Sweet Content
Page 6
was thinking of myimaginary programme, but papa did not know that.
When he came home that night I was disappointed to find that he had notseen any of the Whytes. Captain Whyte was out, and Mrs Whyte, afterall, had not yet come. "Only Miss Whyte and two of the younggentlemen," the servant had said, and as papa had no very particularreason for calling, he had not asked to see "Miss Whyte."
"Do you think she is one of the little girls?" I asked.
Papa shook his head.
"I don't know. She may be an aunt who has come to help," he said.
This idea rather annoyed me. I had not planned for a helpful aunt; itdisarranged things.
"Never mind, Connie," said mamma, thinking I was disappointed. "Weshall soon know all about them. I should think we might call early nextweek. The old-fashioned rule in a country-place is to wait till youhave seen people in church," she added.
This was Wednesday. It was a good while to wait till next Monday orTuesday. However, I set to work at my fancies again, determining allthe same to ride past the Yew Trees, as often as I could this week. Itwould be rather nice and romantic for them to have seen me riding aboutwithout knowing who I was, before they actually met me.
Whom I meant by "they" I am not quite sure. I fancy I did the Whytegirls the compliment of placing them _next_ in importance to myself inmy drama.
"I wonder," I thought, "if Lady Honor told them _nicely_ of my beingcalled `Sweet Content,' or if she said it mockingly. It was horrid ofher if she did."
CHAPTER FOUR.
ALL MY OWN FAULT.
"What are you in such a brown study about, Connie?" asked mamma atbreakfast the next morning.
I started.
"Nothing very particular," I said, and I felt myself get red. I shouldnot have liked mamma to know my thoughts--I was rehearsing for thehundredth time the scene of my first meeting with the Whytes, or rather,I should say, of their first meeting _me_. Just as mamma spoke I waswondering how I could persuade papa to let me ride over with him beforemamma paid her more formal call at the Yew Trees.
Mamma smiled but did not press for an answer.
"I must go and order dinner," she said, rising from her seat ratherwearily. Papa had already gone out. "How nice it will be when you aregrown up, my Sweet Content, and able to help me with the housekeeping."
"Oh dear, I hope you will have a housekeeper when you get tired of it,"I said. "You never need count upon me for anything to do with eatingand cooking, mamma. I should hate ordering dinners and looking over thebutcher's and grocer's books. You wouldn't like to see me a second AnnaGale, I hope?"
"No, indeed, dear; that you never could be. Poor Anna has no brains,and she is so very dowdy--though, perhaps that sounds unkind, for she isa very good girl," and mamma looked rather shocked at herself.
"But one may be good without being _quite_ so dull and `dowdy,'" I said,coaxingly.
Mamma stooped to kiss me as she passed my chair. "I trust you willnever have to do any uncongenial work, my darling," she said. "Youshall not if I can help it."
I remained where I was for a minute or two, thinking what I would bestlike to do that morning. It was a holiday, for my daily governess hadgot a slight cold and sore throat, and till _quite_ satisfied that itwas nothing infectious mamma had decided that she had better not come.I was rather sorry than otherwise, for I by no means disliked mylessons, and in dull weather the time was apt to hang heavily. Therewas no question of my going out for a ride, for, though not actuallyraining, it looked as if it might do so any moment.
"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 amafraid its being regularly done was greatly owing to my _liking_ it! Isauntered into the conservatory, glancing round to see what flowers Icould cut without spoiling the appearance there; then through theconservatory, I sauntered on into the drawing-room. The housemaid, ayoung girl, whom I was not at all in awe of, was giving the room itsmorning cleaning. It was _nearly_ done, but there remained the lasttouches--the laying down the hearthrug and removing one or twodust-sheets, and replacing some of the ornaments lying about--withoutwhich, however clean a room really is, it looks, of course, messy anddisorderly.
"Oh, Eliza, why isn't the drawing-room done?" I exclaimed. "I want toarrange the flowers, and I can't have you fussing about while I am doingthem. 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; andthe fire isn't lighted, and you with your cold," she added, as if thatwould decide matters.
"Oh, bother my cold," I said. "It's not chilly in here with the dooropen into the conservatory. I _must_ do the Bowers now, or I can't dothem at all, and those in the glasses are very withered."
Eliza gave in. But as she was turning away, leaving her dustpan andbrushes behind her, she stopped short again.
"Oh, Miss Connie!" she exclaimed, "your frock's all out of the gathersat the left side; and there's a hole in your elbow."
"I know," I said, composedly; "I caught it in the balusters--the skirt Imean; but I didn't know about the elbow. That's Prue's fault, but itdoesn't matter; I'll change it before luncheon;" and I set to work at myflowers.
It was interesting work; there was a tap where you could draw cold waterin the conservatory, and a little table on which I always arranged theflowers. And I had no trouble in getting rid of the withered ones; Ithrew 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 smudgedwith mould, and some of it had got on to my face by the time I was halfthrough my task. And as I had particular ideas about arranging thecolours, and so on, I was very deliberate in my movements. Quite halfan hour must have passed, and I had not begun to think of calling Elizaback to finish putting the drawing-room in order, when there came a ringat the front-door bell.
"Who can that be?" I thought to myself, though without much interest inthe matter. "Some one ringing by mistake for the surgery-bell; peopleare so stupid."
For rings at the front-door were comparatively rare, and really confinedto 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," andhe only answered the front-door bell in the morning, while Eliza wasbusy "with the rooms," as housemaids say--in colloquy with some personor persons unseen.
"Step this way, please sir," he was saying with his broadest accent, asI ran forward, torn frock, dirty hands, smudged face and all, to see whoit could possibly be.
Oh, dear! _How_ I wished I had not yielded to my curiosity; how Iwished 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 bythis time have been neatly accomplished!
For there stood before me a tall, handsome man, younger-looking thanpapa--very young-looking to be the father of the girl at his side--agirl quite half a head taller than I, with grave, considerate eyes, anda quiet, pale face. She was dressed very simply, but with extremeneatness; all that, I took in, in less than an instant, even while Ifelt my face growing scarlet, and I seemed conscious of but one intensewish--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 ownappearance at any time, but the drawing-room--It looked so messy andhorrid--so _common_, too--"as if we only kept one servant," I said tomyself, "and could not afford to have the fire lighted early." And toknow that it was all my own doing!
A smile flickered over the gentleman's face; he must have seen howwretchedly awkward and ashamed I looked--my burning cheeks must havetold their own tale. But the girl only looked at me gravely, thoughvery gently. I am sure she was as sorry for me as she could be.
Here the girl interrupted.
"You are busy arranging your flowers," she said. "_May_ we look at theconservatory? Perhaps, papa, Miss Percy can tell us all we want toknow?"
And before I knew where I was she had crossed the room, not seeming evento _see_ that it was in a mess, and we were all three standing in theconservatory, which, of course, though rather untidy, did not looknearly so bad as the drawing-room.
"_How_ pretty your flowers are!"