Sweet Content

by Mrs. Molesworth

blame? Everybody thinks me asbad as I can be, but _you_ needn't go on. Did your father ever look atyou as papa did at me?"

  I was growing desperate. Papa had walked out of the room withoutspeaking to me. I did not know any one heard what I said to Anna till Ifelt some one's arm passed round me. It was Mrs Whyte. Her pretty,merry face was quite changed, the bright, gipsy look quite gone, but thekind, true brown eyes--Evey's eyes--were kind and true still.

  "Don't speak like that, Connie dear," she said. "I am far more sorryfor you than for ourselves. I will come and see you to-morrow. I wishI could go home with you now but poor Addie is so ill;" and I saw thetears glistening.

  Then I found myself in the hall, and in another moment in the carriageagain--alone! I heard Captain Whyte speak to the coachman.

  "Take Miss Percy home, and then drive back to Todholes as fast as youcan," he said. "Dr Percy will be there."

  I would have liked to say I could walk, and that the carriage might goafter papa at once, but I was too stupified. I think if all the villagechildren had turned out and hooted after me as I drove along I shouldnot have been surprised. I had only one thought--however wicked andhorrid other people thought me, _mamma_ would still love me. But forall that I hardly felt as if I could have kept my senses.

  Perhaps I had better explain here how it had all happened and why,naughty as I had been, what was after all in itself but a triflingmatter was considered so very seriously.

  The old lady I had insulted was Mrs Fetherston, Captain Whyte's ownaunt. She had been many years a childless widow, was very rich and verypeculiar. She was rich partly through her husband, partly because theWhytes' family place was hers, left her by her father, for the propertywas not entailed. She had another nephew, Major Hugo Whyte, who as wellas Captain Whyte had been partly brought up by her. But Captain Whytehad always been her favourite, and though he himself was younger thanMajor Whyte, his father had been older than Hugo Whyte's father, so MrsFetherston made him her heir. There was no jealousy between the twocousins; they loved each other dearly. Major Whyte went into the armywhile Captain Whyte was still at school, and he was out in India when aquarrel occurred between the old lady and her favourite nephew. Shewanted him to give up his profession, the navy, and live at home withher, doing nothing; she also, I _think_, wanted him to marry some girlhe did not care for. He would not consent to either, and he would marryMrs Whyte! So Mrs Fetherston disinherited him and put his cousin inhis place. At first, he did not much care; he was very happy in his ownhome, and his aunt still continued his allowance. It was not a verylarge one, and as time went on and so many children came, it began toseem a very small one. At last he was forced to retire on half-pay. Hehad a little money of his very own, and Mrs Whyte had a little, andMajor Whyte helped them as much as he could, though he was not, atpresent, rich himself. He also was always trying to soften his aunt tothem; she had no real cause for disliking Mrs Whyte, who was verywell-born indeed, only not rich. It was in consequence of one of HugoWhyte's letters that the queer old lady at last determined to see hernephew's family for herself, and to pay them a surprise visit. Then--you know what happened.

  Soon after Yvonne's unfortunate birthday, Major Whyte, who had not beenwell for long--he was a delicate man, and had had much active service--got worse, and in consequence of this, as you may remember myoverhearing at Lady Honor's party, he came home. He had seen by hisaunt's letters that she was more bitter than ever against "Frank" andhis family, but he did not know why till he saw her, and she told himthe whole. He was dreadfully sorry; he did not think himself likely tolive long, and his one wish was to see his cousin reinstated. For MrsFetherston was quite capable, if he died, of leaving everything, eventhe Whytes' own old place, to some charity, away from Captain Whytealtogether. Hugo Whyte wrote to his cousin explaining what hadhappened, never doubting, of course, but that the rude little girl wasMary! Poor Mary at once denied it, and it became evident there was somestrange mistake. Captain Whyte went off to consult Lady Honor, whosequick wits set to work to disentangle the riddle.

  "There were two little girls," she said. And that very day she saw MrGale and had a long talk with him. Mr Gale, in turn, had a long talkwith Anna. Anna, it must be remembered, had only promised "not to tell"of our adventure conditionally; and she had often felt uneasy about it.In one sense it was a relief to her to _have_ to tell; but she got morethan her share of punishment, poor girl, I shall always think. LadyHonor was unwilling to tell papa about it. She knew how sensitive hewas, and how he would take it to heart. So a letter was sent to MajorWhyte, explaining the mistake, and asking her to allow Captain Whyte totake his two girls to see her. But the old lady had got an obstinatefit. She would not believe that the culprit was not Mary.

  Then at last Lady Honor told papa. He took it up very seriously, justas she had feared, _too_ seriously in one sense, though I well deservedall the blame I got.

  And another long letter was despatched to poor Major Whyte, who ill ashe was, was determinedly trying to put things right.

  The answer to this letter did not come for some days. But I haveforgotten one part of the sad business. Not only was no birthdaypresent or Christmas present sent to Yvonne by her godmother, but forthe first time no cheque was received by Captain Whyte's bankers fromMrs Fetherston. Her rancour had gone the length of stopping hisallowance! No wonder the poor Yew Trees people were anxious. And thiswas _my_ doing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN.

  NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING WIN.

  The short winters day was already closing in when the carriage stoppedat our own door. I was crouched up in one corner, _perfectly_miserable, the fur rug was in a heap at my feet--when I glanced at it,and thought of how papa had tucked it round me that very afternoon, Ifelt as if I _could_ not bear it. As I got out and entered the hall,where the light was dim, I saw some one standing at the drawing-roomdoor. It was mamma waiting for me; she had heard the carriage stopping.

  "Connie, is that you?" she said. "Is papa there?"

  "No, mamma," I managed to get out. "I'm alone." Then she drew me intothe drawing-room--it looked so warm and bright, the red firelightdancing on the old furniture--and I was so shivering and cold! Somehowthe look of it all--the look, above all, in mamma's eyes--was too muchfor me.

  "Mamma, mamma," I sobbed, and once I had begun my tears came like athunderstorm, "do you know? Do you know about how naughty I've been?"

  She had not really known of course; till I owned to it no one could havereally known, except Anna. But mamma had guessed it was true--in someways she knew me and my faults and follies even better than papa did,gentle as she was. She had been afraid it was true when he told herthat afternoon what I had been accused of--and he had been rather vexedwith her!

  "Yes, darling," she said, "I know about it, mostly at least."

  She drew my head on to her knee, as I crept close to her where she saton a low couch, and let me sob out all my misery. Oh, mamma, dearlittle, sweet, unselfish mother--was there, _could_ there ever be anyone so kind as you? And I, who had sometimes almost dared to look downon her for her very goodness! That afternoon brought me the end of thelesson I had begun to learn. It was quite dark, and growing late,before mamma rang for lights. I had cried my eyes into a dreadfulstate, and I was still shivering every now and then from a sort ofnervousness. Mamma took me upstairs and made me go to bed.

  "You will feel better in the morning," she said. "And I will talk moreto you. We must not _exaggerate_ things, you know, dear. Good-night,my Connie, my own little Sweet Content."

  Was it not nice of her to call me that! I did not go to sleep for agood while. When I did I slept heavily. It was quite daylight when Iwoke. Mamma was standing beside me, and Prudence was setting down atray with my breakfast.

  "I will come back when you have finished, dear," mamma said. She didnot mention papa, and when I asked Prue she only said he was alreadyout.

  So he was. Not only out, but away. When mamma came up ag
ain she toldme that he had got a letter the night before, which had decided him ongoing to London for two or three days--I think it was to attend somescientific meeting.

  "He came up to look at you last night," mamma went on, "but you did notwake."

  I did not speak for a minute or two. Then I said timidly:

  "Mamma, do you think he will ever forgive me? Mamma, do you know thathe could scarcely have seemed more _terribly_ angry if--if--I had doneit on purpose to hurt the Whytes, and you _know_ it wasn't that I lovethem too much; and even if I didn't, I _couldn't_ be as bad as that?"

  "I know, dear," said mamma. "But papa has very strong feelings aboutcourtesy to strangers; above all to the old and poor--and that strangeold Mrs Fetherston _seemed_ poor. And