Mrs. Molesworth - Sweet Content

The Yew Trees had been mamma’s own home as a girl. Her father had been the Elmwood doctor before papa, and this house was left to her as she was older than her sister. Yet she had never lived there since her parents’ death; it was larger than we required, and mamma fancied it was lonely.

“I should like very much to go with you,” she replied. “Except – Connie, dear, I don’t like leaving you alone.”

“Connie is much better,” said papa; “and I think the wind is changing. I should not wonder if we have a bright, mild day to-morrow. If so, she might come too. Old Martha always has a good fire in the kitchen at the Yew Trees, and if the rest of the house is draughty, she can wait for us there.”

I was very pleased at this. Strange to say, the little prejudice, though it seems exaggerated to speak of it as that, which I had so ridiculously taken up on the mention of the Whyte family, had quite melted away when I heard they were not rich. I liked the idea of being kind and generous to people less well off than ourselves, and though there was, perhaps, a little love of patronage in this, I hope it was not only that.

“I should so like to go too,” I exclaimed. “I do hope it will be a fine day. Papa, if you are going to paint and paper any of the rooms, mayn’t I choose the paper for the little girls.”

Papa smiled. I saw he was pleased.

“How can we tell which room will be theirs?” he said.

“Oh, I think we can guess. They’re sure to have a room together as they’re so near of an age. I daresay their papa and mamma will let them choose, and if the paper is the kind of one I mean, it would make them fix on the room where it is. I saw it in Fuller’s shop-window the other day; roses, mamma, little climbing ones on a pale grey ground. And the painting shall be pale grey with a pink line. It’ll be lovely.”

I felt so eager about it I could scarcely sit still.

“I’m afraid that kind of paper is rather expensive,” said papa. “And though I want to make the house neat and nice, still I can’t spend very much. However, we shall see.”

“The room my sister and I had would be the nicest,” said mamma, quite entering into my plans. Dear mamma is not very sensible about money – she won’t mind my saying so, for she says it herself. She leaves everything to papa, and a good deal now , I am proud to say, to me. “You remember it, Connie? Mrs Nesbitt called it her best room. It looks out to the side with a sort of square bow-window, though that sounds very Irish!” she added, laughing.

Papa glanced at her with such pleasure. He is always so delighted when mamma laughs.

“I do hope it will go through with the Whytes,” I heard him say to himself in a low voice.

“I am so glad they are not rich,” I said, with such satisfaction that papa and mamma really looked rather startled.

“Dear child – ” mamma began.

I had scarcely known I was speaking aloud. I felt myself grow a little red.

“I mean,” I began confusedly – “If they had been rich, you know, we couldn’t have done anything for them, and – and – they might have been spoilt, and very likely they would have looked down on us.”

“Even though they have such a common name,” said papa, mischievously. “Eh, Connie? Try and keep your mind clear of all those prejudices, my dear. Take people as they really are, and be as good and kind to them in deed and thought, rich or poor, grand or lowly, as you can be, and you will find it will be all right. The real way to get on happily is to think as little of yourself as possible: then you will neither despise those below you, nor expect to be despised by those above you.”

I don’t know that I quite understood papa then; I think I understand it better now. But that night my dreams were very pleasant; they were not about myself at all, nor even about the unknown Whytes. They were all about a lovely room with roses growing up the walls, and as they grew higher and higher the walls seemed to melt away and I found myself in a beautiful garden. But just as I was rushing forward in delight I caught sight of old Lady Honor sitting in an arbour, knitting.

“Connie Percy,” she said solemnly, in her rather peculiar voice; “remember, the true way to gather roses is first to plant them.”

Wasn’t it a funny dream?

The postman’s knock came, as it generally does, while we were sitting at breakfast. There were two letters for papa, only. I had forgotten about Captain Whyte’s answer being expected by post; my head was full of the Yew Trees and the climbing rose paper, and wondering if it was going to be a fine enough day for papa to say I might drive out. It was only when he looked up with a pleased exclamation that I remembered what a disappointment that letter might have brought.

“It is all right,” said papa. “Captain Whyte agrees to my terms. Indeed, I almost wish,” he went on less brightly, “that I had not named so high a rent. I’m afraid they are very – well, not at all rich, to put it mildly. He says they cannot afford to do anything to the house, and as it is quite healthy, they will be satisfied if it is just clean and tidy. Strictly speaking, you see, I am not bound to do much to it; I did it up so thoroughly for Mrs Nesbitt, and it is in perfectly good order, substantially speaking, only – ”

“The papers are so ugly,” said mamma. “You know Mrs Nesbitt chose them all, and her taste was dreadful, and there are several little things that would make it much nicer for a family of younger people. These two poky little rooms at the back would make a nice schoolroom if thrown into one.”

“Just what Captain Whyte said himself,” papa agreed. “Well, we must go over it, and I will see what I can afford.”

“If they are paying a good rent,” said mamma, “that might make up a little.”

Dear mamma! she looked quite delighted with herself for being so business-like.

“Any way,” I said, “you really must let me choose a paper for the girls’ room. I’d rather pay for it myself, or count it as one of my birthday presents, papa, than not have it.”

Papa laughed at us both.

“What delightful ‘landladies,’ I suppose that’s the feminine of ‘landlord,’ even in the sense of a ‘proprietor,’ you would make, you two,” he said.

But by the way he stroked my head when he went out I could tell he was pleased. I think, though he very seldom found fault with me, that papa was terribly afraid of my becoming selfish. Ah, dear, I see now that I was that already!

To my great delight papa’s prophecy about the weather proved true. The wind had changed; it was mild, and, for November, pleasant. If only a little bit of sun would come out, said mamma, it would be perfect.

And after luncheon – which was my dinner – the sun did come out, and papa came driving up just as we were beginning to be afraid he was going to be late.

“I’ve two hours free,” he called out cheerfully, as he came in. “I only want a scrap of luncheon, Rose; I won’t be two minutes. Run and get your hat, Connie. Wrap up well, though it is a fine day, for you’ve not been out lately.”

When I said “a pleasant day for November ,” I think I should have left out the two last words. For they rather sound as if November was rarely pleasant, and though this may be the case in some parts of England it is certainly not so with us. Our Novembers are generally this way: there are some perfectly horrible days, rain, rain, slow and hopeless; not heavy, but so steady that you long to give a shake to the clouds and tell them to be quick about it. And then for a day or two, everything and everywhere are just sopping ; it’s almost worse than the rain, for the sky still looks grim and sulky and as if it more than half thought of beginning again. But then – there comes sometimes a little wind, and faint gleams of sunshine, sparkle out, growing steadier and fuller, and then we generally have a few days together of weather that for pleasantness can scarcely be matched. They are soft, quiet, dreamy days; the sunshine is never bright exactly, but gentle and a little melancholy. There is a queer feeling of having been naughty and being forgiven: the wind comes in little whispering sobs, like a tiny child that can’t leave off crying all at once; the whole world seems tired and yet calm and hopeful in a far-off sort of way. Somehow these days make me feel much gooder (“better” doesn’t do so well) than even the brightest and loveliest spring or summer-time. They make me think more of Heaven – and they make me dreadfully sorry for all the naughty selfish thoughts and feelings I have had. Altogether there is something about them I can’t put in words, though once – I will come to that “once” later on – some one said a thing that seemed to explain it almost exactly.