Sweet Content. Molesworth Mrs.
the better,” he replied, “for I have some news for mamma and you.”
News! What could it be? It was not often that news of much interest came to enliven our quiet life. I felt so curious and excited about it that by the time we were all three comfortably settled round the dining-table, my cheeks were quite rosy and my eyes bright.
“Connie is looking quite herself again,” said papa. “I don’t like to hear her complain of being dull and tired. It isn’t like you, my little girl.”
“No, indeed,” mamma agreed, “it isn’t like our Sweet Content.”
“But I’m not Sweet Content at all just now,” I said. “I’ve been just boiling for Peter to go out of the room so that papa can tell us his news.”
Mamma had not heard of it. She, too, glanced up with interest in her eyes.
“It isn’t anything very important,” said papa. “No one has left us a fortune, and all my patients are much the same; it is only that I think – nay, I may say I am sure – I have got a tenant for the Yew Trees.”
Mamma looked pleased.
“I am very glad indeed,” she replied. “I am quite tired of seeing the place deserted, and it is a good deal of expense to keep it at all tidy. I hope the offer is from some nice people.”
I had not spoken. I was very disappointed. I did not care at all whether the Yew Trees was let or not. I was far too unpractical to think anything about the money part of it. I suppose papa saw the expression on my face, for he turned to me as he answered mamma’s question.
“Yes,” he said, “that is the best part of it. I think they are certainly very nice people. And, Connie, there will be some companions for you among them – two girls just about your age, perhaps a little older. Their name is Whyte – a Captain Whyte and his family; he has been in the navy, but is shelved for the present. They are old friends of the Bickersteths.”
“White?” I repeated. I think I pictured it with an “i,” not a “y.” “White: what a common name!”
Mamma smiled. I think my pert speech seemed to her rather clever; but papa turned upon me almost sharply.
“Nonsense, child!” he said; “where do you get such ridiculous notions from?”
“Our name is so pretty,” I replied, “and not at all common. It is a very old name, everybody says.”
Our name is Percy; papa is Dr Percy. I don’t think “Dr” suits it as well as “Major,” or “Colonel,” or “Sir.” “Sir something Percy,” not “Thomas,” which is papa’s name, but some grander name, like “Harold” or “Bevis,” would sound lovely before “Percy.”
Papa looked at me, and he, too, smiled a little.
“It is a pretty name if you like, my dear,” he said, “and I am glad it pleases you. But as for our family being ‘old’ in the usual sense, don’t get any fancies into your head. My father was an honest yeoman, and his father was only a head-man on a farm, though thrifty and hardworking, and, best of all, God-fearing. So that, bit by bit, he came to own land himself, and my father, following in his steps, was able to give me a first-rate education.”
I had heard this before, or some of it, but it rather suited me to ignore it. I gave my head a little toss.
“I don’t see that that has anything to do with ‘White’ being a common name,” I said.
“Perhaps not. But I don’t want you to get silly fancies in your head, dear,” said papa, gently. “Trust me that Captain Whyte and his family are not common. It would be a pity for you to lose the chance of nice companions by any prejudice.”
“Oh, Connie would never be so foolish as that,” said mamma; “and the Bickersteths’ friends are sure to be nice people.”
Mr and Lady Honor Bickersteth, I may as well explain, were the former rector of Elmwood and his wife. Mr Bickersteth was a very old man now, and had resigned the living some years ago in favour of Mr Gale, Anna’s father, who had been his curate. Lady Honor was quite an old lady, and though she was very kind, I think most of our neighbours were a little afraid of her. She was what is called “a lady of the old school,” and had very precise ideas about how children should be brought up. I think she was the only person who ever dared to hint that I was at all spoilt. The Bickersteths still lived at Elmwood, in a pretty house a little way out of the town. They had never inhabited the vicarage, but had let the curate have it, so when Mr Gale became vicar it made no difference in that way. And even now Mr Bickersteth still preached sometimes when he was feeling well enough.
“I am quite sure the Whytes are nice people,” papa repeated in a settled sort of way; “and I shall be very glad for Connie to make friends with them.”
His tone was so decided that neither mamma nor I could have made any kind of objection. In my heart, too, I was really pleased, and not a little excited, at the idea of some new friends of my own age.
“Have they only those two children – the girls you spoke of?” asked mamma.
“Those are the only girls, but there are ever so many boys of all ages – from fifteen or sixteen down to a baby, I believe,” papa answered. “The elder boys are to be weekly boarders at Leam; that is one reason why they have chosen Elmwood.”
Mamma raised her eyebrows a very little.
“Then they are not – not rich?” she said.
“Not at all rich,” papa replied promptly. “I want to spare them all the expense I can. Captain Whyte is to pay a very fair rent for the Yew Trees – the same that old Mrs Nesbitt paid. I would have taken less had he pressed it, but he did not. He is very gentlemanlike and liberal – it is curious how you can see the liberal spirit even when people are poor – so I want to meet him half-way. I shall have his final decision to-morrow morning, and if it is closing with the thing, I should like you to drive over with me to the Yew Trees and have a look round. There are some things it is only fair we should do, and as it is your house, Rose, you have a voice in it.”
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