and by trying to putblame on those who had had the care of me. I was punished.
"Oh no, no, mamma dear," I said eagerly. "Evey's _not_ like that.She's not the least _atom_ boasting; it was more--things I noticed andasked about, myself. It's not only that she's clever--you should hearhow she can play the organ; but I daresay you'd let me learn it too, ifI liked--it's--it's partly, mamma, that I can feel she's so much moreuseful, and--and unselfish than I am. I can see it quite well; she doessuch a lot to help her mother and them all."
And, greatly to mamma's surprise and distress, I leaned my head down onher lap and burst into tears.
How she consoled and petted me! How she assured me I was _everything_to her; the very light of her eyes; her comfort, her blessing--that shecould not wish me any different from what I was, and ever so much morein the same strain. It was very sweet, and to a certain extentsoothing, but in the end it only deepened the impression. For it mademe feel how utterly unselfish and self-forgetting mamma was, above allwherever I was concerned, and it made me feel, too, how little Ideserved such devotion. Then the thought of her cruel trials came overme as it had never done before--how often I had grudged my sympathy toher? Even if she were almost weakly and foolishly indulgent to me, shewas scarcely to be blamed. Instead of taking advantage of it andtreating her fondness with something very like contempt, as I had oftendone, would not the right way be to try my best to be more worthy of it?I don't know what put the thought into my head just then. I had aqueer feeling that if I had been talking it all over with Yvonne, it waswhat _she_ would have said, for it had struck me once or twice that inher way of speaking to and of mamma there had been a special sort oftenderness, almost reverence, as if she had heard her sad story, and Iremembered the anxious, half-reproachful way she had glanced at me whenI seemed so indifferent about mamma's walking home alone. Yes; I feltand knew that the sudden thought was one Evey would have approved of,and I grew calmer. I wiped my eyes and kissed mamma as I had seldomdone before: a new kind of strength seemed to come into me, and Iresolved that from that moment I would care for her in quite a new way.
"Mamma dear," I whispered, "you are too good to me. But I will try tobe better. Only will you please let me be more useful to you? I amsure," I added, and if this was a _very_ little cunning, I don't thinkit was in a naughty way--"I am sure I should be far happier if I felt Iwere of use."
And of course mamma promised. What would she not have promised me! Ithink she told over this conversation to papa, and if any lingeringfeeling of indignation against Evey had still been in her mind, I amsure what he said must have removed it. For the next morning they wereboth full of plans for my being a great deal with the Whytes, and oflittle kindnesses we might do to them, without, as papa said, seemingofficious or--he hesitated for a word.
"Patronising," mamma suggested. He smiled at this.
"My dear," he said, "_that_ we could not possibly be accused of towardsthe Whytes. You scarcely realise--"
But there he stopped. I felt a little ashamed when I recalled one ortwo of my speeches to Evey.
"Papa has always such _perfectly_ nice feelings," I thought; and as Iglanced at his kind, quiet face I said to myself that I might indeed beproud of him. And when he kissed me that morning before he went out, Ifelt something in his kiss that seemed to say he understood me and mynew resolutions, better even than mamma did.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
A TRIO OF FRIENDS.
One of the hardest things about trying to be good, particularly abouttrying to be _better_, for that means getting out of bad ways as well asgetting into good ones, is the dreadful persistence of bad habits. Evenwhen your heart is quite, _quite_ in earnest, and your mind too, andoften at the very time you're planning beautifully about keeping yournew resolutions, and quite bubbling over with eagerness about them, youget a sudden shock, just as if you had walked straight into a bath ofcold water that you didn't know was there--and oh, dear, you stop tofind you have done the exact wrong or foolish thing you had been fixingso to avoid.
How many times this happened to me about the new resolutions I wrote ofin the last chapter I should be afraid to say. Sometimes it was almostlaughable. One morning I remember I was busy writing down one or tworules I had thought might help me, when I heard mamma's voice callingme.
"Bother," I said to myself in my old way, "I shall never remember aboutthe third rule, if I leave it just now."
And I went on calmly writing, just calling to mamma, "Yes, yes, I'llcome directly;" and so absorbed was I, that when, a full quarter of anhour afterwards, I happened to glance out of the window, and saw mammahot and out of breath from a chase after my new Persian kitten, who hadescaped through the conservatory and might _very_ easily have got lostor stolen, or even killed, it never struck me that I might have savedher this trouble. Trouble on my account, too!
"What _is_ the matter, mamma?" I exclaimed as I ran out, half crossly,for I could not bear to see her so tired and breathless. "How you dofuss--why didn't you make the servants fetch Persica in?"
"My dear," said mamma, as gently as if I had any right to find faultwith her, "you know she won't come to any one but you or me; and I didcall you."
How ashamed I felt! I tore up the rules, and called them nasty thingsin my own mind, which was exceedingly silly. Afterwards, when I had hadmore talk with Yvonne, and Mary, I made some others. Not half suchgrand ones. Only very, very simple ones, which I almost despised onthat account; but they were useful to me, by showing me that, simple asthey were, it was no easy matter to keep them, even for a few hours at atime.
You see I had been selfish all my life. I had never even _thought_ ofits being wrong. Once I did begin to think about it, I was perfectlystartled and horrified to find how wide-spreading and deep-rooted myselfishness was. I should often have lost heart altogether had it notbeen for my new friends. Not that they ever "preached" to me or toanybody, it was just the seeing and _feeling_ how different they were,from what a different point of view they looked at everything, that mademe understand better where I was wrong, and take courage to go ontrying. And now and then nice things happened to make me feel I wasgetting on a little; some of these I will tell you about, though I havealso to tell you of some rather dreadful things that showed how verynaughty and horrid--oh! I get hot still when I think of one of these--Istill was.
It was not only selfishness I had to fight against I was exceedingly,absurdly, really _vulgarly_ self-conceited and stuck-up. I don't thinkEvey and Mary really ever knew the worst of me; for one thing, I beganto _try_ almost from the first of knowing them; for another, just as anhonest person cannot believe, and never suspects another of dishonestytill he is actually _forced_ to do so, the dear Whytes were too sincereand simple and single-minded to understand or take in my ridiculousvanity and affectations.
But I must tell about my first visit to the Yew Trees--I mean my firstvisit to its new inhabitants. It was two or three days after the Sundayat Lady Honor's. I was fidgeting dreadfully to see Evey again, and Ithink one of my first real "tries" at not being selfish was doing mybest not to tease mamma about when we should go, and worrying her allday long to fix the exact day and hour.
It was not a very hard "try" certainly, for it was only on Wednesdaymorning that papa told us at breakfast that he had met Captain Whyte theevening before, and had been told by him that Mrs Whyte and the otherchildren had arrived that morning.
"He said," papa went on, "that Mrs Whyte would be very pleased to seeyou, Rose; and when you go to call on her, you are to be sure to takeConnie."
"When should we go, do you think?" asked mamma.
"Not to-day--they will hardly be settled enough to see us."
"I don't know that," papa replied. "Captain Whyte said _any_ time; thesooner the better. Mrs Whyte may have little things to ask you about;and I fancy they are very methodical, sensible people, who will soon getinto order."
"They all help so; they're so useful," I could not help saying with alittle sig
h.
"Well, dear," said mamma, with an encouraging glance, "other littledaughters are useful, too. You should have seen how beautifully Conniedusted and rearranged the bookshelves for me yesterday, Tom," she wenton to papa, for which he gave me one of his nicest smiles.
And it was settled that mamma and I should go that very afternoon.
I felt a very little nervous about seeing Mrs Whyte. Somehow themother of such very well brought up children, and a person, too, whomLady Honor evidently approved of so thoroughly, must, it seemed to me,be rather alarming; and I am not sure but that dear mamma was a verylittle nervous too.
"We won't stay long, Connie," she said, as we drew near the Yew
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