till mammareminded me that if my real wish was to give pleasure to Evey, I shouldnot risk mingling anything uncomfortable with it.
"That would be selfish," she said, "pleasing yourself instead of her,"and I saw that that was true.
Indeed, everything in this world that is worth anything seems mixed upwith self-denial! The longer one lives the more one sees this--Isuppose it is _meant_ to be so.
There did seem rather more self-denial than need have been about Evey'sbirthday. I don't think so _now_; it was my own fault that things wentwrong. If I had been different about it, lots of going wrong would havebeen avoided, but I must tell it all straight on as well as I can, andas nearly as it happened.
Two or three days before the birthday, Evey came to me looking rathergrave.
"Connie," she said, "I've something to tell you which I'm afraid willvex you rather. It's about my birthday. You remember what Charley saidthe other day?"
"About doing something nice for other people on your birthday," I said."Oh, you needn't tell me anything more, Evey. I know what it is--you'regoing to ask that horrid Anna Gale; well, I must say, I don't see thatyou've any right to spoil _other_ people's pleasure, whatever you chooseto do about your own. That is a queer sort of self-sacrifice."
Yvonne looked very distressed, I had never seen her bright face sotroubled before.
"Connie," she said, "you do make me feel so unhappy, and rather puzzled.I wonder if really I have been selfish when I was so wanting to beunselfish. But it can't be helped now. I'm not _going_ to ask Anna,because I _have_ asked her."
Poor Evey; she got red and blurted it out. I think she was a littleafraid of me. I was very angry, and I fear something mean in me made meget still more so when I saw that she was frightened.
"Upon my word," I said, "you're a queer sort of friend. If it _had_ tobe done, you might at least have told me about it, and given me thechance of being self-denying too--it wouldn't have seemed _quite_ so badthen. But to be forced into joining in a horrid thing and not to getany credit for it, I don't think _that's_ fair. I won't come to yourbirthday, Evey, that'll be the best way out of it; and if you do carefor me as you make out, that'll be a little more self-denial, as you'reso fond of it."
Evey looked on the point of crying, and she very seldom cried.
"Oh, Connie," she said, "you _can't_ be in earnest."
But that was all.
I only saw her once again before the birthday, and that was after churchon Sunday, when Mary came running after mamma and me--we were walkinghome rather quickly--to say that Evey had sent her to remind me not onany account to be later than three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon.Tuesday was _the_ day.
"Certainly, dear," mamma replied, as I hesitated a little, "Connie willbe in good time. If it is a wet day she must have a fly, for our pony--the one we drive--has got a cold, unluckily."
"But it's not going to be a rainy day," said Mary, brightly. "It'sgoing to be lovely. So if it's fine, Connie, do walk, and we'll meetyou. I hope the field path won't be too muddy with the rain last week."
And off she flew again, before I had time to say anything. But mammalooked at me inquiringly.
"Is there anything the matter, darling?" she said, anxiously. I had nottold her about Anna--I was ashamed of myself in my heart.
"_Everything's_ the matter," I said, shaking myself, crossly. And thenI told her. Mamma was sorry for me, and sorry about the thing itself.
"I do think Evey might have--" she began, but then she stopped. Herconscience would not let her say more. It was so very clear a case ofright and wrong, of selfishness and unselfishness. For she knew, and Iknew, that it was not often the Whytes could afford, any sort of"treat"--they lived very simply and plainly, and the cakes for thebirthday were thought of a long time before. They were glad to ask Annato an entertainment which would really please her and her friends, muchmore than being invited to tea with them quite in an every-day way.
"Dear Connie," mamma went on, "you must try to be self-denying too.After all, I daresay Anna won't interfere much with your amusement."
"Yes she will," I said, kicking the pebbles on the road; "she'll quitespoil it. And then she'll go telling everybody--all Miss Parker's girlsthat she's such friends with--about having been at the Yew Trees forEvey's birthday. It'll make it seem so _common_."
"You can any way go early," said mamma, "and be there with your friendsbefore she comes. Then you can give your present by yourself. I don'tsuppose Anna will have a present, so it is better on all accounts foryou to give yours alone."
This smoothed me down a little. Then the interest of the present itselfwas very great--it was a very pretty little silver brooch, made of theletters "C" and "Y" twisted together, and in those days monogrambrooches were not yet common. It had been made to order of course, andthough it looked simple, it had really cost a good deal. Still therewas nothing about it to make the Whytes feel as if it were too handsome.By Tuesday morning, especially when the day proved clear and fine--oneof our very sweetest November days--I had pretty well recovered my goodtemper, and was prepared to make myself agreeable. But I had not reallystruggled against my selfishness--I had just got tired of being cross,and let my ill-humour drop off--so I was not at all in a firm state ofmind for resisting any new trial.
And the trial came.
It came that very morning about twelve o'clock, and it was brought bythe "boy" from the Vicarage, in the shape of a note to mamma, from MissGale, senior--that is Anna's aunt--asking if her niece might call for meon her way to the Yew Trees that afternoon, and walk there with me, asit was not convenient to send a maid with her. There was no question ofits being much of a favour on my side. Old Miss Gale, as I called her,seemed quite comfortably assured that it would be a pleasant arrangementfor all parties. I was with mamma when the note came; I saw there wassomething wrong, and I insisted upon her telling me what it was. Ilistened in silence. Then I broke out: "I _won't_ go with her; I say I_won't_" I exclaimed loudly. "You may just write and say so, mamma."
But at that moment papa put his head in at the door. I had not knownthat he was in the house.
"What is all this?" he said, and his face and his voice were as I hadnever seen them before. Mamma explained, as gently as she could, ofcourse, and so as to throw the least possible blame on me.
"It is rather trying for Connie, you see, Tom," she finished up.
"And does Connie expect never to be tried?" he answered, sternly. "Whyare you to be exempt from the common lot?" he went on, turning to me."Where is your principle, your boasted superiority--yes, child, you maynot exactly say so in words, but you _do_ think yourself superior toothers," he went on, seeing that I was about to interrupt him--"if atthe very first little contradiction you are to lose your temper, andforget yourself so shamefully? You have no right to feel it acontradiction even--it is only proper and natural that Anna shouldsometimes share your pleasures."
"Then I won't go," I said sulkily; "I will stay at home Anna may havethe Whytes all to herself."
Papa looked at me. It was like the waiting for the thunderclap oneknows must come.
"If you do not go, and, what is more, behave like a lady, I shall tellthe reason in plain words to Captain and Mrs Whyte, and leave them tojudge if you are a fitting associate for their children."
I said nothing more. I knew I must give in. I had met with my master!Mamma was nearly crying by this time, but I was not the least sorry forher, I was only angry. I turned and left the room, saying as I did so,in a cool, hard voice, that I hardly recognised as my own:
"Very well. I will be ready in time."
CHAPTER NINE.
THE STRANGE OLD WOMAN.
It was a good thing for Anna's own comfort that afternoon that she wasnot of a very observant nature, otherwise she would certainly not havefound me either a pleasant or courteous companion. I was obliged toobey papa, and I dared not be positively rude to her, but beyond this Iwas determined not to go; the very feeling of having
been forced to givein made me the more bitter and the more inclined to resent my grievanceson her, the innocent cause of them. But Anna had never been accustomedto overmuch civility from me; even as quite little children I hadtreated her as if it did not matter _how_ she was treated. And she onlysmiled placidly at my vagaries, and doubtless said to herself that "poorlittle Connie was very spoilt."
We had seen each other very rarely of late, and then generally with theWhytes, so I don't think it struck Anna as at all strange that I walkedon beside her in grim silence,
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