Mrs. Molesworth - Sweet Content

“Never let it get into ‘Discontent,’ Connie,” said papa.

“That she never will,” said mamma fondly. “I am sure all the good fairies, and none of the spiteful ones, were at my Sweet Content’s christening.”

I was quite used to hearing pretty things like that said to me or of me, and I took them as a matter of course, never doubting that I deserved them. And as no one contradicted me, and I had everything I wanted, and as I was not naturally a cross-grained or ill-tempered child, the spoiling did not show as quickly, or quite in the same ways, that it usually does, though I cannot help thinking that some people must have noticed it and thought me a selfish little goose. If they did, however, they were too kind to mamma, remembering her sad story, ever to say so. Besides, mamma was gentle and sweet to everybody, and she had too much good taste and feeling to go on fussing about me before people, in the way some very foolish parents do.

So altogether, up to the time I was ten or eleven years old, my fool’s paradise was a very perfect one. I was quite satisfied that I was a model of every virtue, as well as exceedingly clever, and I am afraid papa and mamma thought so too; as to my looks, I have no doubt they were more than satisfied too; though to do myself justice, I really did not trouble myself about that part of my perfections, beyond being very particular indeed about my clothes, which I never would wear if they were the least shabby or spoilt. And as I was careless and extravagant, I must have cost a good deal in this way.

“Connie has such wonderful taste for a child of her age,” I remember hearing mamma say. “She cannot bear anything ugly, or ill-assorted colours.”

All the same, Connie had no objection to fishing for minnows in the pond with a perfectly new white muslin frock on, which was not rendered lovelier by streaks of green slime and brown mud stains all over the sash. I don’t know if I thought those “well-assorted colours.” And though I told mamma that my every-day hat was very common-looking without ostrich feathers, I never troubled myself that my best one was left out in the garden one Sunday afternoon, so that on Monday morning it was found utterly ruined by a shower of rain that had come on in the night!

If I had had any brothers or sisters I could not have been so indulged, for papa was not a rich man – no country doctors ever are, I think – though he was not poor. But no more babies came, and, in her devotion to me, I hardly think mamma wished for them. I remained the undisputed queen of my kingdom.

Mamma was never very strong after her three children’s deaths I was obliged to be gentle and quiet; I learnt to be so almost unconsciously, and this, I think, helped to make me seem much sweeter and better than I really was. I had almost no companions; there did not happen to be many children near my age in the neighbourhood, and even if there had been I doubt if mamma would have thought them good enough to be allowed to play with me. Though she never actually spoke against any one to me, I saw things quickly, and I know I had this feeling myself. Once or twice papa, who was too wise not to know that companionship is good for children, tried to bring about more friendship between me and our clergyman’s daughters. But I did not take to them. Anna, the eldest, was “stupid,” I said, so old for her age (she was really three years older that I), and always “fussing about her Sunday-school class, and helping her father, as if she was his curate.” How well I remember mamma’s smiling at this clever speech! And the two little ones were “babyish.” Then some other girls at Elmwood went to school, and even in their holiday time I did not care to play with “school-girls.” Besides which poor mamma was quite dreadfully afraid of infection, and perhaps this was only to be expected.

Once during some summer holidays when we happened to be at home, for mamma and I generally went to the seaside in July, a little cousin came to stay with us. He was two years younger than I and the only first cousin I had, for papa was an only child. He was mamma’s nephew, and I know now that he was really a nice little boy; he is a nice big boy now, and we are great friends. But perhaps he was rather spoilt too, though in a different way from me, and I, as I have said, was very selfish indeed. So we quarrelled terribly, and the end of it was that poor Teddy was sent home in disgrace; no one dreaming that it could have been “Connie’s” fault in the least.

I think, now, I have explained pretty well about myself and my home when I was very little. Nothing very particular happened till after my tenth birthday. I had scarcely a wish ungratified, and yet everybody praised me for my sweet contented disposition! There were times when I used to wish or to fancy I wished for a sister, though if this wish had magically come true, I don’t believe I would have liked it really, and now and then papa and mamma would pity me for having no friends of my own age. But I do not think I was to be pitied for this, except that it certainly is better training for a child to have companions of one’s own standing, instead of grown-up people who can see no fault in you.

Things happen queerly sometimes. What are called “coincidences” are not so uncommon after all. The first great change in my life happened in this way. It was in the autumn of the year in which I was ten. The weather had been dull and rainy. I had caught cold and was not allowed to go out for some days. I was tired of the house and of myself, and though no one ever thought of saying so to me, I feel sure I was very cross. I took it into my head to begin grumbling about being lonely; grumbling, it is true, was not usually a fault of mine, and it distressed mamma very much.

“My darling, it must be that you are not at all well,” she said, one dreary afternoon – afternoon just closing into evening – when she and I were sitting in the drawing-room waiting for papa to come in. He had told mamma he might be late, so that she had had dinner early with me, and there was only some supper ready waiting for him in the dining-room, beside our tea. I always dined early of course, but when papa expected to be home pretty early and not to go out again, he and mamma dined at half-past six or seven.

“No, it isn’t that at all,” I replied to mamma’s anxious question. “I’m not a bit ill. I’m quite well, and I’m sure it couldn’t have hurt me to go a ride on Hop-o’-my-thumb to-day.”

Hop-o’-my-thumb was my pony. I often called him “Hoppo” for short.

“Dearest Connie, in the rain?” said mamma.

“Well – I forgot about the rain. But to-morrow, mamma, I really must go out. It isn’t for me like for most children, you know. They have each other to play with in the house if they have to stay in. My only pleasure is being out-of-doors,” and I sighed deeply.

“You wouldn’t like to send for Anna Gale or the twins to spend the day with you to-morrow, would you?” mamma suggested. “I am so afraid that if this east wind continues papa won’t let you go out.”

“Oh, mamma dear, how you do fuss about me,” I said. “No, I don’t care for any of the Gales. Anna doesn’t know how to play: when she’s not cramming at her lessons, she’s cleaning the store-closet or making baby-clothes for the parish babies,” I said contemptuously.

“Poor girl! I don’t think she is a very lively companion,” mamma agreed. “But then she has no mother, and her aunt is a dull sort of woman.”

It never struck me that, whether I cared for her or not, an afternoon among my pretty toys and books, and other luxuries, might have been a pleasant change for Anna, even if she were rather commonplace and very overworked.