And just as I spoke I heard her voice from the drawing-room.

“Connie dear,” it said, “where are you, and what’s the matter with the drawing-room?” Oh, how glad I was that she said that! “Benjamin said some one wanted me;” and then catching sight of figures in the conservatory, in mamma came.

They started a little, and no wonder that they were surprised. Thanks to me, they had small reason to expect much in Mrs Percy. Never in all my life did I feel prouder of mamma, or more grateful for her unfailing sweet temper. Just think – many a mother in such a case would have come through the drawing-room scolding for finding it in such a mess; her voice would have been heard sharp and angry before she was seen. And many, even sweet-tempered women, would have been upset and flurried. Not so my dear little mother. She came in looking so sweet, and so neat and pretty – with just a little half-smile of amusement on her face. “What is the matter, Connie dear?” she repeated, and then she caught sight of the strangers.

I flew to her side.

“Mamma dear,” I said – I was not often so gentle, but I was humbled for once – “it is Captain Whyte and Miss Whyte. It is all my fault about the drawing-room. I would not let Eliza finish it, because she was in the way when I was doing the flowers.”

Then mamma glanced at me, and I saw that she had to make some effort not to look vexed at the state I myself was in.

“My dear child!” she exclaimed. But in an instant she was shaking hands with our visitors.

“I am so sorry,” she said.

“Nay,” Captain Whyte replied, “it is our place to apologise. I only ventured to intrude so early – ”

But mamma interrupted him.

“Won’t you come into the dining-room?” she said; “it will be more comfortable.”

And so it certainly was, though it was the very thing of all others I would have hated. I had so often mocked at the Gales for never using their drawing-room except on great occasions, and always huddling together in the dining-room. But our dining-room did look nice that morning. It was as neat as could be, and the window was a tiny bit open, and a bright fire burning, and on a small table in the window stood a pretty glass with one or two late roses and a trail of ivy, which mamma had just gathered in the garden outside.

Captain Whyte walked towards the fireplace and stood on the hearthrug, talking to mamma. Miss Whyte drew nearer the window, where I followed her.

“How sweet these late roses are,” she said. “You and Mrs Percy must be very fond of flowers.”

“Yes,” I said, stupidly enough. I could see she thought me shy and awkward, and that made me still more so.

“And what a dear garden you have,” she went on, evidently anxious to set me at my ease, “just as if I had been Agnes Gale,” I thought. “Our garden at the Yew Trees will be very nice, but I do love those walled-in gardens at the back of a house in a street. I always think there’s a sort of surprise about them which makes them still nicer. Do you do much gardening yourself, Miss – no, won’t you tell me your first name?”

“Connie,” I blurted out. A smile lighted up her grave little face.

”‘Connie?’” she repeated. “Oh, yes, I remember. Is that the short for – ” but then she stopped abruptly, murmuring something about “Lady Honor;” and for the first time she looked a little shy. It made me feel pleased.

“I suppose,” I said, rather disagreeably – “I suppose Lady Honor made fun of my baby name?”

Miss Whyte looked puzzled and surprised.

“Made fun of it,” she said; “of course not. We all thought it so sweet – ‘Sweet Content,’ I mean – and what Lady Honor said has made us look forward ever so much to knowing you. I think it was a little that,” she went on, smiling again, “that made me beg papa to bring me with him this morning.”

How ashamed I felt! It seemed as if I were to do nothing but be ashamed this morning – and this time with more reason. My ugly suspicions of Lady Honor were something to be ashamed of. She had always been a true and kind friend; and just because she did not flatter and spoil me, I could not trust the good old lady.

“Oh,” I began, “I didn’t mean – I thought perhaps – ”

Then I stopped short. “My real name is Constantia,” I went on hurriedly, “not Constance. I think Constantia prettier; don’t you?”

“It is more uncommon; it’s like my name. People think mine is Eva or Evelyn, when they hear me called – ”

“Evey!” came her father’s voice across the room. We both laughed.

“Wasn’t that funny?” said Evey, as she turned with a “Yes, papa.”

“Wasn’t there something else rather particular, that you had to ask about, if possible, at once?” said Captain Whyte. “Mrs Percy is so kind.”

Evey went towards my mother; a very business-like expression came over her face.

“It’s about the laundress, Mrs Percy. Mother would be so glad to know of one at once. You see there are so many of us, it’s an important consideration. Mother will be here by Tuesday, we hope, and it would be nice for her to find it arranged, and all the things sent for the week. It was one of the reasons she was sorry not to come at once herself – to see about it.”

“I hope it was not illness that delayed Mrs Whyte’s coming,” said mamma, kindly.

“Not her own,” said Captain Whyte, “but one of the boys had caught cold – he’s our delicate one – and very subject to croup. So it was safer to wait, and Evey and I came on with the three other small ones and one big one, leaving Mary and Joss to help their mother with the invalid.”

“I am sure I can find you a nice laundress,” said mamma, on which Evey’s brow cleared.

“And not dear?” the little girl asked – for, after all, she was a little girl, barely thirteen.

Mamma could not help smiling. Evey was so business-like.

“I think Mrs Whyte would find our laundress reason able,” she said. “Indeed, I don’t think any prices about here are extortionate.”

“That is one of the recommendations of Elmwood to us,” said Captain Whyte, smiling. “But, Evey, we have really intruded on Mrs Percy too long. Thank you so very much for your kind help.”

And he turned to go.

“I will not forget to send Mrs Green, the washerwoman, to speak to you,” said mamma, as she shook hands with Evey.

“Oh yes, thank you – this evening, please, if possible,” the little girl replied.

Chapter Five.

A Large Family

After they had gone, neither mamma nor I spoke for a minute or two. I did not quite know what to say, and I was not sorry to have some little time to consider, while mamma quickly wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, which she folded and addressed to Mrs Green. Then she rang for Benjamin, and told him to take the note at once and bring back an answer.

“I could have taken it, mamma,” I said. “Mrs Green’s is so near.”

It was not often I volunteered a ny little service of this kind, but somehow I had a wish to be of use to Evey Whyte, too, and I spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as if it was quite a usual thing for me to do.

“Thank you, dear,” said mamma. “I don’t think you should go out till we see what the day is going to be. Your cold is not quite gone yet.”

“Oh, bother!” I said, crossly. “Mamma, I wish you would not fuss so. I’m sure that little girl looks far more delicate than I, and she’s out. I only wish I had gone out quite early, and then they wouldn’t have come in and found everything in such a mess.”

“I mind the most their seeing you yourself in such a mess,” said mamma, regretfully. “I don’t think you should do the flowers if it dirties you so.”

“Oh, I needn’t be so dirty,” I said. “But I didn’t mind that half as much as the drawing-room;” and then I had to explain how I had interfered with the housemaid.

“It can’t be helped,” mamma replied. “They are nice, kind people, I am sure, and the next time they come we must have things ready. Besides, such a large family as they are, they can’t be always in apple-pie order themselves. Connie,” she went on, “did you hear that dear child’s name?”

“Of course,” I said, rather sharply. “They call her Evey, but her name’s not ‘Eva,’ nor ‘Evelyn’ – she told me so, and she was just going to tell me her real name, when Captain Whyte called to her. I daresay it’s some name not the least like ‘Eva.’”

“Oh,” said mamma, in a tone of disappointment, “I had hoped it was.”

In my heart I was sorry for her; how gentle and kind she was! And when I went upstairs to wash my hands, I had even more reason to think so, for when I looked in the glass – oh dear! – what an untidy, dirty little girl I saw! There was a smear of mould all down one cheek, some of which I had rubbed on to my nose, and my hair was straggling and my frock torn, as I have said. “I would have scolded my daughter dreadfully if I had been mamma,” I said to myself. And I got hot and red all over when I thought of my grand plans and pictures of my first meeting with our new friends.

My next meeting with them, though different from this first one, was also quite different from my fancies. We saw the Whytes in church on Sunday – not Mrs Whyte, she was not to come until Monday – but Captain Whyte and Evey and a big boy – quite big, looking almost grown up, and three small ones – dear little fellows in sailor-suits, all in a row, between Evey and the big brother. And they were so good! Evey herself was as neat as could be, and her jacket and hat were a very nice shape, and her hair prettily done. Altogether I began to be afraid the Whytes were not the sort of people I could at all “show off” to – (not that I called it “showing off” to myself). And after church I saw Lady Honor hurry up to them, and I felt she was asking them all to go home with her to luncheon. So I walked on rather gloomily beside mamma.

“I don’t think I want to know the Whytes,” I said; “I think they’re very stuck-up.”

Mamma stared at me in astonishment.

“Connie, dear?” she said, “that simple child! And so plainly dressed, too. She might rather think it of you, I’m afraid.”

But she glanced at me so proudly as she said it, that my self-love felt rather smoothed down than otherwise.

“I am glad for little Miss Whyte to see that you are not usually going about in a torn frock and with a dirty face,” mamma went on. “Of course, Mrs Whyte could not afford to dress several children as one can dress an only one, though they certainly look very neat. I am sure every one must admire that jacket of yours, Connie; it is really very pretty.”

It was a new jacket, dark-brown velvet, very handsomely trimmed with fur; rather too handsome altogether, I now think, for a girl of the age I was then. But I had been very well pleased with it and the cap to match, and it had struck me – though really I was not vain of my looks, nor much interested in my clothes – as I was dressing, that my fair, long hair looked nice on the rich, dark velvet. Now, however, I gave myself a dissatisfied shake.

“I don’t think I like it, mamma. I would much rather have a tweed jacket and frock the same. I think velvet and fur are rather vulgar. And – mamma – I wish you’d cut my hair off – I think Evey Whyte looks so nice with her short, dark, curly hair.” I forget if I have said that Evey’s hair was almost as short as a boy’s.

Mamma gasped. “Cut off your hair, Connie!” she said. “My Sweet Content’s great beauty! Cut off your hair, Connie?”

I was beginning a rather cross reply, when steps behind us – short, quick, pattering steps – made both mamma and me look round. A little boy in a sailor suit was running after us, and behind him again, at some little distance, we saw Evey, also running.

“Oh, please, please stop,” panted the small boy. He was the biggest of the three we had seen in church. “Evey’s got something to say to you, Mrs Percy.”

He tugged off his cap as he spoke, and stood smiling up at us – his round, rosy face all in a glow. He was a dear, sunburnt little fellow, not the least shy, and yet not a bit forward.

“I am so sorry we did not hear you coming before,” said mamma, kindly. “You have run so far. I hope you won’t get cold from being so overheated,” she added, anxiously.

“Oh no, thank you. I never catch cold. It’s only Addie that catches cold,” the boy replied. He evidently thought we must know who Addie was, and all about him or her. And by this time Evey’s voice was heard near at hand.

“How do you do, Mrs Percy?” she said. “I hope you didn’t mind Charley running after you? It was Lady Honor sent him, and I’ve come to explain. She wants to know if you will let Connie – mayn’t I say ‘Connie’? – come to luncheon at her house with all of us? We’re all going – isn’t it kind? – Charley and Douglas and Tot and Papa and Lancey, too. Oh, do let Connie come. I’m the only girl, and I do feel so funny without Mary.”

She was so bright and eager it would have been difficult to refuse. My contradictory humour melted away before her heartiness, and I smiled back in answer to the unspoken inquiry in mamma’s face.

“Certainly, my dear; I shall be delighted for Connie to go. Please thank Lady Honor very much. Shall I send for her in the afternoon?”

“Oh, please, we can bring her home. We aren’t going to church, because we’re not very settled yet, and the servants couldn’t go this morning, so we shall be going home by ourselves and passing your house before four o’clock. Connie won’t spoil her things,” she added considerately, glancing at my smart attire, “for we shan’t be romping, as it is Sunday.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid. Connie is not a great frock-tearer,” said mamma, smiling, though she spoke quickly. I think she was afraid that my appearance the other day was still in Evey’s memory. “Then good-bye, Connie, till four o’clock. And good-bye, Master Charley, and many thanks. Thank you, too, Miss Whyte, very much.”

Then we separated. Mamma continuing her way home, quite happy in my happiness, while I retraced my steps with Evey and her brother. Evey glanced over her shoulder at mamma.

“You don’t mind Mrs Percy going home alone, I hope?” she said, half anxiously.

It had never struck me that there was anything to mind!

“Oh, of course not,” I said.

Evey looked a little sorry, but walked on.

“I didn’t mean – ” she began. “At least, I only meant – ” then her face cleared. She evidently thought she had hit upon an explanation of my indifference. “I see,” she said; “it must be quite different when one is an only child. Your mother must be alone, sometimes; it isn’t like ours. You see there are such a lot of us; she would feel quite miserable if there weren’t some of us with her. At least, she says so,” and Evey laughed merrily.

“Perhaps,” I said, half mischievously, “she says it a little out of politeness. I think grown-up people all do like to be alone sometimes.”

We both laughed at this, and then the remains of shyness that had hung about seemed quite to disappear. But I did not forget Evey’s gentle anxiety about mamma.

We soon came up to the others, who were all walking on slowly together – such a party they looked! Captain Whyte and old Mr Bickersteth in front, then Lady Honor and the big boy, Lancey, and the two smaller sailor-suits, Tot and Douglas, as Evey had called them, now joined by Charley, bringing up the rear.

“What a lot of you there must be when you are all together,” I exclaimed, not very politely, I am afraid, to Evey. She smiled, as if she thought it rather a compliment.

“Yes,” she said – we were walking rather more slowly now to get back our breath, as Lady Honor had nodded back to us to show it was all right – “yes, eight are a good many, and somehow, so many being boys, makes it seem even more – in the house above all. Boys can’t help being noisy, you see.”

She said it in such an old-fashioned way that I couldn’t help smiling.

“I don’t know much about boys,” I said. “I think I’d rather have sisters.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” replied Evey quickly. “You don’t know how nice brothers are. When you see Joss – ” but here she had to break off. Lady Honor had stepped back a pace or two to speak to us. Her face looked very kind and pleased, and there was nothing the least “mocking,” as I called it to myself, in her tone.

“That’s right, Connie, my dear,” she said, as she shook hands with me. “Very good of your dear mother to let you come. Now, is it your place or mine, Evey, to introduce all these brothers of yours to Miss Percy, or shall we let things settle themselves? You will learn them all in time, Connie, though it may seem at first as if you never would.”

In Evey’s place I should probably have been rather offended at this, but, on the contrary, both she and her brothers seemed to think the old lady’s joke very amusing.

“I’ll introduce them by telling Connie all their names and ages, thank you, Lady Honor,” she answered brightly. “Come on, Connie; it will take some time, I warn you.” We ran on a little way together, Lady Honor looking quite pleased. It was easy to see that she really wanted Evey and me to be friends, and I felt gratified at this.

“It will be nice for Evey sometimes to get out of all that crowd of boys,” I thought to myself. “I daresay Lady Honor thinks being with me may make her quiet and refined,” though, truth to tell, for all her simplicity, I had seen no touch of anything the least rough or hoydenish in my new friend.

“Lady Honor is always so funny, isn’t she?” was Evey’s first remark, as soon as we were out of hearing. “Papa says it’s delightful to see an old person so fresh and merry. But she has such a kind heart: that keeps people young more than anything,” she added, in her wise way.

“Yes,” I agreed, “she is very kind; but sometimes she’s rather” – “rather sharp,” I was going to say, but something in Evey’s eyes made me hesitate – “I mean I sometimes am a very little frightened of her.”