Inside, the rooms of course seemed bare and chilly. I had never thoroughly explored it before, and I was surprised to find how large it was. Mamma, of course, knew every chink and cranny, and she took me all over while papa was speaking to a man – a builder, who had come by appointment to meet him. It was found that the partition between the two odd little rooms on the ground floor was a very thin one and could be taken away quite easily, and, to mamma’s great pleasure, papa decided on this.
“It will make such a nice bright schoolroom,” she said, as we went upstairs. “And here,” she went on, “is the room Bessie and I used to have. Isn’t it a nice room, Connie? Long ago, I remember, I used to fancy that if ever my little Evie had a sister, and we came to live here some day, I would have it beautifully done up for my own girls.”
Mamma’s voice faltered a little as she said this. I was not feeling cross or impatient just then, so I answered her more gently than I am afraid I sometimes did when she alluded to my little dead brothers and sister.
“Well, mamma dear,” I said, “if you do it up very prettily now it will be a great pleasure to the one little girl you still have beside you, and also to the two stranger little girls. I am sure, too, that if Eva knew about it, she would be pleased. And perhaps she does.”
“Darling! My own Sweet Content!” said mamma. She thought me so good for what after all was a great deal a fancy, though a harmless one, to please myself.
“It shall be done, Connie dearest, if I can possibly manage it,” said mamma. “I wonder if the man downstairs has anything to do with the papering and painting?”
It turned out that he had – in little country towns you don’t find separate shops for everything, you know. This was the very man in whose window I had seen the lovely rose paper. So it was settled that on our way home we should call in and look at several wall papers. And soon after, we left the Yew Trees and drove off again.
Mr Bickersteth’s house was between the Yew Trees and the town. As we were passing the gate it opened, and Lady Honor came out. She was walking slowly, for she was not strong now, and she was an old lady. In my eyes very old, for I could not remember her anything else. Papa drew up when he saw her, and jumped down.
“We have just been at the Yew Trees,” he said. “My wife and Connie are so interested in getting it made nice for your friends.”
“Ah, yes!” said Lady Honor, looking pleased, “we heard from Frank Whyte this morning that it is settled. Very good of you to go yourself to look over the house, my dear Mrs Percy. And Connie, too! That is an honour – however in this case you will be rewarded. You will find the Whyte girls delightful and most desirable companions for her, Mrs Percy, Evey especially.”
Mamma grew rather white, and gave a little gasp.
“Evie,” she whispered (I spell it “Evie,” because I know that was how mamma thought it), “do you hear, Connie?”
“Yes, of course,” I said rather sharply. No one else noticed mamma, for Lady Honor had turned to papa. I felt half provoked. I wished the little Whyte girl had not been called “Evie.”
“Mamma will always be mixing her up with our Evie, and thinking her a sort of an angel,” I thought to myself, and something very like a touch of ugly jealousy crept into my heart. Just at that moment, unluckily, Lady Honor glanced my way again.
“Are you quite well again, Connie?” she said. “You don’t look very bright, my dear. She needs companionship, doctor – companionship of her own age, as I have always told you. It will do her good in every way, yes, in every way,” and she tapped the umbrella which she was carrying emphatically on the ground, while she nodded her head and looked at me with the greatest satisfaction in her bright old eyes. I am not sure that there was not a little touch of mischief mingled with the satisfaction – a sort of good-natured spitefulness, if there could be such a thing! And perhaps it was not to be wondered at: “bright” I certainly was not looking, and indeed I fear there must have been something very like sulkiness in my face just then. “Sweet Content,” Lady Honor went on, half under her breath, as if speaking to herself, “a very pretty name and a very lovely character. I was telling the Whyte children about it when I was with them the other day.”
Mamma flushed with pleasure, but I felt inwardly furious. I was sure the old lady was mocking at me; afterwards I felt glad that papa had not seen my face just then.
For the rest of the way, after we had said good-bye to Lady Honor, I was quite silent. If it had not been for very shame, I would have asked to be put down at our own house when we passed it instead of going on to Fuller’s shop. And mamma’s gentle coaxing only made me crosser.
“I am sure you are too tired, darling,” she kept saying. “You don’t think you have caught cold? Do say, if you feel at all chilly?”
And when I grunted some short, surly reply, she only grew more and more anxious, till at last papa turned round and looked at me.
“She is all right, Rose,” he said. “It is as mild as possible – leave the child alone. At the same time, Connie,” he added to me, “you must answer your mother more respectfully. You have nothing to be so cross about, my dear.”
I felt startled and almost frightened. It was very seldom papa found fault with me. Yet there was something in his tone which prevented my feeling angry; something in his tone and in his eyes too. It was as if he was a little sorry for me. I felt myself redden, and I think one or two tears crept up.
“I am sorry,” I said, gently.
Papa’s face brightened at once, and this made it easier for me to master myself. We were just at Fuller’s by this time. I went in with papa and mamma, and after a minute or two I found it was not difficult to talk as usual, and to feel really interested in the papers. Papa and mamma chose very nice ones for the dining- and drawing-rooms, and I was asked my opinion about them all, especially about the schoolroom one. Then came the bedroom ones, most of which were quickly decided upon. I grew very anxious indeed when mamma asked to see the pale-grey-with-roses one, which had been in the window a week or two ago. Fuller’s man knew it at once and brought it out.
“It is beautiful,” he said, “a French paper, but expensive.”
And so it was, dearer than the one chosen for the dining-room! But papa glanced at it and then at me with a smile.
“Yes,” he said, “I will have that one for the bedroom to the right – the room off the passage up the first stair.”
“Oh, papa, thank you,” I said earnestly. And I meant it.
I have told all these little things to make you understand as well as I can, the mixture of feelings I had about the Whyte children even before I ever saw them. Now I will skip a bit of time, and go on to tell about how things actually turned out.
Things almost never turn out as one expects, the older one gets the more one sees this, especially about things one has thought of and planned a good deal. I had planned the first seeing the Whytes ever so many times in my own mind, always in the same way, you know, but with little additions and improvements the more I thought it over. The general idea of my plan was this. It was to be a lovely day: I was to ride over with papa one morning, Hoppie was to be looking his sweetest, and as we rode up to the house I was to see (and pretend not to see, of course) a lot of heads peeping out of a window to admire the little girl and her pony. Then we should be shown into the drawing-room, which I had furnished in my own mind rather shabbily and stiffly, and Captain and Mrs Whyte would come in and begin thanking papa for all his kindness, and would speak to me very nicely and rather admiringly, and Mrs Whyte would sigh a very little as if she wished her daughters were more like me. She would say how very much they wanted to know