weremore than satisfied too; though to do myself justice, I really did nottrouble myself about that part of my perfections, beyond being veryparticular indeed about my clothes, which I never would wear if theywere 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 rememberhearing mamma say. "She cannot bear anything ugly, or ill-assortedcolours."
All the same, Connie had no objection to fishing for minnows in the pondwith a perfectly new white muslin frock on, which was not renderedlovelier by streaks of green slime and brown mud stains all over thesash. I don't know if I thought those "well-assorted colours." Andthough I told mamma that my every-day hat was very common-lookingwithout ostrich feathers, I never troubled myself that my best one wasleft out in the garden one Sunday afternoon, so that on Monday morningit was found utterly ruined by a shower of rain that had come on in thenight!
If I had had any brothers or sisters I _could_ not have been soindulged, for papa was not a rich man--no country doctors ever are, Ithink--though he was not poor. But no more babies came, and, in herdevotion to me, I hardly think mamma wished for them. I remained theundisputed queen of my kingdom.
Mamma was never very strong after her three children's deaths I wasobliged 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 Ireally was. I had almost no companions; there did not happen to be manychildren near my age in the neighbourhood, and even if there had been Idoubt if mamma would have thought them good enough to be allowed to playwith me. Though she never actually spoke against any one to me, I sawthings quickly, and I know I had this feeling myself. Once or twicepapa, who was too wise not to know that companionship is good forchildren, tried to bring about more friendship between me and ourclergyman'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 yearsolder that I), and always "fussing about her Sunday-school class, andhelping her father, as if she was his curate." How well I remembermamma's smiling at this clever speech! And the two little ones were"babyish." Then some other girls at Elmwood went to school, and even intheir holiday time I did not care to play with "school-girls." Besideswhich poor mamma was quite dreadfully afraid of infection, and perhapsthis was only to be expected.
Once during some summer holidays when we happened to be at home, formamma and I generally went to the seaside in July, a little cousin cameto stay with us. He was two years younger than I and the only firstcousin I had, for papa was an only child. He was mamma's nephew, and Iknow 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, thoughin a different way from me, and I, as I have said, was very selfishindeed. So we quarrelled terribly, and the end of it was that poorTeddy was sent home in disgrace; no one dreaming that it _could_ havebeen "Connie's" fault in the least.
I think, now, I have explained pretty well about myself and my home whenI was very little. Nothing very particular happened till after my tenthbirthday. I had scarcely a wish ungratified, and yet everybody praisedme for my sweet contented disposition! There were times when I used towish or to _fancy_ I wished for a sister, though if this wish hadmagically come true, I don't believe I _would_ have liked it really, andnow and then papa and mamma would pity me for having no friends of myown age. But I do not think I was to be pitied for this, except that itcertainly is better training for a child to have companions of one's ownstanding, instead of grown-up people who can see no fault in you.
Things happen queerly sometimes. What are called "coincidences" are notso uncommon after all. The first great change in my life happened inthis way. It was in the autumn of the year in which I was ten. Theweather had been dull and rainy. I had caught cold and was not allowedto go out for some days. I was tired of the house and of myself, andthough no one ever thought of saying so to me, I feel sure I was verycross. I took it into my head to begin grumbling about being lonely;grumbling, it is true, was not usually a fault of mine, and itdistressed mamma very much.
"My darling, it must be that you are not at all well," she said, onedreary afternoon--afternoon just closing into evening--when she and Iwere sitting in the drawing-room waiting for papa to come in. He hadtold 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 expectedto be home pretty early and not to go out again, he and mamma dined athalf-past six or seven.
"No, it isn't that at all," I replied to mamma's anxious question. "I'mnot a bit ill. I'm quite well, and I'm sure it couldn't have hurt me togo 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 goout. It isn't for me like for most children, you know. _They_ haveeach other to play with in the house if they have to stay in. My onlypleasure is being out-of-doors," and I sighed deeply.
"You wouldn't like to send for Anna Gale or the twins to spend the daywith you to-morrow, would you?" mamma suggested. "I am so afraid thatif 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 carefor any of the Gales. Anna doesn't know how to play: when she's notcramming at her lessons, she's cleaning the store-closet or makingbaby-clothes for the parish babies," I said contemptuously.
"Poor girl! I don't think she is a very lively companion," mammaagreed. "But then she has no mother, and her aunt is a dull sort ofwoman."
It never struck me that, whether _I_ cared for her or not, an afternoonamong my pretty toys and books, and other luxuries, might have been apleasant change for Anna, even if she were rather commonplace and veryoverworked.
"I wish," I remarked, "I do wish there were some nicer people atElmwood. I wish you knew some nice companions for me, mamma."
"So do I, darling. But you know, dearest, _how_ different all wouldhave been if--" But here there came a sort of break in mamma's voice,and she turned away.
I gave myself an impatient wriggle; not so that she could see it, butstill it was horrid of me.
"I know what she was going to say," I thought; "`if Eva and the othershad lived.' But they _didn't_ live. I wish mamma would leave offthinking about them and think more about me who _am_ alive."
In my heart I did feel tenderly for mamma about her lost children; but Iwas so selfish that whatever came before _me_, even for a moment,annoyed me.
I sighed again more deeply. I have no doubt mamma thought it was out ofsympathy with her. But just then there came the sound of wheels--faintly, for the drawing-room was at the back of the house, and thestreet at the front; up I jumped, delighted at the interruption.
"It's papa," I said, as I ran off to welcome him.
CHAPTER TWO.
PAPA'S BIT OF NEWS.
Yes, it was papa. I opened the front-door a tiny bit just to make sure.He had already sprung out of the dog-cart, throwing the reins to thegroom, who went round by a back way to the stables. As papa came closeto the door he caught sight of me.
"Connie!" he exclaimed; "my child, keep out of the draught. Well,dear," when he had come in and was standing by me in the hall, where abright little fire was burning--we have such a nice hall in our house,old-fashioned and square, you know, with a fireplace--"well, dear, howare you? And what have you been doing with yourself this dull day?"
"Oh, I _have_ been so tired of myself, papa," I said, nestling up tohim. If there is, or could be, any one in the world I love better thanmamma, it's papa! "I am so glad you've come home, and now we may have anice evening, mayn't we?"
"I hope so. Mamma must let you come in at the end of dinner, to make upfor your dull day," said papa. Bu
t I interrupted him eagerly:
"It's not dinner to-night, papa--not proper dinner--because you were souncertain, you know."
"All 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 interestcame to enliven our quiet life. I felt so curious and excited about itthat by the time we were all three comfortably settled round thedining-table, my cheeks were quite rosy and my eyes bright.
"Connie is looking quite herself again," said papa. "I don't like tohear her complain of being dull and tired. It