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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78624 ***
+
+Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
+
+
+
+[Illustration: "Not in bed yet? Do you know it is
+ half-past ten?" said Aunt Jessie.]
+
+
+
+                        _Life-Tangles:_
+
+
+                              OR,
+
+
+                  THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH.
+
+
+                              BY
+
+                         AGNES GIBERNE
+
+                          AUTHOR OF
+
+   "IDA'S SECRET," "FLOSS SILVERTHORN," "LIFE IN A NUTSHELL,"
+                             ETC.
+
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+
+                            LONDON:
+                      JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
+                   48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
+
+
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+                           CONTENTS.
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+                          CHAPTER I.
+
+             THE RETURN FROM INDIA
+
+                          CHAPTER II.
+
+             RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES
+
+                          CHAPTER III.
+
+             UPS AND DOWNS
+
+                          CHAPTER IV.
+
+             I AND MYSELF
+
+                          CHAPTER V.
+
+             BANISHMENT DECREED
+
+                          CHAPTER VI.
+
+             AT WAYATFORD
+
+                          CHAPTER VII.
+
+             DERWENTWATER
+
+                          CHAPTER VIII.
+
+             PEOPLE'S RIGHTS
+
+                          CHAPTER IX.
+
+             SUPPOSITIONS
+
+                          CHAPTER X.
+
+             THE CHOICE GIVEN AND TAKEN
+
+                          CHAPTER XI.
+
+             A DAY OF DELIGHTS
+
+                          CHAPTER XII.
+
+             A NEW PHASE OF LIFE
+
+                          CHAPTER XIII.
+
+             UNDER THE YOKE
+
+                          CHAPTER XIV.
+
+             EXCEEDINGLY HORRID
+
+                          CHAPTER XV.
+
+             AFTER SIX WHOLE YEARS
+
+                          CHAPTER XVI.
+
+             ABOUT THE PAST
+
+                          CHAPTER XVII.
+
+             WISE WORDS AND UNWISE DEEDS
+
+                          CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+             OUT OF THE QUESTION!
+
+                          CHAPTER XIX.
+
+             AND YET!—
+
+                          CHAPTER XX.
+
+             INEXPLICABLE
+
+                          CHAPTER XXI.
+
+             TANGLED STILL
+
+                          CHAPTER XXII.
+
+             WAS IT HAPPINESS?
+
+                          CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+             HOW THINGS WERE AND MIGHT HAVE BEEN
+
+
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+                         LIFE-TANGLES:
+
+                              OR,
+
+                 _THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH._
+
+                        [Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+_THE RETURN FROM INDIA._
+
+                                     _December 12th._
+
+THE day after to-morrow will be a great day in my life, for my mother
+is coming home with the dear little twins, and they are expected to
+arrive early in the afternoon. What joy!
+
+It is nearly seven years since my father and mother went out last
+to India; and the twins were only one year old when I saw them. How
+changed they will be.
+
+Seven long years! But my mother's face is as clear as daylight in my
+mind, so young and pretty, with its soft colour and gentle smile. I do
+not remember my father's face quite so clearly; he was a good deal more
+away from us children. But I could paint every line of hers from memory
+if I were able to take likenesses. I should know her, oh! anywhere in
+the world. I can recollect telling her one day that she looked younger
+than Clarissa, who was only twenty-one then. Mother said, "Hush! Hush!"
+And Clarissa tilted her head in the offended manner she often has, but
+I don't think I cared.
+
+Then the last day before they left us, how pale Mother was, and how she
+and Connie clung together! We little thought then that she would never
+see Connie again—I mean, of course, in this life.
+
+If it were not for the thought of Connie, and of my father being still
+away, I think I should be too happy to-night. No more of aunt Jessie;
+no more schooling; no more spending of holidays where I am not wanted.
+It is too delightful!
+
+To be sure, Clarissa and Juliet will be living with us, and that is
+a great disappointment to me. I have always fancied that they would
+stay with aunt Jessie when my mother should come home alone, but they
+do not seem to have an idea of any such thing. Somehow they always do
+and always did make me naughty when, but for them, I know I should
+be perfectly good. They have such a way of upsetting me. It isn't my
+fault, I am sure.
+
+But I shall have my mother now, and that will make up for everything.
+Aunt Jessie has been their aunt, not mine. Mother will be mine—not
+theirs—my very own! That will make all the difference in the world. I
+shall have the first right to her love, and the first right to take
+care of her. I mean to be such a help to her in every possible way,
+and to do exactly what Connie would have done. Connie was always
+her comfort, I know, even though she was so young, because she was
+so unselfish, everyone says. Well, and I mean to be unselfish, like
+Connie, and so to be my mother's greatest comfort. I have to take
+Connie's place, and Mother will be lonely away from my father, and
+will need comfort. Clarissa and Juliet are always saying how useless I
+am, but they shall see the difference now. When I have a mother to do
+things for, I shall never mind how hard I work. It is so stupid being
+ordered about by them. I never feel inclined to do anything then.
+
+Before Christmas we are to move to the new little house in the
+country—Woodbine Cottage. Aunt Jessie and Clarissa and Juliet have
+settled everything. It seems to me that they ought to have waited till
+my mother should arrive, to see what she would like; but such an idea
+never enters their heads. I cannot make out that she has sent any
+directions; and if I ask, I get no answer, or else I am told that it is
+not my business. If it is not my business, I don't see whose it is, for
+I am my mother's eldest daughter, and I do think I have a right to know
+things, now I am seventeen years old, and have done with school.
+
+It puzzles me why they should have fixed upon that place to live in.
+We know nobody there, and I can see no particular reason for going. It
+is just a whim of Clarissa's, I suppose; and yet she is not fond, in a
+general way, of living in the country.
+
+
+                                     _December 13th. Thursday Morning._
+
+While I was writing in my journal yesterday evening, aunt Jessie rapped
+at my door and walked in without waiting for an answer. She was vexed
+to find me still dressed, and said,—
+
+"Not in bed yet? Do you know it is half-past ten?"
+
+I said I had not hurried because I was not sleepy. And I shut-up my
+journal and slipped it into a drawer, lest she should see what I had
+written.
+
+"That is no excuse," aunt Jessie replied. "I sent you to bed early,
+because I knew that to-morrow would be a fatiguing day; and you are
+wrong to disobey me—this last evening especially."
+
+I think I could have kept my temper if Clarissa had not come gliding in
+after aunt Jessie.
+
+"You had much better take Rhoda's pen and ink away," she said. "There
+is no dependence to be placed on her. I do not know what her mother
+will say to such ways."
+
+That made me fire up before I knew what I was about.
+
+"It will be Mother's business, not yours!" I said.
+
+Clarissa's lip curled as it always does when she is put out. People
+say she is very handsome, but I never can see it; I cannot think her
+good-looking. Then aunt Jessie told me that I was extremely naughty—she
+always says "naughty" still, just as if I were only six years old. I
+am afraid I pouted, and she said I was to be in bed in ten minutes. So
+I was, but I had no time to say my prayers. I didn't feel like saying
+them, even if I had had time.
+
+Aunt Jessie came back exactly at the ten minutes' end, and she put out
+my light and left me without saying, "Good night."
+
+Then I knew that I could not go comfortably to sleep without at least
+trying to say my prayers; and I crept out of bed and had a good cry on
+my knees, for everybody seemed unkind. That sort of thing always makes
+me miserable, though people think I don't care; and I do not see how
+one can say one's prayers properly when one feels so. I know I could
+not. I did try, but I was only able to think about Clarissa; so at last
+I got up and crept back into bed.
+
+After breakfast this morning aunt Jessie gave me a regular lecture
+about my faults. She began with a present of a gold pencil-case, and
+that was uncomfortable. I have wanted one for a long time, and this is
+a beauty. But I wish people would choose some other time than before
+a lecture for giving one presents. If we had been alone when she
+lectured, I should not have minded so much—at least I think not! But
+aunt Jessie never thinks of waiting till we are alone.
+
+Clarissa was arranged in one of her attitudes, doing crewel work; and
+Juliet was mending the dress that I tore yesterday. I cobbled up the
+hole in a hurry, but Juliet spied it out, and she has undone my cobble
+and has darned it most beautifully. Of course I ought to be grateful,
+but I do not think I am. It is so difficult to feel grateful to people
+when one does not love them; and I certainly do not love Juliet. Not
+what I call really loving, I mean.
+
+While aunt Jessie talked, I was wondering whether Mother would admire
+those two as much as other people do. I was too young, when she went
+out, to know anything about her tastes. They are often called "the
+handsome Miss Friths" by strangers. Clarissa is tall with a good
+figure, and Juliet is shorter and rather plump, with pretty features
+and a very quick manner. I am not at all pretty, and I know it very
+well. Connie was lovely, but my face is not like hers. I am said to be
+like nobody in the family. Well, my mother will not love me less for my
+want of prettiness, and other people do not matter.
+
+I was thinking this, yet I heard aunt Jessie. She said that if I did
+not take care, I should be a great trouble to my mother. She told me
+that I was forgetful, untidy, impatient, ill-tempered, wilful,—such
+a string of hard words. She complained especially of my want of
+gentleness, and of "my unpleasant manner to the girls." Aunt Jessie
+always calls them "the girls" still, and counts me a mere child in
+comparison, though I do not feel like a child any longer. I did not
+know that my manner was unpleasant, except perhaps when they vex me,
+and then how can one help it? Aunt Jessie said it was un-Christian, and
+she wished I would pray for a better spirit. Very likely some of what
+she said was true, because, of course, I am not perfect, and I do not
+pretend to be, but then I am sure other people are anything but perfect
+also. And there are different ways of being told that one is in the
+wrong; and her way never does me good, it only makes me feel cross.
+Besides, as for meekness—and she talked ever so much about meekness—I
+suppose I am not particularly meek, but most certainly Clarissa and
+Juliet are not! Why doesn't she lecture them?
+
+I bore it all pretty well, I do think, till she began to say that my
+mother would be disappointed in me. Then I could not help bursting into
+tears, and I ran away up to my own room, where I have been ever since.
+
+Why must people say such things?
+
+
+                                     _December 15th._
+
+We went to the station yesterday afternoon to meet my mother and the
+twins. On the way, I was picturing to myself the meeting—how I would
+be the first to catch sight of Mother's face, and how she would hold
+me in her arms, and would have no eyes for anybody else, and how the
+twins would cling to me—their only sister. I almost forgot that aunt
+Jessie and the girls would be there, only perhaps I was glad down below
+to know that they would see for once the difference between them and
+me. I mean the difference as to my mother. The girls may talk of being
+her adopted children, and I am sure she has been the best of mothers to
+them ever since they were quite tiny, as much as she possibly could.
+Having to be away in India, has kept her from them, just as it has kept
+her from me. But still, all the time she is "not" their mother, but
+only their aunt; and they are "not" her children, but only her nieces;
+and nothing can make her the same to them that she is to me. And for
+once I thought they would feel it.
+
+Then when the train steamed in, and we were on the tip-toe of
+expectation, Mother was not there at all! They had not come by that
+train. I don't know when in my whole life I have been so dreadfully
+disappointed. It made everything seem unreal. I almost felt as if the
+coming home from India were all a mistake, and as if I should never see
+my mother again. The others took it much more philosophically, even
+though they have talked as if they cared any amount about having her
+back. Juliet laughed at me for looking glum, and aunt Jessie said how
+wrong it was to be sulky. I wonder why people think one sulky when one
+is only unhappy!
+
+Clarissa was sure my mother had only missed her train. Indian ladies
+never were punctual, she said, with a disagreeable little laugh. And I
+felt like saying almost anything, for I knew it was not Mother's fault,
+whatever the reason might be.
+
+When we got indoors, a telegram was awaiting us. Mother had found
+at the very last moment that she would be hindered in Bristol by
+business, and she could not say what hour she might arrive. I wanted to
+look-out the trains from Bristol, and to meet each one, but aunt Jessie
+objected. She and the girls were tired, she said, and she could not let
+me hang about in the station alone. The telegram said, "Do not meet
+us;" and that quite satisfied aunt Jessie, but it was not enough for me.
+
+The next few hours were the longest and dreariest I have ever passed.
+I could not read or work or settle down to anything. But at last they
+came, just when nobody happened to be on the look-out, my mother and
+the twins, all alone. The ayah who was to have travelled with them had
+made a sudden engagement to go back to India, and Mother had let her
+off, leaving her behind in London.
+
+The meeting was not in the very least like what I had pictured.
+
+Mother was tired out with the journey, and with having to manage
+for herself and the children all day. She has grown thin and pale,
+almost sallow, and has lost all her pretty young looks. I could hardly
+believe, at the first moment, that it was really herself; she is so
+changed. She walked in slowly and languidly, and seemed as if she had
+not strength or spirit to be glad about anything. When I rushed into
+her arms, she just gave me a quiet kiss, and said nothing. Then she put
+me aside, and kissed Clarissa and Juliet in exactly the same manner. I
+did not see one grain of difference. And yet I am her own, and they are
+not. And those two took possession of her, making her sit down, while
+Clarissa untied her bonnet strings, and Juliet loosened her cloak.
+Mother smiled at them in a worn-out way, and let them do as they liked.
+
+I wanted to kiss Addie and Emmie, but they clung to Mother, and would
+not so much as look at me. When I took hold of Emmie, she shrieked, and
+Addie struck at me with her little fist. Mother said, "Don't, Addie!"
+Yet the moment I came near, she did it again.
+
+They are such an odd little pair, exactly alike, with tiny white faces,
+and big black eyes, and fluffy fair hair. Not nearly so pretty as I
+expected, for they are said to be like Connie.
+
+It seemed as if I had no chance of reaching my mother, while those two
+clutched her in front, and the elder girls sat one on each side. Aunt
+Jessie kept talking about the voyage, and asking questions about my
+father. Mother answered in a patient tired out voice, almost as if she
+did not know what she was saying.
+
+Presently Juliet coaxed the children off to look at the kitten. They
+would go to her, though I might not touch them.
+
+Then Mother spoke my name, and I came close. She took my hand, and
+gazed at me, as if she were trying to understand something. I felt so
+hurt about the little ones, and so flat and chilled altogether that
+I could not look pleased or bright. It was impossible. Nobody could
+have done so in my place. Mother said, "How altered!" I knew she was
+dreadfully disappointed, and a lump in my throat half-choked me.
+
+"Rhoda has changed a good deal the last half-year." Aunt Jessie seemed
+to think she had to apologise for the fact. "But she does not grow
+fast. She will never be tall."
+
+Mother said, "Perhaps not," keeping her eyes on me still.
+
+"I am almost as tall as Juliet," I said, and I know my voice sounded
+curt.
+
+"Within two inches," Juliet remarked; but the difference is less than
+one inch.
+
+"She will be tall enough," Mother replied; and that was my first scrap
+of comfort. If "she" is satisfied, I don't care about other people.
+
+When the twins' bedtime came, she insisted on taking them upstairs
+herself. I wanted to help, and the moment I came near, they began to
+shriek. Juliet ordered me off, and took my place, and they were good
+directly. I cannot understand it. I did feel so sore and miserable at
+not being able to do anything. And it has been just the same since.
+
+
+                                     _December 19th._
+
+We go to our new little country home the day after to-morrow.
+
+Everything is ready for us, settled by Clarissa and Juliet. Mother just
+submits. She doesn't seem to have any will of her own. I have hardly
+heard her ask a single question about the house or the place, or why we
+are to be there at all.
+
+Though she has lost her old colour and prettiness, there is still
+something about her unlike other people, and I am proud of her. But I
+am afraid she is not proud of me. Clarissa and Juliet are always trying
+to show me off in the worst lights before her.
+
+As for my being the eldest daughter of the house, nobody could guess
+it. Mother behaves exactly as if I were only her third daughter. She
+puts Clarissa and Juliet first in every single thing. Of course it is
+all right that she should be kind to her nieces, especially as they
+are orphans, and have no real home of their own. But then they are not
+poor, and I have my rights as well as they; and I must say I did not
+expect things to be like this. I did think that with my mother I should
+find a difference, however other people might treat me. I do long to
+know that I have the "first" place in her heart. If once I could be
+sure of that, nothing else would matter so much.
+
+Johnnie has come, and I can see how dearly she loves him. He is her
+only boy, and he always is so good-humoured and pleasant. Nobody counts
+him handsome or clever, but he does his lessons fairly, and he is good
+at games, and he is a thorough gentleman,—much more so than most boys
+of fourteen,—and everybody likes him. Of course, I do too; only somehow
+he and I don't quite fit in together, as Connie and I did. He has such
+a provoking admiration for Clarissa. It is absurd.
+
+Yesterday evening Mother came to my room late, for the first time. She
+has been too tired on other nights. I thought she wanted to speak about
+Connie, and I wanted it too; but a shy fit seized me, and I talked so
+fast about all sorts of stupid things that she had not a chance.
+
+After she was gone, I did wish I had not been so foolish. I know she
+has already spoken of Connie to others, for I heard Clarissa say so.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+_RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES._
+
+                                     _December 20th._
+
+WE start early to-morrow. I have only time for a few words to-night.
+
+My mother and I were out alone together this afternoon, for once. As we
+were passing through the shrubbery, I suddenly found myself saying:
+
+"You haven't spoken one word to me about Connie since you came!"
+
+She turned her face away.
+
+"I have not been able," she said. "Another time—"
+
+"If only you could!"
+
+I saw her throat working. She said after a little pause,—
+
+"You remind me of her incessantly."
+
+It was a great surprise to me.
+
+"Why, Mother! I am not like Connie."
+
+"Sometimes. More than you used to be."
+
+"But Connie was so pretty."
+
+Mother looked at me in a curious steady way.
+
+"It is not a question of prettiness," she said, "nor of features at
+all. The look comes and goes. And you are pretty enough for my eyes. A
+mother sees differently, you know, from other people. Perhaps others
+would not see the likeness, but I do."
+
+I am very glad. If "she" thinks so, it matters very little what anybody
+else thinks.
+
+I mean to devote my life to her, and not to care for any single thing
+except her comfort and happiness. Then, perhaps, in time, she will love
+me as I want to be loved, and as I love her, not merely as she loves
+Clarissa and Juliet, or because of my likeness to Connie.
+
+
+                                     _January 2nd, Wednesday._
+
+After a busy Christmas, we are pretty well settled in our new home.
+On the whole, I do not dislike the little place; and the house is
+comfortable, only small. The garden will be nice in summer. I have a
+room opening into my mother's, and the elder girls, as usual, sleep
+together.
+
+We have no friends yet in the place, but there are a few neighbours
+whom we expect in time to know. Nobody that I shall care for, most
+likely. Clarissa will monopolise everybody, and give me no chance. But
+if I can have Mother sometimes to myself, I care very little about
+other friends.
+
+We have had a very dull Christmas—more dull than I could have thought
+possible, so soon after their coming home—but at Christmas it does seem
+natural to have a little excitement of some sort. And we have had none
+whatever. I do not seem to have anything particular to write about.
+
+
+                                     _February 3rd._
+
+I have been thinking lately how terribly difficult a thing it is to
+keep straight, and how hopeless to manage to please everybody, and what
+a puzzle life is altogether.
+
+Only a few weeks ago, I was looking forward in a perfect rapture of
+delight to my mother's coming home.
+
+I thought everything was sure to go right, when once I had her. I
+thought worries and misunderstandings would be at an end. And it has
+not been so at all. There are just as many worries and rubs here as
+there used to be at school, or at aunt Jessie's in my holidays. I am
+quite as often fretted and vexed. And I can find no way of keeping out
+of troubles—little stupid needless bothers, which are almost the worst
+of all to bear.
+
+If Connie had but lived! I do feel so lonely without her. She always
+understood me, and I never was put out with her, or, at least, scarcely
+ever. I hardly knew I had a temper till Connie was gone. She seemed to
+come between me and aunt Jessie, between me and the girls. She seemed
+to smooth down everything, and to make life go right. And everybody
+loved Connie.
+
+Perhaps I did not get vexed then, because Connie never did anything to
+vex me. But other people are so unreasonable. I don't see how I can
+be expected not to mind. Clarissa is always saying, "There you are
+again!" And Juliet says, "Sulking as usual!" And an hour ago, my mother
+herself found fault with me. I had not meant to be cross, and indeed
+this morning I went downstairs with a particular resolution to let
+nothing whatever vex me, no matter what might happen. But resolutions
+don't seem to be of much use. Clarissa does set one down so, and Juliet
+meddles, and both of them sneer. If only they would let me alone!
+
+I said so to my mother, and she said that was a childish wish, for
+nobody could be "let alone" in life. She told me that I must expect
+little contradictions, and that I was old enough to be able to take
+them patiently.
+
+I am afraid she thought me hard, for I did not know what to say, and
+so I made no answer. I could not possibly say that I thought Clarissa
+and Juliet were not to blame, because I do think they are very much to
+blame. If they were different, I should never feel cross. They do worry
+me so fearfully! Perhaps I ought to have said that I was sorry; for I
+suppose I did not speak exactly as I ought to Juliet—but still—Well, if
+it had been anybody else, I would have said so, but I couldn't! And I
+came up here for a little peace. I don't mean to go down yet.
+
+Mother always seems to be sure that I am the one who is most to blame.
+And yet why should I be? She never blames Clarissa or Juliet, at least
+I never hear her do so. And yet I am her own child, and they are only
+her nieces, but really it almost seems as if she forgot that.
+
+She does not know how dearly I love her, or how utterly miserable it
+makes me to think that she is the very least displeased with me.
+
+I do wish, too, that she would sometimes make a stand for her own way.
+One might almost think that the house belonged to Clarissa and Juliet.
+To be sure, they are very fond of her, or they seem so—after a fashion.
+
+But Clarissa calls her "the dear little mother," in a petting
+patronising way which I detest. She is not their mother, to begin with;
+and though she is very slight, she is taller than Juliet, and almost
+as tall as Clarissa. I can't bear Clarissa to speak in that horrid
+patronising way. And Juliet is for ever trying to get things into
+her own hands, managing this and deciding that without so much as a
+reference to her. She pretends that it is all to save her trouble, but
+I know better! She gives my mother no choice; and things are constantly
+arranged as Mother would not have chosen, and as she does not really
+like, only she is too gentle to complain. I do wish she would now and
+then make a stand. And I don't see why I am never to have a voice in
+any single thing!
+
+
+                                     _February 9th, Saturday._
+
+A pouring wet day, and no going out; and I am thoroughly out of sorts.
+Everything has gone wrong the whole morning.
+
+I have been in such a stupid unhappy state lately. Life seems so tame
+and dull and disappointing. Before we came here, and still more before
+my mother came home, I meant to be so busy and useful to everybody,
+and I thought I should be perfectly happy. But I can't! It is not the
+very least use trying! I feel inclined just to give up, and not try
+any more. If Clarissa and Juliet were not here, that would make all
+the difference; but while they are in the house, nothing ever can or
+will go straight. I hate to do things just because they tell me that I
+ought. It only makes me want to do exactly the opposite directly. And
+really I don't see any need for me to do things.
+
+I did mean to be my mother's companion everywhere, and to save her
+trouble with the housekeeping, and to do everything for the twins.
+But when she does want to go anywhere, Clarissa is almost always her
+companion, and then I don't care to go too. And Juliet has taken up
+the housekeeping. And as for the twins, they are so dreadfully spoilt
+that I can do nothing for them. If I say a word, they begin to shriek,
+and then my mother is worried. They are always good with Juliet, and I
+wonder Mother isn't hurt at their devotion to her. But, at all events,
+it is of no use for me to interfere. Sometimes, when they are good, I
+play with them, but it is sure to end in a fit of naughtiness; and all
+the blame is laid upon me.
+
+I cannot imagine how it is that so many people go through life in
+such a steady jog-trot fashion, taking each day as it comes, and
+never seeming to mind what happens. Perhaps they think and worry more
+than one would suppose; for, after all, nobody would guess what I go
+through in that way. I don't talk about it, and I am supposed to be
+quite wrapped up in my own interests. I like reading story-books; and
+sometimes I get into a merry mood, and talk and laugh. And people think
+me just an empty-headed school-girl—at least I am sure some do.
+
+But I am not. I do think—oh, a great deal! And sometimes I do so wonder
+how it will all look to me by-and-by, when life is over. And then I
+make up my mind that I will be quite different, and nothing shall put
+me out. I go downstairs, feeling so good, and ready to do or bear
+anything. And then Clarissa puts on one of her airs, or Juliet says
+some sharp thing, or somebody tells me to do what I shouldn't in the
+very least mind doing if only I were asked nicely, and not told as if
+I ought,—and in a moment I am upset, and I speak out, and I am treated
+like a naughty child for the rest of the day. I really do not see that
+I am to blame when things happen so. It seems as if one could not
+possibly keep right with some people.
+
+After breakfast, I was trying to forget everything and everybody in an
+interesting book, when suddenly Juliet began reminding me that I had
+not practised for three days past. I knew I had not, but I had not felt
+inclined—one does not in some moods—and she might have seen that I was
+not in the mood for it. Some people are so stupid! I told her I did
+not want to play just then; and of course I said it sharply. Anybody
+would, who felt as I had been feeling all the week past. Juliet began
+to argue, and I said I wished she would not meddle; and then Mother
+told me to go at once to the piano. It was so provoking of Juliet! When
+Mother spoke, I went, of course, but it was of no use. I really could
+not take pains, or help striking false notes. Presently Clarissa said,
+"Torture!" with a groan. And my mother said, "You are not doing your
+best, Rhoda. Go upstairs instead, and mend your stockings. When you
+feel happier, you may come down again."
+
+And here I have been ever since. I don't mean to go down till it is
+time for our walk.
+
+I wish nobody ever was tiresome. O Journal, you don't get cross with me.
+
+
+                                     _February 11th, Monday._
+
+To-day has been just as bad as yesterday. Mother looks so sad that I
+hate myself for giving way to temper; and I think I detest certain
+other people still more, for making it impossible for me to keep
+good-humoured. I have tried praying that things might be different, and
+it doesn't seem to have done the smallest good.
+
+
+                                     _February 12th, Tuesday._
+
+Yesterday evening, Mother sent me away from the dinner-table for
+answering Juliet. Juliet spoke to me about stooping at meal-times. I
+know it is a bad habit, and makes one look awkward and lazy; and I mean
+to get over it in time. But I didn't think Juliet had any business to
+find fault with me before the children; and they are generally allowed
+to play about in the room all dinner-time. So I told her it was no
+concern of hers. Juliet answered me sharply; and I answered her again;
+and then Mother told me I had better go to my own room. So I went off
+with a bounce, and slammed the door, because I thought they deserved
+it—Juliet, I mean, not Mother. I didn't think at the moment that I was
+punishing her as well.
+
+About half-an-hour later, she came to me. I had not been doing anything
+except sit at the window to watch three or four children playing in the
+back field. I felt so dull and moody still that I did not even look
+round when my mother opened the door. She shut it, and the next thing I
+knew was her hand on my shoulder.
+
+"Are you quite well, Rhoda?" It was not at all what I had expected her
+to say.
+
+"Quite."
+
+"Nothing wrong in that line? Then what has been the matter lately?"
+
+I do not know what I wanted to say, but I know that the only word which
+would come to my lips was, "Connie." I smothered it back; but when
+Mother put the question again, I could not help myself. The name seemed
+to force its way out; and then her arm came round me, and in a moment,
+I was crying as I have not cried once since the night when Connie was
+taken from us.
+
+Mother did not say a word. She only held me fast, and just touched my
+face now and then with her lips; and presently, when I was better, I
+found her struggling not to give way too. For a long while neither of
+us could speak, and we only clung together. But it seemed such a help
+to know that she was going through it all too. I don't think I can ever
+again have quite that lonely feeling, as if nobody in the world knew
+anything of what I felt.
+
+Then I wondered whether, perhaps, Juliet might be coming after us, so I
+went and bolted the door; and the very next moment, there was a rattle
+of the handle outside, and Juliet's voice called my name.
+
+"You can't come in just now," I said.
+
+And she spoke indignantly,—"Rhoda, how can you go on in this foolish
+way? You will make your mother ill."
+
+But I only repeated, "You can't come in just now;" and when she had
+argued a little, she went away.
+
+Mother was herself again by that time. She made me sit down beside her,
+and said, "Perhaps we shall both feel better for this by-and-by. But
+now you must bear a few words from me, which you will not exactly like.
+Words of something like blame, I mean."
+
+"I can bear anything from you," I replied. "It is Juliet's worrying
+that I can't stand."
+
+"Sometimes we 'have' to stand things that we should not choose, if the
+choice were given to us. And it will not do to make sorrow an excuse
+for ill tempers." Then she told me plainly how disappointed she had
+been in me lately. She said she had expected things to be so different
+on her return.
+
+"Yes, I know. That is just how I feel," I said. "Everything goes wrong;
+and I am sure it is not my fault. It is all the fault of Carissa and
+Juliet."
+
+"Not altogether, not nearly altogether, Rhoda. Think for yourself,
+and you will see it." Then she reminded me of her wish that I should
+practise regularly before breakfast; and she asked how often I had
+taken the trouble to do so. I could not say that I had done it. "The
+girls are hardly to blame for your remissness in that line, at all
+events." She went on to explain that my father had spent a great deal
+on my education, and that the least I could do was to take care that
+the money spent should not have been thrown away.
+
+Of course, all that was reasonable enough, and I am not so stupid as
+not to see it. I do not think in fact that I am a stupid girl, though I
+make no pretensions to cleverness.
+
+"Everything that you have learnt at school will soon become useless
+if you do not keep up what you know. And you hardly attempt to do so.
+There is little enough to occupy your time, yet you never seem to have
+leisure for what ought to be done. If an interesting story-book comes
+in your way, all else goes down before it. Is that right? You are not a
+little child any longer; and duty ought to stand before amusement."
+
+I did not find it easy to bear all this, even from my mother. Once or
+twice I tried to interrupt her, but she went on to the end.
+
+"If only Juliet would not meddle so!"
+
+"Juliet means it kindly. You must remember that she is five years
+older than you. If you cannot remember your own duties, you ought to
+be grateful to her for bringing them to mind. To refuse to do right,
+merely because one is told of it, is really too childish."
+
+"I don't always forget. But reminding does no good. I mean, reminding
+in Juliet's way. And even when I remember, it is so hard always to
+leave off doing what one likes, for the sake of doing something that
+one detests."
+
+"For the sake of doing what is right!"
+
+"One can't be always in the mood for work."
+
+"No, one cannot. And those times when one is least in the mood are
+often the times when it is most one's duty to do the work."
+
+"Only people do have lazy moods now and then," I could not help saying,
+though I did not really mean to be perverse.
+
+"People do undoubtedly."
+
+"And one can't help it."
+
+"One cannot help having the mood, I grant you. One can certainly help
+yielding to it. There is hardly any more miserable slavery than the
+slavery of those who are victims to every passing mood and humour. It
+is in just such little fights that the real battle of life is carried
+on. If you do not discipline yourself in little duties, you will never
+be fit to undertake great duties."
+
+"But still—"
+
+"Still, you think people may please themselves. A governess may teach
+when she is in the mood, and let teaching alone when she is not in the
+mood. The captain of a ship may attend to the navigation of his vessel
+so long as he feels inclined; and when he gets a lazy fit, he may
+retire to his cabin, and leave the ship to take care of itself. Is that
+the sort of thing you mean?"
+
+I could not help laughing.
+
+"But such stupid little things as half-an-hour's practice, or a page of
+French translation—"
+
+"Or such stupid little things as putting aside a delightful story, for
+the sake of a French translation; or getting up early, for the sake of
+the morning practice; or overcoming small tricks, for the sake of being
+more agreeable to other people—"
+
+"Mother, if only you would always tell me, and no one else!"
+
+"But I cannot promise that, Rhoda. What right have I to seal other
+people's mouths? Juliet is very good to take the trouble to look after
+you. She is a great help to me."
+
+"I don't think she is good at all!" I burst out. "She interferes and
+meddles, and makes herself perfectly unbearable."
+
+Mother looked really displeased, and her hand came over my mouth.
+
+"Hush, Rhoda! I will not have you speak in that manner. Juliet is to
+all intents and purposes your elder sister, and I expect her to be
+treated as such. You have given way far too much to these feelings.
+Instead of helping me to keep a peaceful atmosphere in the house, you
+are doing your best to stir up strife."
+
+Then my mother went on to say that she had always hoped I was one with
+Connie in desiring above all things to serve God, to do the will of
+Christ. She is very shy in speaking on such subjects; and I could see
+her hands trembling. But I thought it rather hard that she should seem
+to doubt whether I cared at all about such things, when I am sure I
+mean to do right as much as any one does. Of course it is difficult for
+me, as it is for everybody, but I am sure I do try. And if it wasn't
+for Clarissa and Juliet, I should be quite good-tempered. It is only
+they who put me out so horribly; and anybody else would be put out in
+my place.
+
+I did tell Mother that I would see if I could do better; but she did
+not seem satisfied, and I could not say more. Only I have written all
+this down, as a sort of punishment to myself, and because I mean to
+try. I intend if possible to make myself not care what the elder girls
+say or do.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+_UPS AND DOWNS._
+
+                                     _February 19th, Tuesday._
+
+UP early this morning, and had a whole hour's practice before
+breakfast. Mother looked so pleased; and Clarissa and Juliet have
+really been quite kind. If people would always behave like that, it
+would be so much easier to get long smoothly.
+
+After breakfast, I had a busy hour, taking care of the children, and
+playing games with them; and they were as good as one could wish.
+Certainly it is much nicer to be busy and useful than to be doing
+nothing in particular; and I have made up my mind to turn over a new
+leaf.
+
+
+                                     _February 20th._
+
+Desperately hard to get up this morning; and I only managed to secure
+twenty minutes for music. Juliet remarked, "Too good to last! I thought
+so yesterday!" And though I was not meant to hear, I did hear, and I
+knew what she meant. But after all, I made up the full amount later: so
+nobody was the worse.
+
+
+                                     _February 21st, Thursday._
+
+I don't see the good of bothering myself. After all my resolutions, I
+only contrived to get down just in time for breakfast. And directly
+afterwards, instead of offering to look after the little ones, as I
+have done the last day or two, I sat down for one moment with a book
+from the library, just to see how it went on. And it was so interesting
+that I simply could not put it down again. Addie came to me for a game,
+and I told her to go away; and as usual, she must needs begin to cry.
+Those children wail about every single thing that they cannot have.
+
+Whereupon, of course, everybody seemed to think I had done something
+perfectly shocking; and Juliet petted the twins, and Addie scowled
+at me, and Mother was worried, which is the worst of all. Then my
+music-master came, and was vexed that I had not practised more. It is
+rather wonderful that a music-master is to be had at all in such an
+out-of-the-way place as this, but he comes once a week to give lessons
+to several families in the neighbourhood, and the girls have seized on
+him for me. I am not in the least grateful, for I simply detest music.
+
+
+                                     _February 27th, Wednesday._
+
+I have not managed to be up in good time for some days past, and I
+am vexed with myself every morning. Yet when the next morning comes,
+somehow I do just the same. It is provoking, because one does not
+like to feel that one is easily beaten. But at the moment when I am
+first called, when I ought to spring straight out of bed so as to have
+time enough, I only feel that it is perfectly impossible! Nothing on
+earth seems of the very smallest consequence then, except getting
+half-an-hour more of sleep. Do other people ever feel so, I wonder? And
+if they do, how in the world do they get over it?
+
+At all events, one thing is better; there has not been nearly so much
+disagreement between me and the girls. Once or twice, when Juliet has
+been sharp and unjust, I have borne it quite quietly and have not
+said in return what she really did deserve. So I think I "must" be
+growing a little more patient and gentle. I am sure I have prayed often
+enough lately that I might be made so; and it is nice to feel that
+one's prayers are answered. Some people talk as if they were always
+having answers to prayers, at least people in books and memoirs do,
+but I am afraid that is not my way. Perhaps I don't pray often enough;
+and perhaps I don't always mean what I say in my prayers. It is so
+difficult to know sometimes what one wants exactly. I am sure I want to
+be good, and not to worry my mother; and yet I do not want to be always
+knuckling down to the girls, because I really can't see what right they
+have to manage everything in our house. However, I am glad to have got
+on more smoothly, and I don't mean to be cross any more.
+
+
+                                     _March 2nd, Saturday._
+
+I am more than half inclined to tear out that last entry. This has been
+such a miserable afternoon. Juliet has been so provoking! I don't know
+who could bear with her.
+
+She put me out so fearfully that I hardly knew what I said. But I know
+I told her that she was for ever meddling with me, and that I did not
+want to be meddled with. I said I wished she lived anywhere except with
+us.
+
+Juliet turned quite white—I cannot think why!—and said in a voice not
+like her own: "There is no need that I should. I have another home. If
+we are not wanted here, we are wanted by aunt Jessie."
+
+Mother came in, and was told what I had been saying; and she seemed so
+distressed. More distressed, I should think, than there was any real
+reason for. She insisted on my begging Juliet's pardon; and at last,
+just to please her, I did say that if I had been rude, I was sorry. The
+word stuck in my throat, for I don't think I really was sorry.
+
+Mother said—"Much more than 'rude!'"
+
+And Juliet begged that the subject might be dropped. "Some things are
+best not discussed," she said. And I saw her afterwards caressing my
+mother, as if she had to comfort her for my naughtiness.
+
+If I had been sorry before, that would have cured my sorrow fast enough.
+
+If only everything were different! It is so frightfully hard now to do
+right. If only Clarissa and Juliet were pleasant and kind, we might
+be so much happier. And if only they did not live with us at all, and
+I had my mother and the children to myself, then I know I should be
+good. There would be nothing to make me naughty. I can't think why they
+should live with us, for they have quite enough money of their own to
+get on upon; and besides, aunt Jessie would be glad enough to have them
+both. That was true, and I know it was; and why they do not go to her
+when she wants them, and when I am sure we don't, is a mystery to me.
+Oh, if only they would! I know they do not do me any good by staying
+here. To-day I feel perfectly hard and cold, as if I did not care in
+the least about anything good. I feel as if religion had no sort of
+hold upon me.
+
+
+                                     _March 4th, Monday._
+
+Mother and I have had a long private talk to-day about the girls, and
+she has told me things that I did not so much as guess before—things I
+had no idea of.
+
+Nobody has ever said a word to me about the heavy money-losses that
+my father has had in the last few years. He is not at all well off
+now. That is quite a piece of news to me, because I have always
+supposed that he had plenty. Another piece of news is that Clarissa
+and Juliet are very well off indeed. I knew that they had enough to
+make them independent, but I always supposed that they lived partly on
+"us,"—instead of which, things are just the other way.
+
+Now that they are both of age, they are entirely free to choose what
+home they would wish to live in, and aunt Jessie would be delighted to
+have them. I was right there, at any rate. At one time, it was quite
+thought that they would make a home with her, and they gave up the
+idea, partly because they are so fond of my mother, too fond to put
+even aunt Jessie in the same place—I say "even," because they do care
+for her very much, though I do not,—and partly because of my father's
+losses.
+
+Mother says it is most good and self-denying of them to stay on with
+us. It is a great help to her and my father; and the expense of keeping
+up a home in England, as well as in India, is so heavy that if the
+girls had decided to remain permanently with aunt Jessie, she does not
+think she could possibly have come home for another year or two, even
+though her health so much needed it. She says that the girls are most
+generous in taking upon themselves the main proportion of expenses; far
+more, in fact, than she would have had the least right to expect.
+
+"This house," she said, "is literally more theirs than it is mine. And
+when you complain of their 'interfering,' Rhoda, they are really doing
+what they have every right to do."
+
+"But, Mother, it is almost like living partly on charity!"
+
+"I am much too fond of them both to think of matters in that light," my
+mother answered, though she flushed.
+
+"I don't like it," I said indignantly; "I don't like it at all. I would
+much rather—oh, much rather—be with you and the little ones in some
+tiny house by ourselves. I should not mind how small a house it was, or
+how plainly we lived, if only it was really our own."
+
+"Impossible. But for their help, I should not be in England at all now.
+So you ought to be grateful to them."
+
+Of course I could not help seeing how my words must have sounded
+yesterday; and I asked if I should tell Juliet that I had not
+understood how things were. She said "No," for the girls would not like
+any talk about their affairs. She had thought it needful to tell me so
+much, but I must on no account mention to any one that she had done so.
+
+"I don't see why not. It is nothing very particular to be ashamed of."
+
+"People have their own ways of thinking and doing. I have almost given
+up trying to make everybody see everything as I do myself. If it is
+their wish to do kindnesses in secret, they have a right to please
+themselves in their own fashion."
+
+"Mother, you are always talking about their rights, and never about
+mine!"
+
+"My dear, there is not the smallest fear that you will not take
+abundant care of your own rights," she replied. And I do not think she
+has ever said a harder thing to me. Yet, let me be honest with myself.
+Is it not true?
+
+One thing is plain; I must not be vexed any more with either Clarissa
+or Juliet, whatever they may choose to do or say. For my mother's sake,
+partly, and partly for my own. It puts me too much in their power as
+things are now. And suppose I were to annoy them so far that they
+should refuse to live any longer with us! Not that I should mind that
+in itself—only I do not see how we could get on then. Mother might even
+have to go back to India before she is fit for it. And then, suppose
+she were taken ill! Why, I could never forgive myself.
+
+Not a very grand reason for keeping my temper.
+
+
+                                     _March 13th, Wednesday._
+
+We have gone on far more quietly for some days now. I do not know
+whether Juliet has heard anything of that talk of ours, but certainly
+she has not been so worrying.
+
+A new idea has cropped up. I am to take the twins every day for an
+hour of lessons. I said to my mother that I wished I could do anything
+to help in the house, and she said this would be a real help. She has
+given them about half-an-hour herself, when able, but she is often too
+poorly. Juliet has been wanting to undertake it, but my mother has
+held back, because she felt that the girls were already doing too much
+for us; and certainly I do not think we need go out of our way to be
+further indebted to them.
+
+Why did I never think sooner of offering to teach? Mother says she
+did think of it, but she fancied that I might not like the trouble.
+What nonsense! As if I minded trouble! It just shows how little one is
+understood by even those people who love one best. Mother says that
+of course she will expect me to be very regular, and not to put aside
+the lessons for any other thing that I may want to do. I was almost
+indignant with her for even thinking it needful to warn me. As if I
+could ever dream of such a thing! Does everybody believe that I really
+have no sense of what is right?
+
+I am quite delighted at the thought of having this work. It will be
+such an interest; and I shall love to see the pets getting on as fast
+as I mean them to do. I intend to make the lesson hour so pleasant that
+they will always be sorry to leave off.
+
+
+                                     _March 15th, Friday._
+
+I never thought I should be such a good hand at teaching. Both
+yesterday and to-day the children have been perfect little gems over
+their lessons—not a cross word or a tear. They cuddle close up to me,
+one on each side, and do exactly what I tell them, and are as quick and
+clever as possible. They seem to enjoy my way of teaching so much, that
+the only difficulty is to persuade them to leave off. To-day we were
+nearly an hour and a-half. Of course, when I spoke of this, Juliet must
+needs say—"That is a mistake." As if I didn't know what I was about!
+
+
+                                     _March 22nd, Friday._
+
+Work goes pretty smoothly. Sometimes I have a lazy fit, and do not
+manage my early practice: but nothing has once interfered with the
+twins' hour. So I hope by this time that my mother sees I am to be
+trusted.
+
+
+                                     _March 28th, Thursday._
+
+Teaching is not such easy or pleasant work as I expected. For a few
+days the twins were charmed, and everything went as well as one could
+wish; and I thought they would both be able to read nicely in a very
+few weeks. But now all the novelty has worn off, and Addie will not sit
+still for five minutes, and Emmie cries at the least word. And whatever
+I manage to get into their heads one day seems to have evaporated by
+the next morning. In fact, I cannot see that they get on at all. And
+one thing is quite sure—if any single thing happens to go wrong, "I" am
+the one to be blamed for it.
+
+
+                                     _April 5th, Friday._
+
+I am getting most desperately tired of being so hard at work day after
+day. What with the twins' hour, and my own practising, and reading
+French and German, and mending my clothes, and being sent here and
+there, I really seem to have no time at all to myself; hardly an hour
+that I can properly call my own. Addie and Emmie have to learn to read,
+of course, but anybody could teach them their A B C; and I believe my
+mother has given it to me, not in the least because she really wants
+the help, but because she thinks the employment will do me good. That
+takes away every scrap of interest in it.
+
+For what I want is to be of real use to her, not merely to be busy for
+my own sake. And I begin to find that I have no particular gift for
+teaching. One has to go over and over and over the same things in such
+a wearisome way, till one is perfectly sick of them; and after all, not
+a scrap of good is done.
+
+
+                                     _April 9th, Tuesday._
+
+I could not get up in time for practising again—Juliet says "would
+not," but really it did seem impossible. And after all, though such a
+fuss is made, what does it matter? I am seventeen years old, and many
+girls leave off music altogether at seventeen, when they detest it as
+I do. Why should I be made to keep on at my practising as if I were
+a little child still, not able to judge for myself? If it were not
+for Juliet, I do not believe my mother would care in the very least.
+Nothing will ever come of all this strumming. I have no gift for music,
+none whatever. And I do not care to do just a little of a thing—just
+enough to be respectable, and not so well as perhaps half-a-hundred
+other girls. I would much rather leave things alone altogether.
+
+If I only had one great marked talent, then I would make the very best
+of it. I would work night and day to get on. I would not mind any
+amount of fatigue. But as things are, it does not seem worth while. No
+good comes of all the trouble.
+
+Of course I know well enough that, as such a talent has not been given
+to me, I ought not to wish for it. All the same I "do" wish, and I
+don't see how one is to help wishing. I am not lazy by nature; only
+it takes all the spring out of one's practising and reading to know
+that, work as one may, one will never be able to shine in anything.
+Not really to shine. I suppose I can do most things fairly well,—quite
+decently—but that is not enough for me. I want to excel, or else to
+leave things alone. And that is just what other people never seem to
+have sense enough to understand.
+
+Juliet has been setting my mother on to talk to me about the
+twins' lessons: and to complain that I have been irregular lately,
+and impatient with the children. I don't know what she means by
+"irregular,"—at least, if I know, I don't think it is fair. They almost
+always have their full time; and what difference "can" it make if one
+begins a few minutes later?
+
+Mother reminded me of a resolution that I made one day lately, not to
+read tales until after lunch. If I had kept to that, I should not have
+been tempted, she said, to put off calling the little ones at the right
+time. I wish I had not told her of my resolution; it is so disagreeable
+to be reminded afterwards, when one has changed one's mind. One cannot
+always be bound by such fidgety rules. I said so, and my mother
+answered,—"No use to make rules, unless one is to be bound by them."
+
+"Then why should one make any?"
+
+"Because, Rhoda, you must be either mistress of yourself, or slave
+of yourself. And if you do not master yourself, that Self is sure to
+master you."
+
+"But such an absurd little thing, as what time in the day one will read
+a particular book!"
+
+"Not absurd at all, if the reading or non-reading of that book means a
+part of self-conquest. Wherever your weakness of will lies, there you
+have to resist. And most of life's fighting is done in side-skirmishes,
+not in great battles. We have a few great battles in the course of
+years—most of us—but there are a good many tiny rehearsals beforehand.
+The soldier who is beaten in his skirmishing has no chance at all when
+the heavier fighting comes on."
+
+"Mother, one would think you were in the army."
+
+Mother said no more, and I think from her face that she was rather
+hopeless. She might have known that I felt more than I would show.
+
+I liked what she said, and I do not mean to forget it. But for Juliet,
+I believe I should keep all my good resolutions quite easily. She gets
+past all bearing.
+
+As for impatience, I do not know who would not be impatient in my
+place. The twins are so awfully spoilt and fractious that the merest
+word makes them set up a duet of shrieks, and that brings the whole
+household about my ears. I told my mother how frightfully cross they
+were, and how difficult to manage, and she replied that they were
+delicate children and easily upset, but that I, being so much older,
+ought to be able to make allowances for them.
+
+But why does nobody ever think of making allowances for me?
+
+Perhaps my mother does behind my back, when she is talking to the
+girls. It is her way to excuse everybody.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+_I AND MYSELF._
+
+                                     _May 1st, Wednesday._
+
+UNCLE Basil Ramsay is coming for a fortnight's visit, and I have not
+seen him for years and years; indeed, I can hardly remember him at all.
+He lives so far off, and goes about so little,—I suppose on account of
+his wife's health. I believe she never leaves home. He is my mother's
+only brother, so I ought to like him, but somehow I do not manage to
+like people "to order," merely because it is expected of me. Mother
+seems rather nervous about having him. I do not know why. Perhaps he is
+fussy, and, if so, I certainly shall not take to him.
+
+
+                                     _May 5th, Sunday._
+
+This morning I woke up quite early, almost before it began to be light,
+and for a long while I lay thinking. I cannot tell what set me off.
+In the night, everything seems so different from the day, when people
+are bustling about and talking. It came over me how very short life
+is, and how little all the small bothers and worries really matter,
+compared with what is to come by-and-by. I thought of Connie, and tried
+to picture her where she is. She must care now not in the very least
+whether she had or had not the things she wanted in this world, but
+only whether she did what was right. And I made up my mind that I would
+turn over a perfectly new leaf, that I would never again be vexed with
+Juliet or anybody, because it was not worth while, but would always
+keep in mind how fast the years are going, and how soon I shall be old.
+
+I saw a sort of picture of myself passing through life in a perfectly
+calm gentle way, never flurried or worried, never saying a sharp word
+to any single person, and so full of the thought of Heaven and the
+future that nothing here could possibly disturb me or make me cross.
+I thought how sorry Juliet would be then for having treated me so
+unkindly as she certainly has done; and I thought how fond everybody
+would get of me, and how the twins would lean to run to me for whatever
+they wanted, and how my mother would lean upon me, and how sweet I
+should be to them all!
+
+Such a life looked beautiful, as I lay there in the dark:—so beautiful
+to be able to forget self altogether, and to live for others, and
+not to be upset by trifles, but to think of this world as a mere
+stepping-stone to Heaven.
+
+Uncle Basil arrived late yesterday evening, too late for me to see much
+of him; only I fancied I should like him, and I wanted him to like me.
+And I felt sure he "would" like such a gentle calm niece as I meant to
+be from that time, never flurried or vexed, but always perfectly kind
+and composed and collected. It seemed quite simple and easy.
+
+Then I dropped asleep, and somehow when I woke up again, things did
+not look exactly the same. I could not help caring for one thing very
+much indeed, and that was having to get up in time for breakfast. Of
+course I had not to practise, as it was Sunday, but it was every inch
+as hard to be ready for breakfast as on other days for music. I suppose
+one always wants just a degree more than one is allowed in the way
+of comfort. Anyhow, I was late for prayers, and I knew my mother was
+sorry, because she had told me that uncle Basil is very particular
+about punctuality. I saw him put up his eyebrows, and Juliet said,—
+
+"Rhoda all over! If half-an-hour's grace is allowed, she must needs
+take a full hour."
+
+It was not the words, it was the manner. Mother says Juliet does not
+mean anything by her manner, but she drives me frantic. As for not
+minding—I do mind, and I must mind, and I don't believe any single
+human being could go through what I go through and not mind. It did not
+help me in the very least to think about life being short, or about
+what lies beyond. Life does not seem to me to be short; it seems very
+long and fearfully difficult, and every minute has to be lived through,
+and sometimes one does not know how to live through them.
+
+I did think it too unkind of Juliet to try and set uncle Basil against
+me, when she knows how my mother wishes him and me to like one another.
+Why Mother should care so much, I cannot tell, but it is easy to see
+that she does. It was too bad of Juliet; and I coloured up scarlet, and
+flew out at her for meddling. Perhaps I said rather more than I ought,
+though Juliet richly deserved every word. Clarissa muttered a—"Really!"
+And uncle Basil's eyebrows went up again, and my mother said in her
+most pained voice, "Rhoda, you had better leave the room."
+
+Of course I went, for I always do what "she" tells me, and my breakfast
+was sent after me. I should have liked to leave it all, quite
+untouched, but somehow, being unhappy does not take away my appetite. I
+wish it did.
+
+So that was a nice beginning of Sunday, and of my uncle's visit! And I
+had meant everything to be so different.
+
+Is it any use trying—any use making resolutions—if one must always
+fail? I feel hopeless and out of heart.
+
+Uncle Basil will not like me now of course. That is settled. I am not
+sure how far I like him. He is good-looking, but not like my mother.
+He has rather a slow way of talking and doing things. When he smiles,
+he has a pleasant look, but he does not smile often. Mother seems very
+fond of him. But I should think he is very particular, perhaps fussy;
+and I do not care for fussy people.
+
+
+                                     _May 8th, Wednesday._
+
+Yesterday, uncle Basil gave me a present of a five-pound note. So I
+suppose he does at least feel kindly towards me. It means the more from
+him, because he is not, I believe, particularly well off. I am planning
+all sorts of things to do with the money. Some present for my mother
+certainly, and for Johnnie. It might be rather nice if I were to get
+something for the girls, but I do not feel at all inclined to do that.
+Not at all.
+
+
+                                     _Same Evening._
+
+Uncle Basil has been—I do not know what to call it. He asked me to go
+out for a long walk with him, and of course I went. And when he had me
+all alone, away from everybody, he gave me such a talking. I cannot
+think what made him do so,—unless Juliet has put the idea into his head.
+
+He told me I was making everybody miserable with my temper; and he said
+that, if I were not careful, I should end by making my mother ill. I
+tried to defend myself; and then he spoke of the "great kindness,"
+as he called it, of Clarissa and Juliet, and told me that I was most
+ungrateful. That was bad enough, but it was not all. He went on to ask
+me questions which I did not choose to answer, because I felt vexed,
+and besides I could not. There are things which one can't say to
+everybody. And he said to me in plain words that I did not love God, or
+care to serve Him. He warned me not to go on fluttering away my whole
+life like a butterfly, only trying to please myself. As if he knew! I
+am not a mere butterfly; and I do care for a great deal more than mere
+self-pleasing. I don't see what business it is of uncle Basil's either;
+and I wish he had not begun by giving me a present, and then I could
+have said anything I liked to him,—at least, not anything, but a great
+deal more than I did say.
+
+All I did was to answer as little as possible. And on the way home, I
+hardly replied to a single thing that he said. So of course, he counted
+me dreadfully hardened. But I felt so miserable, it was the utmost
+I could do to keep from crying. And when I got home, I had a good
+breakdown in my own room. Mother found me in the middle of it; and she
+would not leave me till I told her the reason. I am afraid I called
+uncle Basil "horrid," and "meddlesome;" for she said, "Hush!" two or
+three times. As usual, she would not blame him, and only said,—"He
+meant it kindly, Rhoda."
+
+"Mother, you think everybody means everything kindly."
+
+[Illustration: Uncle Basil asked me to go out for a long walk
+ with him, and of course I went.]
+
+"I am sure of it in this case. And what if you are intended to learn
+something from what he said?"
+
+"It wasn't his business to say anything to me."
+
+"I do not see that," Mother answered slowly. "It is everybody's
+business to help other people."
+
+"But if I don't want his help—"
+
+"Then I want it for you, Rhoda."
+
+"I shall never learn anything from uncle Basil—never. He had no right
+to lecture me. And I don't see why he should be so sure that I am
+altogether and utterly bad."
+
+"Not—surely—altogether!"
+
+"Well, he seemed to think I did not care in the very least for doing
+what is right."
+
+Mother was silent.
+
+"And I do care."
+
+But she was silent still.
+
+"Mother, I care a great deal. You know I do."
+
+And all she answered was, very low,—"I wish with all my heart that I
+did know it, Rhoda!" Then she got up, and went away; and I saw that she
+was in tears.
+
+
+                                     _May 9th, Thursday._
+
+I cannot get over what my mother said to me. What uncle Basil thinks
+matters very little, but that "she" should have such an opinion,—hardly
+anything could have touched me so closely!
+
+All I can do is to resolve from this time to be different. She shall
+see that I do really care, and that I do wish to do what is right.
+
+
+                                     _May 17th, Friday._
+
+The fortnight of my uncle's visit has gone all right till to-day,
+hardly a rub since the very beginning. Juliet has been tiresome, and I
+have borne it patiently; and uncle has seemed rather to take to me. And
+now all the good has been undone, and everything is wrong.
+
+At breakfast, he said he hoped I would pay him a long visit soon. I
+did not know what to answer; for it did not sound delightful. Mother
+thanked him, and said that perhaps some day we could arrange it; and I
+mumbled some sort of response, awkwardly enough. There the matter might
+have rested, but Clarissa chose to drawl out a—"When do you want her?"
+
+"Any time. The sooner the better. Next month," uncle Basil said at once.
+
+And Clarissa, to my amazement, answered,—"That would do very nicely,
+would it not?" She was looking at my mother, not at me. "We shall be
+glad of the second spare-room about then."
+
+"To be sure. I did not think of that," Juliet added, in her brisk way.
+
+And, still more to my amazement, Mother said quietly,—"We will think
+about it."
+
+"Mother!" I cried indignantly.
+
+If only I had let matters alone! I might have known better than to
+speak just then.
+
+"What now?" Juliet asked.
+
+"I am not going. I don't want to go. I shall stay at home. The idea of
+turning me away because you want my room!"
+
+"We had better drop the subject," Mother said gravely.
+
+And I saw uncle Basil looking me all over, as if he were trying to make
+me out. But I was in no mood to take my mother's hint.
+
+"You don't see,—you don't understand," I cried passionately. "Clarissa
+and Juliet have made up their minds to get rid of me, that they may
+have friends of their own in my room. I don't choose my room to be used
+when I am away. It is too horrid of them. And I don't mean to go."
+
+"Highty-tighty, what is all this about?" asked uncle Basil, in his most
+deliberate tone. "Because I want my niece for a visit? Is that the
+trouble?"
+
+"Mother does not want to get rid of me. It is only the girls," I burst
+out again, almost beside myself.
+
+I know now how I must have looked, though at the time I only saw
+Clarissa's sneer, and heard Juliet's laugh. Mother says that Clarissa
+did not sneer, and that Juliet's little laugh is part of herself, but
+at the time it seemed to me so.
+
+"But suppose my wife and I are dull at home, and wish for the pleasure
+of our niece's company?"
+
+"You don't. It is not that, I understand. It is only that the girls
+want to get me out of their way. And I don't intend to be managed. I do
+not mean to go."
+
+I saw Mother look at Juliet as if she were apologising for me; and
+Juliet smiled and shook her head.
+
+"Well, we need not settle the matter now. As your mother says, we'll
+wait. Time enough before next month."
+
+I don't know what more I might have said, but my uncle went out of the
+room with Mother. And only the two girls stayed behind.
+
+"You have made a nice exhibition of yourself now, certainly," Clarissa
+observed in her coldest tone. "A grateful way of receiving an
+invitation!"
+
+"I don't care. It is your fault, the way you both treat me—"
+
+Clarissa shrugged her shoulders. Juliet came a step nearer.
+
+"Hardly worth arguing with you in your present state of mind," she
+said. "But perhaps, when you recall what is past, you may find that,
+after all, nothing so desperately cruel was said."
+
+"I know what was said. You want to send me away from Mother that you
+may have the use of my room."
+
+"And if it were so, would that be very surprising? Have you never
+wished to get rid of Clarissa and me?"
+
+I had nothing to say. "That" was true enough.
+
+"The kind of feeling is generally mutual." Juliet stood still, looking
+at me. "Things might have been very different," she said gravely. "But
+it seems to be a hopeless case. For your comfort, Rhoda, I may as well
+tell you that your persistent efforts to get rid of us are likely to
+succeed. We have borne a good deal, but we have pretty well arrived at
+the outer edge of our patience. I do not fancy we shall trouble you
+much longer. Except for your mother's sake, we should not be here now.
+No need to say more. Come, Clarissa."
+
+My passion was gone. I remembered that conversation with my mother, and
+all she had told me. Had I at last done what then I had feared? Would
+the girls stop helping us? And in that case, would our little home be
+broken up, and would my mother be driven back to India before the right
+time?
+
+It was like a shower of ice falling. I did not know what to think or to
+do, and it is the same now. Mother has hardly been near me all day; and
+I cannot get to see her alone. Is she very much displeased?
+
+The whole scene comes back to me, and I begin to see how little real
+cause I had for my anger. It was so rude to uncle Basil, too. For after
+all he meant kindly. I will never never behave so again.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+_BANISHMENT DECREED._
+
+                                     _May 19th, Sunday._
+
+YESTERDAY was a wretchedly uncomfortable day. Everybody seemed to hold
+aloof.
+
+Uncle Basil went away early; and his last words to me were,—
+
+"I shall look-out for you next month."
+
+I tried to mutter some sort of thanks; and if only we had been alone,
+I think I would have begged his pardon. But they were all round, so it
+did not seem possible. Ought I to ask the girls' pardon? Oh, I can't. I
+couldn't.
+
+I had not one word alone with Mother till the last thing yesterday
+evening. She looked dreadfully tired; and Juliet, kissing her,
+whispered,—
+
+"Don't stay up long, you poor dear!"
+
+Then Mother sat with her eyes on me, and I did not know what to say. I
+could see that she expected me to say something. The silence went on
+for a whole long minute, and she never stirred.
+
+"Mother, I did not mean—" at last I began, for I could not stand it any
+longer.
+
+"Did not mean what?" It was not Mother's usual way of speaking.
+
+"I didn't mean—to bother you."
+
+"No; you only meant to gratify your own feelings of dislike and spite."
+
+I exclaimed at the word "spite."
+
+"Of childish spite," she repeated. "I would not have believed it of
+you. Knowing what you do know,—after all the kindness of those dear
+girls to me,—all that they have done for us,—to say such things to
+them. And before my brother!"
+
+"I did not mean any harm."
+
+"Hardly worth while to discuss your intentions," she replied wearily.
+"I find it a waste of time. One thing I must explain, that you were
+entirely mistaken in your conjecture. It was not 'they' who spoke to
+your uncle, suggesting a visit from you some day, but I."
+
+"You, Mother!"
+
+"Yes. 'I' put the idea into his head, not as an immediate thing, but
+as a future possibility. Partly for your own sake because I think it
+good for you to have variety. Partly for my sake, because I am getting
+worn-out with all the jarring, and I should like a month of quiet."
+
+I do not think anything that has ever been said to me in all my life
+has pierced me like those words of Mother's. That she should want to
+get rid of me!
+
+She must have seen in my face what I felt. I saw her lips quiver.
+
+"That was how it came about," she went on firmly. "Your uncle was doing
+what he knew I wished. Not what the girls wished. I do not say they
+would be sorry. Is it likely that they should? And as for using your
+room—'they' pay the rent of this house, Rhoda. Not I; and certainly
+not you." Then, after a little break, she went on, "At the same time,
+I had not positively made up my mind to send you away so soon. I did
+intend to give you one more chance. If you had let the matter drop
+when I wished you to do so, nothing would have been settled. You have
+complicated the whole affair by your manner of speaking."
+
+"Mother, I am sorry to have troubled 'you,'" I burst out. "I am really."
+
+"That is not enough. The wrong has been to the girls mainly; and only
+to me through them."
+
+"I can't beg Juliet's pardon! I could not do it," I said passionately.
+"You couldn't in my place."
+
+"I hope that in your place I should be unable to do anything else.
+Apart from any higher principle, when one has insulted and wrongly
+accused another, mere ladylike feeling alone would force one to
+apologise."
+
+Then she waited a minute, and I said nothing. I did not feel that it
+would be possible.
+
+"If you are not really sorry, and do not intend to do differently, an
+apology would mean very little. There is nothing for it, I am afraid,
+but a different arrangement. Good night, Rhoda. I am too tired to stay
+up any longer."
+
+I would have given anything to ask what she meant by a "different
+arrangement," but somehow I had not courage. She went away, and I have
+been writing in my journal ever since, because I feel too unhappy to go
+to bed.
+
+Ought I to pray to be able to beg Juliet's pardon?
+
+But I do not "want" to be able to do so. I do not "want" to knuckle
+under to the girls. Why should I? I did once tell one of them that
+I was sorry for something; and I could see how they crowed over me,
+though I dare say nobody else saw it. I cannot, cannot, do that again.
+If only it were anything else, anybody else, I would do it for Mother's
+sake. I cannot bear to distress her. But still, isn't she a little
+unreasonable, always to expect me to give in to everybody?
+
+Do other girls get into these difficulties? And how do they get out of
+them? Am I so much worse than other girls? Or is it that very few have
+such trials in their own homes as I have? I think it must be that. If
+only my mother, would make up her mind to live in a tiny house, alone
+with the twins and me, I should be so happy. Is it likely that she ever
+will? She said once that it was impossible, as things are now; but is
+it really? People sometimes say that kind of thing, without actually
+meaning it. If she would but try the plan. There would be no one then
+to come between her and me.
+
+
+                                     _May 25th, Saturday._
+
+I know now what my mother meant last Sunday. It has all come out. And,
+oh, how I wish, I wish, I could live the last few weeks over again!
+
+Ever since last Saturday, things have been uncomfortable, everybody
+seeming to be vexed with me, and that makes it so hard to be pleasant
+and good. I thought it would pass off in time, and we should get smooth
+and right again. I knew my mother wanted me to ask the girls' pardon,
+and I could not. It did seem perfectly impossible. The words would not
+come. Can one force oneself to do every single thing that one is told
+one ought to do, no matter how much against the grain it may be? I know
+I could not.
+
+All the week, Mother has been very poorly; and I could see that the
+girls blamed me for it. I suppose she was waiting to see what I would
+do. If I had known, would that have made the doing any easier, I wonder?
+
+To-day, she and I were alone together, and I saw her turning whiter and
+whiter. I asked if she felt ill, and if I should call somebody. She
+said,—
+
+"No; I have to speak to you, Rhoda."
+
+Then I felt sure something was coming; though I could never have
+guessed what.
+
+When she did speak out, it came like a thunderclap. In one fortnight
+I am to go to uncle Basil and aunt Marian, and I am to stay with them
+for three months. Three long dreary months. How in the world shall I
+get through the time? It seems too dreadful. And it is quite settled. I
+never saw my mother so decided, as if nothing in the world could move
+her. She looked very very sad, but she held to her point. It had to
+be, she said. Things could not go on any longer as they had gone on. A
+fresh arrangement was absolutely necessary; and at present, no other
+plan was feasible.
+
+At first, I was half beside myself. I said it was cruel of the girls,
+and I would not go,—I would not be driven from my home. I was as angry
+and miserable as any one could be, and I spoke out just what I felt,
+and Mother did not interrupt me. She sat listening patiently, and
+allowed me to go on as long as I liked, but there was no giving way in
+her look. And when I came to a stop, she said softly,—
+
+"All that makes no difference at all."
+
+"Mother, you will not force me away," I cried. "You will never drive
+me from home!—Me, your own child,—for the sake of those two girls. You
+could not."
+
+"Nay, Rhoda, it is you who force me."
+
+"If they don't want me, why cannot they go, and leave us in peace?
+Anything else rather than this."
+
+"I have no choice," my mother answered. "And it is not they who do not
+want you, but you who do not want them."
+
+"Mother!" I cried.
+
+"Or, at least that has been so, and would be so still, but for
+yourself. Clarissa and Juliet have all along felt and spoken most
+kindly of you. Their one wish has been to smooth everything down for
+me, so far as was in their power. They do say now, at last, that a
+change of some kind has become necessary, and can one wonder? I have
+been sorely ashamed of my own child lately."
+
+I did not know what to say.
+
+"They have done all they could, and it has been in vain. Your uncle,
+seeing the difficulty, most kindly offered before he left to give you
+a home for a few months. He said he could answer for a welcome from
+your aunt, before speaking to her. I told him we would think it over;
+and the girls said that if you should seem really to regret what had
+passed, they were most willing that you should have another trial. Not
+that they or I suppose you would not enjoy a visit to your uncle and
+aunt. Only to go away because you cannot live happily, or let others
+live happily, at home, seems very sad. But you know how things have
+been this week. Now I have written to my brother, and it is settled."
+
+I hardly know what I said. More angry words came, but Mother was not
+moved by them. She said she had entirely made up her mind.
+
+"Even if the girls wished it, I would not change now," she added.
+
+"Not likely that they will wish anything of the kind."
+
+"You are mistaken, Rhoda; nothing is more likely. But I see that it is
+for your good to be away from home for a time. You have fallen into an
+unhappy state of mind, and complete change may make a difference. If
+not—"
+
+She stopped, and I looked at her, but no more came. After a break, she
+only added,—
+
+"No talking has any effect, and I seem to have no influence over you.
+If your father were at home—but, as it is, I can only try this plan."
+
+"And they are to be here with you, while I—"
+
+"No other plan is possible."
+
+Then she told me that Clarissa and Juliet had offered to continue
+paying the rent of this house during the rest of the year, as it has
+been taken for a year, while they themselves would not live with us in
+it, but would go to aunt Jessie. That would prevent all rubs, they had
+told her, and aunt Jessie was willing.
+
+"A plan perfectly out of the question," my mother observed.
+
+And I could not but agree with her in my heart. No; even I am not able
+to wish that. I only long to be independent of them. And I wish, yes, I
+do wish, that I were different in some of my ways.
+
+
+                                     _June 6th, Thursday._
+
+Almost at the end of the fortnight; and the day after to-morrow, my
+banishment begins.
+
+I am not reconciled to it, not in the least. I only do not go on
+resisting, because I see it to be of no use. Mother is resolute. I know
+Juliet has asked her to give me one more trial, or at least to shorten
+the three months into one. Mother told me this, and I ought perhaps to
+feel more grateful than I do. But I am to go, just the same, for three
+months, not less. Mother's voice never falters, only she looks so white
+and worn. Have I made her look so? And I meant to be such a comfort to
+her, when first she came home. Everything has been a failure, and I am
+no sort of good to anybody.
+
+The girls have been kind to me, since my going away was settled.
+Juliet has worked hard at my clothes; and Clarissa has bought me a new
+writing-case. It sticks in my throat when I try to thank them, but for
+my mother's sake, I do want at least to have no more fusses before I
+leave. And when I come back, she "shall" see a difference.
+
+What I really mind so terribly is not that the girls will be here while
+I am away, nor is it so much the actual going away, if only it were not
+for quite so long, but it is that I am banished by my mother's wish,
+and that she will feel relieved when I am gone. I think that has woke
+me up. I did not know myself before. Now I seem to see myself more as
+others have seen me; and I feel so desperately ashamed. Not angry now,
+only ashamed. Only longing to do anything in the world to make up to my
+mother for all the worry I have given her.
+
+
+                                     _June 7th, Friday._
+
+I have asked them to forgive me—at last. It seemed as if I must. And I
+do feel so much happier. Mother and I had a cry together, after tea;
+and the girls came in and found us at it. They were both so good.
+
+"You poor dears!" Juliet said, and then she tried her best to comfort
+us both.
+
+And I got out the words; I don't know how. I could say I had done
+wrongly, and was sorry; and they were so nice.
+
+But Mother still makes no change. She says the three months away are
+good for me in every way; and she says that now I shall be able to go
+happily. Well, yes; perhaps I shall.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+_AT WAYATFORD._
+
+                                     _June 10th, Monday._
+
+HERE I have been ever since Saturday evening, and I might have been
+here for weeks, judging from my own feelings. It seems "ages" since I
+said good-bye to them all, and yet I am not unhappy, as I expected,
+only everything is strange. I mean, it is strange to think of spending
+three months in this house. It would not be strange if I were here for
+just a week or two.
+
+Wayatford is a country town, more of a town than I fancied as to size,
+but so sleepy, oh, so sleepy! The people look drowsy, and the houses
+and shops as if nothing could ever wake them. Nothing goes on, I am
+told, and nothing happens, except the little everyday round of meals
+and house-doings and Parish-work.
+
+"Why should anything happen?" uncle Basil asks. But I don't agree with
+him. I like things to happen; and I like a stir. If one is utterly
+buried in a tiny village, as we are at home for a year, why one makes
+up one's mind to it, and one doesn't look for anything else. But if
+one lives in a town as large as Wayatford, one does look for something
+a little different. "I" should not care to be in Wayatford year after
+year, with nothing to look back upon and nothing to look forward to.
+Unless of course I were obliged. I suppose one can do or bear anything,
+if one is absolutely obliged.
+
+Uncle Basil's house is in the main street all among the principal
+shops, only it stands well back in its own garden, among masses of
+evergreens. It is the oddest little low house, with queer little low
+rooms, any and no sort of shape; and each room has at least three
+doors. One can perform the tour of all the ground-floor rooms, without
+once passing through the passage or once turning back. The garden
+is old-fashioned; and there are two middle-aged old-fashioned prim
+maid-servants, and an old-fashioned talkative gardener. I cannot
+imagine for my part why my uncle and aunt live here at all, except that
+the house happens to belong to them. But if I were they, I would let
+it, and go somewhere else,—somewhere a little more lively. I don't see
+that uncle Basil has anything whatever to do except to read books, and
+to take walks, and to look after aunt Marian. But he seems to count
+himself a desperately busy person, none the less.
+
+He is not exactly the same uncle Basil who paid us a visit; I mean, he
+does not seem the same to me. I do not quite know how or why; I only
+feel that he is different. Not better or worse, but just unlike. Are
+people always so when one sees them first in somebody else's house, and
+then in their own? I like him more in some ways, and less in others. In
+fact, I can't quite make up my mind about him; and I am sure he cannot
+make up his mind about me.
+
+And why should he? I do not understand myself; and I am perpetually
+puzzled at things I do and say, not knowing at all why I have done or
+said them. And if I cannot fully understand myself after all these
+years, is it likely that uncle Basil should have managed to get to the
+bottom of my character in just two or three weeks?
+
+As for aunt Marian, I have an idea that she knows a great deal more
+about everybody than most people do; all the more, because she is not
+one of those people who are always making believe to read everybody,
+and to know what others are thinking about. If she began in that sort
+of way, one would know directly how little it meant.
+
+I have never seen her before. It is fifteen years—not more—since uncle
+married her; and almost directly afterwards, she had a frightful
+accident which injured her spine, and laid her aside for several years.
+Though rather better now, she can never get over it. She never leaves
+home, and uncle seldom leaves her.
+
+She is very small and thin, and her figure is quite crooked. Most of
+her time is spent lying on a particular kind of couch, near the window
+of the drawing-room, where she writes letters, and keeps accounts, and
+gives household orders, and sees people, and does no end of work with
+her poor little bony hands. She has a rather pretty small wedge-shaped
+face, pink and white like a girl's, with a big forehead, and eyes that
+look at you straight and steadily, in a curious quiet way, as if she
+meant to find out every single thing, before making up her mind whether
+to like or dislike you. Not that I think she ever dislikes anybody
+really—I mean as I do,—but only pities them.
+
+When I first came, I thought she would never get to the end of her
+prelim. exam. Not that she stared in a horrid unblinking way, as some
+people do, but only that I "felt" her to be reading me. Somehow I did
+not very much mind. Only she seemed rather a cold sort of person, and I
+began to wonder how we should manage to get on together for three whole
+mouths.
+
+But presently there came a little smile into her eyes, which changed
+the whole face. I don't mind saying to you, old journal, though I
+wouldn't say it to anyone else, that it was a look which made me think
+of somebody who should once in her life have taken a tiny peep inside
+the gates of heaven, and brought away a glimmer of the light for all
+her life after! And she said,—
+
+"We shall contrive to rub on together somehow, shall we not?"
+
+It was exactly as if she had known what I was thinking of. And I was
+so much taken by surprise that I all but said so outright. I only just
+stopped myself in time.
+
+"I intend to make you useful," she went on. "This may be a Sleepy
+Hollow kind of place,—yes, I see you think that; but even in the
+sleepiest of Sleepy Hollows people have to be clothed and fed, and
+occasionally to be nursed."
+
+"I shouldn't think you could do much nursing, aunt Marian."
+
+"If not, I may pull some of the strings which set others to work. And
+if I cannot lift a sick person out of bed, I may make him a vest or a
+nightingale to wear in bed."
+
+"I should like to be useful—if I can!" I said, with a rather melancholy
+glance back upon the last few weeks.
+
+"Your mother told me that she was sure you would wish it."
+
+I wondered if my mother had said any more. But of course, if she had
+not, it would make no difference. Uncle Basil will have said more. He
+seems to have quite given up any idea of setting me to rights. Perhaps
+he has handed over to aunt Marian the responsibility of me. He has not
+once attempted any lecturing since I arrived.
+
+
+                                     _June 11th, Tuesday._
+
+I find no end of things to write about already.
+
+A walk with my uncle is the first thing after breakfast; and then aunt
+Marian keeps me busy for a full hour over letters and accounts. She
+makes me work in good earnest, and yet somehow I like it. "New broom!"
+Juliet would say. Is that it?
+
+To-day, after lunch, in came the Rector, Mr. Farrars, and his eldest
+daughter. I had heard him in Church on Sunday, and I knew his face
+again directly, a kind face but rather anxious and absent, as if he
+had a lot to think about. But it was not so much he as the girl that
+interested me. This was my first glimpse of her, because on Sunday she
+was not in the pew with the Rectory children. In the morning, she had
+to take the place of some absent teacher with the school-children, and
+in the evening she was not there at all.
+
+When she came in with her father, I could hardly attend to anybody
+else. She is about my height or a shade taller, and slight, with a pale
+face, not in the least pretty. I cannot think what there is about her,
+so unlike the common run of girls; but certainly there is something.
+It is not good looks, though I found myself going back again and again
+to her face. I don't think it is exactly what people call "sweetness"
+either. There is a kind of composure, almost like middle-age, and a
+want of lightness, a want of spring, as if she had lived through so
+much already as to have grown old before her time.
+
+Perhaps she has; for ever since Millicent was seventeen, and that is
+four years ago, she has been head of the household, and has had to
+manage everything. Yes, really to manage everything, and to think of
+everything; because her father is very busy in the Parish, and is
+rather a forgetful man, and he leaves all the home arrangements to her,
+exactly as he used to leave them to his wife.
+
+Only think! Ever since she was seventeen, just my age, to have had the
+whole household upon her shoulders, and her father to see to, and all
+those children to arrange for, and Parish doings besides, and nobody
+to be any help. Four years of it; and before that for a whole year and
+more, her mother was slowly dying; and Millicent did the chief part
+of the nursing. So I don't see how she "can" be young still. I do not
+wonder that at twenty-one, she has the look of thirty or forty,—in her
+expression, I mean.
+
+It is such a patient face, with its soft pale skin, and such quiet
+gentle brown eyes, that I think I fell in love with it and her straight
+off. And if she is not pretty, she is far better than pretty. I would
+rather, oh, much rather, be like Millicent than like Clarissa and
+Juliet, even though they are counted so handsome by almost everybody;
+and I suppose nobody would count Millicent in the least good-looking.
+She is "good," not good-looking, and is not that the best?
+
+"Millicent is a much occupied person," aunt Marian said; "but I want
+you two girls to be together sometimes."
+
+"I should like it, too," Millicent added.
+
+There the matter stood still. Nothing was arranged, as I had hoped.
+Perhaps aunt Marian waited to see first what I should wish. After the
+two were gone, she told me some of what I have written down about
+Millicent's past, and then went on,—"The child has had a severe life,
+so far. She is the pivot upon which everything turns at the Rectory.
+Mr. Farrars depends upon her utterly."
+
+"She must be very clever."
+
+"That depends on what you mean by 'clever.' She has the gift of
+resolute concentration of purpose to each duty in succession, and it
+goes a long way."
+
+"And she must be very strong."
+
+"Strong in will, and strong in self-forgetfulness. Not strong at all in
+body."
+
+"I like her face very much. She is a girl I could make a friend of."
+
+Aunt Marian looked so much amused, that I could not help saying, "You
+mustn't think I can make friends quickly with anybody and everybody. I
+don't make friends like other girls; only I think I could make a friend
+of Millicent Farrars."
+
+"Why not make friends like other girls?"
+
+"Why,—I don't! It isn't my way. People have different ways. I can't
+take to most people."
+
+"The 'taking' must of course be mutual."
+
+It was said so very quietly, that just at the moment, I really did not
+see all that she meant. Since then, I have been thinking a great deal.
+Did she mean that people do not take to me? Am I such a disagreeable
+girl? Would my mother say so? But of course Mother loves me; and she
+would love me whatever I might be like, in spite of everything. Other
+people would not. Do I really make few friends, because others do not
+take particularly to "me?" I always thought it was just the other way,
+because I was slow in liking other people.
+
+Some day I will ask aunt Marian, but not yet. She does not really
+know me yet, and perhaps when she does, she will have a rather better
+opinion. I mean to make her like me if I can, in spite of all that I
+suppose the girls have said to uncle Basil about my ways. And I mean to
+make Millicent like me too.
+
+
+                                     _June 14th, Friday._
+
+Yesterday uncle Basil and I called at the Rectory, to find nobody at
+home. And to-day a message came, asking me to go in to tea at five
+o'clock. So at five I went.
+
+There are eight brothers and sisters younger than Millicent; no, I
+mean seven brothers and one sister. The three biggest boys are away
+at school, but the four at home make quite noise enough for anything
+and anybody. All the four are exactly alike, except in size; I could
+not see a shadow of difference. As for learning their names, one might
+of course do that, but to pin the right names to the right boys seems
+hopeless. The little girl is only eight years old, so she is no help
+to Millicent. A governess comes every day for four hours to teach the
+little girl and the two youngest boys; and the two elder go to school,
+and Millicent overlooks their preparation.
+
+Besides that, there is the housekeeping,—no easy matter, because they
+are not at all well off,—and there are the accounts, and the mending,
+and the Parish, and Mr. Farrars. And worst of all, there must be the
+feeling of responsibility, the knowing that "she" has to do everything,
+and think of everything, and to keep everything going, with no one to
+help or remind her.
+
+I never could have believed in any one girl getting through such an
+amount. And yet Millicent makes no fuss.
+
+"It isn't always quite easy," she said, when I exclaimed at it all,
+"but if one is methodical, one can manage pretty well."
+
+It slipped out, just by the merest accident, that she is always up and
+dressed by seven o'clock every morning, and that she hardly ever gets
+into bed before twelve o'clock. No wonder she looks pale. But when I
+said so, she answered, "The things have to be done, you see!" and then
+let the question drop, as if there were nothing more to be said.
+
+She is really good, I am sure of that, not with show goodness, but
+true genuine goodness. I know it, not so much from what she says, as
+from what she does not say. And I know already that I shall like to
+have Millicent for my very particular friend. I shall like to tell her
+everything, and to do whatever she advises. She is not full of fun and
+laughter like some girls, and perhaps some people might even count her
+a little dull, but I do not, and I never shall. Even though she seems
+so quiet and gentle, and inclined to be silent, and almost as if she
+hardly cared for a joke, still that makes no difference. Or rather, I
+like her all the better for it. Any commonplace sort of girl can joke
+and laugh, and say silly things, but very few girls could ever do what
+Millicent does.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+_DERWENTWATER._
+
+                                     _June 15th, Saturday._
+
+THERE was no time to finish yesterday my account of tea at the
+Vicarage, or to tell about the name of "Ernest Derwentwater" coming up.
+That interested me.
+
+I had not heard the name before, but I noticed it directly, because of
+Millicent's face. One of the children said something about him, and I
+saw her in a moment flush up, such a soft little flush, it made her
+almost pretty for the moment; and I saw the anxious way in which she
+tried to turn to something else.
+
+But that provoking small scarecrow, the second youngest boy, would
+persist in saying, "Ernest Derwentwater! Ernest Derwentwater! Yes,
+Ernest Derwentwater! Wasn't it Ernest Derwentwater? I'm sure it was
+Ernest Derwentwater! Sissie, it was Ernest Derwentwater!" Till I could
+have shaken the little wretch, for Millicent looked quite distressed.
+It seemed as if the boy were bent on teasing her.
+
+And then the Rector heard, and he turned round with his forehead all
+puckered, and asked,—
+
+"Has Derwentwater been here, my dear?"
+
+"No, father."
+
+"You are sure?" Mr. Farrars spoke in a curious grave manner, not as if
+he were displeased, but more as if he were puzzled.
+
+"No, father," she said again. And then, after thinking for a
+moment,—"But I did hear that he talked of running down for a few days."
+
+"When?"
+
+"I don't know. I don't think anything was settled."
+
+"Oh,—but I meant, when did you hear, it, my dear?"
+
+"I don't know exactly," and there was a little shake in her voice. "Mr.
+Collins told me, and I forget exactly which day I saw Mr. Collins last."
+
+"And you did not think of mentioning it to me?"
+
+I knew from her face that she "had" thought of it. She had not
+forgotten.
+
+"I think he will stay at the Park. But nothing was settled."
+
+"What were you saying just now about Derwentwater? I did not quite
+hear."
+
+"Only Phil's nonsense,—something about a little picture. Nothing of the
+least consequence."
+
+"It was Ernest Derwentwater, his very own self. And I 'know' it was,—I
+know it quite well. He gave it to Sissie," persisted Phil. "And I know
+he did, 'cause I saw him. And he didn't mean nobody to see. I know he
+didn't."
+
+"Well, well, well," Mr. Farrars murmured, in a resigned sort of
+tone, as if something or other were very melancholy, but could not
+possibly be helped. And then he sighed, and Millicent went across in
+her quiet way,—she always moves so quietly, without the least noise
+or bustle,—and stood looking down upon him. And after a minute, she
+stooped and gave him a kiss on his forehead, as if she were trying to
+smooth away the wrinkles. That brought a smile, though the worried look
+did not go quite away. Mr. Farrars has a nice smile, and Millicent
+seems very fond of him.
+
+Nothing more was said just then, and Millicent managed to get rid of
+Phil and his notions, by sending him off for a game of play. Later on,
+Mr. Farrars went away too, and I was looking through some photographs
+with her, when we came across a cabinet likeness of a young man. I do
+not know what made me stop to look at it so very particularly, unless
+it was that I saw a sort of tiny movement of Millicent's hand, as if
+she wanted to slip that photo away, out of sight.
+
+Then I think in a moment I suspected who it was. Perhaps it would have
+been kinder to let her do as she liked, but how could I, when I was
+brimful of curiosity? So I kept my hand on the card, and didn't seem
+to see what she wished: and I examined the face well,—such a handsome
+face, with a good expression.
+
+I said, "Who is this?"
+
+And in a moment, there was another little tinge of colour.
+
+"That! Oh, only Mr. Derwentwater."
+
+"I suppose he is a particular friend of yours?"
+
+"A particular friend to all of us,—especially to the boys." I wondered
+whether Mr. Derwentwater would have agreed to that "especially." But
+she went on,—"We have known him more or less all our lives. His father
+was my father's greatest College friend."
+
+"He doesn't live here?"
+
+"No,—in London. He has a very good appointment in a Bank. He has rooms
+in London."
+
+"And he often comes here."
+
+"Not very often. Sometimes. Mr. Collins is his uncle. But of course, he
+goes oftenest to see his father and mother."
+
+"It is a very nice face."
+
+"He is thought rather good-looking." She spoke carelessly.
+
+"You think him so,—now don't you, Millicent?" I asked, laughing, and
+wanting to make her laugh.
+
+But she never seemed to dream of laughing. She only looked at me
+straight, with those quiet eyes of hers, and said, "Perhaps I do. I
+don't think it matters. One doesn't think about people being handsome,
+when one knows them very well."
+
+"Doesn't one? I do. If a face is handsome at all, the more one knows
+it, the more handsome it seems to grow."
+
+"One of the most beautiful faces I ever saw is your aunt Marian's
+face." Of course, I saw that she wanted to get me off to some other
+subject, and of course, I tried to prevent it. But Millicent is not
+easy to manage. She has such a quiet sort of determination. Do what I
+might, I could not bring her back to Mr. Derwentwater.
+
+But she could not prevent me from thinking, from wondering what it
+all means, and whether it means anything. Is Millicent in love with
+Mr. Derwentwater?—And is he in love with Millicent? And are there any
+difficulties in the way? I should like Millicent to marry, and to have
+a happy home of her own. At least, I should like it by-and-by, when we
+have seen a good deal of one another, and have become thorough friends.
+I do not want her just now to have her head so full of him that she
+cannot give a single thought to me. But by-and-by.
+
+Only I do not quite see how they are to get on without her at the
+Rectory. That may be the difficulty.
+
+Mr. Farrars is so very kind and good, and uncle calls him "a most able
+preacher," and they say he is perfectly worshipped by the poor. But
+he does seem a little helpless about household arrangements and the
+management of all those boys.
+
+Still, if that is all, why should there not be an engagement, and Mr.
+Derwentwater might wait. Amy is eight years old now, and she will be
+growing older in time. It would only be a few years,—seven or eight
+years, perhaps. In eight years, Amy will be sixteen. If I were in love
+with a girl like Millicent, I would wait for her gladly any number of
+years. It would not matter how many, if only I might get her in the
+end. But, I suppose men are more impatient than women.
+
+And perhaps he does not really care for her. Of course, I do not know
+yet about that. How interesting it will be, when he comes down, to see
+whether anything of that kind is really going on! Like a scrap of real
+life in a story,—or like a bit of story in real life,—I do not know
+which to call it. I have never come across anything of the sort before.
+And though I think I am too sensible a girl to have my head full of
+nonsensical ideas as to love affairs, still one cannot help being
+interested if one's own friend is perhaps going to have a love affair.
+
+Of course I must say nothing to anybody. I must only use my eyes, and
+that at all events I am free to do. Millicent is very reserved, I
+fancy, but she does not know me well yet. When she does, perhaps she
+will speak out, and tell me how things really are.
+
+She did not look very happy when his name was mentioned. A kind of
+worried expression came, and that puzzles me.
+
+Is there something about him not quite nice,—not quite as it should
+be? Does Mr. Farrars not quite like him? He has such a frank open face
+in the photograph,—not the sort of face which, I should think, could
+possibly mean anything really wrong. Perhaps she was only a little shy,
+and did not want me to suspect anything, only it did not look like
+shyness. Well, she will soon know me better, and will not mind what I
+see or know about her.
+
+I have been wondering whether I might not offer to help her with some
+of the mending of the boys' things. She has such a lot of it to do; and
+then perhaps she might get to bed a little before twelve o'clock.
+
+I don't mean, just to help her only once, but to promise it
+regularly—once or twice a week while I am here, so that she would be
+able to depend on me. She could not possibly mind, and I should feel
+myself then of real use.
+
+What an amount I have written to-day!
+
+
+                                     _June 17th, Monday._
+
+Perhaps it was rather stupid of me to speak so soon, but I have spoken
+and been refused.
+
+I had to go to the Rectory after breakfast with a message from aunt
+Marian, and the temptation was too strong. Millicent was darning a sock
+at the moment when I went in. And when I had given my message, I said,—
+
+"Oh, I have been thinking I should 'so' like to help you with your
+mending, Millicent. Will you not let me? I want to come in regularly
+while I am at Wayatford—twice a week, perhaps, and sit and work with
+you. Do let me."
+
+Yesterday, I asked her to call me "Rhoda," and she said I might call
+her "Millicent." Though from her manner, I fancied she thought it
+rather soon.
+
+She looked up in a sort of surprised way at me, and said,—
+
+"Help me! O no, thank you."
+
+"But I mean it. I really do mean it. I should like nothing better. I do
+want to be useful to somebody."
+
+"Thanks, you are very kind," she said coldly, and not as if she were
+in the very least grateful. "But please do not speak of such a thing
+again."
+
+"But why? Don't you know me well enough yet? Do let me, Millicent."
+
+She got up, with a little flush on her face, and put away in a drawer
+the sock she had been darning, and only said,—
+
+"Would you like to come into the garden with me?"
+
+"You know I have not come here to hinder you. If I must not be a help,
+I will go away at once."
+
+"I could not think of it," was the only answer she made. And then she
+turned the subject altogether in her determined way, and not another
+word could I get in about my wish.
+
+I was so disappointed and hurt, that when I got back, I told aunt
+Marian all about what had passed.
+
+She listened with a queer little laugh in her eyes.
+
+"So you are very fond of needlework!"
+
+"Not fond of needlework in itself; no, not at all. But if it is to help
+somebody that I am fond of—"
+
+"And you care enough already for Millicent!"
+
+"Oh, I like her very much, very much indeed. And she works so hard, I
+should like to be able to help her."
+
+"The wish is right enough. But suppose you started helping her, and
+then grew tired of it."
+
+"I don't think I should."
+
+"If you are fond enough of Millicent! That is the question, of course.
+However, I think you were in rather too much of a hurry. How much does
+Millicent know of you?"
+
+"As much as I know of her."
+
+"Perhaps not. I have told you a good deal about Millicent that is
+admirable."
+
+And of course she has not told Millicent anything about me that is
+admirable. I saw what aunt Marian meant.
+
+She would not seem to know whether I understood, and only said,—
+
+"Perhaps we may bring it about yet; only you must have patience."
+
+"Is Millicent very proud?"
+
+"I imagine not. Why? Because she does not plunge into the first offer
+of help from a stranger?"
+
+"Aunt Marian! A stranger!"
+
+"Well, what else? How often have you two met?"
+
+"But for me just to sit and work with her?"
+
+"Quite simple, of course. Still, we must have patience. Perhaps
+Millicent was not anxious to expose to your criticism the state of the
+family stockings. Perhaps she thought her father would object. Perhaps
+she fancied it would be no kindness to you."
+
+"But it would be kindness. I should like nothing better."
+
+"If so, when Millicent knows you better, she may not be unwilling," was
+all aunt Marian would say.
+
+
+                                     _June 20th, Thursday._
+
+Millicent and I had a ramble in the field to-day. She doubted about
+sparing the time, but I gave her no peace, and at last she went.
+
+She was even graver and paler than usual, I thought, yet I could find
+no particular reason. It almost seemed as if she had none.
+
+I had made up my mind that I really would for once get Millicent to
+talk about herself, a thorough long talk. I meant to find out ever so
+many things that I have never yet been able to find out. Though I like
+Millicent so much, it is wonderful how little I know about her, and I
+don't see why, and I don't like it. If we are friends, she ought to
+treat me with confidence. I tell her all sorts of things quite openly,
+and why should she not do the same to me?
+
+Some people love nothing so dearly as to talk about themselves, and
+they are always and for ever twisting round the conversation to the
+one thing they care for—either themselves and their aches and pains,
+or themselves and their feelings, or themselves and their worries—but
+Millicent is altogether the other way. If one can edge her into
+speaking for one minute about anything connected with herself, she is
+off again in a trice to some other subject.
+
+Of course one likes and admires that in her, and the people who do
+love to discuss themselves are awfully wearisome. "I" should not like
+to do that sort of thing. I should hate to be always thinking and
+talking about myself. But still, the very fact that Millicent is not
+one of those people makes me want to know more of herself and her inner
+life. It does not seem natural that a girl should be so shut-up, and
+have nothing whatever to say about her own troubles. For Millicent has
+troubles enough of her own; one can see that in her face. Only it is
+difficult to make out exactly what the troubles are.
+
+And to-day all my trying was in vain. I did my best, and I could not
+succeed. She got me off somehow upon "my" home troubles; at least, I
+am sure she did. Because I had not the very least intention when we
+began talking to say a single word about myself, and yet somehow I
+found myself doing it. I don't remember her asking any questions, and I
+don't think Millicent does ask questions, but she has a way of setting
+one off. I have not a notion how she does it. Before I knew what I
+was about, I was telling her all about Clarissa and Juliet, though I
+had quite made up my mind never to let slip about them to anybody in
+Wayatford.
+
+Talking seemed to bring up the old feelings, and I suppose I got a
+little excited, and let out what I really felt. For, after all, though
+they were kinder just at the last, they were "not" kind before, and it
+is their doing really that I am banished from home and from my mother
+all these months. But for them, I should be with her now.
+
+Millicent never tried to stop me. She waited and listened, while I went
+on as long as I liked. I am afraid I forgot all about making Millicent
+tell me "her" troubles, and I only told her "mine." And at the end,
+when I came to a stop, she said in her very quietest voice,—
+
+"I would not have things so in the future, if I were you."
+
+"Why, what can I do? How could you help it? How could anybody help it?
+If people will be so provoking—"
+
+"Almost everybody has something provoking to put up with. How could one
+learn to be patient without?"
+
+"I don't pretend to be so very particularly patient. But I am sure
+Juliet is not either."
+
+"Only you have not to do with that."
+
+I thought I had a great deal to do with it, and I said so.
+
+"I mean—you have no responsibility there. You have not to answer for
+her, but only for yourself."
+
+"Well, I know one thing," I said—and I am afraid I spoke rather
+snappishly, for it seemed to me that Millicent was taking Juliet's
+part, and if she were my friend, I thought she ought to take "my"
+part,—"I know one thing, and that is that when I am away from those
+two, I can be perfectly good and patient. I always have said that I was
+sure I could, and now I find I can. It is they who put me out, and make
+everything go wrong. It is not 'me.' I have been quite good and patient
+ever since I came to Wayatford."
+
+"Patient about what?"
+
+I did not understand, and I told her so.
+
+"I mean, what have you to bear at Mrs. Ramsay's, that is so
+particularly trying?"
+
+"Why, nothing. That is the very thing. They don't worry and plague me
+here. It all goes smoothly."
+
+"But where is the particular virtue of keeping straight, when there is
+nothing to make you go crooked?" she asked in a dry sort of tone.
+
+It was a new idea to me, and I stared at her.
+
+"Don't you see, Rhoda? How can one be patient, unless something in
+one's life might make one impatient? One may be in a good temper,
+merely because everything is exactly as one wishes, but that is not
+patience. Patience means bearing—enduring—when it is not easy to bear
+or endure. If there is nothing to be borne, how can there be any
+patience? One may be comfortable, but being comfortable is not being
+patient. Don't you understand?"
+
+"I don't know. I have not thought much about it."
+
+"Have you not?" And she seemed surprised. "I had to think it all out
+for myself so long ago. One is not put into the world just to enjoy
+oneself, and to get along smoothly. Life means so much more than that."
+
+"Everybody doesn't have to live with a Clarissa and a Juliet."
+
+"Not all their lives, perhaps. You have not lived with them always, and
+I don't suppose you will have to live with them always. But if they go,
+some other trouble will come—perhaps a worse one!"
+
+"Nothing could be worse!" I declared.
+
+She spoke very low, so low that I could hardly hear,—"Don't say that,
+while your mother is still left to you!"
+
+I had no answer to make. If my mother were taken, as Connie was
+taken—it came over me with a kind of stab. What would anything else
+matter by comparison?
+
+"You see," Millicent went on, "people who are truly patient have
+always had a good deal to make them so, one way and another. Either
+bad health, or want of money, or very hard work, or tiresome people to
+live with. It doesn't much matter what, so long as there is something
+that rouses one's impatience, because then the opportunity for patience
+comes in. Of course one might have all those troubles, and yet never
+learn patience. But I don't see how one could possibly learn patience
+'without' some such troubles."
+
+"Millicent, you ought to be a female lecturer. I didn't know you could
+talk half so well."
+
+"I have to explain things to the children, and so I am in practice,"
+she said, not in the least abashed.
+
+"But you don't mean that one 'must' have bothers and worries, all one's
+whole life through?"
+
+She waited a minute before speaking.
+
+"I think it depends—It is part of the preparation. Each of us has to
+learn certain lessons, and the teaching goes on and on until we do
+learn. Some people learn patience very quickly; and others are very
+slow, and need long teaching, perhaps all their lives through. One gets
+a breathing-space now and then, like what you are having now, but it
+does not last, of course. Either you will be at home again and have
+little rubs there, or you will stay long enough to find little rubs
+here. Everything can't be kept perfectly smooth for very long together."
+
+She spoke so like an old person, as if she had learnt it all from
+experience; not like a mere girl, repeating what others might have told
+her.
+
+"Well, I only know that things in 'my' home are much harder to bear
+than in most people's homes."
+
+And she asked, "What if it is your own fault, Rhoda?"
+
+I was so angry that I did not say a word. It took me by surprise. I
+had not gone to Millicent for her to find fault with me. If one has a
+friend, one expects one's friend to be sympathising. That was why I had
+talked to Millicent. It seems so hard that I should be banished from my
+home, just because of Clarissa and Juliet, and I thought she would feel
+for me. And instead of that, to tell me it was all my own fault—or, at
+least, to ask a question, which meant that it was. For a little while,
+I was so vexed that I almost thought I should never like Millicent
+again. And I was quite glad she had not agreed to let me work for her.
+There was no need for me to see her often.
+
+Millicent did not say a word for a good while, and then she spoke on
+some different subject.
+
+She must have seen that I was angry, but I do not fancy she minded very
+much. At all events, she did not say a word about being sorry.
+
+She is an odd girl. I don't feel as if I altogether knew her yet.
+
+We did not say any more about my home troubles, but I mean to have it
+out with her another day. I mean to know what she really thinks. Even
+if she is unjust, I will make her say plainly what she has in her mind.
+It will show me what my uncle and aunt have said to her, and what the
+girls said to uncle about me.
+
+Of course I know that I was in the wrong at home, and I do not deny
+that some part of the fusses and difficulties were in some measure my
+own fault. I'm not trying to make myself out to be immaculate. I have
+my faults, like other people. But I do think Juliet was much more to
+blame; and I "don't" see that it is Millicent's business to set me to
+rights, and to settle how much I was to blame.
+
+I suppose a person cannot be too truthful, but certainly I do think
+people can be too downright. Millicent is so very downright—not in a
+rough rude positive way, because she is always gentle, but she does not
+seem to mind what she says.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+_PEOPLE'S RIGHTS._
+
+                                     _June 22nd, Saturday._
+
+YESTERDAY I could not get hold of Millicent, but to-day I made her come
+out for a walk. She said she could spare half-an-hour. And as soon as
+we were outside the town, I asked her point-blank what she had meant.
+
+"Had we not better drop the subject?" she enquired. "If I say anything
+at all, I must say what I really think, and you will be annoyed."
+
+"No, I will not. I want to know what you have in your mind, and what
+has been said to you about me."
+
+She repeated, "Said to me" in such a puzzled voice, that I saw I had
+been mistaken.
+
+"I thought my uncle or aunt might have told you—"
+
+"About your home affairs? Not a word. Why should they? Was it likely? I
+only know what you have told me yourself."
+
+"Oh, well; then I don't mind. And I want to know how you think I am to
+blame. What have I done that is wrong?"
+
+I half thought she would try to shirk giving an answer, but she did not.
+
+"Perhaps there has been a want of right feeling."
+
+"What sort of right feeling?" I really did try not to speak curtly.
+
+"The Miss Friths are older than you. And you tell me yourself that they
+have a right to settle things as they choose—in your home, I mean. You
+have not the right. If you always remembered this, would it not make a
+great difference?"
+
+"But that is just what is so horrid."
+
+"Does the horridness matter, if one 'ought?'"
+
+After a minute, she added, "Is it not a matter, really, of 'rendering
+to all their due'? Perhaps you have not been careful enough to render
+to the Miss Friths their due—their rights in the house."
+
+"Everybody is always thinking about their rights."
+
+"Do you think so? But, Rhoda, yesterday you never said one word about
+their rights. It was all about your own rights. I could not help
+fancying that if only you thought a little more about their rights,
+they would probably think a great deal more about yours."
+
+I felt angry again. Millicent may have said what was true, but it is
+one thing to see for oneself where one is in the wrong, and quite
+another to be told of it, especially by a mere girl. But I had invited
+her to speak out, so what could I say?
+
+We walked on solemnly for some minutes, without a word, going through a
+small copse. Millicent waited to pick a flower now and then. And as we
+came near the further side, she suddenly stopped short. I was in front,
+and I had just turned back to examine something, so I saw the change in
+her face. I could not help seeing. She is almost always pale, but in a
+moment, she grew quite white, as white as a sheet.
+
+"Why, Millicent,—" I said. And then I knew from her manner that she
+did not mean to be questioned. Not merely that she did not want to be,
+but that she "would not" be. I knew it would be quite useless to ask
+anything.
+
+"Do you want any blue-bells, Rhoda?" she asked, and she stooped to pick
+two or three, and held them out. She seemed to have forgotten that she
+had offended me.
+
+I took them, and said, "Thank you," and we moved on again, a good deal
+more slowly than before.
+
+Millicent looked like one in a dream.
+
+When we came to the border of the copse, where it was bounded by a low
+hedge and a shallow ditch, I noticed a young man walking briskly along
+in the field, just beyond the ditch. His back was nearly toward us, but
+he had passed close by the moment before, and if we had walked a very
+little faster, we should have met him. Did Millicent want to miss him?
+That thought sprang up first.
+
+"Who is it?" I asked. "A friend of yours?"
+
+And as she did not answer instantly, I said—"It looks rather like that
+photo,—your friend, Mr. Derwentwater!"
+
+I think I did see a sort of likeness, but what made me think of Mr.
+Derwentwater was not that; it was the look in Millicent's face.
+
+"Yes," she said, in an undertone.
+
+"I" had not spoken in an undertone; on purpose, I am afraid; and I
+laughed now, and said:—"How funny of you! One would think you didn't
+care to see him."
+
+The young man must have heard my voice or my laugh, for he glanced
+round, and then he came striding back over the rough clods, and leaped
+hedge and ditch together, in one bound.
+
+"Why, Millicent!"
+
+She put out her hand quietly, with a—"How do you do?" Not as if she
+were especially delighted to see him.
+
+"I'm at the Park,—got there late last night. You knew I meant to come,
+didn't you? All quite well at the Rectory? I am coming round to see you
+by-and-by."
+
+"Not to-day, I think."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"I'm too busy."
+
+He made an impatient movement. "Always too busy where I am concerned."
+
+Millicent looked a little reproachful. "I have work to do for my
+father."
+
+"And you cannot put that off?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Short and sweet!" muttered Mr. Derwentwater.
+
+He had not so much as seen me yet, he was so full of Millicent.
+
+And she had forgotten to introduce us,—unless she did not mean to do
+so. I kept quite still, rather to one side of them both. At first
+sight, he did not seem to me so handsome as I had thought him in the
+photograph: but it is a nice frank taking face; and he is tall and
+well-made,—I should think thoroughly manly.
+
+"Well—no use coming, if you will not see me. I am engaged all
+to-morrow. Come, Millicent,—think better of it. For old friendship's
+sake."
+
+A sorrowful look crept into her face, and she shook her head.
+
+"If you cannot—or will not—there is nothing more to be said."
+
+"I don't think I can." The words were so low I could hardly catch them.
+
+"When 'may' I come, pray?"
+
+"Any time that you like, of course."
+
+"Take my chance, you mean,—to find everybody free except yourself."
+
+"The boys will want their old playfellow," she answered, trying to
+smile.
+
+"Good-bye!" he said abruptly. And in a moment he was gone, over hedge
+and ditch, and disappearing in the distance with great strides.
+
+Millicent stood perfectly still, gazing on the ground, as if she had
+forgotten where she was and all about me. I waited for some seconds,
+and then patience failed.
+
+"So that is Mr. Derwentwater!"
+
+She gave a start, and began to walk along the muddy grass-path, just
+within the hedge. I could see the muscles round her mouth working.
+
+"So that is Mr. Derwentwater!" I said again, for I wanted to make her
+speak. There was just room for me to keep by her side.
+
+"Yes!"
+
+"He is nice-looking."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Why wouldn't you let the poor man call to-day, when he wanted it so
+much?"
+
+"I—" and a pause—"could not."
+
+"He looked so dreadfully disappointed. Almost angry with you."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Millicent, do you like making people angry?"
+
+"No."
+
+"You did not particularly want to vex him?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+Something in her voice, quiet as it was, and something in the way she
+stumbled against a tree-root, made me look more closely; and I saw her
+eyes to be full. Then she did care, really. It was not that she did not
+care.
+
+"Millicent, look at me," I entreated, but she kept her head fixedly
+turned away. "Millicent, don't be so shut-up, dear! Why don't you tell
+me about it? I cannot help seeing. How can I? If you like him, and he
+likes you, why must you treat him so cruelly? And I see that he does
+like you."
+
+"It is not cruelty." She turned and faced me with a desperate effort;
+I am sure it was a desperate effort, for her lips were white, though
+the tears were gone in a moment, and she looked straight in my face,
+with her most determined air. "Rhoda, you ought to understand better,
+without so much explaining. Ernest is very—a very nice fellow—but it is
+not—not that!"
+
+"Are you sure?"
+
+"I know what I am talking about, of course. He cares for all of us. And
+he thinks he has a right to come in and out,—like a brother—as often as
+he chooses. I have to be careful. It is not as if—as if my mother were
+here. You must not make things harder for me, by—"
+
+"By what?"
+
+"By noticing and talking,—when I do not wish. You ought to understand
+better. Of course I have home duties to attend to. I cannot put them
+aside. If he is vexed, I cannot help it."
+
+"But if you do not mind, and if it is all right, what makes you look
+like this?"
+
+"Like what?" She spoke quite sharply, and took me by surprise. "How do
+I look?"
+
+"Only as if you were not happy."
+
+"I am quite happy. You talk nonsense, Rhoda. If you are always fancying
+things, it will be disagreeable, and I shall not like to be with you."
+Then her manner changed, and she looked at me gently, with a kind of
+apology. "I ought not to be cross; you don't mean to be unkind, I know.
+It is only that you don't understand."
+
+"But I do understand," I said. I was more vexed with that, than with
+her speaking for once sharply.
+
+"No, you don't, and I do not see how you can. You are years and years
+younger than me," and she laughed. "But all the same, I ought not to
+be so cross. I'm tired to-day,—rather,—and that makes things seem more
+than they are really."
+
+"Were you tired when we started?"
+
+"Yes." But a little faint flush came, and she did not lift her eyes.
+
+"If only I could help you in some way!"
+
+"You can't. There is no help wanted,—none at all. People have to be
+tired sometimes. It is just a part of one's life."
+
+And after that, she would say no more about Mr. Derwentwater.
+
+
+                                     _June 23rd, Sunday._
+
+I have come across a short sentence to-day, in a small book which lies
+on the side-table in my room. I cannot get the sentence out of my
+head. It makes me think of what Millicent said about my home troubles
+yesterday, and the time before. This is it:—
+
+   "Self-love leads us to do certain things because we choose them for
+ourselves, although we would not do them at another's bidding, or from
+mere obedience. If things are our own originating we like them, but not
+when they come through other people. Self is for ever seeking self,
+self-will and self-love; but if we were perfect in the love of God, we
+should prefer to obey, because in obedience there is more of God and
+less of self."
+
+Is that why I so hate to be told things, or to be reminded of my duties
+by the girls,—just because I think so much of myself? What a horrid
+mean reason! Yet I am afraid it is true. Has not my mother said as much
+to me more than once? It isn't so much that I mind doing the things
+themselves, but I do detest to be obliged to do them because Juliet or
+somebody says I ought.
+
+Of course, if I really and truly wanted above all things to do what is
+right, it would make no difference at all whether I was told or was not
+told of it by anybody else. I should only be grateful to anybody who
+would remind me.
+
+That is—if I were humble. I know I am not. I never made any pretence to
+be humble.
+
+And I am sure Juliet is not. Juliet humble!! I could laugh at the idea.
+
+But then, as Millicent says, I have not to answer for Juliet. I only
+have to answer for myself. And "I" am not humble. And "I" do not care
+most and first and best of all for doing the things that are right. And
+I am afraid I do care most and first and best for doing what pleases
+myself.
+
+That at least I have learnt by being away from home, and having time
+to think, and seeing what Millicent is. Yes,—I do believe it is seeing
+what Millicent is, more than anything else, that has shown me a little
+of what I am in myself.
+
+I don't mean that I think Clarissa and Juliet were right, or that they
+could not have been kinder; but still I "do" see that I have been in
+the wrong.
+
+If I could but get rid of this SELF in my life! I begin to see the
+need. I begin to see that the mischief lies there. And I begin to see
+what a horrid mean thing it is to be always thinking about Self,—always
+putting Self first,—always ready to take offence about Self. Yes, it is
+just that. Whatever I do, I cannot forget myself. The Self clings about
+me like a leech.
+
+Properly, I suppose, it is not Self, but the love of Self, which has to
+be got rid of.
+
+
+                                     _June 29th, Saturday._
+
+I do not often write so much at one time in my journal as in those two
+long entries, a week and more ago. And on reading them through, I am
+not pleased with myself. It seems to me that I was too meddling, and
+did not think enough of Millicent's feelings. I should not like anybody
+to say this to me, but I can say it to myself. I can see my own faults,
+I hope, when I have done wrongly.
+
+Millicent really had some reason to be vexed with me; but except for
+that one moment, when she spoke rather sharply, I do not think she was.
+At least, she has been just the same as usual since.
+
+I have not once met Mr. Derwentwater at the Rectory. And from something
+that slipped from Mr. Farrars yesterday, I almost think he has not been
+there at all. Mr. Farrars spoke in what seemed to me a rather puzzled
+tone. Millicent is so very very quiet and shut-up and reserved, that I
+am positively quite provoked. Why should she not treat me as a friend,
+and speak out? I am sure, if she were in my place and I were in hers, I
+would just tell her everything about it. And she "might" do the same to
+me now.
+
+
+                                     _July 1st, Monday._
+
+Mr. Derwentwater is coming to dinner this evening.
+
+I am glad, because I want to see for myself whether he cares for
+Millicent,—I mean whether he cares in "that" sort of way. I feel more
+and more sure that Millicent cares for him. Perhaps she feels that she
+could not well be spared from her home, as things are now, and so will
+not let herself think about marrying. Of course, it is not as if there
+were a second daughter old enough to manage. But still, it does seem
+such a pity! I wonder if it is that. If it were, would not Mr. Farrars
+see, and would he not keep her from sacrificing herself?
+
+When uncle Basil came in, and said he had asked Mr. Derwentwater to
+dinner, aunt Marian at once said,—"Then we will have Millicent and Mr.
+Farrars too."
+
+But Millicent has declined the invitation. Mr. Farrars is engaged, and
+for herself, she simply says she "cannot be spared."
+
+Aunt Marian made a queer little shake of her head over the note, as if
+she understood more than lay on the surface.
+
+And I found myself saying,—
+
+"Do you like Mr. Derwentwater?"
+
+"Very much. Most people do."
+
+"And he is a great friend of the Farrars'?"
+
+"No doubt. Also he is a great friend of mine."
+
+"Of yours!"
+
+"You think me too old, of course," she said in her quick way: for
+that was exactly what I did think. "Too old, and too crooked, and too
+helpless. You need not say 'O no,' for in a sense, it may be true.
+Yet friendship is not a matter of age-equality, or of what one calls
+'suitability.' Ernest Derwentwater does not seem to find me too old.
+And cannot you imagine what a freshness his young face brings into my
+life?"
+
+I said,—"Yes." And I wondered whether I might not bring some freshness
+into it too. Somehow, I have not thought of that before, in coming
+here. Does aunt Marian like to have me for her own sake, or is it only
+all for my sake,—because she wants to do me good? I do not much like
+being done good to. Does anybody? If I thought I were a comfort to her,
+things would seem different.
+
+"And if I cannot bring freshness into his life?—But why should I?" she
+went on musingly. "He does not need it. If I cannot bring him that,
+I may bring him something better. Yes, he and I are friends. He has
+a good many friends, and he would not hesitate to rank this helpless
+little me among them."
+
+"Why do some people make so many more friends than others do?" I wanted
+to know whether she thought that I was not liked generally.
+
+"Some are more lovable than others," she said at once. "And some have
+wider sympathies; and some have more power to enter into others'
+interests. In the truest friendships, there is much more of giving out
+than of taking in. Some do not seem to have room in their hearts for
+more than a few friends, and then they must be content with the few.
+But the larger the heart, the more love it has to pour out, and the
+wider may be the range of friendships."
+
+"I shouldn't like to tell my secrets to a great many people."
+
+"Your secrets!" And how she did laugh. "You child! I am forgetting
+that you are hardly out of the schoolroom. Telling one's secrets is a
+very minute part of friendship. If you had said, 'listening to others'
+troubles,'—but I suppose the telling comes first. I 'have' seen it last
+through life, with a stunted nature."
+
+"But if one friend tells her troubles, the other must listen." I
+thought I "had" aunt Marian there.
+
+"That is a mere incident," she said, and she laughed again. "It is not
+the essence of friendship."
+
+In the end, I had had no answer to either question that I wanted to
+ask. There is no getting aunt Marian to the point, any more than
+Millicent, if she does not choose.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+_SUPPOSITIONS._
+
+                                     _July 2nd, Tuesday._
+
+MR. DERWENTWATER spent a long evening with us, and I like him immensely.
+
+It is beautiful to see him with aunt Marian. His manner to her is so
+gentle, even reverent, and at the same time protecting. He looks so
+strong and big and full of life, while she is such a little frail
+crooked thing. But somehow, I do not think he feels that the giving is
+all on his side, and the receiving all on hers. He watches her face,
+and listens with the greatest attention when she speaks, not with a put
+on attentive manner like one going through a tiresome duty, and not
+even only as any real gentleman would always listen to a sickly elderly
+woman, but as if he quite loved the sound of her voice, and delighted
+in what she had to say.
+
+Aunt Marian can be delightful,—I see that. She is clever and quaint,
+and unlike the common run of people. Before her accident, she must have
+been wonderfully pretty and taking. I see more and more how clever and
+bright she still is, but one would hardly expect a young man to see it.
+
+I begin to feel very doubtful and puzzled about his feeling for
+Millicent. His manner to aunt Marian is so affectionate, so much "more"
+than his manner to Millicent; and if he were in love with Millicent,
+how could that be? When I spoke of Millicent to him, and said how fond
+I was of her already, and how nice she seemed, his face did not light
+up in the least. He fiddled with a paper-knife on the table, and just
+muttered a "Yes," and then began upon something quite different.
+
+And yet a little later, when aunt Marian was talking in a low voice,
+and I had been attending to uncle Basil, I caught the word "Millicent,"
+and I saw Mr. Derwentwater bending forward to listen with such a
+curious earnest look, as if his whole heart were in what she had to say.
+
+So I cannot at all make up my mind as to how things really are between
+them.
+
+
+                                     _July 4th, Thursday._
+
+Mr. Derwentwater came in this afternoon again. He said it was a call
+upon aunt Marian. But all the same, when he found that she was too
+poorly to see anybody, he sat down to have a talk with me. And he
+stayed on and on, for ever so long.
+
+We got upon all sorts of subjects together: books, and places, and
+scenery, and travelling, and ways of spending one's life. He has plenty
+to say, and he seems to be able to draw out other people. At least, he
+certainly drew "me" out. I do not think I ever talked so well in my
+life. One cannot help knowing if one has talked well. When Clarissa
+and Juliet are sitting by, ready to criticise everything, it is such a
+damper; I never can be at my best. To-day I felt quite free, and I said
+whatever came into my head.
+
+Part of it was nonsense, I suppose, but is there any harm in a little
+nonsense? Sometimes Mr. Derwentwater laughed; and sometimes he agreed
+with me, and sometimes he did not. But it was all in such a pleasant
+way.
+
+At first, I talked about Millicent a little; and he let me do so, and
+neither helped nor hindered. Afterwards, she seemed to slip out of my
+mind altogether.
+
+
+                                     _July 6th, Saturday._
+
+I went to the Rectory to-day, and saw Millicent. And I asked her
+whether Mr. Derwentwater had been to call, since that time when she
+and I met him. Of course I did not mean to meddle, and the question
+was natural enough surely. But Millicent looked up at me, in a kind of
+astonished way, as if I had been quite impertinent, and made no answer
+at all.
+
+"He has been to us three times this week," I said.
+
+"Has he?"
+
+"Yes, three times." I do get provoked with her persistent way of hiding
+from me whatever she feels. And it came over me that I would "make" her
+show what she felt.
+
+She gazed at me still in that grave slow way of hers, which gives me a
+kind of abashed feeling, almost as if I were a naughty child. I cannot
+think why I am so fond of Millicent, when she is perpetually vexing me,
+but somehow I am.
+
+"He always does," she said. "Mrs. Ramsay is such an old friend of his!"
+
+"Oh, aunt Marian—yes,—of course aunt Marian is an old friend,—and so
+are you. But 'I' am not."
+
+And then the sound of that "I" came back to me, and I knew how silly it
+must have sounded.
+
+Millicent laughed quietly. "No,—very new indeed!"
+
+If it had been anybody else, I could have declared that she did not
+mind an atom. But I am beginning to understand her face, and I noticed
+a tiny white streak on one cheek. That ought to have warned me to say
+no more; only it was provoking to see how little she cared to treat me
+like a real friend. Besides, I did not like to be laughed at by her.
+
+"Of course I don't mean anything particular. I am not so absurd. Only,
+when he came to call on aunt Marian, she was upstairs, and he stayed
+for a talk with me. That was all. We had quite a long talk, and I like
+him very much. And I think you treat him very badly."
+
+"I think you are much too fond of interfering, Rhoda," Millicent spoke
+in a cold tone. "Once before, I asked you not to chatter in this way;
+and it seems to have been of no use."
+
+"But, Millicent,—where is the harm?"
+
+"It does not matter whether there is any harm, or no. It ought to be
+enough for you that I dislike such talk extremely."
+
+And then I came away as fast as I could, and sat down straight to my
+journal. If Millicent goes on like that, I do not think I shall make a
+friend of her. How disappointing people are! I did think that for once
+I had found a friend worth having.
+
+
+                                     _July 9th, Tuesday._
+
+I suppose that I was rather hasty! I was vexed, and anybody would
+have been vexed in my place,—because really it was all interest in
+Millicent, and she ought to have understood. But she is slow in making
+friends, I suppose; and perhaps she did not quite understand. When I
+saw her yesterday, she was exactly the same as usual in manner. And
+though I had meant to be different, I did not keep it up.
+
+But I feel perfectly sure now that Millicent does really care for Mr.
+Derwentwater and that she is sacrificing herself for her brothers and
+her father!
+
+Ought she to be allowed? Can nobody do anything?
+
+
+                                     _July 12th, Friday._
+
+Five whole weeks since I came here! One week more, and I shall have had
+half of my three months of banishment.
+
+The weeks have gone faster than I expected; and they do not seem long
+to look back upon. Besides, the last half of a time always slips away
+much faster than the first half. So it will not really be long now
+before I get home again.
+
+Home to my mother! That will be the joy of it. I shall be sorry to
+leave some people and things here, but it will be going home to her.
+
+And I mean to be quite different from what I was before I came
+away—different altogether. I mean to be utterly unlike my old self. I
+can see that I was in the wrong, and I mean to change. I am not one
+of those weak creatures who never manage to carry out a resolution—at
+least, I am sure I hope not.
+
+Juliet was wrong, and she ought to change too. But, as Millicent says,
+I have not to do with that. I have not to answer for her, but only
+for myself. And I do mean to be a comfort to my mother, not to worry
+and distress her any more. I intend to be like Millicent and to take
+everything quite calmly and quietly, and to spend all my time for other
+people. And then perhaps people will love me. I should like to be loved
+by everybody.
+
+Even if Juliet tells me in her provoking way that I "ought" to do this
+and that, I intend not to be angry, but just to do it, and not to let
+myself mind. It isn't really worth while to be so easily vexed, and I
+begin to see that plainly. So I do think I have learned some wisdom
+while staying here.
+
+For another thing, I am learning to be more punctual. To be sure,
+breakfast is a good deal later than at home, and I am not expected to
+practise before breakfast. I did think at first that I would try to
+keep it on, because it had been my mother's wish. But I found that the
+noise at that early hour would try aunt Marian's head very much, so of
+course I gave it up.
+
+Even though breakfast is not early, I was late one day, just after I
+first came. And a most polite message was brought up from uncle Basil,
+to say that I was "not to hurry, because they would all wait." I should
+think I did hurry then, and no mistake! And when I got down, the whole
+household was waiting—uncle Basil at the table with the big Bible open,
+and aunt Marian on her couch, and the servants in a solemn row, all
+waiting till I should come, before they would begin Prayers. It was
+rather too awful, and I have managed since then never once to be late.
+So, at all events, I see now that I "can" be punctual.
+
+Other things have gone pretty smoothly too. I can almost always do
+what aunt Marian wishes without any struggle. She is so helpless, and
+so gentle in her ways. I am getting very fond of her; and I would give
+a good deal to know whether she is really fond of me. But I do not
+know. She is so kind, always kind; and I cannot tell whether it is only
+kindness and nothing else.
+
+The one person here who does really provoke me is Millicent; and yet
+she is the one I care for most of all, in a sort of way. I do not know
+why I care for her so much, but I do. If a few days pass without my
+seeing her, I get restless; and yet when I am with her, she provokes
+me. She is always still so shut-up, and so unlike most girls. And I do
+not know in the least whether she cares for me either—really caring,
+I mean—or whether she is only kind, because she wishes to please aunt
+Marian. I would rather have people kind to me for my own sake, and
+because they love me, not out of politeness, or from a feeling of duty,
+or because they want to please somebody else.
+
+Of course aunt Marian is a near relation, and near relations often have
+to do things from a sense of duty. But Millicent is no relation; and if
+she cannot be fond of me for my own sake, I would a great deal rather
+she should leave me alone altogether.
+
+
+                                     _July 16th, Tuesday._
+
+I had a talk yesterday with aunt Marian about Millicent. It came up
+naturally; and this time aunt Marian let me say what I wanted to say.
+She just listened till I had done. I told her how much I had been
+wondering whether Mr. Derwentwater was in love with Millicent, and
+whether Millicent was in love with Mr. Derwentwater, and whether there
+was some difficulty in the way.
+
+"Well?" she said when I stopped.
+
+"Couldn't anything be done, aunt Marian?"
+
+"Done—by whom and to whom?"
+
+"I mean, to put things right for Millicent."
+
+"Are you so sure that things are wrong? My dear, you and I are not
+Millicent's Providence."
+
+"But if it is only that and nothing else—if it is only that she can't
+well be spared—couldn't Mr. Derwentwater wait? Or couldn't Mr. Farrars
+get a good governess, and let Millicent marry?"
+
+"Nothing is easier than for one person to settle another person's
+duties in life. And the less one knows of another, the easier it
+becomes."
+
+"I'm sure I don't want to meddle. Only it does seem rather hard upon
+Millicent."
+
+"You are taking her wishes too much for granted. What do you really
+know about the matter?"
+
+"I can't help seeing things. And if he cares for her—"
+
+"If he does, and if she does! Two very weighty 'ifs!' And if neither
+cares for the other?"
+
+"But you see it all, as much as I do," I said, rather positively.
+
+Aunt Marian went on with her work, not answering at once.
+
+"If Millicent were not imperatively needed at home," she said at
+length, "one might then consider the question."
+
+"But surely," I cried, "oh, surely, Mr. Farrars would not want to spoil
+her life!"
+
+"Millicent's life will not be spoilt. She will do what she feels to be
+her duty; and she would not be happy doing anything else."
+
+"Only, Mr. Farrars might make it all easy for her. And if he did?"
+
+"Mr. Farrars cannot change the existing order of things. He might be
+willing to give Millicent up: and Millicent might refuse to be given
+up . . . I am merely going upon the general supposition that some day
+something of the kind that you are suggesting 'may,' sooner or later,
+turn up . . . Mr. Farrars has not only to think of himself and his
+own comfort; or only of Millicent's happiness. He has to think of the
+training of all those children."
+
+"Only if Mr. Derwentwater—"
+
+She would not let me finish the sentence. "We are not speaking about
+Mr. Derwentwater or about Mr. Anything in particular. Some day,
+somebody may of course wish to marry Millicent; and it may be somebody
+whom she could be willing to marry. But the first question with
+Millicent will be—what is her duty? She will never put aside plain
+duties, for the sake of her own wishes."
+
+"But suppose it were a question of making somebody else dreadfully
+unhappy? Suppose it were a question of somebody breaking his heart?"
+
+"Nineteenth century hearts do not break so easily, my dear! People are
+too busy, and have too many interests, to break their hearts over one
+unattainable wish."
+
+"Only it might make a person awfully miserable."
+
+"For a time, perhaps. Then he would take to shooting or golfing, and be
+comforted."
+
+"Aunt Marian, don't you believe in 'any one' having a heart?"
+
+She looked at me in a curious gentle way.
+
+"Yes," she said; "but having a heart doesn't always mean having an
+easily breakable heart. Millicent has a heart, and a very loving one,
+but she will never put her heart's longings before her plain duty."
+
+I dare say it is true; true, I mean, that Millicent will always
+consider duty before love. One can quite fancy it of her. And of course
+it is all right that she should—only—I don't exactly know what I mean!
+Only, although of course Millicent "has" a heart, I shouldn't precisely
+have described it as "a very loving one." Does Millicent love anyone
+very much indeed? I wonder if she does.
+
+I wonder whether, if I were in Millicent's place, I should do what aunt
+Marian says, put duty altogether first, quite before love and before
+one's greatest wishes? Anybody ought to do so, I suppose, but it must
+be fearfully hard. I mean if one really and truly cared very much,
+very very much, for somebody else—to have to give him up of one's own
+free will, just because one was needed somewhere else. I don't believe
+I could do it! And I don't believe Millicent could, either, "if" she
+really and truly cared so much for Mr. Derwentwater as I have been
+thinking that she cared.
+
+I begin to think it must be that. I begin to think that she cannot
+possibly care for him in that sort of way, but that she only likes him
+as an old friend, just as a sort of family friend.
+
+Yes, I believe it must be so! I am rather glad to think it, though I do
+not know why I should be.
+
+At all events, he goes back to London in two days and I am sure he has
+not seen much of Millicent lately.
+
+
+                                     _July 20th, Saturday._
+
+Such news! Oh, such news!
+
+Clarissa is engaged to be married.
+
+I have a little note from Clarissa herself, and a longer letter from my
+mother.
+
+It is a Mr. Griffith, and he has an estate in the north. He has been
+staying lately at Alverton. He has never seen Clarissa before, until
+about five weeks ago; and he thinks her the very handsomest woman in
+all the world, so Mother says. Well, I don't, but I am glad he does.
+And Clarissa says she is as perfectly happy as it is possible for a
+woman to be, and I am to write and congratulate her. I can do that, at
+all events.
+
+The wedding is to take place quite soon, in about six or seven weeks.
+Shall I go back just in time for the wedding? Or will my mother have me
+a little sooner, with "this" coming on?
+
+I have never felt certain whether I was to be away only twelve weeks
+or three calendar months. That would mean not getting home, I suppose,
+till Clarissa was gone.
+
+Juliet is going too. She will not live with Clarissa and Mr. Griffith,
+but she and aunt Jessie mean to make a home together in the north,
+somewhere not far from Clarissa's new home.
+
+Mother does not say whether Juliet is going, because of the way I have
+behaved, but I almost think it must be that. I cannot help being afraid
+I have brought this on my mother. Otherwise, why should not Juliet live
+with us still? Unless, indeed, she wishes to be nearer to Clarissa.
+When I told aunt Marian about it all, I said, "Why should not Juliet
+live with Clarissa and Mr. Griffith?"
+
+But aunt Marian said, "O no, that would never do. It would not be fair
+upon Mr. Griffith. Newly-married couples are best left to themselves—at
+all events, for the first few years of their married life."
+
+And I dare say that is true.
+
+I feel quite dazed with it all. The change is so sudden.
+
+My first dread was that Mother would say she must go back at once to
+India. But she does not. Instead of that, she talks of a little house
+somewhere, and of hoping to find me a great help and comfort. And she
+"shall!" I will be her right hand.
+
+Is not this the very thing I have so longed for—just to be in a tiny
+home alone with my mother and the twins? It does sound like great
+happiness.
+
+I could not honestly declare that I shall be very sorry to say good-bye
+to the girls. But still I do wish things had been happier between us.
+If only Mother would let me go back sooner, so that I might make a
+difference before they leave us.
+
+
+                                     _July 23rd, Tuesday._
+
+Another letter from my mother, answering mine. I asked whether she
+meant me to keep to the time fixed for going home, and this is what she
+says:—
+
+   "About your return. You know that you left home on the eighth of June.
+I have always had in my mind that day three months for your coming
+back, or, rather, September the seventh, because the eighth will be on
+a Sunday."
+
+Then she had looked all this out, and had thought it all over. It seems
+as if she wanted me. She goes on:
+
+   "But the wedding day is now pretty well settled for Wednesday,
+September 4th; and I think we must have you back on the Monday before.
+Then you will see something of Clarissa; and Juliet does not leave us
+till two or three days later."
+
+Is my mother afraid that I should make fusses, if she allowed me to go
+home any sooner?
+
+But that is not all. In the end of her letter she says:—
+
+   "I hope we have found a sub-tenant for this house during the remaining
+months that it is on our hands. When the girls are gone, it will be too
+expensive for us. They would not leave the whole expense to me if it
+could not be let. But since it can be, we are all glad. I have thoughts
+of a little house in Bath, as house-rent is not high there; and I
+want you to be able to attend occasional classes, and to keep up your
+education. I am not very happy about your dear father's health just
+now, but you shall hear more when I hear again. He is trying to arrange
+to come home."
+
+Then of course Mother will not have to go out. That is a great relief.
+Now I feel perfectly happy, and I want nothing else. A home in
+Bath—beautiful Bath—and friends, and walks, and my mother always at
+hand, free to have me with her, and the twins, and nobody to fuss or
+interfere or make me feel cross. How delightful! And how silly it seems
+that I should have minded so desperately having the girls to live with
+us, when it was for such a short time. Only of course, I could not tell
+that the time would be short. If I had known, that would have made all
+the difference. And it might have gone on for years and years, if Mr.
+Griffith had not happened to turn up.
+
+And perhaps my father will be with us too. That seems very wonderful.
+Mother did not think he could come home for ever so long. Of course it
+will be delightful if he does.
+
+I hardly remember him at all. At least, it is not real remembering.
+There is a sort of picture of him in my mind. But I think it is partly
+made up of the photographs of him, and partly of things that Mother has
+told me. I do not really remember what he looks like.
+
+
+                                     _July 30th, Tuesday._
+
+I cannot quite understand the way in which Mother writes about my
+father's health. She does not say much, but she seems so sad, and the
+word "anxious" comes over and over again. The doctors have ordered him
+home, all in a hurry, though I cannot make out what for. He has not had
+fever, at least not lately, or any other particular kind of illness. He
+may arrive a week or two after the wedding, just when we are settling
+into our new home.
+
+For the house at Alverton is really let. And now aunt Jessie, who has
+gone to Bath for a few weeks, is hard at work there, hunting for a tiny
+house which might do for us. Mother says it is so kind of her to take
+the trouble. Well, yes, I suppose it is, but aunt Jessie always enjoys
+managing other people's businesses.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+_THE CHOICE GIVEN AND TAKEN._
+
+                                     _August 19th, Monday._
+
+THIS day fortnight I go home. I am making, oh, such a lot of good
+resolutions! I mean to be such a good, useful daughter to my mother!
+
+
+                                     _August 20th, Tuesday._
+
+To-day I told aunt Marian a little of what I mean to be and do, and how
+I intend to help Mother in every possible way. My head seemed so full
+of the thought that I could not keep it to myself any longer. And when
+we were sitting together, it all came out.
+
+She said, "Yes; things ought to be different."
+
+"Mother told you about it all, I suppose?"
+
+"Your mother said there had been troubles. And your uncle saw a little
+of what was going on. And you have told me a great deal more yourself."
+
+"I! Aunt Marian?"
+
+"Not intentionally. Never mind. You are going back now with at least
+happier intentions."
+
+"It will be so much easier."
+
+"Will it?"
+
+"Why, of course, aunt Marian! I don't mean that I wasn't in the wrong;
+for I know I was, sometimes. But they were very tiresome, and very hard
+to get on with. And now I shall not have them."
+
+"'They,' and 'them'?"
+
+"I mean Clarissa and Juliet. I suppose I was tiresome to them
+sometimes. But—"
+
+"From your own accounts, I should say you were a good deal more than
+merely 'tiresome,' Rhoda, my dear!"
+
+She was looking at me with such a kind smile that I could not well be
+angry.
+
+"But what have I told you?"
+
+"A great many things, one way and another. Two people cannot live
+together for ten weeks and not learn a little about each other's ways."
+
+"I thought I had not said much about 'them!'" I said. And tears somehow
+came into my eyes, because I really had meant not to talk.
+
+"Not much! No, not a great deal. It is not the amount said, but the
+spirit shown. Sometimes a tone and a look are sufficient. Sometimes the
+absence of a tone or a look."
+
+"Only you don't really know all about it," I could not resist saying.
+
+"Nobody in this world ever knows 'all about' any single thing or
+person. No, I do not know all about it, by any means. I only know
+something."
+
+"Aunt Marian, what 'do' you know?"
+
+"Do you really wish to be told?" she inquired slowly. "I think I can
+gather that there has been a good deal of egoism in the past, egoism
+of a common girlish kind, self-seeking in little ways. The chief aim
+of your life seems to have been self-pleasing. I think you would have
+liked to alter the whole order of things. You would have preferred
+to be the eldest, to have had all the money, and all the rights of
+management. And since you could not have that, you have fought against
+the order of things, bruising yourself and injuring others."
+
+"Only they were so cross."
+
+"You mean that they did not yield to you in every particular. Why
+should they?"
+
+And then there was a break. I could have cried heartily, if I would
+have let myself do it.
+
+"I know I was wrong," I said at length, trying not to show what I felt.
+"And I did mean to do differently, I meant it before I heard about
+Clarissa getting married. But of course I can't help thinking how much
+easier things will be now."
+
+"Because your mother is so gentle and yielding. But that will not put
+you in the right, if you still take your own way."
+
+"O no, I don't mean that. I only mean that it will be easier to keep my
+temper."
+
+"I would not be too sure as to the easiness, if I were you. One worry
+is apt to come when another goes. It is a way things have."
+
+"Only I don't see why I need expect it. And nothing else could be so
+bad as this has been."
+
+"The present worry generally seems the worst one could have. My dear,
+you need not be dolefully looking out for troubles, of course. Still,
+I should like to see you in a 'braced' condition, not bent on finding
+things 'easier.' It matters very little whether the fight is hard or
+easy. Whether you conquer, or whether you are beaten, is the question
+which does matter."
+
+But whatever aunt Marian may say, I know things "will" be easier. I
+am perfectly sure they will. I shall not have Clarissa and Juliet to
+plague and pester me at every turn.
+
+
+                                     _August 21st, Wednesday._
+
+Mr. Derwentwater came in to-day, quite suddenly. Nobody had expected
+him. He has been a little out of sorts, he says, and he has a
+fortnight's holiday; and he is going to spend it down here, at the Park.
+
+The last fortnight of my stay. That will be pleasant. I like him very
+much. Anybody might like him. When he came in, I was alone in the
+drawing-room and his face lighted up, as if he counted me an old friend.
+
+"Then you are here still," he said. "I was not sure."
+
+His manner said he was glad. And I am glad that I have not just missed
+him.
+
+
+                                     _August 24th, Saturday._
+
+Mr. Derwentwater comes in every day, for some reason or other. Always
+to see aunt Marian; and if aunt Marian is down, he talks to her
+chiefly; and if she is not, he stays for a little talk with me.
+
+I have not seen Millicent since he came, and we have not talked about
+her much.
+
+To-day, however, something was said, which made me ask him, "Do you
+think Millicent pretty?"
+
+"Millicent? Pretty!" he said, and he gave a short laugh. "What makes
+you ask?"
+
+"I don't know. I always like her face so much, but I do not think it is
+exactly pretty,—is it?"
+
+Mr. Derwentwater laughed again, and said nothing.
+
+Aunt Marian spoke for him. "Nobody could help liking Millicent's face.
+Not because of beauty, but because of its truth and goodness."
+
+"Only, mightn't a face be pretty as well as good?"
+
+"Decidedly," aunt Marian replied.
+
+And then I saw Mr. Derwentwater looking at me. I don't know what made
+him do it, or what he was really thinking. But something or other in
+his look made me, when I went upstairs, go straight to my glass.
+
+Did he mean that "I" was pretty? And "am" I pretty? I have been used to
+think of myself as plain. I was always told in the nursery that I was
+so ugly compared with Connie; and aunt Jessie and the girls have seemed
+to count me the same. Am I really and truly so very plain?
+
+It was just that something for one moment in Mr. Derwentwater's look
+which made me wonder about this. And I am not sure, but it does seem
+to me that my face has improved a good deal of late; that if I used to
+be ugly, I am not ugly any longer. Of course, I would not say this to
+anybody except my own old private journal. Nobody is ever supposed to
+think oneself pretty; and I should be considered awfully vain, if I
+were to speak out all that I am thinking, in plain words.
+
+But now that I have begun to think about it, I cannot help seeing that
+I have a nice little straight nose, and not at all a bad mouth, and
+lots of hair. And when I first came to the glass, I had such a bright
+colour in my cheeks. I could not help feeling that if I saw that colour
+in somebody else's face, I should certainly admire it.
+
+It is nice to think that after all, perhaps, I am not so disagreeable
+looking as some people have tried to make out.
+
+
+                                     _August 26th, Monday._
+
+Millicent was so white in Church yesterday. I wonder why.
+
+Afterwards, I walked with her as far as the gate of the Rectory garden,
+and I told her I thought she was doing ever so much more than she ought.
+
+And she said as she always does, indifferently, "Things have to be
+done."
+
+"But it is of no use to make yourself ill."
+
+"I am not ill, thanks."
+
+"And nothing is wrong?"
+
+Nothing was wrong at all, she said; and she did not ask me to go
+through the garden with her. I thought she was rather glad to get rid
+of me.
+
+It does not seem that much good is to be got out of that friendship. I
+know Millicent just about as well now as I knew her after a fortnight's
+acquaintance.
+
+
+                                     _August 27th, Tuesday._
+
+Oh, delightful! Mr. and Mrs. Collins have got up a big excursion for
+Thursday; and uncle Basil and I are going, and Millicent and Mr.
+Farrars, and one or two of the boys. And of course, Mr. Derwentwater
+will be there. I wonder whether Millicent will treat him kindly. She
+will not be able to get off going, as she so often does, because Mr.
+Farrars will be sure to want her.
+
+The excursion is to be to a ruin, ten miles off,—"the Castle," it is
+called. Nobody knows anything about the history of the castle, but it
+seems to be rather old, and they say it is very prettily placed, on
+a hill, with lovely views around. Provisions are to be taken, and we
+shall all have a sort of heavy afternoon-tea on the grass. And then
+those who like it will walk to a waterfall two miles off, and those who
+don't can sit in the ruin, and enjoy a lazy time.
+
+If only it will be fine. We are having lovely weather now, but how long
+will that last?
+
+Six more days, and then home. I begin to feel how very sorry I shall be
+to say good-bye to everybody here.
+
+One week more, and Clarissa will be "Miss Frith" no longer. They
+say she is having beautiful presents. I am working a most difficult
+chair-back for her; and it takes an enormous amount of patience. Aunt
+Marian has shown me how to do it; and I bought the materials with the
+last remains of my five pounds. And of course I must go on and get the
+thing done, though I begin to detest it heartily.
+
+
+                                     _August 28th, Wednesday._
+
+Weather still perfect, and very hot. The only fear is of a storm
+coming. Aunt Marian is so exhausted with the heat that she can hardly
+speak. And when Mr. Derwentwater came in to-day, she left him and me to
+do all the talking.
+
+"I wonder how many people are going to-morrow," I said.
+
+"Somewhere about twenty," he told me. "But some come in their own
+carriages. My uncle only undertakes the transporting of ourselves and
+yourselves and the Rectory party."
+
+[Illustration: Nothing was wrong at all, she said; and she did not ask
+me to go through the garden with her.]
+
+Then he asked suddenly, "Which way would you like to go?"
+
+I did not know exactly what he meant, and I said so.
+
+"There is a landau for my uncle and aunt, and Mr. Ramsay, and one lady
+beside. And I shall drive the dog-cart."
+
+"Who goes in the dog-cart?" I asked, for that sounded tempting.
+
+"May Collins and Jack Farrars will be in the back seat. Mr. Farrars has
+the offer of a seat in Lady Wills' carriage. And the old pony-trap will
+take half a dozen children,—Rectory boys and others. It is all pretty
+well arranged, except those two seats. One in the landau, and one in
+the dog-cart. Which would you like best?"
+
+"Oh, the dog-cart! Of course the dog-cart. I have never in my life
+driven in a real high dog-cart." Then I thought of Millicent.
+
+"You can choose whichever you prefer."
+
+"But would not somebody else—I mean, where will Millicent be?"
+
+"She will take whichever seat of the two you leave for her."
+
+Mr. Derwentwater's face puzzled me. I could not make it out.
+
+"Choose whichever you like best," he repeated.
+
+I did not look at aunt Marian. It seemed too hard to think of giving
+up what I should like so desperately. If it had been settled for
+me,—but to go into the dull big carriage of my own free will, among the
+dull elderly people, when I might have the front seat in that lovely
+dog-cart—And of course I like to be with Mr. Derwentwater. Why should
+I not? He is so nice-looking, and so polite, and so clever, and so
+full of fun! Everybody likes him, and why should not I like him too?
+It seems to me that the only one person who does not understand and
+appreciate him is Millicent.
+
+"Well?" he said, as I sat and thought.
+
+"Of course I cannot help liking the dog-cart much the best. Only, if
+Millicent would rather—"
+
+"I have failed to get any expression of opinion from Millicent," he
+said; and an odd hard look came into his mouth for a moment. "It rests
+entirely with you. Choose for yourself, please, whichever you would
+prefer."
+
+"I should 'prefer' the dog-cart."
+
+"Then the matter is settled." And almost directly, he went away.
+
+When he was gone, I could not resist a glance towards aunt Marian. She
+was looking at me.
+
+"Ought I to have chosen the other?"
+
+"My dear, you are perfectly right to do what your conscience dictates,"
+she replied, in the faint voice she has had all day.
+
+"I don't suppose it was conscience—exactly," I said, not very
+willingly, but it did not seem honest to let that pass. "Only I do want
+very much to go in the dog-cart."
+
+"If you think it quite right,—why not go?"
+
+"I can't see why it should not be right, aunt Marian."
+
+"Then—go."
+
+It was horribly unsatisfactory. All the time I knew quite well that she
+was condemning me. And I could not think that fair.
+
+"Millicent might have chosen, if she had liked. And she did not. Why am
+I to choose for her? I don't see why she should be forced to go in the
+dog-cart, against her will. And if she does not care,—and if I do care
+very much—"
+
+"My dear, do as you think right!" was all aunt Marian would say.
+
+I could have had a good cry, it was so uncomfortable.
+
+
+                                     _August 28th; same evening; later._
+
+Ought I to refuse? Ought I to give up the dog-cart? Ought I to make
+Millicent have the pleasure?
+
+Well, but how do I know that it would be any pleasure to Millicent? She
+had the choice given her, and she would not take it. I did not try to
+get this for myself. Now that it has come, I really cannot see why I
+must throw it aside. I shall like, oh, how I shall like it!
+
+The dog-cart itself will be so delightful; and the horse that always
+goes at such a pace, and Mr. Derwentwater's driving. He drives
+splendidly, I know, because uncle Basil says so. The whole thing will
+be perfect. I could not really give it all up for nothing. Millicent
+either does not care for Mr. Derwentwater, or else she has made up her
+mind that she cannot be spared from home, and must not let herself
+think of him, or be with him. And if she has made up her mind, nothing
+in the world that "I" could say would alter it.
+
+It isn't a question of conscience at all. What made aunt Marian say
+such a stupid thing, I wonder? I don't see why it need be any matter
+of conscience either way. I am not bound to choose for Millicent; and
+certainly I am not bound to try and bring her and Mr. Derwentwater
+together. If I did, I should only be snubbed for meddling. So I mean to
+let things take their course.
+
+Most likely Millicent would not say a kind word to Mr. Derwentwater. I
+believe she is too proud,—and so he just came off to me instead.
+
+And why should he not? And why should not I take what he has offered
+me? What can be the harm?
+
+It is not as if I were sure that Millicent really cared for him. I used
+to think she did; and that must have been a fancy. Certainly she shows
+no particular signs of caring now.
+
+I do wonder if it is fearfully conceited of me to imagine that Mr.
+Derwentwater thinks I have a—perhaps not exactly a pretty face, but
+rather nice-looking? I only think so because of the way in which I
+catch him looking at me now and then. And he seems to like to talk.
+
+Would he have laughed at the idea of Millicent being pretty, if he were
+really in love with her?
+
+
+                                     _Same evening; still later._
+
+I did not mean to listen, but how could I help it? I was just going
+into the drawing-room, and was behind the screen, when I overheard
+uncle Basil's voice saying,—
+
+"So Derwentwater is going to take the child with him in the dog-cart
+to-morrow?"
+
+"Yes; I am sorry for it," aunt Marian replied.
+
+"Sorry!" And uncle laughed. "Why?"
+
+"I have always reckoned on his liking for Millicent."
+
+"You don't think he would ever be such a goose, my dear, as to prefer
+that pussy-cat face of hers to Millicent's!"
+
+I was drawing back noiselessly, as fast as I could, not wishing to be
+discovered, or to hear any more. But when uncle spoke of me in such
+a way, it gave me a shock of surprise; and I came to a stop in the
+doorway, still hidden by the screen.
+
+"Many a man prefers a pussy-cat face to one with character in it," aunt
+Marian said.
+
+As if there were no character in mine! It really was too bad.
+
+"It is a pretty type of pussy-cat," she added. But that was not much of
+a compliment.
+
+"Derwentwater is a man of sense, my dear. Don't you be afraid. It will
+be all right. He thought he would give the child a treat, no doubt—just
+as she is going away."
+
+I heard a little sigh from aunt Marian, and I knew she did not agree
+with uncle. But I would not stay another moment. I slipped off,
+dreadfully ashamed of having listened to so much, and dreadfully
+insulted, too, at being said to have a pussy-cat face. After all
+these months, I shouldn't have expected it from aunt Marian. And
+yet—and yet—somehow I was quite as much pleased as vexed, to know
+that aunt Marian could think there was the very tiniest danger of Mr.
+Derwentwater liking me or admiring me more than Millicent. Uncle did
+not think as she did, but I know how much more aunt Marian sees and
+understands than he does. She is very seldom mistaken. There must be
+something to make her afraid.
+
+At all events, this has quite settled me. I shall let things go.
+Whether I have a pussy-cat face or not—if Mr. Derwentwater likes it,
+and likes to have me with him to-morrow, ever so tiny a little bit,
+I don't mean to snub him or to refuse. And I mean to enjoy myself as
+much as possible, and to be as pleasant as I can. I'll let things go. I
+don't see why uncle and aunt should talk about me in that way—as if I
+were worth just nothing at all, compared with Millicent. Millicent is
+very good and useful, of course, but she is "not" pretty, and she is
+"not" amusing, and I don't wonder at all if Mr. Derwentwater finds her
+a little dull. I have found her so sometimes, even though I am really
+fond of her—in a way.
+
+I cannot help wishing now that I were going to stay here a few days
+longer.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+_A DAY OF DELIGHTS._
+
+                                     _August 30th, Friday._
+
+I HAVE a good deal to write down; and I want to write it at once, while
+things are fresh in my mind.
+
+It has been a wonderful day to me—such a day as does not come often in
+one's life. This evening I feel half-dazed, and it is no use to think
+of sleeping, so I may just as well journalize.
+
+Uncle was called for first by Lady Wills; and then up came Mr.
+Derwentwater in the dog-cart with nobody beside him, and May Collins
+and Jack Farrars in the back seat. A sort of little twinge came over
+me, whether Millicent "ought" not to be there. But I had quite made up
+my mind; and even if I had not, it would have been too late to change,
+because the landau had already started. So in another moment, I was up,
+and he was tucking in the rug round me; and then we were off, bowling
+along at such a rate, and the air was delicious, and the sun was
+bright, and I felt as if I had never enjoyed anything so much in all my
+life.
+
+The first part of the way, Mr. Derwentwater was rather silent, and he
+seemed to have to attend a good deal to his horse. Then he began to
+brighten up, and to make little jokes; and May and Jack kept turning
+round to laugh. When we saw the landau ahead, I wondered whether
+perhaps Mr. Derwentwater would be sorry that he had not Millicent with
+him. But instead of seeming sorry, he grew merrier than before, and
+laughed quite loud, and leant over to tuck in the rug round me afresh,
+though it was all right;—and that was just at the moment when we were
+passing the landau. He took off his cap and bowed, but in a way as if
+he were almost too much occupied and interested in what we were saying
+to be able to attend to anything else. I could not help noticing all
+this; and I could not help feeling rather proud, because I knew quite
+well that I was looking and talking my best, and I liked them all to
+see it.
+
+Millicent was not looking "her" best, and she was not talking at all.
+She just moved her head a little, in a sort of indifferent "How do you
+do?" to us both. Perhaps, after all, she liked being in the landau, I
+thought, quite as well as she would have liked being in the dog-cart.
+Millicent is so odd and old in her ways, not like other girls of
+twenty-one. From her face at that moment, I really could believe—or
+almost believe—that she wanted nothing different. To be sure, she
+looked rather pale and dull, but that is her way.
+
+For a little distance, we kept in front of the landau, not going nearly
+so fast as before. And presently we dropped behind it again; I did not
+know why, and I was rather sorry. I said to Mr. Derwentwater,—"Wouldn't
+it be nice to get ahead?"—But I don't think he can have heard me,
+because he made no answer. He had been rather absent and silent while
+we were in front. But after we dropped behind, he brightened up again,
+and seemed full of fun. He and I talked any amount. And I could see
+Millicent watching us quietly, from her seat in the landau, with her
+back to the horses, not an atom as if she cared.
+
+We all reached the castle at very much the same time. The horses and
+carriages went off to the village, to be put up; and Mr. Derwentwater
+drove the dog-cart there, and most of the other gentlemen disappeared
+too, in the same direction. When they were all gone, May Collins and I
+rambled about the ruin, which is not much of a place after all, only it
+is pretty.
+
+And presently I came across Millicent, unpacking the baskets of
+provisions. She always seems to do that sort of thing, as a matter
+of course, though really there was no need; for it was the Collins'
+picnic, not the Farrars'.
+
+May Collins had just left me.
+
+And I said to Millicent,—"Why don't you leave all that, and come for a
+stroll?"
+
+She looked up at me very slowly, in such a curious way,—I didn't
+understand, and I don't understand, what she meant. It was not
+anger,—not exactly,—but more as if I had done her a wrong, and she were
+trying hard to forgive me. That was the sort of feeling that came;—but
+what nonsense! Of course there is no "wrong" in the question,—how can
+there be? She would not take the choice, when it was offered her; and
+why should not I?
+
+"Come, I wouldn't bother with those stupid baskets. Somebody else can
+unpack them."
+
+"If everybody said so, they might have to wait long enough. You will
+not think them stupid when tea-time has arrived."
+
+"But it is Mrs. Collins' picnic, not yours. Come, and take a look at
+the moat."
+
+No, she would not. She had seen it a hundred times, she said: and of
+course that was true, while it was all new to me. I think I would have
+stayed to help her, if she had not had that manner,—as if I had done
+her some injury. It made me feel uncomfortable, and I was glad to get
+away. Now I am sorry that I did not stay. It might have been kinder.
+
+The picnic tea itself was rather dull; for I was put down between two
+of the Rectory boys; and I did not care for them or they for me. They
+are such uninteresting boys,—at least, I think them so, though uncle
+Basil does call them "nice intelligent fellows,"—I mean, the elder
+ones, who are at home now for the holidays. I am sure the eldest, Jack,
+is about one of the plainest boys I have ever seen. He is very fond of
+Millicent, and that is his one good point.
+
+Mr. Derwentwater did almost nothing except wait on all the old ladies;
+and Millicent hardly said one single word from beginning to end of
+the meal. It lasted long enough. To be sure, her two neighbours were
+talking to their other two neighbours. But if I had been in Millicent's
+place, I would have found some way to remind them that I was there. I
+would not have sat like a dummy the whole time. However, nobody seemed
+to expect her to be any livelier; so perhaps that is her way at a
+picnic.
+
+When everybody had had enough, a discussion was started us to who
+should walk to the waterfall and who should not. Millicent was standing
+rather apart from us all; and I saw Mr. Derwentwater go and speak
+to her in a low tone. I could not hear what he said, but I saw that
+she shook her head; and then he spoke again, and she shook her head
+more decidedly. And he turned off quite sharply, as if he were rather
+disgusted, and came close to where I was standing.
+
+At the moment, I fancied that she must have told him she would not go
+to the waterfall. But it could not have been that, because when we all
+came together to start, Millicent was of our number. So they must have
+spoken about something else.
+
+At first, Millicent and I walked together, and she had very little to
+say. Things were not particularly cheerful. Then Mr. Collins joined
+us, and that was an improvement. And when he dropped off, I found Mr.
+Derwentwater in his place. He talked a great deal to me, and hardly
+at all to Millicent; and of course I could not help noticing this—who
+would not?
+
+In a little while, Millicent actually slipped away, leaving Mr.
+Derwentwater and me together. If she had really cared, she could not
+possibly have done such a thing. I had a glimpse of her walking with
+her brother Jack. After that, she vanished entirely, getting behind
+and Mr. Derwentwater was so interesting and amusing that I am afraid I
+forgot all about Millicent till we reached the waterfall, and then I
+heard somebody say,—
+
+"Millicent Farrars has gone back to the castle. She seems to be tired."
+
+Mr. Derwentwater gave a kind of little start, as if the words took him
+by surprise, though I don't know why they should. Anybody may be tired
+now and then. But I suppose he had fancied all the time that she was
+following behind us, as I had fancied. He went off into a dream, and
+said very little to anybody, till we got nearly back to the castle.
+And then he joined me again, and began to talk and laugh as merrily as
+ever. And Millicent was sitting on the bank, outside the ruin, and of
+course she saw us. But she didn't seem to mind, any more than he did.
+
+I forgot to say that the waterfall was nothing much in itself, a tiny
+trickle of water, with pretty rocks and trees around. I did not think
+it worth much; only the going and the coming were worth a great deal to
+me.
+
+When the time came near for starting on our way home, I began to wonder
+whether Mr. Derwentwater would propose that Millicent and I should
+change places, and I did dread the thought. I wanted—oh, so much—to
+drive back in the same way, up on the front seat of the dog-cart,
+beside Mr. Derwentwater, instead of in that stupid big open carriage,
+with no one worth talking to. It seemed "such" a difference. And
+Mr. Derwentwater said nothing at all. So I began to wonder whether,
+perhaps, I ought to propose it; and I didn't really see that I needed
+to do that. Why should I? It was the very last chance I should have of
+anything half so delightful. So I said nothing at all, but just left
+things to settle themselves.
+
+Then, only a few minutes before the start was to be made, Jack Farrars
+came to me. He is a big awkward fellow, about sixteen or seventeen
+years old, without a scrap of good looks, just like all the Farrars
+boys. And he said,—
+
+"I say, do you know if Millie is to go home in the dog-cart?"
+
+"I have not heard anything about it."
+
+"Don't tell Millicent that I am asking,—" and he dropped his voice—"but
+I do wish she could. Driving backwards always makes her awfully seedy,
+you know; and she wasn't good for much at starting, to begin with. I
+thought perhaps—if you knew—"
+
+"'I' haven't got to arrange things," I said; and I felt cross.
+
+"Only perhaps you might offer—" Jack suggested, as if he were asking me
+to give up nothing at all.
+
+"Millicent had the chance first, and she wouldn't take it."
+
+"The chance! What chance?"
+
+"Why, to go in the dog-cart. I know she had, and she would not choose."
+
+"Millie always thinks of other people before herself; she's so awfully
+unselfish," said Jack; though I am pretty sure that was not the real
+reason. "But if you could just manage it for her, you know—"
+
+"I'm quite sure Millicent wouldn't like me to interfere. She hates to
+be interfered with."
+
+Jack opened his eyes rather wide. "I don't see what interference has to
+do with it," he said in a puzzled voice. "I'm only asking you to do her
+a kindness."
+
+"She mightn't think it a kindness."
+
+"Oh, but she would! I can tell you that," Jack answered readily enough.
+"She would like it of all things. Of course she would."
+
+"Well, I'll see what I can do. I'll say something." It seemed the only
+way to get rid of Jack. "I'll ask Mr. Derwentwater."
+
+And then I walked off, and I was angry with myself for having promised,
+because I did not see why I must do such a thing only just to please
+Jack, when I was so looking forward to the drive. But I had promised,
+and so of course I had to speak. I put it off till the very last
+moment. And then, when Mr. Derwentwater came to call me to take my
+seat, I said,—
+
+"Wouldn't Millicent like to go in the dog-cart for a change?"
+
+A little flash passed over his face. I wondered if it meant that he was
+pleased with me for proposing such a thing.
+
+"Has Millicent said that she would like it?"
+
+"O no. Not Millicent. She hasn't said anything at all. It was not
+Millicent,—only Jack. It was Jack's notion; and so I said I would ask
+you."
+
+"If Millicent wished it herself—" And then he broke off, and walked to
+the dog-cart, as if everything were settled.
+
+Millicent was getting into the other carriage at that very moment; and
+I did not see that I could do any more,—or at all events, I did not
+feel inclined. Jack stood close to the dog-cart, and I saw his face
+fall, when I came up with Mr. Derwentwater. He was looking earnestly
+at me, but I did not look at him, though of course I could not help
+seeing. I suppose I might have said rather more; perhaps I might even
+have insisted. But why should I? If Millicent did not care, and if Mr.
+Derwentwater liked to have me with him—
+
+Did he really like it? I keep asking myself that question, and I cannot
+find any certain answer. Am I very silly to think that perhaps he did?
+He was so very kind and nice and pleasant all the way home. It was a
+delightful drive. I have never enjoyed anything like it in all my life
+before. Shall I ever have anything like it again?
+
+We did not go fast most of the way, but kept behind the landau, not
+far off; and he and I had any amount of fun. Only, I rather wished he
+would not keep just there, because I could see Millicent's face, and
+she looked so white. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, I thought of
+what Jack had said, and wondered whether I ought to try again to bring
+about a change. But it would have made such a fuss; and how could I
+be sure that Millicent would like it? And the drive was so perfectly
+delightful,—the simple fact is, I could not do anything of the sort.
+It was out of the question. So I would not think; and I tried all I
+could not to see Millicent's face; and I talked and laughed as much as
+possible, so as to forget about her. Mr. Derwentwater seemed very much
+amused with some of the things I said.
+
+Jack was sitting with his back to us, talking to May Collins; and of
+course he could not see Millicent as I could. He did not say anything
+more to me about her. I wonder what he thought! But I don't see that
+it matters. And at all events, I kept my promise, and spoke to Mr.
+Derwentwater. I was not bound to do any more than that.
+
+When we reached the garden-gate and Mr. Derwentwater was helping me
+down, he said,—"I must look in to say good-bye to you, before you go."
+And he gave me such a kind squeeze of the hand.
+
+I saw Millicent looking at us both from in front,—straight at us, not
+as if she cared in the very least. But Jack turned half round, and
+stared at Mr. Derwentwater and me, as if we were wild beasts.
+
+Well,—what does it matter?
+
+I wonder if he will come in to-morrow.
+
+
+                                     _August 31st, Evening._
+
+Mr. Derwentwater has not been all day. Will he come at all?
+
+He meant to come, I know, because he said so.
+
+It does seem strange to me that I should be thinking of him all the
+time, when I am going home,—and even longing not to have to go just
+yet. I was so miserable at having to leave home; and now I would give
+anything to stay here a little longer.
+
+Mr. Derwentwater will be at the Park for three or four more days. If
+only something would put off my journey for those three or four days!
+But I am afraid there is no chance, not the very least in the world.
+Unless I were to tumble down and sprain my ankle, or something of that
+sort,—but such things never happen when one would really like them to
+happen. And everything is settled, and of course I must not even seem
+to want to put off going.
+
+
+                                     _September 1st, Evening._
+
+Mr. Derwentwater looked in this afternoon for five minutes, just when
+he might have known that I should be away at the Sunday-school. I told
+him I had a class there, and he seemed quite interested. Aunt Marian
+supposes that he did not recollect, but it seems odd. She says he "left
+a polite message," asking her to say good-bye to me, and hoping that
+some day I should find my way again to Wayatford.
+
+It did not sound much, said in aunt Marian's quiet voice, with no
+particular expression. And I was so dreadfully disappointed to have
+missed him that all in a moment my face flushed up, and before I knew
+what was coming, my eyes were quite full of tears,—so full that it was
+all I could do to hold them back from falling.
+
+Aunt Marian gave me one look, and then looked away, and that showed me
+that she saw. But I don't think I cared. I didn't seem to care much
+about anything, except that I had missed seeing him.
+
+"If only I had not been to the school to-day!" I heard the choke in my
+own voice, so she must have heard it too.
+
+"My dear, what reason had you for not going?"
+
+"No reason at all,—only—if I had stayed at home, I should have seen Mr.
+Derwentwater."
+
+"Would not that have been neglecting a plain duty for the sake of a
+very unimportant little pleasure?"
+
+It did not look unimportant to me; but how could I expect her to
+understand?
+
+"I should have liked to say good-bye—of course—"
+
+And then I slipped away, and up in my room I had a good cry. I knew I
+should make my eyes red, and everybody would notice it. But nothing
+seemed to matter, except that I was going away, and that I had missed
+my last chance of seeing Mr. Derwentwater once more, and that it might
+be years and years before I should ever see him again. I felt perfectly
+miserable.
+
+Perhaps by the time we do meet again, he will have forgotten all about
+me. But I shall never forget him—Never! Never! Never! And to-morrow I
+go home. I do mean to be good and patient, when little worries come,
+and to be a comfort to my mother, but somehow since Thursday, the
+"spring" seems to have gone out of the thought of home-life. I cannot
+think why it should.
+
+One happy day ought not to make everything else seem dull and stupid,
+but that is just what Thursday has done. I feel as if I would give
+anything in the world to have those lovely drives over again, the
+going and the coming home. And I am quite perfectly sure that if I had
+the choice of going, or of letting Millicent go, I should do exactly
+the same over again. I could not and I would not give up,—no, not for
+anything.
+
+I wonder if this is wrong.
+
+Well, I cannot help it. I cannot feel differently.
+
+Only one thing I must be careful about. I must not let my mother see
+that I feel dull about getting home, and seeing her again. She would be
+so pained. So I must seem to be delighted, whatever I feel. Perhaps,
+when I am among them all, I shall feel just as I ought.
+
+I cannot help being thankful that the girls will not be there, to spy
+out everything that I feel, and to imagine all sorts of things that are
+not true. If once they guessed, I should have no more peace in life.
+
+Aunt Marian must have seen that I had been crying, because my eyes
+always show it for such a long while after, and bathing only makes them
+worse. People in stories can weep for an hour, and then just wash their
+eyes and come downstairs, and nobody ever guesses that anything has
+gone wrong. But when I cry for ten minutes, I am an object for the next
+three hours.
+
+If only I could know exactly what Mr. Derwentwater said to her, and
+what she said to him, this afternoon! Did she tell him about any of
+my home troubles, and why I had come here? She might do so, if she
+wants him to care for Millicent so very much as I know she does care.
+She might think it her duty to tell him,—for his own sake, of course,
+she would say. If only I knew! And did she say to him that I have a
+"pussy-cat face?" And would he agree with her? I don't believe he
+would. I am quite sure he does not feel about me as she does.
+
+And yet aunt Marian is very kind, and she seems sorry to be saying
+good-bye. If I had not overheard that one little bit of talk, I could
+think she was really fond of me. But if she were, she could not
+possibly have spoken in such a way.
+
+
+                                     _September 2nd, Late at night._
+
+I am at home again, and I have had the lovingest welcome from my
+mother. She seems so very glad to have me once more. I could hate
+myself for not being every inch as glad as she is. But all the while,
+I seem to be living through and through last Thursday, remembering
+all that was said and done, and trying to find out exactly what each
+thing meant, and wondering what passed between him and aunt Marian, and
+puzzling over why he did not come to say good-bye at a time when he
+would have been likely to find me indoors.
+
+Nothing drove these thoughts away, not even seeing Clarissa's beautiful
+presents, and her wedding dress. I tried to admire everything, and to
+seem pleased,—and all the time it felt so awfully flat and dull, I
+hardly knew how to bear myself.
+
+This morning before I left, aunt Marian said, "I hope you are going to
+act like a brave girl, Rhoda, and to be your mother's great comfort."
+
+Her words about my face darted up in a moment, and still more the
+feeling that I did not know what she might have said to set Mr.
+Derwentwater against me. And I could not answer as I saw she wished.
+
+"There won't be any need to be brave now. Things will be different,—and
+easier."
+
+"There will be differences. I am not so sure about the ease."
+
+"'I' am sure," I said. "Things can't be the same, with Clarissa and
+Juliet away. There will not be anything to vex me."
+
+I suppose she saw that I was not in the mood to be talked to, and so
+she said no more. And I was glad: because, after what I had overheard
+her say, I did not choose aunt Marian to lecture me about my home
+duties. I don't see the need. I know well enough what they are, and
+what I ought to do. It is not a question of "knowing," at all. The
+difficulty is, when one knows, to do what one ought to do; and nothing
+she can say will make any difference. What will make a difference is
+Clarissa and Juliet being away.
+
+I said good-bye to Millicent yesterday,—rather a cold good-bye, though
+I am sure I do not know why it should be so. I have not done Millicent
+any harm. We spoke of writing, but did not settle who should send
+the first letter. I don't believe I shall feel inclined to write to
+her in a very great hurry. If I thought she would tell me about Mr.
+Derwentwater, that would make all the difference, but of course she
+will not. And I don't care for anything else.
+
+Is Millicent jealous of me, I wonder,—jealous, because Mr. Derwentwater
+liked to be with me, and perhaps even seemed rather to admire my face?
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+_A NEW PHASE OF LIFE._
+
+                           _September 7th, Saturday._
+
+ON Wednesday was the wedding, and it went off all right. Clarissa
+really did look rather handsome, and I do not dislike her husband.
+He seemed to me a little dull,—at least, in comparison with "some"
+men; but that is only to be expected. He looks good-natured; and I
+am sure Clarissa would never get on happily with any man who was not
+good-natured. They went off straight to Paris. And aunt Jessie and
+Juliet have been desperately busy, packing up all Clarissa's presents
+and possessions.
+
+Yesterday the two went to Bath together. A small furnished house has
+been taken,—very small, they say,—and we are to move into it next
+week. Juliet will help us to settle in before she goes north with aunt
+Jessie. Nothing will induce her to stay any longer with us, either here
+or in Bath. "Better not" is the most she will say. And if I ask her,
+"Why not?" she makes no answer. I know perfectly well what she means;
+and it is fearfully hard not to be angry. For of course all the while
+she means "me."
+
+Mother is very tired and worn-out, and terribly anxious about my
+father. Nobody knows exactly when he will arrive, but I suppose it
+might be almost any time. His letters have been so strange lately—so
+confused and unlike his usual way of writing, Mother says. She does
+not know what to make of it, but she is afraid that the doctors do not
+think well of him. He has never even told her the name of the ship in
+which he has taken his passage. In one letter he began to tell, and
+left a gap for the name, as if he could not remember it at the moment,
+and the gap had not been filled up. Anybody might very easily forget
+to put in a word, but my father has always been so business-like and
+methodical, that my mother is worried to see anything of the kind. We
+fancy a telegram will come suddenly, and tell us that the ship is in,
+and that we may expect him in a few hours. The worst of it is that he
+does not know our Bath address, and he will telegraph to Alresford.
+If we knew his ship, we could send or telegraph to meet him on its
+arrival. All this worries Mother very much.
+
+I do not think she even notices that I feel downhearted and dull. She
+is so wrapped up in her anxiety about him.
+
+
+                           _September 14th, Saturday._
+
+We are in the new house,—such a horrid poky little place. It is in
+the ugliest of back streets; and the dining-room is a mere cell, and
+looks upon a hideous blank wall; and the drawing-room is only a tiny
+scrap bigger. And the bedrooms are simply awful. The only decent one
+among them is that which my father and mother must have. The twins are
+in a minute hole at the top of the house; and mine is smaller still
+and opens into theirs. They are to be my charge now, for we have only
+one servant, a maid-of-all-work. Of course she will have very little
+spare time for the children; and I find "I" am expected to wash them,
+and dress them, and look after them, as well as to do no end of things
+besides in the house.
+
+A good many children of their age,—nearly eight—would do lots for
+themselves, but they are so babyish and helpless still, and so
+fearfully spoilt. Juliet has spoilt them, and I shall reap the benefit.
+
+Juliet has gone away from Bath to-day, with aunt Jessie; and last
+night she gave me a long lecture on my duties. She really has worked
+hard, and has been very kind the last few days, so I had to endure it.
+She said I ought to understand clearly how much would be depending on
+me. And then she explained what things the servant would be able to
+undertake, and what would be left for my share. Not only washing and
+dressing the children, and walking out with them, and giving them their
+lessons, and mending their clothes as well as my own, but helping to
+make all the beds, every morning, and dusting the drawing-room, and a
+whole heap of fidgets besides.
+
+She did her best to give me a fright about my mother. She said Mother
+was so delicate that if I were to let her do much, she would soon
+breakdown altogether; and that if I did not undertake these things, my
+mother would have to do them, because now there would be nobody else.
+Juliet need not have said in the tone she did, "Now there will be
+nobody else!" as if she meant, "You have driven me away, and so you may
+take the consequences!" Perhaps she did not really mean that, but it
+certainly sounded like it.
+
+Of course I intend to do my best, and I do not intend to let my mother
+do more than she ought, but all the same, Juliet need not try to
+frighten me for nothing, or to make me unhappy. If she only knew it, I
+am quite unhappy enough already.
+
+And, after all, though I mean to do my duty, there are limits to what
+one can be expected to get through. I cannot possibly undertake the
+whole work of this house. I think we ought to keep a second servant;
+and I believe we should, if Juliet had not put it into Mother's head
+that we might do without. I don't see why it should not be afforded.
+Other people afford it, and why should not we? Of course we are not
+rich, but I don't believe that we are so poor as that would amount to.
+My father must surely have laid by some money in all these years. I
+know he has had losses, and he has not done well in coffee—and being in
+that sort of thing is so different from being in the Civil Service, but
+still I do feel that things might be managed better.
+
+When I used to think how delightful it would be to live with my mother
+and the twins alone, I must say I did not expect this kind of life.
+I begin to realise now what it means, and I do not like the prospect
+at all. The thought of nobody else at hand to do things, if I forget,
+rather frightens me. I do not love work of that sort—teaching, and
+mending, and looking after spoilt children, and dusting, and making
+beds. Who would? I am afraid I detest it all. And though I have not
+always felt inclined for practising, yet I do not like the idea of
+having no time for it at all. I should not like to sink into a mere
+useful drudge.
+
+But the worst of the whole is the feeling of how much will depend upon
+me: the feeling that if I am a little lazy or disinclined, and leave
+something or other undone, there will be only my mother to do it. That
+is horrid. Tiresome as Juliet is in some ways, still she was always
+"there," and she never minded what she did. And now there will be
+nobody.
+
+I begin almost to wish already that Juliet would come back and live
+with us again. But I would not for the world have anybody guess what I
+feel.
+
+The one thought that keeps me up is that aunt Marian means me to pay
+her another visit some day. I know she does, because Mother quoted
+a few words from aunt Marian's letter to her a few days ago. I hope
+Juliet will not go and get herself married too; for I do not see how I
+could ever get away, as things are now, if Juliet wasn't able to come
+and take my place sometimes. I fancy she will not mind doing that now
+and then.
+
+Mother did not show me the letter, as I thought perhaps she would. I
+saw her looking thoughtful over it. Somehow, I felt perfectly sure that
+aunt Marian had told her about Mr. Derwentwater, and it made my face
+burn for hours after.
+
+
+                           _September 18th, Wednesday._
+
+It does not take long to settle into a furnished house; and we have
+fallen already into a certain routine. I have to work awfully hard:
+there is no choice. If I leave a single thing undone, which is supposed
+to fall to my share, Mother says not a word, but just goes and does it
+herself. And that makes me miserable, because she really is not fit to
+do anything, except to take care of herself.
+
+It is no use to remonstrate, and ask why Mary can't for once do an
+extra thing without any fuss. Mother always says, "She has not time, my
+dear." She would have time if she were quicker, and had the least bit
+of method in her work. But she is the slowest of slow mortals, with no
+memory, or plan; and she seems to spend her whole time in a muddle.
+
+I never knew before what it would be to have no one to see to things,
+as Juliet always did, or what a difference it would make.
+
+If only I did not feel so fearfully dull and flat and stupid, as I do!
+I try to get over it, but trying does not seem to do an atom of good.
+
+Sometimes I find my mother watching me, as if she were trying to read
+what is in my mind. And then again I wonder what aunt Marian may have
+said to her.
+
+It seems an age since I left Wayatford. It might be ever so many
+months, instead of only a few days. The days are so long and slow.
+
+Mother has spoken several times about Millicent. She saw her years ago,
+last time she was in England; and she liked Millicent then very much.
+"Nothing would please me more than that you and Millicent should be
+friends," she said, yesterday evening. "Your first letters were very
+full of her, Rhoda."
+
+"Oh, yes, I think we are friends. I suppose we are."
+
+"You like her, do you not?"
+
+"Oh, yes, I like her—very much,—only, of course—"
+
+Mother waited, but I did not finish.
+
+"From all I hear, she must be a really good unselfish girl."
+
+"Oh, she is good enough," I said; and I heard a sort of fractious sound
+in my own voice. "She is almost too perfect. That is her fault. She
+never does anything wrong. And I don't believe she cares a scrap what
+happens, or what doesn't happen. And she is so queer and silent and
+shut-up,—so unlike other girls."
+
+"That might be very high praise," Mother remarked, smiling a little.
+"Only you do not mean it for praise."
+
+"Oh, she is nice enough. Aunt Marian thinks there is nobody in the
+world like Millicent. And perhaps there is not,—though I should
+not like everybody to be exactly like her, I must say." And I felt
+desperately inclined to burst out crying,—it was all I could do to hold
+myself in.
+
+My mother said nothing more, but I thought she saw.
+
+
+                                     _September 19th, Thursday._
+
+We have been wondering how soon news would come of my father. And
+to-day all at once, he appeared with no warning at all, and no telegram
+beforehand. It did startle us.
+
+Mother and I were doing a little work together, some of the twins'
+mending; and the twins were having a game in the next room. It rained
+hard, so I could not take them out for a walk. And all at once, when we
+had sat for some minutes without speaking, my mother said,—
+
+"I think the change to Wayatford has done you good in some ways. You
+seem older, on the whole."
+
+I had just been thinking about Wayatford, dear Wayatford;—so it was
+curious that she should speak just then of the place. But, to be sure,
+I always am thinking about Wayatford.
+
+"I feel years and years older."
+
+"What makes you feel so?"
+
+"Oh, I don't know." I felt my colour getting up, because I suppose that
+was not strictly true; and yet what else could one say?—"People must
+grow older in time."
+
+"And you are fond of your aunt Marian?"
+
+"Yes,—I am fond of her,—only she does say such odd things sometimes,
+Mother." And then I came out with what I have been meaning to ask ever
+since I got home:—
+
+"Mother, have I really a 'pussy-cat face'?"
+
+She laughed at first, and then wanted to know what made me fancy any
+such thing.
+
+"I heard aunt Marian say so. She did not know I heard her; and she did
+not mean me to hear."
+
+"What a pity you listened!"
+
+"But I was just coming in at the door behind the screen. Aunt Marian
+did not see me; and of course I could not tell that she was talking
+secrets. I suppose she thought the door was shut. Have I a 'pussy-cat
+face'?"
+
+Mother looked at me, smiling faintly, as if she were studying what I
+was like.
+
+"It is a pretty little face," she said—"very much improved lately, I
+think. Bounded small-featured faces are sometimes to be described in
+that way, when perhaps they have not very much character or expression.
+But—"
+
+"Have I no expression or character?" I cried indignantly.
+
+"My dear, I did not say that. You would not allow me to finish. I was
+going to say that a mother is hardly a fair judge. Your face is very
+dear to me; and it could not be otherwise, even if—"
+
+"Even if it were ugly!"
+
+"I did not mean that. A child's face can hardly be ugly to her mother.
+But as to character and expression, you are not developed yet. I think,
+perhaps—"
+
+"Yes!" I said impatiently.
+
+"People's faces strike others so differently, I should not myself have
+described yours as exactly in the pussy-cat style,—but—"
+
+She made another pause.
+
+"But—what? Did you ever hear anybody else say the same thing of me?
+Clarissa or Juliet?"
+
+She was silent, and I knew she would have said "No," if she could.
+
+"Juliet, of course!"
+
+"Not in any unkind sense, my dear. People must be free to form and
+express their own opinions. I think Juliet did once use the word, but
+it was not so much as to your features. It was as to expression."
+
+"And you think that makes it any better!"
+
+Mother looked at me in surprise. "Expression may alter," she said
+gently.
+
+"And you agreed with Juliet!"
+
+"There was no need to agree or disagree. I saw what she had in her
+mind. Sometimes you have a self-satisfied look—rather—when you are bent
+on proving yourself at all hazards to be in the right. And I suppose—"
+with a little laugh—"that no face is ever more entirely self-satisfied
+than a pussy-cat's face. But that is a thing which may be got over."
+
+"I don't see how."
+
+Mother actually said, in her softest tone, "My dear child, leave off
+'thinking' yourself always in the right."
+
+"But I don't. Of course I am in the wrong sometimes."
+
+"Then leave off behaving as if you did think so. When you are in the
+wrong, or when you have made a blunder, allow the fact frankly. It is
+so much more graceful, than always to stand out for whatever you have
+happened to assert, merely because you have asserted it."
+
+I had that horrid feeling again of being so desperately inclined for
+a thorough good cry. For I am quite sure "somebody" never thought me
+conceited and self-satisfied.
+
+Mother certainly can say rather hard things sometimes, even though she
+is so really gentle and loving. I suppose she does it for my good, but
+I wish—I wish—oh, I hardly know what I wish. I only feel very very
+very—as if—as if—
+
+How stupid of me to write like this! And I have ever so much more to
+tell.
+
+Mother had just said that, and I was going to answer her as soon as I
+could manage my voice, when a cab drove up to the door, and she gave
+such a start. She turned as white as paper.
+
+"Rhoda,—see!" she gasped. "I do believe it is he!"
+
+And the odd thing is that for one moment I did not understand. I could
+not think what she meant. When she said "he," she, of course, had my
+father in her mind. But the idea which flashed into my mind was not of
+my father, but of Mr. Derwentwater.
+
+It is perfectly extraordinary how fast one can think. For, in that
+single moment, I had time to remember that my mother was not supposed
+to know anything particular about him, and to wonder whether most
+likely, after all, she "did" know, and to wonder how much she knew. I
+felt myself turn as red as she had turned white, and I sat and stared
+at her, not able to make up my mind what I ought to say.
+
+"Quick! Come! It is your father."
+
+And then I understood. And oh, it was such a dead blank.
+
+But I jumped up, and ran out after her. And I found her in the arms
+of a tall grey-haired man with a thin drawn stern face, at least, not
+exactly stern, but so unhappy. Not in the very smallest degree like the
+father I have always pictured to myself.
+
+Are things ever like what one has pictured them beforehand?
+
+The twins raced out together, on hearing the stir; and then they turned
+shy, and would not kiss him. He had given me one hasty kiss, just
+saying carelessly, "Is this Rhoda?" And then he dragged himself into
+the drawing-room, leaning on Mother's shoulder, and dropped into the
+biggest easy-chair.
+
+Mother told me to take away the twins, and to pay the cabman. And when
+I came back again—though I felt very much inclined to stay out of the
+room altogether—she was seated by him, with her hand in his; and I
+heard her say softly, "Poor dear! So altered. How ill you must have
+been!"
+
+"Who is that?" he asked sharply, in a loud voice, when I walked in. It
+sounded as if he were quite angry.
+
+"Only Rhoda, dear. I want you to have a good look at Rhoda, and see if
+she has grown like what you have been expecting. Rather different from
+the small child you saw last, is she not?"
+
+Mother tried to smile, but her voice shook, and I could see that she
+was trembling all over.
+
+My father only gave a kind of uneasy groan, and dropped his head on his
+hands.
+
+"He is so tired," Mother said, turning to me, "so very tired with his
+long journey. He never thought of telegraphing, and he went all the way
+to Alresford; and then he had to come on all the way here. You see, he
+had quite forgotten that he did not give us the name of his steamer."
+
+"My dear, it is rubbish! I 'did!'" came in a growl.
+
+"If you did, how very stupid I must have been," my mother began, but I
+burst out indignantly,—
+
+"Mother! Of course we never had the name."
+
+"You thought you had sent it, did you not, dear?" she went on, turning
+again to him. "And you felt so sure. But I have been feeling quite at
+a loss what to do. We sent directions to Alresford that if a telegram
+arrived, it was to be at once forwarded here. Only, you were so busy,
+you forgot to telegraph, did you not?"
+
+It was almost as if she were talking to a child. She went on so for
+some minutes, and my father seemed to be listening.
+
+"You have got into a very uncomfortable sort of hole here," he said
+suddenly.
+
+"Oh, I think we shall do very well," Mother answered. "And Bath is a
+pretty place. I am sure you will like it, dear."
+
+He leant his head on his hand, and said nothing. And I felt quite
+provoked: it was so unkind to Mother, and she looked so upset.
+
+"We shall do all we possibly can to make everything nice and
+comfortable for you," she said, her voice quavering. "And in a little
+while, when you are better—"
+
+"I shall never be any better!"
+
+Mother's face was all in a quiver, as well as her voice, yet she kept
+on smiling.
+
+"In a little while, I think you will. When you have had plenty of rest,
+and have seen a good doctor. I am sure the change will do you good."
+
+"Where are you going?" he asked sharply, as she stood up.
+
+"Only just—for a minute or two—something that I must see to," she said.
+And I was certain from her face that she "had" to go, because she could
+not keep up a moment longer. "Just for a minute, and Rhoda will talk to
+you till I come back."
+
+She beckoned me to her seat. "Not for long," she whispered.
+
+And I felt so scared, I could not help whispering back, "'Please,' not
+long."
+
+Mother vanished, and I sat by his side, feeling desperately
+uncomfortable, without a notion what to talk about.
+
+"Where is your mother gone?"
+
+"She is coming back directly, in a minute, father." And then in
+despair, "Do you think the twins are much altered?"
+
+"The twins? Where are they?"—as if it were quite a new idea.
+
+"Mother thought you would be tired, and so I took them away. And they
+are rather shy, too. They will soon remember you again, I dare say."
+
+"Remember!" And he looked at me in an odd fixed way, as if he were
+trying hard to understand. I wished my mother would come back.
+
+"I don't think they quite forget," I said, trying not to let my voice
+shake too, though he did not seem to notice anything of the kind in
+either of us. "It isn't very long since you saw them?"
+
+"Well; no," he said slowly. "I suppose not." And then he got up.
+
+"Won't you wait till Mother comes back?"
+
+"Where is your mother? I am going after her."
+
+I thought he would find her crying, and I said, "Oh, do wait please. I
+fancy she is busy."
+
+But he went straight off into the passage, without paying the least
+attention to what I said, and stood looking about him.
+
+And Mother came running downstairs quite lightly, with tears actually
+on her cheeks, and yet with a smile.
+
+"Do you want me, dear? I thought I heard you moving."
+
+"Yes; I wanted you," he said. "I wanted you."
+
+Mother put her hand on his arm, and led him back into the room. He sat
+down with a satisfied air, and rested his head against her. And the
+next thing we knew was that he had dropped sound asleep.
+
+Then I came away up here, for I did not see that I could do much good
+downstairs. The twins promised me to be good and quiet with their dolls
+in the dining-room. And I am writing in my journal, because I do not
+know how to settle down to anything else.
+
+Was my father like this when he was at home last? I have no very clear
+recollections, but I have always fancied him as kind and merry and full
+of fun. It seems extraordinary. Has he had any great trouble lately?
+But how could he, without my mother knowing about it?
+
+Perhaps he is only tired, and vexed to have gone all the way to
+Alresford for nothing. At any rate, I hope—
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+_UNDER THE YOKE._
+
+                                     _Same Evening, later._
+
+OH, I wish Juliet were here! If only Juliet were here! How "shall" we
+manage?
+
+I was called off from my writing by Addie. The child seemed scared, and
+she said I must go to Mother. And I ran downstairs, and found Mother
+looking like a ghost, begging and imploring my father not to go out for
+a walk in the dark and wet. It was just dark, and pouring with rain
+still, and very cold. He seemed as if he could not keep quiet or settle
+down to anything. He was not unkind to Mother, only persistent.
+
+But when I tried to help her, and said: "O no, father; of course you
+must not go out. You must stay and tell us all about your voyage."—He
+"did" speak to me in such a tone! I have never been spoken to in such a
+way before.
+
+I felt myself turn perfectly scarlet. And Mother put her hand on his
+arm, and said,—"O don't, dear!"
+
+And then he ordered me off again,—exactly as he might have ordered a
+dog out of his way.
+
+Of course I could not stand that. I gave Mother a look, and just walked
+straight out of the room into the next. My being there was no good.
+And after a minute, I heard the front door bang, and Mother came into
+the room where I was, and sat down, and burst into such an agony of
+crying,—as if her heart were almost broken. I never saw anything like
+it before!
+
+And I did not know what to do, or what to say. I was angry at the way
+he had treated me; and I could not tell how to comfort her. If Juliet
+had been here, she would have known what to do; for somehow Juliet is
+never at a loss. I have never wanted Juliet so much in all my life
+before!
+
+"Mother, what does it mean?" I asked at length. "Is he always like
+this? What makes him so angry?"
+
+"Oh, no, no!" she gasped. "Oh, never! My poor dear! Never like this
+before!"
+
+"But what does it mean? If he is going to say such things to me—"
+
+Mother tried hard to smother her tears.
+
+"Rhoda—listen—" she said in a very low voice, as if she could hardly
+get out the words, "listen! He cannot help it. It is not his fault. He
+does not know. It is illness. And we have to bear patiently, very very
+patiently! He isn't the least aware. Like this!—Oh, never—always the
+kindest and sweetest temper. But he is ill—he cannot help it!"
+
+"Will he always be so?" I felt awfully dismayed.
+
+"I hope not; I trust not." And she sobbed again. "Poor dear! So
+changed; so unlike himself."
+
+"But what are we to do? How are we to manage?"
+
+Mother sat up with such a brave smile.
+
+"We shall manage," she said. "Things will be better in a day or two,
+when he is more at home, and when he has got over the fatigue of his
+journey. It seems so to have upset him, to get to Alverton, and to find
+none of us there. I must give up all my time to him now, until he is
+stronger. The great matter is to keep him quiet and soothed, to avoid
+whatever might excite him, or irritate him. So the doctors said out
+there."
+
+"I really don't see that anything I said ought to have irritated him."
+
+"Not if he were in good health!"
+
+"But people are not always like that, Mother, when they are out of
+health."
+
+Mother looked anxiously at me. "No," she said. "It depends on the kind
+of ill-health. It is not a question of ordinary ill-health. I do not
+think you quite understand yet."
+
+"I don't think I do!" I said, shortly enough.
+
+Mother got up and shut the door, as if she were afraid of being
+overheard. Then she began to explain. She said she had been fearing
+something of this kind; only things seem to be even worse than she had
+feared. She would not say anything to me earlier, because she so hoped
+that he might arrive a great deal better for the voyage. He has been
+very unlike himself for a long while; and she has noticed a difference
+in his letters, as well as hearing from friends about him. He has been
+for months so restless and nervous and irritable.
+
+That would be nothing, Mother said, in a fidgety bad-tempered person,
+because it would be only natural. But in any one so sweet-tempered and
+placid as my father has always been, it is not natural; and everybody
+who knows him well has felt uneasy.
+
+The doctors believe that he must have had something of a sunstroke,
+when he was travelling alone, just after my mother left him to come
+home. He was ill, and he only saw a very second-rate "up-country"
+doctor, and he had nobody to take care of him. And he has never been
+really well since, though for a long while Mother had not the least
+idea of how things were.
+
+Mother says sunstroke often does leave mischief behind, especially in a
+case like this, when proper care has not been taken, and hard work has
+been begun again too soon. Whether it really is just the effect of a
+neglected sunstroke, or whether it is a breakdown from long overwork,
+nobody is quite sure. Only he is ordered to have perfect rest, and no
+worries, and no over-fatigue, and nothing to excite or irritate him.
+Mother repeated this two or three times, as if she thought I might be
+the one to excite him. But I am sure I do not know why I should. Of
+course, now I know that it is a matter of illness, that makes all the
+difference; and I intend to bear with his ways patiently.
+
+Still, whatever is the cause, it does seem rather dreadful. I thought
+there would be a little peace at last; and this looks like anything but
+peace.
+
+If Juliet were with us, I should not have such a horrid feeling of
+nobody to turn to, when things go wrong. I mean if mother wants help.
+
+My father did not come home for a good two hours. Then he was much less
+excited, and soaked through, and awfully tired. And Mother has been in
+such a state of anxiety, looking out for him. If this sort of thing
+goes on, she will soon breakdown herself; and then what "shall" I do?
+
+
+                                     _September 23rd, Monday._
+
+In a kind of way, my father has settled down and is more quiet than
+he was on the first evening. But he is still fearfully restless and
+excitable. The least thing makes him angry; and he never can be happy
+for one single minute when he is indoors, unless Mother is by his side.
+He does not care to have me; it is always Mother that he wants. He goes
+out for long long walks alone, and will not have anybody with him;—at
+least, I suppose he would have Mother, if she could walk any distance,
+which she cannot. But since he cannot have her, he goes alone.
+
+Mother does as she said she meant to do; she just devotes herself to
+him. How she stands it, I cannot imagine, for she has not a moment's
+respite, except when he is out walking, and hardly even then; for if
+he is out of sight she seems to live in terror, lest something should
+happen to him before he gets back.
+
+I have enough to do in looking after the twins, and the house; for my
+father is desperately particular, and he spies out in a moment if a
+single thing is forgotten, and is down upon me, ten times as sharply as
+ever the girls were. And if I say one word in self-defence, he is so
+angry that the whole household hears of it.
+
+As for helping my mother with him, even if I had time, which I have
+not, I could not do it. He positively frightens me; and besides, I do
+not think he takes to me at all. It seems an odd thing to say of one's
+father, but he positively sometimes seems to have a dislike to me. It
+is not "my" fault. I have really done my best to take things patiently.
+He never shows the least sign of affection, and is so awfully vexed
+with every single thing that I do or don't do. Often I do not know how
+to bear it: and if it were not for Mother, I could not bear it much
+longer. But if I do anything to make him angry, Mother is the one to
+suffer: and I live in fear of her breaking down under all she has to
+do. And so I try, as hard as I can, not to vex him.
+
+Sometimes he will play with the twins for a short time and look almost
+happy, but it never lasts. The restlessness is sure to come on again,
+in a few minutes; and only Mother can manage him then,—not always even
+she!
+
+Yesterday I asked her if Juliet knew how things were. She said, "No,
+not entirely. Your father does not like his health to be discussed."
+
+"If she knew, perhaps she would come!" I could not resist saying.
+
+"To pay us a visit! Not so soon."
+
+"To live with us, Mother."
+
+Mother looked surprised at the idea. "O, no, never again! That is an
+understood thing. The girls always said that if once they left me after
+my return, and began a home with aunt Jessie, it would be a permanent
+arrangement. Juliet could not possibly throw her over now, merely for
+our convenience. All that is at an end."
+
+"But Juliet is so fond of you. And if she knew that you wanted
+her—really—"
+
+"She would not come. It is out of the question."
+
+"Not even for a few weeks?"
+
+"Some day, perhaps. Not now, certainly. And even if I would ask it, and
+if she were willing, your father would not consent."
+
+"I thought he was so fond of Clarissa and Juliet."
+
+"Very fond of them as nieces. If he had come home, and had found Juliet
+in the house, he would have looked upon her as one of us; and I dare
+say she could have done a good deal with him. But now he looks upon her
+as an outsider, and he shrinks from outsiders. Do you not see it for
+yourself?"
+
+"I don't see why he should."
+
+"There may be no particular reason why, but he does. I suppose he is
+conscious of not being fully himself—" Mother caught herself up in a
+kind of frightened way; "I mean—conscious of not being in his usual
+condition. He cannot control his moods, and he feels ill, and he does
+not like to be watched. If I wished ever so much to send now for
+Juliet, he would not let me."
+
+"Don't you wish it?"
+
+"For my own sake, yes. It would be the greatest possible comfort. But
+for other reasons, no."
+
+"For what reasons?"
+
+"After all that has passed, I could not." And she blushed faintly.
+"Could 'you,' Rhoda?"
+
+"I don't know. I don't see how we are to manage."
+
+"We must manage, and you must be very brave and patient, and help me."
+
+There was not one word of blame to me, though all the time it is my
+fault that she has not Juliet with her now. It is all my fault, and she
+has to bear the punishment as well as I. That seems so unfair. I wanted
+to tell her how sorry I was, and how I would give anything to undo the
+past. But somehow I could not say the words. I seemed to be tongue-tied.
+
+How long can things go on like this?
+
+All through these worries I keep thinking about those happy peaceful
+weeks at Wayatford. Such a contrast! And oh, how I long to hear
+something from somebody about them all, about especially—oh, I suppose
+I ought not to write what I was going to say!
+
+That happy happy wonderful Thursday! Shall I ever spend such a day
+again in all my life?
+
+Shall I ever see him, or hear of him again? And does he ever think of
+me, ever so much as remember that I exist? Oh, I think—I do think—
+
+Well, I must not go on like this. What is the use?
+
+
+                                     _September 25th, Wednesday._
+
+I have written a long letter to Millicent. I did not know how to
+wait any longer, feeling so cut off from them all. Will she write in
+answer? I have begged her to do so, and to tell me everything about
+"everybody!" But will she?
+
+Now that I am away from Millicent, I know how really and truly fond of
+her I have grown. It seems so silly that I should ever have doubted it:
+or that I should have been so often vexed with her about such utterly
+foolish things. As if she were obliged to talk to me in just exactly
+the way that I wanted, and to tell me what she thought and felt! It was
+too absurd of me. I wish I could live those few weeks over again. Dear
+Millicent! If only "I" could go instead of my letter!
+
+
+                                     _October 8th, Tuesday._
+
+A letter at last from Millicent! I do think she might have written
+sooner. I have been looking out for it, oh, so anxiously! And now
+it has come, it tells me nothing; that is to say, nothing that I
+particularly want to know. She goes on chit-chatting through four pages
+all about themselves, and uncle and aunt, and the Parish,—in fact,
+every single thing that I do not care to know, and not one word about
+what I long to hear. But I might have expected this beforehand.
+
+
+                                     _October 16th, Wednesday._
+
+It seems as if I had been years and years in Bath, and it feels as if
+we had been living this sort of life for months and months.
+
+I get utterly out of heart with it often. It is such endless work and
+worry, and yet nothing is ever right. Whatever I do, my father is never
+by any chance pleased. Mother says that is a part of his illness;
+yet he does not seem precisely "ill," only so fidgety and restless.
+Besides he is not the same with Mother. He may and does speak sharply
+sometimes, even to her; but he is so affectionate, and never quite
+happy unless she is by his side, while to me he is not affectionate. It
+seems as if the very sight of my face worried him.
+
+If it were not for my mother,—but she is getting so thin and pale; yet
+she never gives in, never complains. She just slaves for him. And he
+never sees if she is not well. He is perfectly absorbed in himself; at
+least, he seems to be so.
+
+I suppose he is just a little better in health lately in some ways, not
+so easily tired as when he first came home. But Mother does not think
+him better, and certainly he is quite as irritable. Things are all but
+unbearable on some days.
+
+Yesterday I told Mother so, when he had flown out at me about nothing
+at all. And she said,—
+
+"But, dear Rhoda, things have to be borne."
+
+"I'm pretty well at the end of my patience," I said. "It is perfectly
+miserable."
+
+Mother sighed. "Yet you have your wish. The girls are not here."
+
+"But if I had known 'this' was coming—"
+
+"Yes; you would have acted differently. Only we never do know. You and
+I do not know now. The only thing is to do just that which God gives us
+to do,—not that which we ourselves would like best. And then there will
+not be self-reproaches, whatever may come."
+
+Then my mother has seen that I do reproach myself.
+
+"Of course one ought always to do one's duty," I said. "Everybody is
+always telling one that. I do not see that it makes things any easier.
+It is just the duty part which is so hard."
+
+"Yes, if there is not love!" A curious soft look came into her
+eyes,—such tired eyes lately.
+
+"I suppose I love him, of course, because he is my father. Only it is
+not as if I had always really known him."
+
+"I did not mean love to him. I was thinking about that word duty? One
+has to remember one's duty, and to do it. But I think when the love to
+our dear Lord takes its right place, one does not dwell so much upon
+mere dry duty, as duty. It 'is' duty; but it looks so different—so much
+more beautiful and attractive—when it is just the doing whatever He
+wishes us to do. That cannot be so very hard when one really loves Him."
+
+I did not know what to say, for I am quite sure I have not the sort of
+love she meant—not the sort of love which makes hard things easy. I
+want to do right, and I am sorry when I have done wrong, but it is in a
+different sort of way from that. I wish I cared more, and felt more, as
+Mother does. But I cannot make myself do it. How can I?
+
+It seems to me now as if the only thing I really care for is to hear
+something more from Wayatford. Not about Millicent, or about my uncle
+and aunt, but about—
+
+Shall I ever hear anything again?
+
+And of course I care also about saving my mother trouble. I am so
+terribly afraid of her breaking down, afraid for her sake, and also for
+the sake of everybody. What should we do?
+
+Life seems awfully hard to live just now. Aunt Marian was right enough.
+Things are not easier than they were. They are infinitely harder. When
+I look back to those months, and to getting so vexed with the girls, it
+does look to me now as if I had made a very great fuss about nothing.
+If I had guessed what was coming, I would—oh, I would have borne or
+done anything, to have kept Juliet with us. If she were here, she would
+be able to manage my father, and to have everything different.
+
+I can do nothing with him. He will often hardly let me say a word.
+Mother says my manner is irritating, because I am always ready to
+argue. But how can I help it? One must defend oneself sometimes! He is
+so fearfully unjust to me,—often I do not know how to endure it.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+_EXCEEDINGLY HORRID._
+
+                                     _October 24th, Thursday._
+
+TO-DAY, for once, my mother and I have had a quiet talk,—and if I could
+have guessed what Mother would say, I would have gone anywhere to have
+escaped it.
+
+But it is all aunt Marian's fault. I shall never never forgive aunt
+Marian.
+
+An old Indian friend of my father's turned up, and took him off for a
+long ramble over the hills. And I made Mother lie down on the sofa, to
+get a little rest. The twins were playing in the tiny back garden, so
+we could be quiet. I did not mean to talk at all, but she seemed so
+disinclined to sleep that it was of no use for her to try. A few things
+were said, nothing particular, and then we were silent again.
+
+And all at once Mother asked—"How did you like this Mr. Derwentwater,
+of whom I hear so much?"
+
+My face flushed up scarlet, and I would have given anything to run
+away. But Mother was lying between me and the door, and I should have
+had to push past her.
+
+"Oh,—I liked him." I tried hard to speak indifferently.
+
+"I do not think you have mentioned his name to me; except, perhaps, in
+a passing way."
+
+"I dare say not."
+
+"Your aunt speaks of him. In her last letter."
+
+"What does she say?" I asked, rather fiercely.
+
+"She says he was a good deal in and out, while you were at Wayatford,
+the last fortnight particularly. And she supposes you will have told me
+all about it—and him."
+
+I did not know what to reply.
+
+"And she mentions that it was he who drove you to and from the ruin,
+in that excursion, just before you came home . . . Of course you would
+have told me, only your letter after the picnic was so hurried." Mother
+spoke as if she were apologising for me.
+
+"Yes. Oh, I didn't seem to have any time." I wished my face would not
+burn so furiously. "And I was coming home so soon—it didn't seem worth
+while to write a long letter. And then—when I got home—it was such a
+bustle—"
+
+"Yes!" Mother spoke quietly, and did not seem to mind, though all the
+time I had a feeling that she understood perfectly well. "And you found
+him pleasant?"
+
+"Yes—very—" and I went on working as fast as I possibly could.
+
+"Is he not intimate with the Farrars family? Your aunt used to think
+that he and Millicent—"
+
+Then my mother knew more than I had supposed.
+
+"I don't think 'that' will ever come to pass," I said hastily.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"I don't know. I don't believe it will." I was getting redder and
+redder. "He didn't even think her pretty." After a little break, I
+could not resist murmuring half to myself,—"'He' did not think I had a
+pussy-cat face."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"I know! One can tell that sort of thing pretty well!"
+
+She drew me on with more questions, letting her hand lie on mine, so
+that I could not go on working, and I had to attend.
+
+After all, I found it rather a relief to speak out, and to tell her
+how nice and kind he was, and how lunch I had enjoyed those drives
+on Thursday, and what fun we had had. And I told her about Millicent
+watching us, and not seeming in the least to care, and about Mr.
+Derwentwater meaning to see me again to say good-bye. "Only, it was so
+tiresome,—he happened to call just when I was out. I should so have
+liked to see him just once more. He was so nice! Everybody likes him."
+
+"Yes,—he is popular."
+
+"Aunt Marian thinks any amount of him. And aunt Marian is as particular
+as you are."
+
+"She likes to have young people about her; and she always makes them
+fond of her. Yes,—and I believe she is fond of him. Whether she has a
+very high opinion of his character—"
+
+"Oh, I know she has! I am perfectly sure she has."
+
+Mother's next words took me utterly by surprise. "And I suppose,
+dear,—I suppose it never so much as came into your head that he might
+be playing you off against Millicent, for a purpose,—that he might be
+trying to rouse her jealousy by paying attentions to you!"
+
+"Mother!!"
+
+But she repeated,—"I suppose you have never thought of such a thing as
+a possibility."
+
+"No, I haven't, and I don't!" I declared stormily. "It is not possible,
+and nothing shall ever make me think it possible. I don't believe it,
+and I never will believe it. Aunt Marian has been telling you a lot of
+untruths. I wonder you can listen to her!"
+
+Then I flung my work down, and rushed upstairs to my own room, and
+locked the door, and cried for a whole hour. Nobody came near me, and I
+left the rest of the world to take care of itself.
+
+After that, I had to go down; and I did not care in the least how red
+my eyes were. I thought Mother would see and be sorry. But she was too
+busy with my father to have any time for me; and the whole evening she
+has not been free for a single moment. I fancied that perhaps she would
+come to my room the last thing; but she could not be spared. My father
+was in one of his most depressed states, tired out, I suppose, with
+walking too far. She only gave me a kiss, and said nothing. I do not
+even know how much she has noticed, or how much she knows or guesses.
+
+Now it is past twelve o'clock, and I do not feel as if sleep were a
+thing possible. I have been writing all this, to pass the time, and to
+see how it looked.
+
+I don't know what to think or what to believe. The very idea is too
+dreadful. I cannot and I will not believe such a thing to be true.
+Nothing shall ever make me believe it.
+
+And yet—what if it were true?
+
+But it is not. I don't believe it. He is not like that.
+
+Mother is not to blame. I am not going to be vexed with her. She only
+spoke because she was anxious about my happiness. It is all aunt
+Marian's fault; and I do not mean ever to forgive aunt Marian,—ever to
+like her again.
+
+Mother spoke of aunt Marian's "last letter." Has she heard again
+lately? I know she had one letter, soon after I came home. Was that the
+one, I wonder?
+
+Things seem very horrid, altogether!
+
+
+                                     _October 25th, Friday._
+
+I did not mean ever to speak again about Mr. Derwentwater to my mother,
+or to anybody. But nearly all night I was awake, thinking of what she
+had said; and all the morning I felt so wretched, I did not know how to
+bear myself. I am afraid I made other people wretched too, though of
+course I did not mean to do so.
+
+By the end of the afternoon, I could stand it no longer. My father went
+out to the post; and I was alone with my mother for a few minutes; so I
+burst out:—
+
+"What made you say that yesterday, Mother?"
+
+"I had reasons."
+
+"What reasons?"
+
+"Perhaps my best plan will be to let you see this letter," and she put
+one into my hand. It was in aunt Marian's writing. "Read it quietly up
+in your own room, not down here. I have been debating with myself, ever
+since it came, whether to show it to you or not."
+
+"Aunt Marian's meddling, I suppose!"
+
+Mother was just going to move away, and she stopped and looked at me.
+
+"No, not meddling! If you take things in that spirit, Rhoda, I shall
+regret having allowed you to see it. I thought I might treat you as a
+reasonable woman. You must remember that your aunt was responsible for
+you while you were there, and also answerable to me. Her reason for
+writing as she does is simply kind thought for your happiness. She has
+hesitated long, as you will see, but it did not seem to her right to
+say nothing under the circumstances. Whatever you may feel, I shall
+always feel that she was right to speak. Of course I am showing this
+to you in confidence. Aunt Marian does not forbid my doing so, but you
+must reckon it all to be confidential."
+
+Then she moved away, and I rushed upstairs—here; and I bolted the door
+before I would look at the letter.
+
+It is not the one which came directly after I returned home. The date
+is only four days old.
+
+In the beginning of it there is a good deal about me that is very kind,
+and even affectionate, hoping that I will go again some day for another
+visit, and saying how much I am missed, and so on. All that I skimmed,
+and then I came to the really important part; and I am going to copy it
+out word for word, so as never to forget. For I mean never in all my
+life to trust anybody again—never again!
+
+   "Rhoda will, of course, have told you about that Thursday excursion
+just before her return home, and about Ernest Derwentwater driving
+her in the dog-cart to and from the old ruin. She seemed a good deal
+excited and flattered—poor little woman!—and I have blamed myself since
+for want of caution in letting her be quite so much thrown with him.
+
+   "You see, I have always looked upon him as pretty well apportioned
+already, knowing as I do what he feels for Millicent. And Rhoda seems
+such a child still, one hardly thought of possible danger. The last
+day or two made me fear that she might be just a trifle touched by his
+pleasant ways. I am afraid the naughty fellow had a reason for making
+himself especially agreeable to her on that particular Thursday; and
+much as I like Ernest, I blame him exceedingly. There is no sort of
+excuse for him. To play off one girl for the sake of arousing feeling
+in another is unjustifiable.
+
+   "I do not accuse him of this without reason—that would be unjustifiable
+on my part. When he came to say good-bye, two or three days later, he
+spoke most despondingly about Millicent's coldness. And I said, 'But
+you have been comforting yourself with somebody else meantime.'
+
+   "He gave a start, and then laughed.
+
+   "'Rhoda is pretty, is she not?' I said.
+
+   "'Well, yes—perhaps—if she had not such an inordinately good opinion
+of herself,' he answered.
+
+   "'What made you drive her to the ruin instead of Millicent?' I asked.
+
+   "He said, 'Millicent would not show whether she cared a straw which
+way she went, or who was her companion.'
+
+   "'And so you thought you would stir up a spice of jealousy on her part.
+You might know Millicent better than to try such a plan. Have you
+gained any thing by it?'
+
+   "He shook his head.
+
+   "'No better than you deserve,' I said. 'You had no business to behave
+in such a way. Just imagine if you had done execution in another
+direction!'
+
+   "'What! That infant!'—and he went off into a peal of laughter.
+
+   "I really thought it best to say no more for Rhoda's sake, but to
+treat the matter as a joke. Otherwise, I would have told him much more
+plainly what I thought of his conduct.
+
+   "Only, poor little woman, it may not be altogether a joke to her; for
+I am afraid she 'might' have once or twice thought him a little in
+earnest. You see, she looks younger than she is! After long cogitation
+and much hesitating, I have determined to tell you all this quite
+frankly, neither omitting nor softening, and to leave the matter
+entirely in your hands. If Rhoda seems happy and heart-whole, the less
+said the better. She will soon forget any tiny fancy she may have felt
+for that foolish boy. But if you should see her to be dwelling on the
+recollection of him, and of his smooth speeches, then you will know
+what is best to be done. Girls are so different. One has to be treated
+in one way, and another in another way. Make any use or no use of what
+I have told you—precisely as you think best."
+
+I hardly know what I really felt on first reading this. It was like a
+kind of white-heat of fury. I was angry with Mr. Derwentwater, angry
+with Millicent, angry with aunt Marian—almost angry with my mother for
+showing me the letter—and yet I would not on any account "not" have
+seen it. I could not have wished to go on in a sort of fool's paradise.
+It was the horribly mortified feeling that was the worst of all.
+
+For about an hour, I did not know how to bear that. To think that
+he was all the time just playing with me, just using me for his own
+convenience, just looking upon me as a silly child—a vain silly
+stuck-up child! And to dare to say that I had an "inordinately good
+opinion" of myself!
+
+At first, I stormed about my room like a crazy thing; and I fumed and
+knocked things over. And then I cried; and then I fumed again. And then
+I began to think what to do. I wondered what my mother had said in
+answer to aunt Marian, and as I wondered, she came to the door, and I
+let her in.
+
+"Would you not like a turn in the garden, Rhoda?" I knew from her face
+how she had been all the while thinking about me, and longing to come.
+
+"Mother, there's nobody like you in all the world!" I cried, and I
+clung to her. "And I never mean to love anybody except you! And I never
+will trust anybody else again—never! Never!"
+
+"Well, there is no hurry, darling. What an untidy room!"
+
+"Oh, I'll put it straight. Mother, what did you say to aunt Marian? You
+didn't let her think—"
+
+"I did not say much. There was no need. I thanked her for writing
+openly; and I said that I thought Mr. Derwentwater had behaved very
+wrongly, but I was glad to be able to say that you had shown no
+particular interest in him since you came home."
+
+"Oh, that was—splendid!"
+
+"And now—" Mother stopped.
+
+"I think he is perfectly disgusting, and I am never going to like him
+again. To tell aunt Marian that I am conceited, and have too good an
+opinion of myself! I am much obliged to him!"
+
+Mother's face broke into a smile of relief.
+
+"That matters very little. People must be free to form their own
+opinions about others. And if 'that' is all you care for—"
+
+I almost exclaimed, "But it isn't!" And I stopped myself just in time.
+
+"Only, it was so horrid of him to go and make that sort of fuss with
+me, and to pretend that he liked me so much, when all the time, he just
+wanted Millicent!"
+
+"Yes, it was horrid of him—but never mind. The thing is over now."
+
+I let her say so, and did not contradict her. She did not ask for the
+letter, and I kept it, because I wanted to copy out part. I am so
+afraid I may forget, and may even begin to fancy again that perhaps he
+really did mean something. And if I just read the words once more when
+such a feeling comes, they will settle the matter.
+
+But the thing is not "over" yet, as Mother thought. Will it ever be
+over? I am very angry, very very angry, with Mr. Derwentwater—so
+angry that I should dearly love to do something to punish him, if
+only I could. Is that a wrong feeling? And yet—now and then, in the
+very middle of my anger, his face comes back to me, with that kind
+pleasant smile, and it seems, oh, it does seem, as if I would give
+up "anything," just to be in Millicent's place—just to know that he
+really cared for me, and wanted me to be with him—to be his. But it is
+nonsense writing all this. I suppose I ought not to let myself even
+think about him now. I ought to forget his very existence.
+
+Can one do that? Can one make oneself forget?
+
+
+                                     _October 28th, Monday._
+
+Life looks so awfully flat, so horribly dull! It seems as if nothing
+were worth doing—nothing worth thinking about. There is nothing to
+expect—nothing to look forward to! Will it always go on like this? Will
+nothing ever be bright again?
+
+Sometimes I feel desperately angry still with him, and those are the
+easiest times to get through. Sometimes I could sit down and cry for
+hours; and then I have not any spirit to be angry.
+
+Mother is so good and sweet! I know she sees everything, but she does
+not bother me with questions, or even with seeming to see. I am afraid
+I have been awfully cross to her and the twins, the last two or three
+days. It is desperately difficult not to be cross, when everything
+looks so hopeless. But of course that is no real reason, and no excuse
+at all. And Mother has enough to bear without that. My father gets
+worse and worse. I cannot think what we are coming to.
+
+Shall I ever feel again as I used to feel? But, anyhow, nobody must
+see. Nobody must guess,—except, of course, my mother. I do not think
+anything would blind her eyes. Nobody else must know!
+
+
+                                     _November 1st, Friday._
+
+I have come to a resolution! I will stop journalising. When I come to
+my room, and get out my journal, and begin to write, then things always
+seem worse, and life looks darker. I am going to be so busy as to leave
+no time for thinking; and I am not going to open my journal once for at
+least six months. After that—perhaps—but I shall see! As matters are
+now, I am sure this will be the wisest. Perhaps in six months, I shall
+have got a little over this horrible dreary sense of emptiness. Perhaps
+life will have begun to look a little brighter again. People say that
+one does in time get over that sort of trouble. I do not know. I cannot
+"feel" like getting over it!
+
+If only he had not spoken in such a way of me—I do not think I should
+mind anything else so much, but somehow I cannot get over that. And all
+the time I cannot help, in a sort of way, liking him still.
+
+And now I am going to stop.
+
+                 (_For six years no further entries._)
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+_AFTER SIX WHOLE YEARS._
+
+                               No. 7, HIGH STREET, WAYATFORD
+                                     _November 1st, 18—_
+
+EXACTLY six years to-day since last I wrote in this little old journal
+of mine. I had forgotten the thing utterly. It had gone out of my
+mind—pushed out, I suppose, as lesser interests are so often pushed
+out by greater ones. Odd that I should have come across it now,
+unexpectedly, just when we have settled into this new home, where
+everything seems still so strange, and yet so familiar.
+
+During the last six years, I have never once been to Wayatford, never
+once paid the second visit which was talked of, and which then I so
+longed for.
+
+Six years are a long while,—very long between the ages of eighteen and
+twenty-four. I seem to myself to be a century older than I was then.
+Six years between forty and fifty may not be very much, but between
+fifteen and twenty-five they are almost a short lifetime.
+
+One changes so utterly in one's ideas, in one's wishes, in one's
+tastes, in one's estimate of other people, in one's manner of judging
+and of looking upon things. What I admired six years ago, I often do
+not admire at all now; and what I despised six years ago, I can often
+now admire immensely—or, at all events, I can see its worth as I could
+not then.
+
+I have been reading my old journal, having stumbled upon it
+accidentally. There was a great pile of books to be looked through:
+lesson-books, copy-books, exercise-books. All this ought to have been
+done before we left Bath, but the move at the last was hurried, and
+some of the piles of books were thrown into a big box, not examined.
+Mother said she thought we ought to get rid of the more useless ones,
+so as not to be needlessly encumbered; and I chose the first wet day to
+overhaul them at leisure.
+
+And there, tied in a huge packet, with exercise-books on each side of
+it, was my poor old journal!
+
+After that, I could not make any further advance with the examining of
+other books. It was impossible. Mother had gone across to aunt Marian
+for the afternoon, and Juliet was writing letters downstairs, and the
+twins were at school. So I had the top room to myself; and I just sat
+down and read the whole thing through, from beginning to end.
+
+How glad I was that "I" had found it, and not somebody else; not
+Juliet, for instance, and above all, not mischievous Addie! And what a
+crazy thing of me to do, to leave it lying about among piles of books,
+for anybody to read that might feel inclined!
+
+Well, I have it safe now; and I shall either burn it, or put it in a
+very secure corner indeed. Perhaps I will keep it, for reading the
+old entries has started me off afresh. I almost think I will begin
+journalising again.
+
+Only, I hope not quite in the old style. What a conceited egoistical
+creature I was in those days! No wonder friends found me almost
+unbearable. No wonder people in general did not take to me. No wonder
+I drove the girls half crazy. No wonder Mr. Derwentwater said I had an
+inordinately good opinion of myself. The only wonder is that my mother
+did not find me unendurable too. But do mothers—ever? Mother-love can
+bear what no other love can bear.
+
+How little I dreamt, when I wrote those last words, of all that lay
+before us, the terrible pressure of the next two years especially. My
+small trouble seemed so great to me then, though now I can see how
+much more there was in it of wounded self-conceit than of any deeper
+feeling. I little dreamt how soon it was to be dwarfed, and even
+crushed out of existence.
+
+The one thing I wanted then was an easy comfortable life, a life in
+which I could please myself, and have my own way unhindered. And that
+was the very last thing which I was to be allowed to have.
+
+I think I can see the reason now—partly, at least. Looking back on
+what I was then, and seeing what my faults were, I do feel that
+just the kind of life which I wanted would have been the very worst
+thing in all the world that could have come to me. It would have fed
+the selfishness, and fostered the egoism, and made me more and more
+unendurable.
+
+There are many many things that I have not learnt yet, many things that
+I do not grasp at all clearly. I can feel that there is an enormous
+difference between my mother and me, and I wish I were more like her.
+Perhaps in time, I may grow so. But I have at least learnt one thing;
+and that is, that our life here is a training for the future, and that
+everything has an object and a meaning, even when one cannot possibly
+make out what the particular object and meaning are. And I think I have
+learnt too—or, at least, I have begun to learn—how little I really
+know, and how unutterably silly it is to be for ever giving one's
+opinion on every conceivable question, as if one's opinion were of the
+very smallest importance. I "used" to feel as if I knew something about
+everything.
+
+One of the sharpest and best lessons that ever came to me was seeing
+that letter of aunt Marian's about Mr. Derwentwater. I do not defend
+him; he was wrong, and he had no business to "play off" one girl
+against another. I do not respect him for doing it; and I never could
+respect any man who should be capable of such a thing. But all the same
+it was about the most wholesome thing that ever happened to me, and I
+am grateful to him, even while I dislike what he did. But for that, I
+might have gone on for years and years, never realising in the least
+what other people thought of me, or what a stuck-up conceited little
+affair I was. It gave my pride at the time a very sharp sting, and made
+me utterly miserable. But in the end, it did me, I am sure, a great
+deal more good than harm.
+
+How we lived through those two years following is a mystery to me. My
+father grew steadily worse, as the months went on. He consulted more
+than one first-rate doctor, ill as we could afford it; and the verdict
+was always a kind of reserved opinion: general failure of health, brain
+affected by long overstrain, and probably by a neglected sunstroke;
+nothing much to be done for him, beyond perfect rest and quiet, and
+absence of all worry and excitement. He was not to exert himself; he
+was not to be contradicted; he was to be kept as placid and happy as
+possible.
+
+No easy order to carry out, for me especially, an impulsive girl with
+very limited powers of self-control, long addicted to self-pleasing.
+Yet I "had" to learn. Self-defence, contradiction, argument,
+impatience, those things which were most of all characteristic of me,
+brought so heavy a penalty on my gentle Mother that I "had" to control
+myself for her sake. I had to bear injustice, to crush back the bitter
+words, to clench my hands and endure in silence. And I found that I
+could. One can bear much for the sake of those whom one loves with a
+real heart-love. It is when love is faint that bearing becomes so hard.
+
+I am not blaming my poor father. It was not "himself" all those months
+that was so irritable and unjust. He was not really himself. The
+state of intense brain-irritation made self-control to some extent
+an impossible matter, so the doctors said. He suffered sadly, not
+so much from actual pain as from a perfect misery of depression and
+restlessness and nervous excitement, and even of delusions.
+
+Juliet did not know how things were. My father utterly refused to have
+her, or anybody except ourselves in the house, even for a week. And
+Mother never wavered in her resolution not to make a convenient use
+of Juliet, after all that had passed. Since we had not made her happy
+among us in happier days,—since "I" had not, my mother ought to have
+said,—we could not appeal to her in need.
+
+I do not think Mother ever quite realised how sharp a rebuke to me
+those words carried. If she had, she would not have repeated them. It
+always seemed as if, in her gentle humble way, she somehow identified
+herself with me in the past failure.
+
+Once or twice Juliet proposed to pay us a visit, but my father was
+terribly upset and excited by the bare idea. And Mother always had to
+say that he was so "nervous," he could at present stand no visitors in
+the house. Juliet was puzzled, and I think rather hurt; and for a whole
+year, she scarcely wrote at all, or Clarissa either.
+
+And we went down lower, lower, into the shadows.
+
+How my mother bore the strain, I do not know. She seemed to have an
+unnatural strength given to her, at least for a time.
+
+We were short enough as to money. The girls knew that it must be so;
+and towards the end of the first year, they wrote offering to pay
+entirely for the twins' schooling. Mother did not refuse. She was
+most thankful, for this made us able to put them both into a boarding
+school. The house was hardly fit for children, in my father's state of
+irritation and depression; and Emmie was falling into a weakly nervous
+condition, which made us anxious.
+
+Getting them out of the house was better for them, and was worse for
+us. Johnnie, of course, was away too—only at home in the holidays; and
+there were no gleams of brightness to help us on.
+
+I suppose hardly anything could have so changed my very self as that
+second year did: the long long slow months creeping on, with nothing
+to lighten them, and my father getting always worse, and the perpetual
+fear of the strain being too much for my mother, and the kind of
+helpless feeling of having no one to turn to, no one to call in! It
+seemed to crush out every bit of childishness that remained in me, and
+to kill all the nonsense, and to make life so awfully real and earnest!
+
+Then at last, the thing I had dreaded most came upon other troubles. My
+mother suddenly broke down, and became very very ill.
+
+At first, I did not even think of Juliet. We had grown so into the way
+of going on alone, and of being unable to have friends in and out,
+because of my father's state, that it seemed as if I just had to go
+on still in the same way. A week passed somehow, I hardly know how. I
+had to nurse my mother with the help of our one good-natured and very
+stupid girl; and I had to look after my father and try to keep him
+from being utterly miserable. It was just a little comfort to find him
+turning to me when he could not turn to her. But he was ordered not to
+go into her room, and I found it impossible to keep him out, and the
+excitement made her worse. Then she was in danger; and in despair, I
+thought all at once of Juliet, and wrote off a hurried letter, telling
+her how things were.
+
+She came off by the very first train, arriving sooner than I could have
+thought possible. And oh, the comfort I never shall forget seeing her
+walk in, with her kind capable face, and her "Why, Rhoda, how is it
+that I was never told?" I just threw myself into her arms, with one
+great sob, and she held me, and kissed me, and whispered,—
+
+"You poor child. But things will be better now. Why did you not
+telegraph for me sooner?"
+
+The difference after she came! No words could describe it. The whole
+household seemed changed, and everything began to go rightly. She sent
+at once for a trained nurse for my mother; and she undertook my father
+chiefly herself, and managed him splendidly. He had always stood out
+against having any one in the house: yet he took to Juliet the very
+first moment, and never even showed a sign of vexation at seeing her,
+though I had expected a terrible storm, because I had written without
+his leave. Juliet had such a quiet cheerful "strong" way of never
+seeming to contradict, and yet of somehow making him do exactly what
+was best for him.
+
+Mother was ill for a long time. She had fought so hard against the
+breakdown that when at last it came, it went on for months. And Juliet
+would not leave us. She said her duty was plain, and aunt Jessie must
+do without her for a while. Juliet did not mind what she did, or how
+much she spent for my mother. Every kind of comfort was provided, and
+the best advice was procured, and the nurse was kept on month after
+month, I do not know what it did not cost; yet Juliet never allowed
+us to feel burdened. I cannot tell how she managed; only it was all
+done cheerfully and naturally, and she was delighted to be with Mother
+again. I felt then more than ever how selfish I had been to drive her
+away from the home she loved best: and I knew at last that she "had"
+loved it best, and that my mother was far more to her and Clarissa than
+ever aunt Jessie could be. No wonder. But why did I not understand
+sooner?
+
+When she came to us in our trouble, she put aside all the past, and
+never showed any signs of thinking about it. There was nothing in her
+manner to remind me of the way in which I had behaved to her. I told
+her one day how sorry I was. And she answered brightly:
+
+"Oh, well, that is all right now, and we know one another at last;
+don't we?"
+
+As the months went on, my father grew still worse, but in a different
+way. The irritation and restlessness were not so bad; and a kind of
+powerlessness crept over him, almost as if he had had a slight stroke,
+though I believe it was not that really, but only the brain disease
+going on. He grew more and more shaky, and he could not walk much, and
+then he took to sleeping a great deal, and he was less and less able
+to enter into anything like conversation. He could not collect his
+thoughts, or remember things, or follow out any fixed idea.
+
+By that time, we knew that there was no hope of any improvement, and
+that he would go steadily down until the end. Only it was a great
+comfort that he became more placid, not so terribly excited. He quite
+lost his dislike to me—if dislike is not too strong a word—and would
+let me sit with him as much as I wished; and gradually he became quiet
+and affectionate, almost like a child in his ways. And from that he
+passed slowly into a state when he did not know any of us, and could
+not say the simplest thing clearly, and had to be taken care of as if
+he had been a baby.
+
+When he began to grow helpless, Juliet insisted on engaging a capable
+man-servant to look after him. She said it would kill my mother to
+attempt again what she had done, and this was true enough. Juliet gave
+us no choice, so we had to submit. When Mother was really a great
+deal better, Juliet went back to aunt Jessie for a time, but she soon
+returned to us, and stayed long. And the house was always like a
+different place when she passed through the front door.
+
+Those foolish days, when I thought Juliet was against me, and when I
+wanted to get rid of her at almost any cost! Oh, what a little goose I
+was!
+
+Well, I am making a long story of the six years. But indeed they have
+seemed long, though no part of them has been such a terrible drag as
+the first two years.
+
+My father became slowly worse until about a year ago, when he passed
+quietly away. None of us could wish to keep him. For months before the
+end, he had ceased to know any one, and we all felt what a joy to him
+the release must be,—Mother most of all, because she loved him most.
+
+The Bath house was on our hands still for nearly another year; and
+my mother was too worn and shattered to be able at first to think of
+any change. All she wanted was to keep quiet. She and I passed months
+together, seeing almost nobody, except when Juliet came to stay with us.
+
+Then Clarissa paid us a week's visit and she tried to rouse us up. She
+declared that the life was bad for us both, and that we ought to go
+elsewhere, and start afresh. She frightened me by saying how thin my
+mother was, and how, if I didn't look-out, she would slip away out of
+our hands altogether.
+
+"Your mother is three-quarters an angel already, Rhoda," she said; "but
+we don't want her to become one entirely just yet!"
+
+I do not believe that we "do" become angels when we die. Angels are
+surely quite different from human beings. But people often say that
+sort of thing; and I have given up arguing with Clarissa. What is the
+use?
+
+About that time, aunt Marian wrote, much to the same purpose. She
+asked if we had ever thought of such a thing as living in Wayatford.
+A pretty little house in High Street, almost exactly across the road,
+was vacant, and the rent was low; and there was a good day-school near,
+which would do for the twins.
+
+Clarissa and Juliet both took up the idea; and I did not at all dislike
+it. I thought it would be nice to be near aunt Marian, and perhaps to
+see Millicent again, though I had heard nothing of her for a long time,
+and somehow our correspondence died a natural death years ago.
+
+So the plan came about, and everything was settled. Then the oddest
+thing happened. Aunt Jessie gave out that she was going to be married.
+
+Fancy—at her age!
+
+It was to be to a nice old widower, whom she had known many years. And
+Juliet was so curious about it. She laughed at first; and then she
+actually began to cry, and said she had no home.
+
+Mother said, "My dear!—" and stopped.
+
+And Juliet crept into Mother's arms, and whispered,—
+
+"Will you have me? Can we live together again? Could Rhoda put up with
+me?"
+
+"O Juliet! If you can put up with me!" I cried.
+
+And that too was arranged in less than half-an-hour. Juliet was staying
+with us when the news first came of aunt Jessie's engagement.
+
+We did not give up this little house, because it is so pretty and
+quaint, and it stands in such a nice garden, and the rooms are of a
+very good size. But Juliet has insisted on no end of improvements, and
+has even built an extra wing of two rooms.
+
+Then at last, we came, and here we have been now for nearly a fortnight.
+
+I have put all this into one entry, though I have not written it all in
+one day, because it is a sort of history of the last six years.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+_ABOUT THE PAST._
+
+                                     _November 7th, Saturday._
+
+MR. FARRARS is still the rector of Wayatford, and Millicent is still at
+home, still unmarried. He looks about the same as when I saw him last,
+only a good deal more grey and a little more inclined to stoop. But she
+looks—oh, so much older! Some girls at twenty-seven are quite young and
+girlish, but Millicent was hardly girlish even at twenty; and now she
+is so calm and grave and middle-aged, she might be taken for almost any
+age.
+
+There is a look in her face as if she had gone through a great deal,
+in one way or another. I wonder if she has. I wonder if she has gone
+through one half or one quarter so much as I have. I wonder if there is
+a look of that sort in "my" face, and if not, I wonder why not.
+
+Mr. Derwentwater's name has not once been mentioned by a single person
+since I came here; and somehow I have not cared to ask about him. I
+am always such a hand at blushing just when I ought not, and a stupid
+little self-conscious feeling might make me blush, if I asked; and then
+people might imagine that I had not quite forgotten the old stupid
+fancy. I would not have anybody think that for anything.
+
+Perhaps he is married by this time. It is very likely. If he found that
+he really had no hope of getting Millicent, it is not in the least
+likely that he would wait. I remember thinking that he might so easily
+put off for a few years, and wait till she should be free, till Amy
+should be old enough to manage the household. But men are not so fond
+of waiting; and now I begin to see what an amount of patience would be
+needed for such waiting,—now that these six long years have gone by. I
+seem to have lived through half a lifetime; and Millicent is losing all
+her girlishness, and is getting to look thin and plain and middle-aged;
+yet still Amy is only fourteen years old, a mere child, in short
+frocks, frisky and heedless.
+
+So I dare say I was a little hard upon him, thinking he might so very
+easily wait without minding it. Of course it would depend on the kind
+of love that he had for Millicent. I mean there is a kind of love which
+can wait, and which would choose to wait, any number of years, rather
+than lose her. But very few men love like that. Somehow I do not think
+Mr. Derwentwater is one of the few.
+
+Did he ever speak to Millicent, I wonder? Did he ask her to have him,
+and did she refuse? Or did he know that it was hopeless from her
+manner, and never say a word?
+
+Well, I suppose some day something about him will slip out, only not
+from Millicent. Nothing ever slips from Millicent; and she seems to
+me quite as reserved now as in her girlish days. Not that I have seen
+much of her yet. We are both a little shy, the one with the other, not
+exactly knowing whether to behave like friends or not. I do not think
+we have even said each other's names yet,—I mean in speaking one to the
+other.
+
+Aunt Marian is precisely the same that she was, not changed in the
+least, not worse in health, and not looking a day older. She is so
+delighted to have us all here, especially my mother. It is like a new
+life to her, she says; and I am sure it is doing Mother no end of good.
+
+We have the twins at home again now; and they go to a day-school. At
+seven years old, they were very much alike. But now at thirteen, they
+are becoming complete opposites. Addie is the dark one, her hair has
+changed so quickly, while Emmie's is still quite fair.
+
+Addie is thin and sprightly, and full of fun and mischief; while Emmie
+is shy and gentle, and rather plump, and much the prettiest. They and
+Amy Farrars have struck up a friendship at once.
+
+But Millicent and I are only on the footing of pleasant acquaintances.
+We meet sometimes, and we are polite and agreeable, not in the least
+confidential.
+
+Why, indeed, should we be?
+
+Wayatford does not feel dull to me now, or particularly slumbrous.
+Nothing, I suppose, could be especially dull after the life we have
+lived in Bath, where we really made no friends, because of my father's
+state. If we had had old friends, we should not have given them up, but
+to make new ones was a different matter.
+
+Several very nice people have called this week already, and to have
+uncle Basil and aunt Marian almost opposite our front gate is a
+perpetual interest.
+
+
+                                     _November 28th, Thursday._
+
+Millicent and I are drawing slowly together, finding it pleasant to
+exchange ideas. I think we begin to like one another more genuinely
+than ever in old days.
+
+I am often now struck with her quiet force of character, and her calm
+sensible way of looking upon things, and still more with her powers of
+mind. It is extraordinary how much she has managed to read in her busy
+life. But, after all, reading or not reading is very much a matter of
+will.
+
+Millicent says that from the age of fifteen she has always resolved not
+to let herself glide into the vacant state of many girls, who never
+from one year's end to another, look into any book except a novel.
+Reading has been her rest and delight; and even in her most crowded
+times, she has very very seldom allowed a whole day to pass without at
+least one quarter of an hour of it. All this of course mounts up in the
+course of years.
+
+Now and then, when she is talking of a favourite book, and her face
+brightens, and a little colour comes, the worn look of middle-age
+vanishes. And then I catch myself wondering whether, if Mr.
+Derwentwater were to see her at such a moment, he would not be just as
+much in love as ever.
+
+Has he forgotten her by this time? And where is he now? Since I came to
+Wayatford, not a human being has mentioned his name.
+
+His uncle, Mr. Collins, of the Park, died two years ago, and the
+property passed to a distant relative—not a person whom people here can
+like. So, in any case, I suppose Mr. Derwentwater's visits to the Park
+would cease.
+
+Still, if he really wished to come to Wayatford, he might of course
+manage it. There would surely be nothing to hinder him.
+
+
+                                     _December 4th, Wednesday._
+
+I have heard something at last, and from Millicent herself!
+
+Yesterday afternoon we were together. I had gone in to have tea with
+her, and she was alone. We sat over the fire, without a lamp, enjoying
+blind man's holiday. At such times, one can talk more freely than in
+full light. The fire was low, and one's face could not be seen; and
+something made me speak about my visit to Wayatford more than six
+years ago. I told Millicent that I often thought now what a horridly
+disagreeable girl she must have found me.
+
+Millicent paused, and answered slowly: "No, not horridly disagreeable.
+That is too strong. Sometimes, in certain moods, you could be taking.
+Only, you were so very sure of yourself—"
+
+"So conceited!"
+
+"I suppose it was a form of girlish conceit."
+
+"And—so desperately wrapped up in myself."
+
+"Yes, rather. It was a case of self dominant—the whole world for self,
+and self for nobody else."
+
+"But I didn't know it, Millicent."
+
+"No, of course not. Girls do not know it; or if they do, they don't see
+the unloveliness of it."
+
+Then, without any particular intention, I found myself saying quite
+naturally, "I always have thought it was such a 'thing' to do, that day
+of the excursion, to choose the best seat in the dog-cart, and to leave
+the other for you."
+
+"Why should it have been the best seat?" she asked. "And why should you
+not take it?"
+
+"Why, of course it was the best! Any one would have said so. And you
+had every right to it, and I had none. I was a mere interloper."
+
+"But suppose I did not wish to go in the dog-cart?"
+
+I looked at her dubiously.
+
+"The choice had been offered, and I would not take it. You were
+perfectly free to act as you pleased."
+
+"Perfectly free to be as selfish as I liked."
+
+Millicent sat gazing into the fire, and presently she stirred it, so
+that a bright flame sprang up. I could not understand her face.
+
+"I wonder—may I ask one thing? Don't answer if you would rather not. It
+has always been such a puzzle to me, thinking about that day. Did you
+really mind, or did you not?"
+
+"Did I really mind—what?"
+
+"Not driving in the dog-cart with Mr. Derwentwater, and all the rest?"
+
+There was another and a longer break.
+
+"I don't know why I should not tell you," Millicent said at length.
+"It is not as if you were a child now. And perhaps—yes, I did mind. I
+minded that, and all of it, very much indeed. It was part of the whole
+struggle, part of the pain. One has to live through such times, but
+they are not easy. And I was so young, and I had no one to help me."
+
+"I was no help."
+
+"No," and she looked at me sadly. "Just at first, I think I had a fancy
+that you might be, but that was soon at an end. If you had been then
+like what you are now, Rhoda—!"
+
+"Instead of being just utterly wrapped up in myself, as I was!"
+
+"Well, that is all over," she responded.
+
+"But, Millicent, you had aunt Marian."
+
+"I could not speak out to her. She knew him too well."
+
+"And there was no way—why could he not wait?"
+
+"I would never have consented."
+
+"And I made things worse for you!"
+
+"For the moment, perhaps." Tears were on Millicent's eyelashes. "If it
+had been earlier or later! But the fight just then was so hard, harder
+than any one knew. I was waking up when you came to what he really
+meant, and to what I really wished, and to what I had to do. I knew I
+could not be spared from home for years and years. And though I told
+myself that the thing was impossible, still it was hard to see him
+taken by you; and I thought you were trying to win him from me. Even
+though I knew I had to give him up, I did not quite know how to stand
+that. And yet for his sake, I ought to have been glad, if he could have
+cared for anybody else."
+
+I was startled at the flutter which those quiet words of Millicent
+sent through me. Then it had not been all fancy on my part! She too
+had thought that he was really "taken." And I—I have felt so sure that
+I had utterly left off caring; and yet those words made me thrill all
+over. How absurd! As if it mattered now!
+
+"But he never did care a straw for any one but you."
+
+She laughed faintly.
+
+"I think that was for years the ruling affection, but Ernest is of
+a susceptible nature. He is always easily caught by a pretty face.
+Perhaps I ought to say 'was.'"
+
+"Where is he now?"
+
+"Abroad. When he found that things were hopeless, he said he could
+stand England no longer. They were very good to him at the Bank,—old
+friends of his family; and they found him a post on the Continent for
+three years. I suppose the three years may be extended indefinitely."
+
+"When did he go?"
+
+"Nearly four years ago. I have heard nothing of him for a long while."
+
+"Then he did speak out to you! Am I wrong to ask?"
+
+"No; I don't mind telling you now. He spoke out, and even offered to
+wait indefinitely. Of course I would not consent. I left him perfectly
+free; and in a year, he was engaged."
+
+"Millicent!" I could have shrieked the word.
+
+"Why not? He had no hope of me. And, as I say, he was susceptible."
+
+"And he was married!"
+
+"No. She died of fever, three weeks before the wedding day. Poor
+fellow!"
+
+"He hasn't managed to find somebody else since?"
+
+"I don't know. I have heard nothing of him lately."
+
+"And, Millicent, you don't care!" I said wonderingly. "You don't really
+care!"
+
+She turned her face towards me, and spoke slowly. "There are different
+ways of caring. My line of life has always been so clear. But there are
+some losses which can never cease to be losses, and some troubles which
+can never be as if they had not existed. Don't you understand? I think
+it has killed my girlhood early. Still, I have work and happiness left.
+And if the other thing were not God's will for me, it is not my will
+for myself. I am perfectly content. Now I don't think we need say any
+more about it."
+
+"Suppose he came again!"
+
+"Suppose the stars fell!" she answered, smiling. "He is a young man
+still; and I am middle-aged, more like thirty-seven than twenty-seven!"
+
+"Oh, no!" slipped from me involuntarily; yet I have said the same thing
+to myself.
+
+Millicent would let me go no farther. She began to talk of other
+things, and his name was dropped. I know I shall not be allowed to
+bring it up again at present, and I must do what she wishes. But I do
+wonder—has he quite forgotten Millicent?
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+_WISE WORDS AND UNWISE DEEDS._
+
+                                     _February 10th, Monday._
+
+A BITTERLY cold winter, and Emmie is so delicate as to be a perpetual
+anxiety, while Addie is the very picture of health. But for Emmie, we
+should have just now almost no cares. Of course, there is much to look
+back upon that is sad, but our little home is very happy, and we are
+making pleasant friends. My mother has not looked so well for years.
+The single anxiety is Emmie; and she is just the one about whom we
+can be most anxious of all. She is so lovable and sweet, and such an
+unselfish little darling. Every one clings to Emmie.
+
+Must there be always something; always a shadow in one direction or
+another; always a weight of some kind; never perfect freedom? I asked
+this question of Millicent,—perhaps impatiently, for I had been feeling
+impatient.
+
+"Perfect 'here'? No. Things are not meant to be perfect here."
+
+"One would like a little rest sometimes."
+
+"But this is not our rest," she answered softly. "Rest by-and-by, not
+here, not now. This is the fighting-time, the preparation-time."
+
+That is how she feels, and Mother, and aunt Marian. But though I have
+learnt much in the last few years, somehow I cannot yet feel myself to
+be a mere bird of passage. Perhaps I love this life too well. It is
+so much to me that I am always wanting it to be more, always craving
+for perfection. I know well enough that perfection cannot be found in
+this world, that it would not be good for me, because then I should no
+longer look up and forward and beyond. And yet I crave for it.
+
+The teaching comes slowly, step by step. By-and-by, I shall learn more.
+Perhaps I shall learn to feel as Mother feels. One cannot force oneself
+into a different frame of mind; one can only be willing to be taught.
+
+And I suppose the teaching often has to come through sorrow. I suppose
+that is the "must be." There are things that one could not possibly
+learn in any other way; only through trouble and strain and loss.
+
+For our characters have to be formed, that I know. And it has to be
+through pressure, just as a potter presses the clay into shape with his
+hands. If there were no pressure, there would be no beautiful shapes.
+I suppose we are all being shaped, slowly, by means of a touch here, a
+weight there, sometimes a sudden sharp blow. All through our lifetime
+on earth, we are being gradually shaped and made fit for the life of
+by-and-by.
+
+Yes, I see it now. And I see, too, the need for self-discipline, the
+need to gain power over self, the need sometimes to say "No" to self
+even when it is not necessary, so that one may have strength to say
+"No" effectually when it "is" necessary. And I see how, if we will
+not do this, if we will not steadily fight to gain the mastery over
+ourselves, we have to be taken in hand and dealt with sharply, for
+the curing of those faults which we might have cured ourselves by
+self-discipline.
+
+I see all this in myself. I have seen the faults, through being yielded
+to, grow too tough for me to conquer. And then I have felt the sharp
+discipline; and I have understood the need, and yet often I have not
+been willing. Sometimes now I am not willing.
+
+It is one thing to understand that one is in need of disagreeable
+medicine, and quite another thing to be willing to take it, still more
+to accept it joyfully.
+
+As years go on, I suppose that too becomes easier.
+
+
+                                     _February 16th, Sunday._
+
+Another thought has come to me about life's troubles and tangles.
+
+Things often seem so upside-down, so confused, so exactly as one would
+not choose them to be. And then the temptation arises to wonder why
+they are so, why God does not interfere and arrange differently, and
+make all straight and smooth for us. If He loved us, surely He might,
+surely He "would," when it must be so easy to Him.
+
+And yet all the while, it may be just because He so loves us that
+He does not put things straight. It may be just because their
+being crooked is needful, perhaps as a test, perhaps to draw out
+something in our characters which could not be drawn out in any other
+way,—absolutely "could not!"
+
+I often think of a little talk I had once, years and years ago, with
+Millicent. She told me that one could not possibly be patient unless
+there were something which might make one impatient. She said that if
+all one's life were smooth, and everything were just as one liked, one
+might be comfortable and contented and good-tempered, but not patient.
+For patience meant endurance, and endurance meant something which had
+to be endured.
+
+I did not fully see it then, but I see it now. Patience is an active
+virtue, not a passive one. It means bearing up against a strain; it
+means very often hard fighting below.
+
+And I suppose the same thing is true in other directions also. One
+cannot be truly good-tempered, unless there is something to be overcome
+which would naturally make one ill-tempered; one cannot be truly
+brave, unless there is something to be overcome which might naturally
+render one cowardly; one cannot be truly self-denying, unless there is
+something to be given up which would please self; one cannot in any way
+be truly victor, except through some kind of battling.
+
+Something in Mr. Farrars' sermon to-day has set me thinking in this
+way. He spoke of our Lord's life upon earth; and of how the trials
+and temptations and sorrows which beset Him were, if one may so say,
+partly for the perfecting of His human Character. He was made perfect
+through suffering. These things drew out or developed into active life
+those perfections which were "in" Him, but which could not have been
+manifested in any other way.
+
+And Mr. Farrars said that in any of us there might be the "germs" of
+patience, of self-conquest, of self-sacrifice, implanted there by God;
+but that it was only through action, through having to fight against
+the opposite tendency, that the germs could be developed into active
+life, and could be seen by all around.
+
+It is a wonderful thought to me that every trial, and every opposition,
+and every temptation, which may come, is really meant for a help
+heavenward. That every pull in the wrong direction is actually an
+opportunity for a step in the right direction.
+
+If only I could keep it always before my eyes! I think I do see now
+what Mr. Farrars meant, but one's impressions fade so fast. To-day I
+feel that it might be the worst thing in the world for me to have my
+life made smooth and placid and easy; to-morrow, as likely as not,
+the impulse will come again to fret and be discontented because life
+"cannot" be easy and smooth.
+
+
+                                     _March 16th, Sunday._
+
+I have been reading through the last entry, and thinking seriously
+about it. On Sundays, if possible, I always try to get a quiet hour, or
+at least half-an-hour, to read and think all alone.
+
+What I wrote that day was true enough.
+
+This life only the threshold of the great Life beyond. Yes, indeed.
+It is only the schoolroom preparation-time, the testing-time, the
+training-time. And it does not truly matter in the very least whether
+or no we have what we want, but only whether we are doing exactly what
+we are meant to do, whether we are carrying out God's will and letting
+Him work His will in us unhindered.
+
+That is the main point,—whether we do not "hinder" Him in what He would
+do in us, and with us, and through us.
+
+Some people care so very much about whether they are "comfortable."
+One often hears it said as an excuse, "Oh, I don't like to be
+uncomfortable!" But isn't that childish? What does it signify whether
+we are comfortable or uncomfortable, so long as we are doing rightly,
+and not merely pleasing ourselves?
+
+That is how one ought to feel, and I think it is how I do feel about
+the question as a whole, in the abstract. But when the abstract comes
+down to the particular, when it isn't a matter of the general question,
+but of doing or not doing one particular thing, then I am apt to fail,
+just like other people.
+
+For pleasing God must mean self-denial, self-forgetfulness,
+self-effacement! And these things are hardest of all.
+
+The word "self-effacement" seems so perfectly to describe my mother
+and Millicent. Mother has always been ready to "efface" herself to
+any amount for the sake of others, for the sake of her husband and
+children especially. And in quite another way, Millicent lives a life
+of practical self-effacement. Both are beautiful.
+
+This afternoon, I have taken a resolution to make that my rule of
+life: to live for the happiness of others; to be careless whether I am
+comfortable or not, so that only I am doing God's will; to strive after
+a spirit of self-effacement, so far as the pleasing of self goes; to
+take happiness, when it comes, straight from the Hand of God, willing
+any moment to let it go; to take sorrow, when it comes, in the same
+way, straight from His hand, willing to keep it so long as He wills.
+
+The very thought of such a life is like having a little glimpse into
+the Beyond.
+
+I do not at present see any "great" way in which I shall be able to
+sacrifice myself for others. But I must try to find little ways. And
+perhaps they will be a rehearsal for something greater by-and-by.
+
+
+                                     _March 18th, Tuesday._
+
+It isn't easy! I thought it would be so much easier. How one's
+resolutions do fail! But I mean to fight on.
+
+
+                                     _March 19th, Wednesday._
+
+Clarissa wants me soon to spend a month with her in Town. She is not
+very well; and Mr. Griffith—somehow I never can call him "John," though
+he is my cousin—has to go abroad. Clarissa does not like to leave the
+children, besides feeling unequal to travelling. So she asks me to be
+her companion, and I am delighted. I am to go just before Easter.
+
+
+                                     _April 21st, Monday._
+
+I have been here now for nearly a fortnight.
+
+Clarissa is perfectly charming as a hostess. I never knew before how
+nice she could be. All these years, I have only stayed with her twice
+for three or four days, and it is two years since the last time. She
+and I fit in together so much better now.
+
+She is so handsome that I am quite proud of her; and she thinks of
+everything, and just lays herself out to give people pleasure.
+
+She is not very strong, and gets easily tired, but she has found
+friends to take me about. The last few days have been quite a rush of
+sight-seeing. I do not half like leaving her so much, as I am here to
+be her companion. She gives me no choice, however.
+
+
+                                     _April 22nd, Tuesday._
+
+Such an unexpected thing has happened to-day!
+
+I was alone in the drawing-room after lunch. Clarissa had gone to lie
+down, and the children were off for their walk, and I had been out the
+whole morning so I meant to have part of the afternoon indoors. And all
+at once, when I was comfortably tucked into a corner of the sofa, with
+book and work, the door opened, and Richards announced—
+
+"Mr. Derwentwater!"
+
+I don't think I blushed. I don't think I felt anything very particular
+at the first moment, beyond a sort of bewildered surprise. I stood up,
+and Mr. Derwentwater came in, bowing.
+
+And Richards said, glancing towards me,—
+
+"I will tell Mrs. Griffith, sir. She is upstairs, I believe."
+
+"Mrs. Griffith has gone to lie down," I said, stupidly enough; for
+Clarissa hates nothing so much as any manner of fuss about her health.
+
+I was noting how much he is altered—grown older and thinner, browner
+and graver. Also, he had no beard in those days, and now he has one.
+If I had not heard the name, I should hardly at the first glance have
+recognised him. And I suppose I am still more altered. People often
+tell me how much I have changed.
+
+"Pray do not disturb Mrs. Griffith on any account. I will leave my
+card, and call again," Mr. Derwentwater said earnestly.
+
+But Richards knew better than to listen to any such proposal.
+
+[Illustration: The door opened, and
+ Richards announced—"Mr. Derwentwater!"]
+
+We were left alone together, and he gave me a very puzzled look, as if
+vaguely aware that he ought to be able to claim acquaintance. I did not
+exactly help him. I sat down, asked him to do the same, and remarked in
+a careless way, "It is a long while since we met last. What a cold wind
+there is to-day."
+
+"Very cold. Yes—I beg your pardon—I was sure I must have seen you here
+before."
+
+"Here! No, I think not."
+
+"Then—elsewhere."
+
+"A long while ago, when I was a child. You would not remember me, of
+course. And I should not have known you but for the sound of your name."
+
+"Then we must have met at—"
+
+He made a pause, quite in the dark still, hoping that I would supply a
+name.
+
+Instead of which I only said,—
+
+"Yes."
+
+This was too much for his gravity, and his face broke into a smile—just
+the old pleasant smile which captivated my childish heart all those
+years ago.
+
+"And you have been abroad for some time, have you not—some years?" I
+asked.
+
+"Several years; only running home for a few weeks now and then."
+
+"India or China?"—though I knew it was neither.
+
+"Nothing more interesting than the Continent."
+
+"How tame! One would at least like to get into a fresh quarter of the
+world."
+
+Then Clarissa appeared. She greeted him kindly as an acquaintance, and
+would have introduced him to me but for my remark that he and I had met
+before. This stopped her; rather to his disappointment, I fancy.
+
+Clarissa, it is plain, had no recollection of a certain small episode
+in my life. Perhaps she never even heard a whisper of it.
+
+I took up my work, and listened while he and she talked. And it came
+out that Mr. Griffith has some kind of connection with the Bank to
+which Mr. Derwentwater belongs. I have not known that until now.
+
+Evidently Clarissa has seen him from time to time when he has come
+home, but not often or much. They chatted about surface matters; and
+Mr. Derwentwater was sorry to find that he could not see Mr. Griffith;
+and Clarissa asked if he would come to dinner on Friday.
+
+Presently she turned to me, making some remark and saying my name.
+Almost in the same breath, she turned again to him, with an allusion to
+"my cousin, Miss Frith," having been sight-seeing all the week. I fancy
+she had detected his perplexity, and was more willing to help him out
+of it than I had been.
+
+A little flash of intelligence came to his face, and then I knew that
+he was examining me in a series of glances.
+
+Clarissa went off presently to look for a letter of her husband's which
+contained information needed by Mr. Derwentwater. As the door closed
+behind her, he said, as if involuntarily,—
+
+"Yes, I remember now. It was at Wayatford." I looked up inquiringly.
+"Had I not the pleasure of meeting you many years ago at Wayatford?"
+
+"When I was a child, there 'was' a Mr. Derwentwater there."
+
+"And there undoubtedly 'was' a Miss Rhoda Frith, unless my memory is
+very much at fault."
+
+Neither of us could help laughing. I have long since lost sight of
+the anger which I once felt towards him. The self which was so deeply
+injured then seems quite a different person from this present self; and
+I have not over much sympathy with her. To be sure, "his" action was
+not particularly beautiful, but he was young; and certainly I deserved
+it all.
+
+"My home now is in Wayatford."
+
+"It is—really!" His face lighted up again.
+
+"We have gone there to be near my aunt, Mrs. Ramsay."
+
+"Ah! She was a great friend of mine in those days. I am afraid our
+correspondence has languished of late. And she is as usual? It would be
+a pleasure to see her again."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Why not go to Wayatford? My ties with the place are broken. The Park
+is in the hands of strangers."
+
+"Old ties ought not to break, if they are worth anything."
+
+"No; I believe you are right. Sometimes the force of circumstances
+proves too strong to be resisted."
+
+A rather sad look came to his face, a look I had never seen there in
+old days.
+
+Should I speak of Millicent? No, I thought, not unless he brought her
+name forward. He could do so if he wished. But a history, begun and
+ended, lay between the past and the present. I knew well that I, in
+Millicent's place, would hardly have been able to forgive any one who
+should mistakenly have forced my name upon him. If anybody mentioned
+her, it ought to be none other than himself.
+
+"Are you staying here—in this house, I mean—for any length of time?" he
+asked.
+
+The question was abrupt, curiously so for him, I thought. He was not
+abrupt in past days.
+
+"I came for a month, and I have been here a fortnight. I don't know how
+much longer my visit will really last."
+
+"Then I shall see you again. And you will tell me, perhaps, all about
+old friends."
+
+Did he mean Millicent? He said the words hurriedly, for the door
+opened, and it seemed as if he did not wish Clarissa to overhear. When
+she came in, he stood up, and nothing would induce him to sit down
+again. Clarissa read aloud the sentence in her husband's letter which
+contained the information wanted; and then he disappeared.
+
+I fancy the unexpected encounter had given him a little shake, rousing
+old memories. True, there has been the other girl between, and the
+sorrow of losing her; and for a while, he must have quite forgotten
+Millicent. But it is just possible that he may be inclined now to turn
+again to the thoughts of her. Why not? It would surely be happier for
+him.
+
+Well, he will be here to dinner on Friday; and I shall see something
+of him. Clarissa means him to take me in, for she has said so. He will
+have plenty of time to ask about old friends, Millicent included, if he
+wishes.
+
+
+                                     _April 23rd, Wednesday._
+
+Clarissa is asking other friends to dinner on Friday, just three more,
+so as to make a nice sociable half-dozen.
+
+This morning we went into a shop; and she ordered for me a new evening
+dress, at her own expense, a kind of very soft white crêpe, to be made
+prettily, with black ribbons. It is to be sent home in time for Friday
+evening.
+
+Clarissa says I shall look my best in that dress; and she has made me
+alter the way of doing my hair. She says I am so improved altogether.
+
+And of course that is pleasant to hear. One likes to be able to look
+nice. I asked her whether she had ever thought mine "a pussy-cat face."
+
+"Very decidedly so, in old days. It does not strike me now in that
+light," she answered.
+
+At all events, I should like to look my best on Friday.
+
+Not that it matters—really! I have to think of Millicent, not of myself.
+
+
+                                     _April 25th, Friday Afternoon._
+
+The dress has come home, and it is perfectly lovely. I have never had
+anything so beautiful in all my life. It is only white and black, and
+not too fussy for a quiet little dinner party, but it is so gracefully
+made, and so perfect in fit.
+
+Of course I put it on directly, to make sure that all was right.
+Clarissa walked round me and smiled, and said, "Yes; that will do. That
+will do very well indeed, very well indeed."
+
+"It 'is' pretty," I said.
+
+"And you are pretty in it; yes, really pretty. I am not flattering you,
+my dear. Some people look well in anything, and you are not one of
+those people. But certainly you repay one for a little trouble in the
+dressing-line."
+
+I was delighted to hear her say so. Yet why should I care? Does it
+really matter?—I mean in this instance particularly.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+_OUT OF THE QUESTION!_
+
+                                     _April 26th, Saturday._
+
+YESTERDAY evening was one of the very happiest that I have ever spent
+in all my life.
+
+Clarissa asked her husband's cousins, Mr. and Mrs. James Jervis, and
+also an old General Monk. That made the six. Mr. Jervis had of course
+to take her in, and General Monk was paired with Mrs. Jervis, and Mr.
+Derwentwater fell naturally to my share.
+
+I don't think it was "naturally." I believe that Clarissa arranged
+things so on purpose. But anyhow it was very nice.
+
+She seems so pleased that I should have met an old acquaintance in her
+house; and she says he is a very nice man and a thorough gentleman,
+with good connections and good prospects. I am half afraid she may have
+some sort of notion in her head of his perhaps taking a fancy to "me;"
+and that of course is utterly out of the question.
+
+Quite! Completely! Absolutely! Out of the question! For, though I
+cannot exactly say this to Clarissa, it seems to me that he almost
+belongs to Millicent. I do not really mean that he belongs to her, but
+only that, so far as I am concerned, she has a sort of first right.
+He may or may not wish still to marry Millicent. I only know that up
+to now things may not be entirely hopeless; and I know that she cares
+for him. And for me to step in between—here, out of her sight, and out
+of her reach—if such a thing were possible, which it is not; and if
+I wanted it, which I do not,—for me to step in between, and to make
+things perfectly hopeless for her!—oh, it would be too horridly base,
+too awfully mean and contemptible.
+
+What do I know of him? I—why, I have just seen him a few times, years
+ago, when I was almost a child. And Millicent has known him almost all
+her life.
+
+One could not do such a thing. It would be impossible.
+
+No difficulty in saying all this; matters being as they are. He and I
+are the merest chance acquaintances. He does not care a single atom
+for me, with any real caring, I mean. And I have entirely got over my
+childish feeling. He likes to see me, because I am connected with those
+old days and with Millicent. And I like to see him because—oh, because
+he belongs to my childish days too, and because he is so pleasant;
+and one always likes to meet pleasant people. Nothing more than that,
+however. Nothing more "could" be.
+
+I mean, in one sense it could not. Perhaps, if I chose to take the
+trouble, I might in time make him like me a little better than as a
+mere acquaintance. I cannot be sure. It is only a "perhaps." But I have
+an odd sort of feeling, when with him, that if I chose, I could make
+him care for me. Very likely it is only a fancy; perhaps even like my
+silly fancy in those old days, when all the while he was laughing at
+me, and calling me an absurd conceited child.
+
+And yet it was not quite only that either. For Millicent thought he was
+a little touched; and Millicent ought to have known if any one did. And
+aunt Marian thought the same; and aunt Marian is not often mistaken.
+
+Anyhow I do not mean to take the trouble. Why should I? What would be
+the use? If I didn't succeed, I should feel so small; and if I did
+succeed, it would be so unfair to Millicent. Besides, I don't want to
+succeed. It would be wrong. All these years she has been brave, and
+patient, and good. I feel almost as if I were here for the express
+purpose of guarding her interests.
+
+What if I could manage to turn his thoughts again in her direction,
+supposing that he has forgotten her?
+
+Why not? Of course I must be careful how I do it; but why not? I have
+made a little beginning already; and I mean to follow it up.
+
+Before they came yesterday evening, I was pretty well resolved not to
+mention Millicent at all, unless Mr. Derwentwater should bring forward
+her name. Somehow I did not keep to my resolution. Was it wise or
+unwise? Circumstances do sometimes alter cases,—I mean circumstances
+change, and then cases are altered. Besides, I broke through my
+resolution without meaning to do so.
+
+Mr. Derwentwater arrived early, before any of the others. And I saw
+a look of surprise in his face when I came forward, almost as if for
+a moment, he hardly knew again who it was. I could not help being
+pleased, because it "did" mean something like admiration. How silly to
+be pleased; when after all it was my clothes, not myself. And while he
+was talking to Clarissa, his eyes came wondering again and again in my
+direction; and then I was pleased again, though I knew exactly how much
+it was all worth. I had on a very pretty dress, which suited me; and he
+has a weakness for pretty things. That was the beginning and the ending
+of his admiration; yet still I was glad.
+
+Next to arrive was the General; and then Mr. and Mrs. Jervis appeared;
+and dinner was announced, and we all went in.
+
+General Monk is rather deaf, and he expected all the attention that
+Mrs. Jervis had to give. If she turned to speak to anybody else across
+the table, he could not hear what she said, and he kept repeating, "Eh?
+What? I beg your pardon. Who was it? What was that?" Till she grew
+tired of answering. So she kept her attention fixed upon him, and we
+fell into three duets of talk.
+
+And then, when all attempt at a general conversation was given up, Mr.
+Derwentwater observed: "I hardly wonder at myself for not recognising
+you the other day." And I knew in a moment that he had old times in his
+mind.
+
+"Why?" I asked. And as he did not answer, I went on, "Oh, of course
+girls alter so much, coming out of childhood."
+
+"Some more; some less. In excuse for my own stupidity, may I say that
+yours is a case of 'more'?"
+
+I felt desperately inclined to say, "Is mine a pussy-cat face still?"
+But that would not have done at all.
+
+"Now tell me, please, about all the old friends."
+
+And I gave him a whole string of particulars. First as to my uncle and
+aunt, and then as to lots of other individuals, all of whom I knew he
+had known. He didn't care a rap for a single one of them, except aunt
+Marian; and I knew this, too. But he listened politely, and tried to
+put on an appearance of interest.
+
+"Anybody else?" I said.
+
+He helped himself to a passing entrée, and suggested, "You have not
+mentioned Mr. Farrars yet."
+
+"Don't you keep up a correspondence with him?"
+
+"I am afraid I have been remiss. It is a long while since a letter
+passed between us."
+
+I told him all I could think of about Mr. Farrars. And then beginning
+with the youngest boy, I took them in turn upward, describing each more
+or less particularly, and telling what each was doing, and what were
+Mr. Farrars' plans for each. I only left out Amy and stopped short at
+Jack.
+
+"Thanks for the masculine side of the question," he said with a
+twinkle. "And—"
+
+"Amy is growing up. She is a child still, but she will soon be a woman.
+Not good-looking—oh, no, she never will be. None of them are; and none
+of them ever were, except Millicent."
+
+Her name slipped out unintentionally; and then the business was done.
+And in a moment, I seemed to see myself, a girl with a pussy-cat
+self-satisfied face, asking him whether he thought Millicent pretty.
+And I seemed to hear again his little laugh at the idea.
+
+But he did not laugh now. He gazed steadily at the table-cloth. When I
+said no more, he repeated slowly,—"Except Millicent,—yes."
+
+"I don't mean that she ever was exactly handsome. It was more an
+interesting face." And I was angry with myself for saying "was," not
+"is." The word seemed to strike him. He looked up at me with startled
+eyes, and said, "But she—"
+
+His face wore a singular expression; a kind of frightened paleness had
+come into it.
+
+"One may often find a face interesting that is not really handsome. And
+I am sure Millicent's is that."
+
+The look vanished at once; and then it flashed across me what he had
+imagined to be meant by my "was."
+
+"Millicent and I have begun to see a good deal of one another,—like old
+days."
+
+"Oh, indeed!" was the only answer.
+
+"And I believe I am coming again to the same opinion that I came to
+then. I am beginning to think there is nobody else in the world exactly
+like Millicent."
+
+He said either "Oh, indeed!" or, "No, indeed!" under his moustache. I
+really could not make out which it was.
+
+I felt provoked with him. And yet what else could he say? He had given
+her up, and had all but been married since. Why should he be supposed
+to feel any special interest in her, or she in him? In fact, it would
+be a great impertinence on his part, if he "did" expect her to feel for
+him what she used to feel. But, I who know how things really are, I do
+want to see signs in him of not having forgotten her.
+
+No more passed between us about Millicent. Her name did not come up
+again; and I could not force it on him. We had a long talk on all sorts
+of subjects. And when the gentlemen came into the drawing-room later,
+he found his way to me again, and carried on the talk.
+
+He certainly can make himself very pleasant. I am not so much
+astonished now as sometimes I have been at the kind of fascination
+which he had for me all those years ago. Not that he fascinates me
+"now!" I am older, and I have seen more of life. But still he is
+certainly agreeable; and I enjoyed my evening immensely.
+
+What a pity poor Millicent could not be here. I wonder how he and she
+would suit one another now.
+
+Well, I shall do what I can for her when I see him again. Now that her
+name has been spoken between us, it will be easy to bring it in again.
+I shall tell him about the sort of home-life hers has been. He ought to
+be able to appreciate that.
+
+It was a perfectly delicious evening, and I could hardly get to sleep
+at night, thinking it all over. I cannot at all feel sure whether his
+old love for Millicent is hopelessly dead, or whether it still just
+lives and might some day wake up anew. I do not believe he could answer
+this question himself. Certainly, he wanted very much to hear about
+her; and when for one moment he almost thought I meant that she was
+dead, he was terrified,—as one would be at the thought of any one dying
+whom one loved very much.
+
+That surely means that he cares for her still. People do not feel so
+about the death of a mere acquaintance or even of an everyday friend.
+
+
+                                     _April 29th, Tuesday._
+
+Monday is Clarissa's "At Home" day; and a little before tea-time in
+came Mr. Derwentwater. I did not know that she had told him of the day,
+but it seems she did, and asked him to come if he felt inclined.
+
+I suppose he did feel inclined; at all events, he appeared, and stayed
+more than an hour, and was as friendly as possible. Somehow, I did not
+manage to bring up Millicent's name.
+
+I thought he had only a very few days in London, but that must be a
+mistake. Clarissa has asked him to lunch on Thursday, and to go with us
+to Kew afterwards; and he has made no difficulty.
+
+
+                                     _May 2nd, Friday._
+
+Yesterday morning Clarissa was not well, but she would not hear of
+giving up the expedition to Kew. She sent for a little Miss Splice, a
+former governess of hers and Juliet's who lives near, a kind little
+trotting elderly person with very few words at command, and always
+ready to extinguish herself for Clarissa's sake. And she went with Mr.
+Derwentwater and me to Kew.
+
+I ought to have been sorry that Clarissa could not have the pleasure,
+but somehow I was not sorry at all. If Clarissa had been there, Mr.
+Derwentwater must have attended to her a good deal. Miss Splice did
+not seem to wish for any attention. She had nothing to say, and she
+evidently liked much best to be left to herself, free to enjoy the
+river and the views. We were always leaving her behind, or losing
+sight of her; and she never seemed to mind, but always turned up again
+placidly at the right time.
+
+It was such a beautiful day! I had no idea before what a perfectly
+delightful place Kew is.
+
+Not that I learned very much about all the different kinds of foreign
+plants. There did not seem to be time; we found so much to talk about.
+
+Somehow, one can talk to certain people as one cannot possibly talk
+to others. And Mr. Derwentwater is one of those people. He is so
+attentive, and polite, and kind, and he shows such an interest in
+everything that one says. In those old days he was nice, but now he is
+very much nicer.
+
+And I talked to him about Millicent—ever so long. I was determined
+that I would. We found a seat under a tree; and Miss Splice nodded
+comfortably off to sleep; and I thought that was a good opportunity.
+I brought in Millicent's name somehow,—I do not know how,—and I began
+talking about her almost recklessly. I was determined that I "would." I
+told him how very very good and devoted she was; and how she had lived
+for her father and sister and brothers; and how much they would all owe
+to her always; and how hard she had worked; and how brave and cheerful
+she had always been; and how everybody in the place looked up to her;
+and how she had read and studied even in her busy life and had kept
+herself up to the mark; and a great deal more than this. I just poured
+it all out, not waiting for him to speak; and I felt my face grow warm
+with excitement.
+
+I was not looking up at him, but away among the trees, seeing a picture
+of Millicent and her self-denying life. And all at once it came across
+me that he had not said a single word for ever so long. I had been
+talking so hard that I had not even noticed his silence.
+
+And I stopped short, and turned towards him suddenly, to see if he were
+listening. And he was looking at me—
+
+I don't know what he meant,—in the very least! I only know that nobody
+has ever looked at me in exactly the same way before. He took his eyes
+away quietly, as soon as they met mine; and I could not say another
+word. My heart started off beating at such a pace that I was hardly
+able to breathe.
+
+It must have been that he agreed with me, and liked to think of that
+brave self-forgetting life of hers. Yes, it must have been that, of
+course. He looked so earnest and intent, so interested. But why did he
+not say what he felt? Why did he not tell me how much he liked to hear
+about her?
+
+There was a long pause, a kind of dead pause everywhere and in
+everything. It felt as if the whole world had come to a stand-still.
+Even the very birds seemed to stop singing, and the leaves to stop
+rustling. I never knew anything like it before. I could hear my own
+heart beating, like a big drum; and I was afraid he would hear it too.
+Then the leaves began to rustle again, and a chaffinch overhead started
+his short little song. And then I laughed and tried not to seem to know
+how my cheeks were burning; and I said,—
+
+"I am afraid you will think it a case of girlish raptures."
+
+"Not at all," he answered gravely. "It does you credit, as much
+as Millicent." Then another pause. "But you know I am pretty well
+acquainted with her character. She always had a very strong sense of
+duty."
+
+And that was all he had to say.
+
+I ought to have been vexed, angry with him for Millicent's sake. But
+I could not be. I was not angry at all. I could not make myself so. I
+could only remember that look of his which I had met so unexpectedly;
+and the very thought of it made me flutter all over. For it was a look
+which somehow seemed to belong to "me," not to Millicent.
+
+What nonsense! I am not going to let myself be taken in a second time.
+I am not going to allow myself to fall into any absurd notions.
+
+He belongs to Millicent, or if he does not, he ought. I am only
+the merest acquaintance, and I have no right to come between. No
+right whatever. Nothing more than the merest acquaintance,—while
+Millicent—but of course he cares for her. He could not help it, knowing
+her as he does. If he is left to himself, he will turn to her soon,
+quite naturally.
+
+And I have to leave him alone; not to do anything which might perhaps
+for a little while turn his thoughts away from her.
+
+I believe he fancies, as a good many men do, that one woman cannot
+possibly praise another. And so he was astonished to hear me praise
+Millicent heartily.
+
+That was what it all meant. Well, he shall be astonished again. I will
+certainly bring up her name as often as I have a chance.
+
+But oh, it "was" a lovely day, a perfect day all through. Like June for
+warmth, and like—I don't know what—for pleasantness.
+
+I could not help thinking of that long-past excursion, and the delights
+of it. But I hope I am not so silly now as I was then, fancying all
+sorts of things to be meant that are not really meant.
+
+This time I cannot be taken unawares. I have my eyes wide open, and I
+know what I am about. I know what I have to do, too, which is more.
+I have to think of Millicent, not of myself. I have to care for her
+interests, not for my own.
+
+And if I keep clearly in mind all the time exactly what I have to do, I
+do not see how I can be taken by surprise.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+_AND YET!—_
+
+                                     _May 5th, Monday._
+
+CLARISSA was pouring out tea this afternoon, when a front door bell
+rang, and she said,—
+
+"Mr. Derwentwater, I suppose."
+
+I was angry with myself, for I knew my colour went up, and I knew she
+saw it.
+
+Instead of Mr. Derwentwater, it proved to be only a note; nothing in
+particular.
+
+"So I was wrong for once," she observed, smiling. "A natural mistake.
+He has not been to-day."
+
+"Clarissa! As if he came every day!"
+
+"Not quite every day," she answered tranquilly. "Only about five times
+in seven days."
+
+"There has always been something—"
+
+"My dear, if a man wishes to do a thing, does he ever fail to find
+'something' by way of a reason?"
+
+"Of course he thinks yours a pleasant house to come to."
+
+"Of course he does—when somebody is here. He never did before."
+
+This would not do at all. I was getting much too red to be comfortable,
+but I put down my work, and faced Clarissa.
+
+"It is quite a blunder of yours," I said; "altogether a blunder. It is
+not in the very least as you think. Please don't say such things."
+
+She laughed quietly, with a sound full of meaning in her laugh.
+
+"Please don't. You really are mistaken! I know what I am saying. I know
+a great deal more about him than you do. And I know why he likes to
+come."
+
+"So do I, my dear! An old fancy revived, isn't it?"
+
+The words took me by surprise. I had no idea that she knew so much.
+
+"Sisters hear everything of course." She read my face in a moment. "And
+we are like sisters. Don't be vexed. It is only natural. Of course I
+know; and of course I understand."
+
+"But you don't! You don't know or understand in the very least. It
+is not 'me.' It never was 'me.' It is somebody else. You don't know
+anything about that; and I do. I can't tell you particulars. But I
+assure you it is only because I know somebody else, and because he
+likes to come and talk over old days."
+
+"If so, more shame for him!" Then another laugh. "My dear child, you
+have an extraordinary and romantic belief in masculine constancy. That
+is clear."
+
+Did I really, down in my heart, believe what I said?
+
+"I can't tell you more. I can't explain. But if you knew—"
+
+"I know all about that old affair. Millicent Farrars you mean, of
+course. He was a good deal in love with her, off and on, I believe,
+years ago; on, when they were together; and off, when he happened to
+come across a prettier face elsewhere. A thing he might easily do,
+since at her best, she never was pretty. You need not flame up so
+fiercely. I am not blaming him particularly. He is a man; and in those
+days, he was a very young man. He isn't young now—to the same extent.
+And he is exceedingly agreeable. But as for Millicent Farrars, you had
+better give up that notion once and for all."
+
+"What notion?"
+
+"That Mr. Derwentwater is in love with her. It is an error. He was
+once, perhaps—or at all events, he thought himself so, which comes to
+much the same thing for the time. Since then he has been engaged, and
+he would have been married, but for the girl's death."
+
+"People sometimes go back to an early love."
+
+"Very occasionally, perhaps. Mr. Derwentwater will not go back to his
+early love for Millicent Farrars."
+
+She spoke in a meaning voice, and it seemed to bring back that look of
+his on Thursday, which at the time I did not understand, and which I
+do not now understand. And my heart began thumping again, and a sound
+like singing wine into my ears. But I would not be beaten. I said
+resolutely,—
+
+"I believe he 'will!'"
+
+Clarissa looked me all over.
+
+"The child is actually trembling." And she came and sat down by
+my side. "You dear little goose! As if you or I could control Mr.
+Derwentwater's likings."
+
+"Of course nobody can. But I do hate to have silly ideas put into my
+head. And if you knew Millicent as I do—how good and brave she has
+been, and how she refused him, just for the sake of her father and
+brothers—"
+
+"And how much she cares for Mr. Derwentwater still, do you mean,
+Rhoda?" I would not answer. "Well, take care! If 'I' were Millicent,
+I should not like to have my name thrust forward where it might be
+unwelcome, or even where it might be received with indifference. Nor
+should I like to have the suggestion made that perhaps I cared for
+him still, when he had left off caring for me. One woman ought to be
+the guardian of another woman's secret in such a case. You should be
+careful. To my mind, it is very clear whom Mr. Derwentwater is disposed
+to like at this present moment! . . . Any number of girls may refuse
+him if they choose,—supposing that he asks them. But fifty refusals
+would not drive him to seek Millicent, if he cares for her no longer."
+
+"He could not be so fickle—"
+
+"Fickle! The man asked her to marry him, and she declined. She was free
+from that hour, and so was he. My dear, you can't change nature. There
+'are' men, no doubt, who would have waited for her through any number
+of years, and who would have taken her in the end, no matter how much
+she might have gone off. Don't be angry; she 'is' gone off, and there
+is no denying it. And Mr. Derwentwater would be the first to perceive
+the fact. And he is not one of those men who can wait interminably. It
+is not his nature."
+
+"A nice look-out for his wife, if he ever gets one,—unless he finds
+somebody who never can become 'passée.'"
+
+"That is a different matter altogether. When once she is his wife, she
+becomes useful and necessary, and he learns to value her for something
+more than a pretty complexion or a dainty nose. Romance passes then
+into prosaic everyday life."
+
+"You are enough to keep one from ever marrying!" I exclaimed.
+
+Whereat she kissed me, and replied, "Don't be a little goose, my dear.
+And don't distress yourself because I have talked nonsense."
+
+Did she mean it or any of it as nonsense? I made my escape, and had a
+cry upstairs—what about I could not have told, and I am sure I cannot
+tell now.
+
+
+                                     _May 7th, Wednesday._
+
+My visit has lengthened out so much that Mother wants me at home again.
+Juliet goes to aunt Jessie next week, and then I shall be really
+needed. But Clarissa will not hear of my leaving before the 15th.
+
+Ought I to insist? I cannot see ahead; but it seems to me that I am
+in a strong current which is carrying me on. Ought I to get out of it
+and refuse to be carried any farther? Can I resist if I stay here? Is
+Clarissa right, and is there no need to resist?
+
+I begin to know now at least "what I wish." But there is the thought of
+Millicent. Ought I to let myself be drawn on?
+
+And what if it all means really nothing? How can I be sure? I seem to
+be sure of nothing. It is all bewilderment.
+
+He came yesterday to dinner, and again to-day to tea. Either Clarissa
+asks him, or he makes some excuse. And—I cannot help enjoying the
+intercourse. I cannot "help" believing in him.
+
+It seems as if he liked me to talk about Millicent; yet is it for her
+sake? That is the question which I cannot answer. It may be, or it may
+not be. How can I tell?
+
+If only I were at home—not here—with Millicent at hand. I should not
+then feel as if I were wronging her so fearfully. It would all be open,
+and in her sight. Nobody would be deceived or taken in. Now it is all
+going on, away from her, out of her sight; and she not knowing, not
+dreaming.
+
+If only I had never made her tell me that she cared for him! Things
+would be so different then.
+
+Why should I not decide to go home this week—at once? My mother would
+be delighted, and Clarissa could not prevent me. She could not prevent
+it, if my mind were made up.
+
+There is no reason why I should not—except that I cannot. My mind is
+not made up, and I cannot make it up. I seem to have no power to "will"
+it.
+
+If I went, that would put things right. If he cared truly for me, he
+could come after me. There would be nothing to hinder him. But does
+he care?—That is the question. I cannot tell; I do not know. My going
+might make all the difference. I mean, if he is not quite sure, it
+might help him to forget, and be the ending of all. That is what I
+ought to wish, for Millicent's sake, but, oh, I do not wish it! I
+cannot wish it. I dread any such ending. I only do not wish to have
+seemed to do anything underhand towards poor Millicent.
+
+Somehow I cannot resolve to take the one step which might put things
+straight! It might not; yet I wish I could resolve to take it: and I am
+not able.
+
+I do not let myself think—hope—expect; but all the while I know I am
+doing it. I cannot hide any longer from myself what he is to me. If he
+is in the room, I see everything he does; I seem to feel even what he
+is thinking. When he is away, all looks blank. Is my whole life to be
+blank for the want of him?
+
+For Millicent's sake!
+
+Oh, if only I did not know!!
+
+Lately I was wishing so much to live a life of self-sacrifice. It
+seemed then all easy and beautiful. But now I see the difficulty. It
+would be like rending myself in half to give him up! Give him up! How
+can I tell whether he really wants me? I only know that if I had the
+choice, I could not do as Millicent once did. I could not. I could not.
+
+Am I then utterly weak and selfish?
+
+
+                                     _May 10th, Saturday Evening._
+
+Still here, and still drifting on! Every hour fighting feebly, but
+feeling myself powerless. Yesterday I actually wrote a note, telling my
+mother I would come home to-day. I addressed and stamped it, and left
+it in my room. Then Mr. Derwentwater came in; and when he was gone, I
+threw my letter on the fire, stamp and all. I "could not" send it off.
+
+Clarissa is so pleased and satisfied. And I am neither. At times
+there is a great joy in my heart; and at other times when I think of
+Millicent, I am wretched.
+
+It is not that I think Mr. Derwentwater is not free, perfectly free.
+How could he be anything else? It is only a feeling, which I cannot put
+aside, cannot get over, that I am wronging Millicent. Knowing all I do
+know, it seems to me as if this state of things ought to have been an
+impossibility. And it has not been. I am angry with myself, while yet I
+cannot for a moment wish anything to be different. If only I could have
+let Millicent know but how can I? It is only feeling, not certainty.
+I have nothing yet really to build upon. Only I think—I do think—I
+believe he likes me. Is "like" the word? But what will Millicent say,
+when she hears,—if it ever comes to anything, and she does hear?
+
+At present, they know nothing at home. Even my mother does not guess. I
+have said nothing, and I know Clarissa has not. She is much too anxious
+not to "spoil" what she calls "the march of events."
+
+I think I know why I am unhappy. It is because, looking back, I feel
+that I have not been perfectly true to Millicent. Not perfectly true, I
+mean, to her cause. I have not done my very best, as I said to myself
+that I would do, to win him back to her. I have tried hard to make
+myself winning and pleasant; and the more I saw he liked me, the more
+I have tried. And when I have talked about her, it has only been as a
+sort of salve to conscience, done in such a way as to make him think of
+me, not of her.
+
+Yes, I see it all now. I would not let myself see it before. And I
+despise and hate myself for it; yet still I go on. There seems to be no
+way of drawing back.
+
+It may be too late. If the mischief is done, I cannot expect to undo
+it. Drawing back then would only make him unhappy, and would not make
+Millicent happy.
+
+But if not, if it is not too late, if he is still wavering—and how can
+I tell that he is not?—ought I not to act? Ought I not to go home at
+once, and so give Millicent a chance? That at least would leave him
+time to think. He might find then that this is only a little passing
+fancy, and that his real love all the time is for Millicent.
+
+O no, no, how can I wish it? How can I bear to think of such a thing?
+
+But if it is right; if I ought—for Millicent's sake?
+
+Well, I almost think I will do that. Yes, I will go home on Monday
+instead of Thursday. I will write, and tell my mother to expect me; and
+then I will tell Clarissa that it is all settled, and that she need not
+say one word, because it has to be.
+
+
+                                     _May 12th, Monday Evening._
+
+I have not gone home. I did post the letter; and then I told Clarissa,
+feeling very wretched, and she laughed at the idea, and I gave in quite
+tamely, without a struggle. And a second letter was posted, telling my
+mother that I would keep to the original plan.
+
+So my resolution has failed, and I know that I have been beaten in the
+light. For though it may not be exactly wrong to stay, yet I do think
+that it would have been better and braver to go home.
+
+It is a terrible thing that one should have this power of choosing for
+oneself; that one should be perfectly free to go or not to go, when so
+much of other people's happiness may hang on what one decides, and yet
+that one's will should be paralysed.
+
+Is it really paralysed? If I prayed to be able to act—but I do not
+"want" to go home. I do not "want" to be able to decide just in the
+face of my own wishes. I only want not to have an uneasy conscience
+about Millicent.
+
+He has not been in to-day, and that makes me glad that I am not going
+yet,—for it might have meant not seeing him again.
+
+
+                                     _May 14th, Wednesday._
+
+I am not to go home! The matter is taken out of my hands. Addie has
+sickened with scarlatina; and I am told to stay here.
+
+If I had gone earlier, as I thought of doing, I should be there, on the
+spot, able to help my mother. Now she is alone, for Juliet had left
+just before Addie fell ill. And Mother will not hear of any one going
+now, because of the infection. What if Emmie takes it too? She is so
+delicate.
+
+Mr. Derwentwater is coming in this evening, to say good-bye, because he
+expects me to be off to-morrow; and he said yesterday that he should be
+off himself on Friday. I do not know where he is going. Will he keep to
+the plan?
+
+Clarissa is glad that I am not off so soon. But I have no gladness. I
+am anxious about mother and the twins, and I cannot think happily of
+Millicent, and I feel like a soldier who has turned his back on the
+enemy. Is it not something like that? How differently I should feel, if
+I were at home, if I had followed that voice in my heart, which told me
+I "ought" to decide and to go. If only I had done so!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+_INEXPLICABLE._
+
+                                     _May 15th, Thursday._
+
+SUCH a strange thing has happened! Mr. Derwentwater never came in at
+all yesterday evening. There was rain, certainly, but he does not mind
+rain.
+
+When he first spoke of calling, Clarissa asked him to dinner. He said
+he had promised to dine with an old aunt of his, but he would be free
+by half-past eight, and he would walk on here. Clarissa remarked, "Then
+we are sure to see you!" And he replied, "Quite sure!"
+
+And after all, he never appeared, though he expected me to be leaving
+to-day. He could not have heard of my change of plans. Nobody knew it
+who might have told him. Something may have happened to keep him away.
+But no message has arrived, no note, no explanation.
+
+One never can tell beforehand how people will behave. I felt so certain
+of him. It did not so much as come into my mind that he could fail. My
+last evening—or, at least, he believed it to be my last. And Clarissa
+had no more doubt than I had. She said after dinner, "When somebody
+turns up, I shall find an excuse for absenting myself." I told her not
+to talk nonsense, and she said, "Is it nonsense? My dear, I know what I
+am saying. People do not care for witnesses to good-bye scenes."
+
+And he never came. Clarissa began to look surprised: and then she
+remarked on his being late, and wondered if the old aunt were keeping
+him. And I said nothing: but a kind of cold dread crept over me. And
+half-hour after half-hour went by, and still there were no signs of
+him, and at last it was hopelessly late.
+
+"Something has prevented him, evidently." Clarissa tried to speak
+lightly, but I could see that she was worried. "We shall have an excuse
+by the morning post."
+
+I, too, hoped for that. But none came. Not a word has reached either of
+us through the whole day.
+
+It is very, very strange. Does he really care so little? And have I
+cared too much? It comes over me with a sharp terror. Have I allowed
+myself to feel too much? Have I fancied that he meant more than he does
+mean?
+
+I thought myself so safe. I felt so certain that I could never repeat
+that mistake. I thought I had learnt so severe a lesson in the past.
+Has it all been thrown away, and have I made the same blunder over
+again? Only this time it would be much worse.
+
+A post-card has come to say that Addie is better, and going on nicely.
+It is not at all a bad attack. So I am not anxious about her: and I
+cannot get out of my head the strange thought that after all—after all
+that has passed, after all that has been said—he should have stayed
+away just because of a little rain, or for no reason whatever, from
+what he believed to be a farewell call.
+
+
+                                     _May 16th, Friday._
+
+Mr. Derwentwater has not been; not even to ask whether I have
+really gone, or if any one has heard from me since. One would have
+expected—but what is the use of expecting anything? It only means
+disappointment.
+
+And to-day he will be off himself—at least, I suppose so. He talked
+of going. I shall not see him again—till when! I shall not even hear
+from him. If he has not cared to write or to send a message these first
+days, why should he do so later? I am feeling more and more how utterly
+I may have been mistaken in fancying that he cared particularly about
+me. Has it really been all along, as I used to declare without truly
+meaning it, that he only liked to be with me because I was Millicent's
+friend? If it were so—my heart seems to go down like a lump of lead at
+the very idea! For if he does not care, I do—oh, so terribly! My whole
+life's happiness seems to be just wrapped up in him. I hate and despise
+myself that it should be so—if he has not given me reason—and yet I
+cannot help it. I can think only of him; nothing but him all day long
+and nearly all night long; only of him! And if he is not thinking of
+me—. But I do not intend to let myself be sure yet.
+
+Clarissa says nothing much. At first, she remarked on his
+non-appearance, and I tried to pass off her words, as if it were of
+no consequence. But I know she saw and understood. And now she does
+not allude to him, which is not her way, because she is as a rule
+outspoken. She is only particularly kind to me, and I wish she would
+not be. It makes me more afraid, because I think she sees, and is
+afraid. I wish she would behave exactly the same as usual; I wish
+everything would go on as if nothing had happened.
+
+
+                                     _May 17th, Saturday._
+
+Only three days since first I heard of Addie's illness; since I was
+so happy! I can hardly believe it. It feels like an age—almost like
+a lifetime. The hours will not pass, do what I may. I cannot tell
+how to get through them, or what to do with myself. Not that it was
+unmixed happiness, even then. But I did think that he cared for me, and
+now my hope is broken down; it is all gone. Now I believe him to be
+indifferent; and everything else is tiny by comparison. All my worries
+about Millicent—what would they matter, if only I could be sure of him?
+
+And yet I know they "do" matter! I know nothing matters more in the
+long run than whether one is doing rightly or no.
+
+
+                                     _May 18th, Sunday._
+
+If I had but gone home when it looked to me like the right thing to
+be done! Was it that guidance was sent, and that I would not listen
+or obey? For days I had such a strong clear sense in my mind that I
+ought to decide on returning to Wayatford. If only I had gone when I
+could! Then at least I should not be here now, waiting in vain, hearing
+nothing of him.
+
+I wonder if that sort of very clear "ought" in one's mind should be
+always invariably followed. It might be a mistaken idea; or, on the
+other hand, it might mean direct guidance. How can one tell which it
+may be? But something within me says that it can never be rightly
+resisted. Better, surely, to obey even a mistaken conscience than to go
+against it. I see that plainly enough now. And the worst of the matter
+is that I saw it before, if only I would have acknowledged the fact to
+myself. Besides, why should my conscience have been mistaken?
+
+It seemed to me at the time as if I could not yield—could not resolve
+to do what I believed was the right thing to be done. But I might have
+resolved, if I had prayed to be able; and if I was not willing, I might
+have prayed to be made willing.
+
+I keep wandering round and round in the same lines, going over and over
+the same thoughts.
+
+
+                                     _May 19th, Monday._
+
+Addie is much better, and is getting on nicely. There is, of course,
+still the fear that somebody else may take it, and quarantine has to be
+kept up, but that is all.
+
+
+                                     _Same day, evening._
+
+Another strange thing happened this afternoon. I had been to a shop
+just round the corner to get something for Clarissa. She is perpetually
+trying now to send me on little errands, and of course I know why, and
+it does no good. An omnibus went by, overtaking me, and I happened to
+look up. And there on the top, seated with his back towards me, was Mr.
+Derwentwater.
+
+I am not mistaken. It was himself. I could not make a mistake, even
+though I did not see his face. There was no possibility of a mistake.
+He did not see me—at least, not while I was looking. He might have seen
+me from behind, and then have turned away on purpose. That thought has
+come to worry me since.
+
+So he has not left Town, after all. He has been here all the while. I
+wonder if Clarissa knows this. Somehow I cannot help fancying that she
+does. I thought I would ask her; but when I got indoors, I had no power
+to do so. I dared not trust myself. I have to keep up—I must try to
+seem indifferent. But oh, it is hard! Nobody knows how hard.
+
+
+                                     _May 20th, Tuesday._
+
+Another strange thing! I have had a letter this morning from my mother;
+and she actually speaks of Millicent being up in Town last week!
+
+Clarissa insisted on the letter being burnt, as soon as I had read it
+through. She is so afraid of infection for the children. I had just to
+run my eyes hurriedly once to the end, and then to put it on the fire.
+And I was so vexed afterwards not to be able to read it more carefully
+a second time.
+
+The idea of Millicent being in London takes me utterly by surprise.
+There is no reason why she should not be; only Millicent does not go
+about paying many visits like other people. And of course there is no
+reason why I should have heard of her coming any sooner than this,
+because Millicent and I do not keep up a close correspondence. Indeed,
+we have not written to each other for some weeks. But the news came
+upon me strangely. I felt bewildered, and I did not quite take in all
+that Mother said about it. Clarissa was talking as I read, wanting to
+know how Addie was, and telling me to make haste. And then she hurried
+and fussed, and would give me no peace till the sheet was burnt.
+
+And as I watched it shrivelling up, the thought darted into my
+mind—what if Millicent and Mr. Derwentwater met last week? What if that
+was the reason for his never coming to say good-bye? And I would have
+given anything—anything—to go through the letter a second time, just to
+make sure that I had not missed over some little word which might have
+told me more.
+
+I stood by the fireplace in a dream, trying to remember exactly what
+my mother had said. Millicent had been to stay—where? Some name was
+mentioned, but it would not come back to me, and it will not now. The
+Farrars have relatives in London, I believe, though I know very little
+about them. But Mr. Derwentwater may know. And what could have brought
+her up to Town so suddenly? And is she still here? I "think" Mother
+spoke only in the past tense—of a visit last week, not this week—but I
+do not feel sure.
+
+And suppose he has seen her! And suppose the old feelings have been
+wakened up again! The very idea turned me sick as I stood looking into
+the fire. There was a time when I could have been glad to think this;
+but not now. Oh, not now.
+
+"What is the matter with you?" Clarissa asked.
+
+I went back to my seat at the table, trying to look as usual. "I am all
+right," I said. "Only I think you might let me read Mother's letters in
+quiet."
+
+"So I would, if it were not for the children." To herself, I heard the
+faintest possible murmur, "That would not turn you so white." But I
+paid no attention.
+
+
+                                     _May 21st, Wednesday._
+
+Another letter, this time from aunt Marian. No allusion in it to
+Millicent's London visit, only she speaks of seeing her yesterday
+morning; so at all events Millicent is at home again now. But she has
+been in Town. That seems certain.
+
+Aunt Marian sends a message from my mother. I am to stay here longer,
+if I particularly wish it; otherwise, I am to go back, and to sleep
+at aunt Marian's for a few days until our house is counted safe. It
+can be whichever I prefer, and whichever may be the most convenient to
+Clarissa.
+
+Has Clarissa said anything in writing home which may have suggested
+this?
+
+What shall I do? For some reasons I long to get away, and yet there
+is the uncertainty. Suppose that he was prevented that evening by
+something he really could not help; and suppose that he has not the
+least idea of my being still here. It may be so—even now. He may not
+have caught sight of me, when he passed on the top of the omnibus. He
+may be intending to call one day very soon, and to ask about me. Or—he
+"may" mean to run down to Wayatford. In that case, it would be better
+if I were there. And yet he is so likely to call here first, and I
+might be just gone.
+
+If he has seen Millicent, and if the past is coming up again, my
+going or staying can make no sort of difference. But still—still—I do
+not know—nobody knows. It is all a mystery. And how to go home, not
+knowing—that is the difficulty. It almost seems to me that I cannot do
+it, cannot bear it. While I am still here, I feel that perhaps all is
+not quite hopelessly at an end. Once back in Wayatford, I shall feel
+the whole thing to be over.
+
+I fancied Clarissa would settle the matter by insisting that I must
+stay. But when I showed her the letter, she did not; and that has made
+me more hopeless than anything else. For she is generally so confident;
+and she has been all through so ready to encourage my remaining.
+
+It looks almost as if she knew more than I know. And yet I cannot,
+dare not, ask. I cannot trust myself. I am often on the verge of a
+breakdown—hardly able to hold myself in.
+
+"What would you like, Rhoda?" she asked.
+
+"I don't think it matters much either way," though I felt that it did
+matter.
+
+"I am glad to keep you; no need to tell you so. But for yourself—the
+question is, what may be best?"
+
+I found myself saying, almost without intention,—"Perhaps I had better
+go."
+
+"Yes, I think so really," she answered, to my surprise. "My dear child,
+don't be hurt. I mean for your sake,—not for mine. The longer you stay,
+the better, so far as I am concerned. But for some reasons,—it might be
+the more dignified plan."
+
+My face blazed; and then all the colour went, and everything seemed
+hazy.
+
+"Why—Rhoda!"
+
+"Yes, I dare say,—I don't know,—yes, I'll go," was all I could utter.
+
+Clarissa spoke out suddenly, dropping all pretence at reserve, and
+taking it for granted that we both had the same thought in our minds.
+
+"And don't make up your mind too soon. It is best not. He may seem to
+us to be behaving disgracefully,—and I am very much afraid that he is
+'not' what I have thought him. But all the same, we don't absolutely
+know."
+
+One little sentence in her speech seemed to take precedence of all the
+rest. I struggled to get out a "Why?"
+
+She repeated the word questioningly.
+
+"Why—afraid?" I had no voice to say more.
+
+"He 'might' have been prevented from calling that evening; one cannot
+be sure yet." But I knew that she had something more in her mind.
+
+"Do you think he has left Town?" I asked.
+
+"He meant to do so."
+
+"He has not, and you know it!" I spoke passionately. "Why have you not
+told me?"
+
+"Why should I? That of itself proves nothing. My dear, you can only
+wait and have patience. It may be a mere passing tangle. Only, perhaps,
+on the whole, it is better for you to wait at Wayatford than here. Do
+you not think so?"
+
+I could only murmur a "Yes." My voice was all but past control.
+
+"Suppose you take a turn in the Square garden. The air will do you
+good, and by-and-by we can discuss plans."
+
+I was glad to rush away and come up here. And I had a hard fight to
+keep down the tempest of tears that wanted to have way. But I did
+manage to conquer; and I even wrote a line to Mother, saying I would
+come home at once. And then I took out my journal and wrote all this.
+It seems a relief to write things down. And now I am going out into the
+garden, with a book, to try to forget.
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+_TANGLED STILL._
+
+                                     _May 22nd, Thursday._
+
+THINGS are all so changed. Everything is quite, quite different. And I
+do not feel like the same Rhoda.
+
+It is another earth, another sky, another London! The very sunshine is
+altered. And all because "I" am so different.
+
+One little hour did it all.
+
+I left my letter to Mother lying on my table,—it was just a scrawl,
+saying I would go to aunt Marian's to-morrow—and I went downstairs.
+Perhaps the writing in my journal had been a relief—an outlet to my
+feelings, instead of tears,—and yet I am sure that I did not feel the
+worse for it. Clarissa was standing in the hall as I passed. She said,
+"Not gone out yet?" And then she looked in my face, and murmured, "You
+poor little thing!"
+
+That finished me off. There are times when one can just keep going, and
+when the least tiny touch of sympathy turns the scale the wrong way.
+
+I did not say a word in answer, simply because I could not. All the
+struggle upstairs went for nothing.
+
+I hurried out into the front garden, and slipped away into my favourite
+corner, a seat amidst clumps of bushes, hidden from everybody. I knew I
+was pretty certain to find it deserted at that time of the day.
+
+The garden itself was nearly empty, and nobody came near me. I could
+hardly have been more alone, deep in the country.
+
+I did open my book and try to read, but it was useless. And I tried not
+to think, but that was no use either, because nothing could stop me
+from "feeling." If only Clarissa had not said anything!—But that one
+touch of pity had settled the matter. Tears would not be held back any
+longer. They came streaming in a kind of slow torrent. I have never
+cried so before. It was like being held in the grasp of something
+outside myself; and I had no power to overcome. I could only just hold
+down the fierce sobs which kept fighting their way up, and I know I
+did not make a sound; but the tears had their own way. It seemed as if
+nothing would ever stop them,—as if I must go on crying, crying, until
+I died.
+
+I do not know in the least how long this had lasted. But suddenly I
+heard a movement, and though I could see nothing plainly, I had a
+glimpse of a tall dark figure. And it came and sat down beside me; and
+a voice that I knew in a moment said,—
+
+"Is something very much the matter?"
+
+I had just been telling myself that perhaps I might never hear that
+voice again; and hearing it all at once made me worse instead of
+better. I ought to have stopped crying, and have sat up, and have
+answered him quietly as if nothing were wrong. I suppose there are
+people who could have done so; but for me at the moment it was
+impossible. I could only turn my face away, and the tears came
+streaming in a faster rush than before, and I was shaking with the sobs
+that all my strength could hardly hold under.
+
+"Rhoda, what is it?" he asked, in a tone of real distress. I could hear
+that, though I might have heard nothing else. And he had never called
+me "Rhoda" before.
+
+But to save my life I could not have spoken a word. I could only manage
+to strangle down those dreadful sobs.
+
+He was quite silent for some minutes,—I do not know how long. Somehow I
+got back a little self-control, slowly, as he waited. If he had spoken
+too soon, he would have set me off again, but he did not, and presently
+I sat up, and began to feel ashamed.
+
+"Your cousin said something that made me fear all was not quite right.
+But I did not guess it to be anything so serious as this."
+
+"It—it isn't—" I strove to say. "I'm only—"
+
+My voice broke down again. I knew he was looking at me earnestly.
+
+"But people do not cry for nothing," he said in his gentlest tone.
+"I mean, they do not cry as you were crying when I first saw you.
+Something must have happened."
+
+I shook my head.
+
+"No bad news from home?"
+
+I shook my head a second time.
+
+"And nothing wrong in the house here?"
+
+A third time the same reply. I cannot think how I could be so utterly
+idiotic. It was as good as telling him outright what "was" the matter.
+If I had had my wits about me, I should have made up some sort of
+excuse or reason. But between the pain, and the relief, and the
+bewilderment, and the uncertainty, I had pretty well parted company
+with my wits.
+
+"Nothing but a fit of depression! Is that all?" Then he asked, "Did you
+think me very unkind and forgetful not to call and say good-bye, when I
+had said that I would?"
+
+I had not expected this question. It took me by surprise. I ought to
+have answered lightly, ought to have told him that of course it was
+faithless, but quite to be expected, or something of the sort. But the
+words brought back in a rush the pain with which I had been struggling;
+and in a moment the passionate crying, only half checked, had me again
+in its grip. I hid my face anew.
+
+And the next thing I can remember was his arm round me, and his voice
+calling me "Rhoda!" and his "poor little darling!" And he said,—oh, I
+cannot repeat his words. I hardly know what he did say, only he blamed
+himself for having put me to pain. And I know that the whole world was
+changed for me in a moment, though I could not help sobbing on for very
+happiness.
+
+Nobody came near us, and we were quite hidden,—at least, I am sure
+we were, though Clarissa tries to tease me by declaring that the top
+windows of the Square overlook every corner of the garden. We were
+alone for one happy happy half-hour. And then he pulled my veil over my
+face, and led me indoors; and Clarissa found us in the library; and he
+told her I that had promised to be his.
+
+The only blot on my great happiness to-night is the recollection of
+Millicent. I am trying not to think of her. Why should I? What is the
+use of bothering myself? If he loves me, I could not possibly make him
+love her. All that is over and buried long ago.
+
+Only I do wish that I had never never made her confess to me that
+she cared for him. If I had not done that, things would now be quite
+different.
+
+No use thinking about what is past. He loves me, and I love him; and
+I am perfectly perfectly happy. Life looks so changed—so wonderfully
+bright!
+
+My letter to my mother did not go off. Another had to be written
+instead. I shall make no plans till her answer arrives. Anyhow,
+Clarissa says that of course I must not go back immediately.
+
+
+                                     _May 23rd, Friday._
+
+A very loving letter from Mother to-day; just what I should have
+expected her to write, only she seems a good deal taken by surprise. So
+I suppose Clarissa has not said much in writing home, as I sometimes
+fancied she might do.
+
+Mother is pleased—at least, I think so. I am not sure. She writes in
+such a tender anxious way, as if she could not make up her mind—as if
+she were puzzled. She seems distressed to be shut off from me at such a
+time. And so am I—only, when I think of going back, there is always the
+recollection of Millicent.
+
+Was Millicent really in London that week? I mean the week before last?
+It seems such an immense time ago. Was she truly there, and did she
+or did she not see Ernest? He tells me to call him Ernest. I have
+tried just a little to find out, without seeming to do so; but nobody
+takes the trouble to answer my questions. And I cannot speak of her—of
+Millicent—to Ernest himself.
+
+I do not yet understand how it was that he did not come in to say
+good-bye to me that evening, when he thought I was going away the next
+day. He says he was prevented; and he does not explain what it was
+that prevented him. I said once that I supposed he was not able to get
+away in time from the old aunt with whom he was dining, and he made no
+particular answer. He did not seem interested enough to go on with the
+subject, and something in his manner kept me from saying any more.
+
+I suppose it was some business affair which he does not care to talk
+about. Even this happy week I see a look now and then on his face as
+if something were not quite right—as if something were pressing on his
+mind. And of course it has to do with business, or he would tell me
+all about it. A great many men are reserved about business affairs, I
+believe. I should not have thought Ernest was one of them; but perhaps
+he is.
+
+If it was business that kept him away, he could not help himself. I do
+not see why he should not have written to explain; but I suppose he
+felt sure that I was gone, and so he put off coming, and most likely
+his idea was to run down soon to Wayatford. But he says very little
+about what he had meant to do.
+
+It seems as if one never could have anything quite perfect in
+this life; and I do feel just a little scrap fretted. I cannot
+understand how things have been, and I do not like the feeling of not
+understanding. There is a touch of mystery about it all which teases
+me. If only he explained frankly why he could not come, and said that
+he did not write because he meant to go down to Wayatford instead, it
+would all be clear, and I should be satisfied. But he says nothing of
+the kind. The only time he has brought the matter forward at all was in
+the garden, when he asked if I had thought him unkind. Since then, if I
+bring it up, he just makes some little jest, or turns it off. And that
+looks as if there were something behind which he does not wish me to
+know.
+
+Am I fanciful? Ought to be able to trust him. But I do like to have
+things clear as daylight.
+
+I should have expected him to say how sorry he was not to have been
+able to call that evening. And he does not. He has said nothing of the
+sort. The most he did say was to ask if "I" had thought him unkind. He
+did not say that "he" had minded it.
+
+I am vexed with myself for having shown him so plainly what I felt.
+I cannot think how I could. It makes my face burn like fire when the
+recollection comes up. If only I had pretended that I was crying about
+Addie, or about leaving Clarissa to go home! Anything rather than have
+let him so easily guess the truth! It was so undignified! I would not
+have believed it of myself beforehand. I do wish I had more control
+over my moods. Of course I do not want to have said anything untrue;
+but there are times when a girl must somehow manage to hide something
+of what she feels, if she has any self-respect.
+
+All these thoughts are worrying me very much. Not when I am with him,
+but when I am alone. When we are together, I can hardly think of
+anything except my happiness. When he is gone, I go over all that has
+been said, and all that has not been said, and make myself miserable.
+
+But still, he loves me. Nothing else matters, in comparison with
+that. He loves me, and I belong to him; and nothing can separate us
+now—nothing but death. Not even Millicent! I am so sorry for Millicent.
+But how could I help it, if he liked me best? And surely he was free to
+choose!
+
+
+                                     _May 24th, Saturday._
+
+I have been trying to find out from Clarissa exactly what passed
+between her and Ernest, when he first arrived that day, before he came
+to me in the garden. She tried to turn it off with a laugh, but that
+made me want to know the more.
+
+"Did he explain to you why he had not been to say good-bye? And was he
+surprised to hear that I was here still? And was he glad?"
+
+Clarissa put up her eyebrows. "My dear, you hear everything now from
+the fountain-head. What is the use of coming to me?"
+
+I was ashamed to confess that I did not know more. "One likes to have
+different versions sometimes."
+
+"Not from me, thanks! I never interfere with the versions of people who
+are engaged."
+
+"But you can tell me what you said to him. It was something that made
+him expect to find me—"
+
+There I came to a pause. I would not for anything have Clarissa know
+how he really did find me.
+
+"Well, yes," she answered carelessly. "I told him you had gone out,
+looking rather miserable. He asked if anything were wrong. I said,
+'Nothing much! You had better go and ask her yourself.' And he went."
+
+Was that all that had passed? Clarissa's account sounded innocent, told
+as she told it. But everything depends upon tone and manner, and she
+had such an expressive face.
+
+I suppose I looked worried still, for she added, "If I were you, I
+would not wear myself to a thread-paper about nothing. Men have their
+own fashion of doing things, and you cannot make them run in your own
+particular grooves. Take him as he is, and be content, my dear!"
+
+Good advice, no doubt. But what if one cannot? I had a long cry in bed
+last night, thinking how little I really knew and understood.
+
+And yet he is so good, so kind to me. How foolish I am!
+
+
+                                     _May 26th, Monday._
+
+No letter from Mother for days. Addie was practically well when I heard
+last, and disinfection of the house was going on. Why does not Mother
+write?
+
+
+                                     _May 27th, Tuesday._
+
+Ernest has just been in—the first time for three days. He was out of
+Town all Sunday, and when he appeared to-day, he seemed rather hurried,
+and he said he only had half-an-hour. I dare say it was reasonable
+enough, but I thought he might have managed differently. I suppose it
+always seems easier to other people. And I couldn't at once get up my
+spirits. I had been bothering myself terribly with the thought that
+perhaps, after all, he had not really quite made up his mind to ask me
+to marry him, until he found me crying in the garden.
+
+It would be too dreadful to think such a thing seriously, for that
+would mean that he had been drawn on to speak out of pity! If I really
+thought it, I do not know what I should do. But even while the notion
+haunts me, I know quite well that it is all nonsense. And yet, somehow,
+I cannot entirely get rid of it.
+
+Generally when Ernest is with me such thoughts vanish, and I am
+perfectly happy. But to-day for once I did not feel so. He had not
+been for three days, and I suppose the worries had had time to get
+into fuller swing; and his visit was so short, that I had not dine to
+get out of the swing. That must have been the reason. I did try to be
+bright and merry, but I could not feel so. And I saw him glancing at me
+now and then, as if he were puzzled.
+
+Then some stupid little remark of his made the tears spring to my eyes.
+There was no real reason, only the tears were all ready, and the least
+thing was enough to start them. I hoped he would not see, but he did;
+and he said, "Did I pain you? Really I had no intention." And then he
+added, with a laugh, "You must not cultivate tear-bags quite so near to
+your eyes, little woman."
+
+Before I knew what was in my mind, I had flashed out an indignant,
+"Do you suppose tears are always close to my eyes, because you once
+happened to find me crying for nothing, like a baby?"
+
+"Was it for nothing?" I suppose the question came involuntarily, but it
+made me angry—more angry than he has ever seen me, and he looked rather
+astonished. "Why, Rhoda, what is the matter? What is all this about?"
+
+"If you can laugh at me for crying that day—" I said, almost choked.
+
+"I do not know what can have put such an idea into your head. Nothing
+was farther from my thoughts. We were not speaking of that day, or of
+any particular day, were we?"
+
+And I was so vexed with my own stupidity, that I could have burst out
+sobbing, there and then.
+
+"Come, that is not like my sensible Rhoda," he said, and he stood up.
+"Hardly worth while, is it, to make much of so little? I am obliged to
+be off now, but I shall look in again to-morrow, and you will be all
+right then."
+
+He actually kissed me and was gone, before I could resolve what to say.
+And I have been dreadfully vexed with myself since. It was so silly.
+I suppose he hates women to cry, like most men, even though he did
+actually ask me to marry him while I was crying. But to-day he must
+have thought me out of temper. I must be careful, and not worry him
+again.
+
+Heigho! I wish I could forget all the little doubts and fidgets, and
+just be happy. Why can I not?
+
+
+                                     _May 28th, Wednesday Evening._
+
+I am at home, suddenly. A telegram came the first thing this morning,
+before breakfast, telling me of my mother's illness and danger. I was
+to go home at once, it said,—at once. And of course I came off by the
+very first train. Nothing else mattered—nothing, compared with the
+terrible dread that I might be too late. Clarissa spoke of Ernest, and
+I said, "Oh, tell him anything you like. I can't think of him just
+now." Clarissa told me I was unnatural; but what did I care.
+
+All through the weary journey I saw nothing but Mother's dear face!
+
+She was not worse when I arrived—only as ill as she could well be. They
+said the first sound of my voice roused her more than anything else had
+done; but she might not speak. She might only smile, and let her hand
+lie in mine.
+
+It is not the fever; it is exhaustion and a chill—congestion of the
+lungs and complete prostration.
+
+I never shall forget the first going into her room. For some seconds I
+saw nothing but the dear changed face, and then—then I looked up, and I
+met Millicent's eyes.
+
+Ever since she was first taken ill, Millicent has been with her, has
+done everything for her. Until Juliet arrived yesterday, Millicent
+would not leave her, night or day. So much illness is about just
+now, that good nurses are hard to find, and Mother seems so to like
+Millicent's nursing that the doctor does not want a change just yet,
+till matters are better. Oh, how I do hope and pray that matters soon
+"will" be better. It frightens me to think how ready Mother is to go.
+And yet it is "not" always those who are most ready that are first
+called away, so far as we are able to judge.
+
+Millicent was standing by the bed when first my eyes met hers, pale
+and quiet and grave, exactly her usual self. But there was a kind of
+reproach in her eyes, or else I fancied it. Was that only my fancy? It
+brought back to me the look in her face all those years and years ago,
+on the day when we went to the ruin, when I thought her eyes reproached
+me, and when I tried to think there was no reason.
+
+Was there no reason? And is there no reason now?
+
+Did she mean to reproach me, or was it quite unconscious? Does she know
+anything yet about Ernest and me? Yes, of course; she must have heard
+of our engagement. Would she reproach me for that? Has she seen him
+lately?
+
+Strange that these questions should come again to torment me to-night,
+when my mother is lying between life and death, and when I know down in
+my heart that nothing, no, nothing, can come nearer to my heart than
+her great danger. But perhaps I can hardly trust myself to think of her
+danger, and so these other thoughts come whirling around me. I suppose
+it was that look on Millicent's face which started them.
+
+I know my eyes dropped before hers, as if I were guilty; and there was
+a rush of blood to my face, and then I turned cold and queer. Millicent
+led me from the room, holding my wrist in a firm grasp, and she said,
+"You must keep up before 'her,' Rhoda. The least agitation might be
+fatal."
+
+"And you have nursed her!"
+
+"There was no one else at hand. I loved to do it."
+
+Then I was told to lie down, and get some sleep. I did the first; I
+could not do the second. I think now that I understand the meaning of
+"coals of fire."
+
+They will let me be in my mother's room if only I promise to be brave.
+
+
+                                     _June 5th, Thursday._
+
+Each day has been one long battle between life and death. But
+improvement has begun. The doctor speaks of more than hope.
+
+I thought I knew before how I loved her,—but this has brought home to
+me more than ever before what she really is. If she were taken, the
+world would indeed be emptiness! I have wondered, watching beside her,
+how other things can have seemed so important to me.
+
+And yet, now that she is better, now that day by day anxiety is
+lessening, I find the importance of other things once more coming to
+the fore; and the very worries, which I almost fancied could never
+touch me again, are regaining their old power.
+
+Juliet has taken the day-nursing, mainly, and Millicent the night
+nursing. Millicent is very good at night-work, and does not knock up
+easily, they say. I would so thankfully have taken Millicent's place,
+but they all told me I had not enough experience. And what could I say?
+I know little of nursing,—and the very best has been needed to bring my
+mother through.
+
+I shall always now feel that my mother has been given back to me,—first
+of all, in answer to prayer;—and certainly through the doctor's skill
+and attention, but also and largely through Millicent's devoted
+nursing. What a thing for me to know, side by side with what I have
+been doing to her.
+
+For I feel now that I "have" done it. I have drawn Ernest's heart away
+from her, when he was still free, and might still have thought again of
+his early love. I have made that impossible, and have made him care for
+me instead. And I have done it deliberately,—with my eyes open, even
+when I thought they were shut,—even while I was telling myself that I
+would on no account stoop to any such thing.
+
+If I could but undo the past! But how can I? How could I? I am promised
+to Ernest now, and he is promised to me. Even if I could bear to think
+of giving him up, for Millicent's sake, I have no right to do so; for
+his happiness is involved as well as mine, and I have no right to make
+him miserable. My giving him up would not make him turn to Millicent.
+It would only break my heart and his; and Millicent would be none the
+better.
+
+Perhaps I am fancying about her. Perhaps she does not really care. She
+is so quiet and calm. At all events, I feel that I can do nothing now;
+it is too late. Awhile ago, I could have taken action—not now!
+
+Mother often looks at me tenderly, lovingly, anxiously, as if she
+wanted to say something, and hardly knew how. Is she afraid to speak
+out what is in her mind? Is it anything that would distress me? I have
+an instinct that she is thinking about Ernest.
+
+But much talking is still forbidden; and exciting subjects are tabooed;
+and also I am never alone with her for one single instant. Is this
+managed purposely, I wonder? Years ago I should have rebelled and
+fought, if I had been treated so; but now I cannot trust myself to do
+wisely, so is it any wonder if others cannot trust me either.
+
+Now that I am away from Ernest, I realize more than ever all that he is
+to me. How could I be so foolish those last few days, fancying so many
+things and even showing temper to him? And how kind he was!
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+_WAS IT HAPPINESS?_
+
+                                     _June 11th, Wednesday._
+
+THE tide has at last thoroughly turned, and Mother is better—still very
+weak, but improving steadily.
+
+I write to Ernest constantly, and he to me; at least, he writes almost
+every day, which is as often as I do. His letters are all just exactly
+what they should be. Yet sometimes I seem to miss something in them—I
+cannot tell what. I read them over and over, looking for the something
+which I miss, and trying to discover what it is. And I look and try in
+vain.
+
+Of Millicent I see very little. She is still all night with Mother,
+and still has to rest in the day. When we are together, it always
+happens that some one else is also present. Strangely enough, since I
+came home, I have never once been alone with Mother, never once alone
+with Millicent. And scarcely a word has as yet been spoken about my
+engagement. At first I thought nothing of this. Whilst Mother was
+so ill, nobody could think or talk of anything else—I least of all,
+perhaps. But now that she is so much better, out of danger, and only
+needing great care, I seem to want a little interest and sympathy in
+what concerns me so very closely.
+
+Is this selfishness? I hope not. Isn't it natural? And does nobody care
+that I am going to be so happy? Yes, in spite of any small doubts or
+misgivings, so very very happy!
+
+Mother cares. I see it in her dear face every time she looks at me.
+By-and-by she will say something.
+
+Millicent has not once asked after Ernest. She has not congratulated
+me. She has not alluded in any way to the engagement. Is this
+intentional silence on her part? Is she simply preoccupied and not
+interested? But that would not be like Millicent. I hardly know what to
+think.
+
+
+                                     _June 20th, Friday._
+
+To-day, for the first time, I have been alone with Mother. Millicent
+seems to be over done. She turned faint yesterday evening and had to go
+to bed, and she is not up yet. Juliet was with Mother all night, lying
+down, but not sleeping much. This afternoon Juliet went to her room to
+rest, and I was left in charge alone.
+
+"Mind," Juliet said, "nothing to excite or worry the Mother, dear!" She
+spoke kindly, but very decidedly.
+
+I felt terribly afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing. I knew how I
+should be blamed if anything went wrong—worse still, how I should blame
+myself.
+
+It did not seem that there was much to do. Mother had been allowed to
+sit up for a short time in the morning; and she was drowsy and tired.
+I sat watching the dear face, feeling so unutterably thankful to know
+that she was given back to us again. And presently her hand stole into
+mine, her eyes opening slowly.
+
+"Rhoda,—and nobody else here!"
+
+I bent over to kiss her.
+
+"I have been wanting to speak to you," she said, "about—"
+
+"Yes, Mother."
+
+"If things are all right, and for your happiness, I am glad—if all is
+as it should be."
+
+"Why not, Mother dear?"
+
+"Somehow, I did not quite expect—" and her eyes looked wistfully into
+mine. "I have not seen you alone—not once yet. They said I must keep
+quiet—not talk of things; and I have tried. But now perhaps I have
+waited long enough."
+
+"Mother, you are glad for me?" I whispered. "You know Ernest a little;
+I mean, you know about him. And you will like him very very much. I
+know you will."
+
+"He is nice, I believe, in many ways. I have heard so. But—," and a
+pause, "it troubles me to think—"
+
+I asked what it was that troubled her. She said, after another break,
+"Millicent!"
+
+"Did you think he cared for her?" My heart was beating fast; but I had
+to keep calm for her sake.
+
+"Yes," was her instant answer. "He used to care."
+
+"So long ago!" was all I could say. Am I never to have any peace
+because of Millicent?
+
+Mother looked earnestly at me; and there was a slight negative movement
+of her head.
+
+"So very long ago!" I repeated. "And he loves me now."
+
+"You are sure!"
+
+"Mother! How can I doubt it?"
+
+"You are sure that it is all right?"
+
+"Why, it can't be anything else! How can it be? He has asked me to
+marry him. He has told me himself that he loves me. What more can one
+want? Why should he ever have said a single word to me, if he cared for
+Millicent?"
+
+I spoke fast and warmly, forgetting in my excitement the need to be
+quiet. She did not yet look satisfied, and I went on with increasing
+energy:—"It isn't as if I had not seen a great deal of him, a great
+deal! All these weeks he has been in and out. He knows me, and I know
+him. He has not seen Millicent for years and years." But as I spoke the
+words a cold doubt swept across me, and my mother said,—
+
+"Yes. He saw her in London the other day."
+
+Every pulse in me gave a throb. "Where?"
+
+"She was staying there for three or four days, just before I was taken
+ill. She came and told me about it."
+
+"Did she think he cared for her still?" My whole face was burning.
+
+Mother did not at once answer. She lay thinking, with a troubled look
+in her eyes.
+
+"I cannot fully remember what passed. I have had so many fancies
+since—in my illness. But the impression comes back to me of her face
+that evening, so young and bright, like the Millicent of childish days,
+unlike what she has been for years. And she said—"
+
+"Yes." I hardly knew how to wait. "Tell me all. I have a right to know."
+
+"Not if it were merely a matter of Millicent's own feelings."
+
+"Tell me!" I urged.
+
+"It may be a fancy of mine. I cannot be sure. I have had so much
+confusion. Looking back, I cannot always distinguish between dreams and
+realities. But I thought—certainly I thought she told me something. If
+I could only recall exactly what it was! She said that she had seen him
+more than once, and that he was not changed. Yes, she said he was not
+changed. I remember her smile when she said those words. And she told
+me he was the same towards her that he had always been—always in the
+past she meant. The same towards her, Rhoda dear! And then the next
+thing was to hear of your engagement."
+
+"Mother, you must be mistaken," I said, as quietly as I could. "It
+could not have been as you think. If she had said that, you would have
+told me when you wrote." But even as I spoke, the doubting tone of her
+first letter came back to me, and my heart sank.
+
+"Hardly in writing, darling—should I? I hoped to see you very soon, you
+know. And I was feeling ill even then, though nobody knew. But it made
+me very unhappy."
+
+"Only, if it is all a mistake! You are not sure of what Millicent did
+really say."
+
+"Not quite. The impression is strong, but I cannot be sure whether she
+actually said the words to me, or whether I saw them in her face. I do
+not think it can be altogether a mistake."
+
+I knew I ought to stop this talk. It was bad for my mother. But how
+could I wait?
+
+"It does not seem to me kind even to suppose that Millicent cares for
+him still, now he is engaged to me."
+
+"It is not so much that, Rhoda—not so much whether she cares for
+him, but whether he cares for her—whether, as she said, he is still
+unchanged towards her."
+
+"She could not have said it. It is not true. That must have been a
+dream of yours," I urged, out of a sore and doubting heart. "How
+could he have told her that he cared for her, just before he came and
+proposed to me? The thing isn't possible. It is out of the question."
+
+I was trying to persuade myself, at least as much as to persuade my
+mother. She sighed and closed her eyes. "I think I am tired," she said
+faintly. "Never mind; things will come right in time—by-and-by."
+
+Would they? I dared not say another word, she looked so worn-out. But
+a tumult raged within, which is not yet quieted. Was the thing so
+impossible? Is it so impossible? Do I really and truly know Ernest?
+There is one little mystery. What if the clue lies here?
+
+Mother seemed to drop asleep, and I sat motionless. But presently, she
+opened her eyes, and gazed full at me.
+
+"It was—'not' a dream," she said distinctly.
+
+Before I could resolve what to answer, she was sleeping again, and I
+could not disturb her. As it is, she is the worse for our talk, more
+feverish than for a long while, and Juliet seems anxious. Yet how could
+I have managed differently, except by refusing to go into the subject
+at all? And that did seem to me impossible. Ought it to have been?
+
+The pain of this uncertainty, this not knowing what it all means, and
+whom I may trust. When will things become clear?
+
+
+                                     _June 22nd, Sunday._
+
+Millicent went home yesterday. She has done too much, and the doctor
+orders rest. Amy has managed well at the Vicarage while Millicent has
+been with us. Things are very different now from what they were a few
+years ago.
+
+I begged Juliet to let me take Millicent's place in the nursing; and
+she has given way, on condition that I will strictly avoid all subjects
+that could excite or distress my mother.
+
+"Not a word about Mr. Derwentwater at present!" she said. It is almost
+the first time that she has alluded to him beyond a rather formal
+remark when I first came home.
+
+I have promised to be very careful, and Mother shows no inclination to
+bring the matter up again. Either she has said all that she wishes to
+say, or else it was a passing fancy, which has since faded.
+
+
+                                     _June 23rd, Monday._
+
+To-day it came to me as something of a shock, that Millicent actually
+knows nothing of our engagement. Addie told me. She says nobody has
+heard of it, except just ourselves and aunt Marian. None of the Farrars
+family.
+
+Then my notion that Millicent looked at me reproachfully, when first I
+came home, was pure imagination. She did not know. She does not know.
+
+It seems strange that the fact should not have leaked out before this.
+But we have all been so busy nursing, and so busy thinking about
+Mother's state, as to have seen few outside people. There has been
+no time for talk, and no inclination. I have wondered sometimes in a
+passing way that nobody has said anything more to me about Ernest, but
+I have had no wish to bring the matter forward myself. My dread has
+been of the time when I should have to speak to Millicent. And now I
+know the reason,—I mean the reason why so little has been said. Even
+uncle Basil has not heard that I am engaged. If he had, he would not
+have been so long without speaking.
+
+"Mother told me, because she and I were alone when the news came,"
+Addie observed. "And I could not think what made her cry. She told me,
+and she said I must not let it out to anybody, because she did not know
+yet whether it could ever come to anything. I did not even say one word
+to Emmie, till mother said I might—I mean when we came together again.
+And I know that when Mother told aunt Marian it was only on condition
+that uncle should not hear, because he never can keep things long to
+himself. Will it ever come to anything, Rhoda? What made Mother say
+that? And was she really sorry? What made her cry?"
+
+I hardly know what I said in answer. I silenced Addie as soon as I
+could. "Of course it will—of course!" I remember saying to myself.
+
+
+                                     _June 25th, Wednesday._
+
+To-day I had to go to the Vicarage. A question had to be asked of
+Millicent, something about my mother's state at night, which could not
+well be explained in writing, and there was nobody except me to do it.
+Juliet could not be spared. So I had no choice in the matter.
+
+I was shown into the dining-room, where Millicent sat in an easy-chair,
+working. She looked thin and rather worn; but her smile was the same
+as usual—not a particularly bright smile, only quiet and kind and
+contented. There is never anything brilliant about Millicent, but she
+is always the same. One never needs to feel doubtful what her next mood
+may be.
+
+I asked the question which had to be put, and Millicent explained
+exactly what Juliet wanted to know. Then we both were still for two or
+three seconds. I did not like to get up and go away immediately, and
+a vague idea was taking shape in my mind. Should I tell her there and
+then how things were, and see for myself how she would take the news?
+I had been dreading all along having to speak to her about Ernest,
+because of my own uneasy feelings, yet now it seemed to me that nothing
+could well be worse than the state of uncertainty in which I had been
+so long. To speak out to Millicent might clear away mysteries. I was
+half resolved to try the plan.
+
+"It is vexatious that I cannot go on with the nursing," Millicent
+observed, breaking the silence.
+
+"You have done so much already. It has knocked you up."
+
+"Juliet warned me that I was keeping on too long with the night-work;
+and if I had been sensible, I should have changed about with her for
+a time. But I liked it; and she could not persuade me. So I am just
+paying for my own imprudence. That is all, and I shall be all right in
+a few days."
+
+"They tell me you were in Town lately."
+
+"For part of the inside of a week."
+
+"And you enjoyed it?"
+
+"Very much."
+
+"I suppose you saw a great many old friends?" I was feeling my way, not
+sure yet of my own intentions.
+
+"A few; not a great many." Then a pause, and I felt her eyes studying
+me. "I saw something of one very old friend—Ernest Derwentwater."
+
+I tried to meet her look, but my gaze went down before hers. In a
+moment, the past came before me with a flash: how I had meant to use
+my time in London for Millicent, how I had purposed to recall her to
+Ernest's mind, and how I had failed.
+
+Yet, if I had not failed, Ernest's love would not now be mine. That
+thought came next, and with it a wonder,—could I truly feel regret for
+what had ended so happily?
+
+If it is happily! Who can tell?
+
+Besides, one may not judge by consequences. Whatever the results
+may be, I was wrong, I did wrongly. Why, beforehand in my journal I
+condemned in plain words the very line of action which I have since
+followed. Nothing can undo or excuse that.
+
+Millicent spoke the words quite quietly, quite naturally, with no
+change of colour. But my whole face became crimson, and she saw it. She
+could not help doing so.
+
+"He told me he had been seeing something of you at your cousin's
+house," she observed, and she said it as if it were the most simple
+thing in the world—as if it meant just nothing at all.
+
+"Something of me!" The words burst out in scorn. At the moment, I could
+not have told whether it were scorn of Ernest or scorn of myself.
+
+"That was what he said." She spoke in a curiously deliberate thoughtful
+way, as if weighing some question in her own mind, and only half
+attending to me. Her eyes had a far-away look in them.
+
+"And you saw 'something' of him too, I suppose?"
+
+"In those two or three days, yes."
+
+"And you found him—" I meant to end with "the same as ever," but the
+words refused to be spoken. Strange to say, Millicent's answer was as
+if she had heard them.
+
+"I found him very much the same as he always was, much more so than I
+should have expected, after so many years of absence—the old smile and
+manner, hardly altered. As I told your mother the evening after I came
+back, he was just his old self towards me." I noticed, or thought I
+noticed, the least possible break or falter in her voice, but almost
+immediately she went on in the same placid tone as before:—"He was
+quite one of us, you know, in the old days; and I could feel at once
+that he is one of us still, like an elder brother. It was pleasant to
+find no alteration."
+
+A sense of dizzy bewilderment crept over me. Was this all? Had I been
+verily making a mountain of so utter a molehill? Then came a buck-wave
+of passionate distrust—distrust of myself, of Ernest, of Millicent. Was
+she trying to hoodwink me?
+
+"And I suppose—" the words broke from me almost without intention on my
+part—"I suppose he never took the trouble to tell you that he was just
+on the verge of asking me to marry him!"
+
+Millicent did not speak at once. I saw still no change of colour, no
+sign of distress. She wore only a very serious and a very thoughtful
+expression. She seemed to be trying to read my face, perhaps also to
+be making up her mind to some course of action. That at least was my
+after-idea. At the moment, I was not composed enough to have any clear
+impressions.
+
+"No, he did not tell me so."
+
+"He 'might' have done so! He asked me the very next time we met—the
+next time he came to the house. But perhaps he wasn't sure; perhaps
+he had not made up his mind. If he only said to you that he had seen
+'something' of me!"
+
+She was silent again; thinking earnestly, it seemed to me. I did not
+know how to stand her quiet manner, in its contrast with my own inner
+tumult.
+
+"At all events, whatever he meant or did not mean, he did speak, and he
+and I are engaged."
+
+There was one quick glance up. "Are you, really?"
+
+"Why not? Is it so impossible? Why should nobody ever care for me?" I
+demanded, speaking vehemently.
+
+"I did not mean that, dear. Oh, no. Only, I did not quite expect—I
+did not fancy it was already settled." She said the words softly and
+clearly, with a smile; not a forced smile, but a free affectionate
+lighting up of her whole face. "And you have been all this time at home
+and have never once thought of telling me! Was that kind? If it is for
+his happiness—and for yours—don't you 'know' how glad I shall be? More
+than glad. Happy and thankful. Could you not be sure, Rhoda?"
+
+I do not know what it was in her look that stirred me. I had never seen
+her wear so sweet a look before,—a kind of almost heavenly sweetness.
+When I look back now, I see it as the look of a victor in the fight.
+But at the moment, I could not grasp or measure its meaning; I only
+felt vaguely the contrast between her and myself. Perhaps it was partly
+reaction from what I had gone through; but all at once my heart was
+beating to suffocation, and tears were blinding my eyes, and I had no
+power to say a word. I saw dimly her kind concerned face; and then I
+started up to hurry away.
+
+But she would not let me go; and the touch of her hands, and the sound
+of her soft "Poor Rhoda!" broke me down completely. I cried, oh, how I
+cried, with her arms round me, and her face against mine. And I could
+not have told her half the reasons why, if indeed I knew them myself.
+It was such a jumble of bewilderment and pain, of remorse for the past
+and of fear for the future.
+
+As she held me, and as I sobbed, one gleam came of what had to be done;
+and I heard my own voice gasping out, "Forgive me."
+
+"What, for, my dear?"
+
+I could not attempt to explain. I could only repeat, "Forgive me."
+
+"If there is anything at all to forgive, I do forgive—entirely. So now
+you will feel happy, will you not?"
+
+The goodness and sweetness that she showed! I never could have imagined
+anything like it.
+
+"And now you will feel better altogether," she went on. "A good cry
+clears the air sometimes. You have been under a great strain of anxiety
+lately; and that tells upon one. Don't you think you will be wanted
+perhaps at home by this time? It will not do for me to keep you too
+long. But another day you must come again, and tell me all about it.
+All about Ernest and yourself, I mean—" and she smiled, and spoke
+without the least falter. "I shall feel such an interest in the story.
+You must tell me the whole, from beginning to end."
+
+I wanted to say more then, but she would not let me. "Not to-day," she
+said decisively. "Another day, dear. I have things to attend to now,
+and you have your home duties. But I want to hear it all soon. I shall
+feel such an interest in everything to do with you both."
+
+Did she ever really care for him? And was she afraid to let me stay,
+for fear I should say something that I might be sorry for afterwards.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+_HOW THINGS WERE AND MIGHT HAVE BEEN._
+
+                                     _June 27th, Friday._
+
+THIS morning I went to the Vicarage, hoping for another talk with
+Millicent. There are things which I do so want to understand. I cannot
+sleep at night, going over and over different perplexities. And it
+seemed to me that perhaps another little chat might clear matters up,
+even if I did not actually ask questions. Millicent is so calm and
+strong; and I am so easily tempest-tossed. I wish I were more like her.
+But when I reached the Vicarage, I found—to my dismay—that she was away
+from home. A friend had written in trouble, begging her to go; and
+Millicent had started at once. The girl could not tell me her address,
+or how long she would be away. Perhaps only three or four days, perhaps
+a week. Mr. Farrars had said that a change would do her good, and he
+hoped she would not hurry back.
+
+I came home, wondering how to get through another week.
+
+
+                                     _June 29th, Sunday._
+
+This afternoon I have been reading some earlier entries in my
+journal,—particularly those in last February and March. I seem to have
+lived through a lifetime since. Some of the words which I wrote read
+now like a satire upon my life.
+
+The resolution that I made to live for others, to think only of the
+happiness of others, to sacrifice my own wishes whenever opportunity
+occurred,—how grievously I have failed in the carrying out of all this.
+Everything has gone down at once, gone down hopelessly, before the very
+first temptation to self-pleasing; and I have sacrificed Millicent for
+myself, not myself for Millicent.
+
+True, I do not know what her thoughts and wishes are; I cannot tell
+whether under any circumstances she might have been still willing to
+marry him—Ernest—but at least I did then believe that I knew her to be
+willing. And in the face of that belief, in the very teeth of my own
+deliberate resolution to act only in her interests and on her behalf, I
+set myself to win his love. And I succeeded.
+
+If I did truly succeed! That doubt is the worst pain.
+
+He writes so kindly, so affectionately. But if he could act so as to
+make her think him still unchanged towards herself,—if he really did
+act so, as Mother believes,—what kind of a love for me can his be?
+
+The feeling of uncertainty makes it difficult to write to him
+naturally, and as he would expect. Does he see the difference, and is
+he pained? I am not able to control my style.
+
+As for Millicent, the wrong that I have done to her I see no means of
+repairing. There was a time when I could have held back, when I could
+have effaced myself for her sake. And I knew it, and I knew I ought
+to do it, and I did not. Now it is too late. Now there is nothing
+that I can do. I must not even seem to think that she cares. Perhaps
+she does not; but perhaps she does. She has so much self-command; her
+composure tells nothing either way. Other people might not be able to
+behave so, but Millicent is perfectly able. I try to imagine that she
+does not care; but in my heart I know well that there is no proof of
+her indifference, none whatever. And yet I can do nothing. If I have
+won his love, I have no right to cast him off for Millicent's sake. It
+would do her no good; it would only make sorrow for him?
+
+If! But have I? Would he really care? Would it mean sorrow for him?
+
+I am not strong, like Millicent. If I found it to be all a mistake, if
+I found that Ernest did not truly love me, I think I should be crushed;
+I do not know how I could ever bear it.
+
+
+                                     _June 30th, Monday._
+
+Millicent writes word that she will come home to-morrow, and she asks
+me to go and see her in the afternoon. I will go; but shall I venture,
+when it comes to the point, to ask her in plain words what I want to
+know? If she cannot help me, it almost seems as if nobody could.
+
+
+                                     _July 2nd, Wednesday._
+
+Yesterday afternoon I went to the Vicarage, in a tremor of doubt and
+unhappiness, ready to imagine all sorts of things. But somehow, as soon
+as I found myself sitting beside Millicent, with her cool fingers on
+mine, a quietness crept over me, and the fears seemed to drop away.
+
+"Now tell me all about it, from the very beginning. Give me the whole
+story, Rhoda. When did it begin, and how did it come on?"
+
+I could not do fully what she wished. I could not tell the tale of what
+I had meant to do for "her," and of how I had failed. But the rest I
+told at length,—how constantly Ernest had been in and out all those
+weeks, and how many delightful talks we had had, and how much everybody
+had liked him.
+
+"Including Rhoda!" she put in softly.
+
+Then I told her about the evening when he was to have come to say
+good-bye, and how he never came, and how wretched I was, and how he had
+not written to explain or apologise.
+
+"But what was the reason?" she asked.
+
+I could only hang my head, and say that I did not know. Ernest had
+never told me. "It must have been just when he went to see you," I
+murmured. "And I thought—perhaps—"
+
+She smiled. "No, you thought wrongly. He must have been out of Town
+that day. So like Ernest never to take the trouble to explain. Men
+don't realize what such a small matter may mean to a woman. He might
+have lost a good deal by it, foolish fellow!"
+
+The very tone in which she spoke helped to clear away some of my fogs.
+I was able to smile too; and she said, "Now go on."
+
+Then I described shamefacedly how he had found me crying in the garden;
+and how he had asked me there and then to marry him; and how I had
+since been terribly afraid that perhaps he only asked me out of pity
+because he thought me unhappy, and not because he really had meant to
+do so.
+
+"I could not stand that, could you?" I asked. "Think how horrid it
+would be! I can't forgive myself for having let him see so easily what
+I felt. And if he had not meant to ask me—"
+
+"Rhoda, I think you have a gift in the self-worrying line. And 'not'
+much confidence in Ernest."
+
+"But such a thing might be. And if it were, could you stand it?" I felt
+what an absurd question I was putting. Millicent most certainly would
+never, under any conceivable circumstances, have allowed herself to
+be found weeping in a garden, over any human being's non-appearance,
+still less would she have allowed it to be known why she cried. I had
+not seen this till the moment when I again asked Millicent, "Could you
+stand it?" And the contrast between her and me suddenly becoming clear,
+made my face burn as if it were on fire.
+
+"Perhaps not!" she said, with just the least lifting of eyebrows.
+"Well, dear, what do you propose to do? Of course you cannot go on
+without doing something."
+
+I was very much at a loss. The idea of actually doing anything had not
+occurred to me—I mean as to Ernest. It is one thing, I suppose, to talk
+over one's fancies with a friend, and quite another thing to act upon
+them.
+
+"You had better have it out with Ernest himself."
+
+"Millicent!"
+
+"And ask him frankly whether he really does want you, or no. Why not?"
+
+"Millicent!"
+
+"My dear Rhoda, I mean what I say. I am not jesting. If you truly and
+soberly have doubts of him and of his love, you had far better speak
+out plainly at once. Anything rather than go on in doubt until you are
+his wife. If there is any reality at all in these fancies of yours, you
+must delve to the bottom of them without delay. If there is not, then
+put them utterly aside, and never give them another thought."
+
+"It isn't so easy."
+
+"It has to be done, one way or the other," she said resolutely.
+
+"But when he comes,—when I am with him,—I don't feel afraid of anything
+then."
+
+Millicent kissed me, and actually laughed.
+
+"In that case, they can hardly be worth much. The sooner he comes, and
+the sooner you can stamp them out of existence, the better." After
+a pause she added. "I am afraid you are preparing unhappiness for
+yourself and for him, too, by these imaginations. You do not really,
+in your heart of hearts, believe that he asked you to become his wife,
+without wishing or intending it?"
+
+Expressed in those terms, the thing did sound improbable. I was able to
+agree with her. And yet—
+
+"Ernest is impulsive," she observed thoughtfully, "and very
+warm-hearted. But I can hardly think he would ever be so far out of his
+senses as to do what you have been supposing. Whether he had entirely
+made up his mind to speak so soon, is another question. Not a very
+important one. Half the proposals of marriage that are made come about,
+I fancy, more or less suddenly at the last. Some little event brings a
+man to the point, and he speaks out what has been long simmering in his
+mind. It is not impossible that your distress that day may have brought
+Ernest to the point, and that otherwise he might have gone on a little
+longer without saying anything. But what if it were so? You must try to
+take healthier views of things."
+
+"If only I had not let him see!"
+
+"I agree with you in the abstract. Still, when a thing is over and
+done, it is waste of time to keep on fretting about it. You cannot undo
+what has been once done. All you can do is to make yourself and Ernest
+unhappy."
+
+"Not Ernest!"
+
+"Ernest as much as yourself. When once you are married, both must be
+happy or both unhappy. You don't mind my speaking plainly, do you? I
+do so want you both to be happy!" She had again that singularly sweet
+look. "And much must depend upon yourself. If you get into a habit of
+giving the rein to such fancies as these, you cannot hide from him that
+you are troubled. Either he will find out what is wrong, or he will see
+that something is wrong, and will not know what it is; and both ways,
+he must be unhappy. Dear Rhoda, if you only had an idea how that sort
+of jarring deadens love, especially with some characters."
+
+"You don't mean especially with Ernest?"
+
+"Yes, I think I do. I know him so well. And he is very easily made
+happy or the reverse."
+
+"You shall teach me," I began. And then, without warning, the
+exclamation broke from me, "Would he have been happier with you, if you
+had married him?"
+
+"Rather a difficult question to answer," she said drily, not in the
+least discomposed. "You see, I did not marry him; and one cannot very
+well settle the upshot of an event which never took place. I dare say I
+should have succeeded, at the cost of some distress to myself—succeeded
+in making him happy, I mean!"
+
+"Millicent!"
+
+"Don't misunderstand me. If there had been no hindrances in the way, I
+should certainly have accepted him in those far-back days; and no doubt
+we should have shaken down together. But—"
+
+"But you would not have had him 'now!'" The words seemed to slip out,
+in spite of myself, and I was vexed at having asked the question; yet I
+listened eagerly for her answer.
+
+"One cannot always say what one might do, until the opportunity is
+given," she said, with deliberation. "Ernest is a very dear fellow: and
+I have always been fond of him. But I am quite sure that it is far best
+for me 'not' to marry. I am too middle-aged and used-up; and perhaps
+I am too much accustomed to managing as I like. Besides, very few men
+would be able to make me happy. And I doubt if Ernest now is one of
+those few."
+
+"Why?" I asked in surprise.
+
+"He has not developed enough. I am so much older than I was a few years
+ago, and he is hardly older at all."
+
+"Oh!"
+
+"Older with respect to you, but not with respect to me."
+
+I did not feel that I understood what she meant exactly.
+
+"Besides," she went on, "I think I should do better with a rather
+stronger husband,—supposing that I ever had one at all. I think I
+should prefer one who always knew his own mind."
+
+Was she laughing at me? I could not make out. There was a curious
+sparkle in her eyes. I broke into an indignant defence of Ernest. The
+idea of any one calling him weak!
+
+"I don't think I called him weak. Only perhaps he has not quite
+backbone enough for me. It would not prevent his being strong enough
+for you."
+
+As if that were any improvement! But she looked so sweet, one could not
+be angry. There was nothing for it but to smile and give in.
+
+Then I knew I should be wanted at home, and I said good-bye, Millicent
+pressing me to call again soon. And I walked back, feeling altogether
+better; braced up and comforted. And when I came in doors, the first
+sight that met my eyes was Ernest's face.
+
+I do not know what became of all the doubts and worries. The moment his
+arms were round me, they seemed to melt away, and I just clung to him,
+and felt that I had all I wanted. Will those feelings ever come again?
+I am so happy this evening; and Mother is satisfied; and it really does
+not look as if I had done the wrong to Millicent that I feared. So I
+mean now to make the best of things, and to have no more gloomy fancies.
+
+And I shall drop journalising. It encourages morbid fancies, if one is
+in the mood for them. Some people might do it safely enough, I dare
+say; but I hardly think I can. I shall lock the volume away, in the
+bottom of a box, far out of sight. And I will not even look at it again
+for at least two or three years.
+
+
+              (_No further entry for fifteen years._)
+
+
+                                     _July 3rd, 18—._
+
+My poor old journal! I have come across it unexpectedly, as I did once
+before, long ago. And as then, so now, I have not been able to resist
+reading it through. Now I am going to add a few last words.
+
+Those were curious days. The little tangles of girlhood seemed at the
+time so terrible and hopeless. Looking back upon them from middle life,
+I know how easy the way out often was. If only one had been willing! If
+only the main desire had been, not to have one's own way, but at any
+and every cost to do simply the thing which was right!
+
+"Poor little Rhoda! Poor silly little Rhoda!" I have been saying these
+words to myself over and over again as I read. There was so much
+needless fretting, such a waste of fervour and energy over trifles,
+such a pitiful amount of preoccupation with self.
+
+The folly of the child! I can look back upon her now as upon another
+person. To take her choice, as she did, in the face of those inward
+spirit-warnings, which surely are meant to lead us in the right way,
+was the height of folly. I wonder at her as I read. Yet it is so
+common, so human. When those gentle warnings come, we are so often just
+bent upon having our own way. And then, sometimes, we are allowed to
+take it; we are not even permitted to turn back from the path which
+we have chosen; and in the path of our choice we have to endure the
+consequences.
+
+I have had to bear consequences in the path of my choice. How should
+it be otherwise? I do not wish to say much of this, even in my private
+journal. But the everyday discipline of life, these past years, has
+been harder, far harder, to endure, because I have known all through
+that it "was" of my own choosing, of my own bringing.
+
+Some of the perplexities which so fretted my girlish mind in those days
+have been explained since. I know—and I can now know it calmly—that
+Ernest had not entirely made up his mind to ask me to be his wife, when
+he found me so bitterly crying in the garden. Had he not found me thus,
+he would not then have spoken. Perhaps he might never have spoken. When
+he had failed on a certain momentous evening to appear, it was because
+he could not arrive at any decision. He wanted to wait, to consider.
+He had unexpectedly seen Millicent, and, although he was no longer in
+love with her, she had always a curious power over him. If I had not
+just then been in the way, he would almost certainly have turned to her
+again. And if she had been one whit less pure and high in principle
+than she was, less entirely self-forgetting, I do not think she would
+have found it difficult to detach his affection from me, and to win him
+to herself.
+
+These things and others also came to my knowledge within a year of our
+marriage; and the passionate pain and distress that I went through can
+hardly be put into words.
+
+He was fond of me, honestly fond of me. Still, it might have been
+better if he had waited, if he had not spoken so hastily. And oh, how
+much better if I had gone home before Addie fell ill.
+
+A calmer, quieter wife, less eager, less impulsive, less engrossed
+with herself, less disposed to imagine and to magnify, would have made
+him happier. I know and see it now. We learnt gradually to put up with
+one another's faults; and the last three or four years were all that
+they should have been. But the first few years—the first three or four
+especially—I never can forget what we both went through. Neither of
+us had learnt to forbear, and each of us expected in all things to be
+given way to; and there was utter incompatibility of tastes, of habits,
+of inclinations. But for Millicent's angelic sweetness, but for her
+power over both of us, but for the unfailing wisdom with which she
+used that power, our married life would have been one long stretch of
+misery. She saved us from that; and a great change took place at last,
+but it "was" at last.
+
+Two years ago he was taken from me, and I have the comfort of
+remembering a placid time preceding that, a time free in the main from
+jarrings and misunderstandings. Had it not been for this, I do not know
+how I should endure to look back at all.
+
+My home is once more in Wayatford. When I was left a widow, I came back
+here with my little girl, to live with my dear Mother, and to brighten,
+so far as might be, her later years. Addie and Emmie are both married.
+
+Millicent still keeps her father's house, still follows her monotonous
+round of Parish duties. Hers has been such an uneventful life,—"awfully
+dull," as somebody the other day described it. But I can only say
+that there is no one in the world with whom I would sooner exchange
+than Millicent. Not because of her surroundings, not because of her
+circumstances, but because of what she is in herself, because of her
+perfect content.
+
+For she is always happy. Hers has been a far happier life than mine
+thus far. For this I blame myself, my own ill-governed temper, and my
+own want of self-control. If by any possibility my past experience can
+save dear little Millie from falling into the same tangles, she shall
+indeed escape them. At least, I can tell her the story of my girlhood:
+first the little rehearsal of temptation and failure in earlier
+days; and then the stronger repetition of the same, the temptation
+intensified, the failure repeated on a more marked scale. Does the
+experience of one ever serve entirely for another? If it might but be
+so in this case!
+
+
+
+                      [Illustration: FINIS.]
+
+
+
+                             LONDON:
+          JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78624 ***
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+    <title>
+      Life-Tangles: Or, The Journal of Rhoda Frith │ Project Gutenberg
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+<body>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78624 ***</div>
+
+
+<p>Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image001" style="max-width: 33.8125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image001.jpg" alt="image001">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image002" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image002.jpg" alt="image002">
+</figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>"Not in bed yet? Do you know it is</b><br>
+<b>half-past ten?" said Aunt Jessie.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<h1><em>Life-Tangles:</em></h1>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<br>
+OR,<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+<b>THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+BY<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+AGNES GIBERNE<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+AUTHOR OF<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+"IDA'S SECRET," "FLOSS SILVERTHORN," "LIFE IN A NUTSHELL,"<br>
+ETC.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image003" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image003.jpg" alt="image003">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+LONDON:<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image004" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image004.jpg" alt="image004">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3b">
+CONTENTS.<br>
+</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image005" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image005.jpg" alt="image005">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_1">CHAPTER I.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+THE RETURN FROM INDIA<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_2">CHAPTER II.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_3">CHAPTER III.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+UPS AND DOWNS<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_4">CHAPTER IV.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+I AND MYSELF<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_5">CHAPTER V.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+BANISHMENT DECREED<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_6">CHAPTER VI.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+AT WAYATFORD<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_7">CHAPTER VII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+DERWENTWATER<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_8">CHAPTER VIII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+PEOPLE'S RIGHTS<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_9">CHAPTER IX.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+SUPPOSITIONS<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_10">CHAPTER X.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+THE CHOICE GIVEN AND TAKEN<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_11">CHAPTER XI.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+A DAY OF DELIGHTS<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_12">CHAPTER XII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+A NEW PHASE OF LIFE<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_13">CHAPTER XIII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+UNDER THE YOKE<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_14">CHAPTER XIV.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+EXCEEDINGLY HORRID<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_15">CHAPTER XV.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+AFTER SIX WHOLE YEARS<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_16">CHAPTER XVI.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+ABOUT THE PAST<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_17">CHAPTER XVII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+WISE WORDS AND UNWISE DEEDS<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+OUT OF THE QUESTION!<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_19">CHAPTER XIX.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+AND YET!—<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_20">CHAPTER XX.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+INEXPLICABLE<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_21">CHAPTER XXI.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+TANGLED STILL<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_22">CHAPTER XXII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+WAS IT HAPPINESS?<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<a href="#Chapter_23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+HOW THINGS WERE AND MIGHT HAVE BEEN<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image006" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image006.jpg" alt="image006">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t2">
+<b>LIFE-TANGLES:</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+OR,<br>
+</p>
+
+<p class="t1">
+<em>THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH.</em><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image007" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image007.jpg" alt="image007">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_1">CHAPTER I.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>THE RETURN FROM INDIA.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>December 12th.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>THE day after to-morrow will be a great day in my life, for my mother
+is coming home with the dear little twins, and they are expected to
+arrive early in the afternoon. What joy!</p>
+
+<p>It is nearly seven years since my father and mother went out last
+to India; and the twins were only one year old when I saw them. How
+changed they will be.</p>
+
+<p>Seven long years! But my mother's face is as clear as daylight in my
+mind, so young and pretty, with its soft colour and gentle smile. I do
+not remember my father's face quite so clearly; he was a good deal more
+away from us children. But I could paint every line of hers from memory
+if I were able to take likenesses. I should know her, oh! anywhere in
+the world. I can recollect telling her one day that she looked younger
+than Clarissa, who was only twenty-one then. Mother said, "Hush! Hush!"
+And Clarissa tilted her head in the offended manner she often has, but
+I don't think I cared.</p>
+
+<p>Then the last day before they left us, how pale Mother was, and how she
+and Connie clung together! We little thought then that she would never
+see Connie again—I mean, of course, in this life.</p>
+
+<p>If it were not for the thought of Connie, and of my father being still
+away, I think I should be too happy to-night. No more of aunt Jessie;
+no more schooling; no more spending of holidays where I am not wanted.
+It is too delightful!</p>
+
+<p>To be sure, Clarissa and Juliet will be living with us, and that is
+a great disappointment to me. I have always fancied that they would
+stay with aunt Jessie when my mother should come home alone, but they
+do not seem to have an idea of any such thing. Somehow they always do
+and always did make me naughty when, but for them, I know I should
+be perfectly good. They have such a way of upsetting me. It isn't my
+fault, I am sure.</p>
+
+<p>But I shall have my mother now, and that will make up for everything.
+Aunt Jessie has been their aunt, not mine. Mother will be mine—not
+theirs—my very own! That will make all the difference in the world. I
+shall have the first right to her love, and the first right to take
+care of her. I mean to be such a help to her in every possible way,
+and to do exactly what Connie would have done. Connie was always
+her comfort, I know, even though she was so young, because she was
+so unselfish, everyone says. Well, and I mean to be unselfish, like
+Connie, and so to be my mother's greatest comfort. I have to take
+Connie's place, and Mother will be lonely away from my father, and
+will need comfort. Clarissa and Juliet are always saying how useless I
+am, but they shall see the difference now. When I have a mother to do
+things for, I shall never mind how hard I work. It is so stupid being
+ordered about by them. I never feel inclined to do anything then.</p>
+
+<p>Before Christmas we are to move to the new little house in the
+country—Woodbine Cottage. Aunt Jessie and Clarissa and Juliet have
+settled everything. It seems to me that they ought to have waited till
+my mother should arrive, to see what she would like; but such an idea
+never enters their heads. I cannot make out that she has sent any
+directions; and if I ask, I get no answer, or else I am told that it is
+not my business. If it is not my business, I don't see whose it is, for
+I am my mother's eldest daughter, and I do think I have a right to know
+things, now I am seventeen years old, and have done with school.</p>
+
+<p>It puzzles me why they should have fixed upon that place to live in.
+We know nobody there, and I can see no particular reason for going. It
+is just a whim of Clarissa's, I suppose; and yet she is not fond, in a
+general way, of living in the country.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>December 13th. Thursday Morning.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>While I was writing in my journal yesterday evening, aunt Jessie rapped
+at my door and walked in without waiting for an answer. She was vexed
+to find me still dressed, and said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Not in bed yet? Do you know it is half-past ten?"</p>
+
+<p>I said I had not hurried because I was not sleepy. And I shut-up my
+journal and slipped it into a drawer, lest she should see what I had
+written.</p>
+
+<p>"That is no excuse," aunt Jessie replied. "I sent you to bed early,
+because I knew that to-morrow would be a fatiguing day; and you are
+wrong to disobey me—this last evening especially."</p>
+
+<p>I think I could have kept my temper if Clarissa had not come gliding in
+after aunt Jessie.</p>
+
+<p>"You had much better take Rhoda's pen and ink away," she said. "There
+is no dependence to be placed on her. I do not know what her mother
+will say to such ways."</p>
+
+<p>That made me fire up before I knew what I was about.</p>
+
+<p>"It will be Mother's business, not yours!" I said.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa's lip curled as it always does when she is put out. People
+say she is very handsome, but I never can see it; I cannot think her
+good-looking. Then aunt Jessie told me that I was extremely naughty—she
+always says "naughty" still, just as if I were only six years old. I
+am afraid I pouted, and she said I was to be in bed in ten minutes. So
+I was, but I had no time to say my prayers. I didn't feel like saying
+them, even if I had had time.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Jessie came back exactly at the ten minutes' end, and she put out
+my light and left me without saying, "Good night."</p>
+
+<p>Then I knew that I could not go comfortably to sleep without at least
+trying to say my prayers; and I crept out of bed and had a good cry on
+my knees, for everybody seemed unkind. That sort of thing always makes
+me miserable, though people think I don't care; and I do not see how
+one can say one's prayers properly when one feels so. I know I could
+not. I did try, but I was only able to think about Clarissa; so at last
+I got up and crept back into bed.</p>
+
+<p>After breakfast this morning aunt Jessie gave me a regular lecture
+about my faults. She began with a present of a gold pencil-case, and
+that was uncomfortable. I have wanted one for a long time, and this is
+a beauty. But I wish people would choose some other time than before
+a lecture for giving one presents. If we had been alone when she
+lectured, I should not have minded so much—at least I think not! But
+aunt Jessie never thinks of waiting till we are alone.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa was arranged in one of her attitudes, doing crewel work; and
+Juliet was mending the dress that I tore yesterday. I cobbled up the
+hole in a hurry, but Juliet spied it out, and she has undone my cobble
+and has darned it most beautifully. Of course I ought to be grateful,
+but I do not think I am. It is so difficult to feel grateful to people
+when one does not love them; and I certainly do not love Juliet. Not
+what I call really loving, I mean.</p>
+
+<p>While aunt Jessie talked, I was wondering whether Mother would admire
+those two as much as other people do. I was too young, when she went
+out, to know anything about her tastes. They are often called "the
+handsome Miss Friths" by strangers. Clarissa is tall with a good
+figure, and Juliet is shorter and rather plump, with pretty features
+and a very quick manner. I am not at all pretty, and I know it very
+well. Connie was lovely, but my face is not like hers. I am said to be
+like nobody in the family. Well, my mother will not love me less for my
+want of prettiness, and other people do not matter.</p>
+
+<p>I was thinking this, yet I heard aunt Jessie. She said that if I did
+not take care, I should be a great trouble to my mother. She told me
+that I was forgetful, untidy, impatient, ill-tempered, wilful,—such
+a string of hard words. She complained especially of my want of
+gentleness, and of "my unpleasant manner to the girls." Aunt Jessie
+always calls them "the girls" still, and counts me a mere child in
+comparison, though I do not feel like a child any longer. I did not
+know that my manner was unpleasant, except perhaps when they vex me,
+and then how can one help it? Aunt Jessie said it was un-Christian, and
+she wished I would pray for a better spirit. Very likely some of what
+she said was true, because, of course, I am not perfect, and I do not
+pretend to be, but then I am sure other people are anything but perfect
+also. And there are different ways of being told that one is in the
+wrong; and her way never does me good, it only makes me feel cross.
+Besides, as for meekness—and she talked ever so much about meekness—I
+suppose I am not particularly meek, but most certainly Clarissa and
+Juliet are not! Why doesn't she lecture them?</p>
+
+<p>I bore it all pretty well, I do think, till she began to say that my
+mother would be disappointed in me. Then I could not help bursting into
+tears, and I ran away up to my own room, where I have been ever since.</p>
+
+<p>Why must people say such things?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>December 15th.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>We went to the station yesterday afternoon to meet my mother and the
+twins. On the way, I was picturing to myself the meeting—how I would
+be the first to catch sight of Mother's face, and how she would hold
+me in her arms, and would have no eyes for anybody else, and how the
+twins would cling to me—their only sister. I almost forgot that aunt
+Jessie and the girls would be there, only perhaps I was glad down below
+to know that they would see for once the difference between them and
+me. I mean the difference as to my mother. The girls may talk of being
+her adopted children, and I am sure she has been the best of mothers to
+them ever since they were quite tiny, as much as she possibly could.
+Having to be away in India, has kept her from them, just as it has kept
+her from me. But still, all the time she is "not" their mother, but
+only their aunt; and they are "not" her children, but only her nieces;
+and nothing can make her the same to them that she is to me. And for
+once I thought they would feel it.</p>
+
+<p>Then when the train steamed in, and we were on the tip-toe of
+expectation, Mother was not there at all! They had not come by that
+train. I don't know when in my whole life I have been so dreadfully
+disappointed. It made everything seem unreal. I almost felt as if the
+coming home from India were all a mistake, and as if I should never see
+my mother again. The others took it much more philosophically, even
+though they have talked as if they cared any amount about having her
+back. Juliet laughed at me for looking glum, and aunt Jessie said how
+wrong it was to be sulky. I wonder why people think one sulky when one
+is only unhappy!</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa was sure my mother had only missed her train. Indian ladies
+never were punctual, she said, with a disagreeable little laugh. And I
+felt like saying almost anything, for I knew it was not Mother's fault,
+whatever the reason might be.</p>
+
+<p>When we got indoors, a telegram was awaiting us. Mother had found
+at the very last moment that she would be hindered in Bristol by
+business, and she could not say what hour she might arrive. I wanted to
+look-out the trains from Bristol, and to meet each one, but aunt Jessie
+objected. She and the girls were tired, she said, and she could not let
+me hang about in the station alone. The telegram said, "Do not meet
+us;" and that quite satisfied aunt Jessie, but it was not enough for me.</p>
+
+<p>The next few hours were the longest and dreariest I have ever passed.
+I could not read or work or settle down to anything. But at last they
+came, just when nobody happened to be on the look-out, my mother and
+the twins, all alone. The ayah who was to have travelled with them had
+made a sudden engagement to go back to India, and Mother had let her
+off, leaving her behind in London.</p>
+
+<p>The meeting was not in the very least like what I had pictured.</p>
+
+<p>Mother was tired out with the journey, and with having to manage
+for herself and the children all day. She has grown thin and pale,
+almost sallow, and has lost all her pretty young looks. I could hardly
+believe, at the first moment, that it was really herself; she is so
+changed. She walked in slowly and languidly, and seemed as if she had
+not strength or spirit to be glad about anything. When I rushed into
+her arms, she just gave me a quiet kiss, and said nothing. Then she put
+me aside, and kissed Clarissa and Juliet in exactly the same manner. I
+did not see one grain of difference. And yet I am her own, and they are
+not. And those two took possession of her, making her sit down, while
+Clarissa untied her bonnet strings, and Juliet loosened her cloak.
+Mother smiled at them in a worn-out way, and let them do as they liked.</p>
+
+<p>I wanted to kiss Addie and Emmie, but they clung to Mother, and would
+not so much as look at me. When I took hold of Emmie, she shrieked, and
+Addie struck at me with her little fist. Mother said, "Don't, Addie!"
+Yet the moment I came near, she did it again.</p>
+
+<p>They are such an odd little pair, exactly alike, with tiny white faces,
+and big black eyes, and fluffy fair hair. Not nearly so pretty as I
+expected, for they are said to be like Connie.</p>
+
+<p>It seemed as if I had no chance of reaching my mother, while those two
+clutched her in front, and the elder girls sat one on each side. Aunt
+Jessie kept talking about the voyage, and asking questions about my
+father. Mother answered in a patient tired out voice, almost as if she
+did not know what she was saying.</p>
+
+<p>Presently Juliet coaxed the children off to look at the kitten. They
+would go to her, though I might not touch them.</p>
+
+<p>Then Mother spoke my name, and I came close. She took my hand, and
+gazed at me, as if she were trying to understand something. I felt so
+hurt about the little ones, and so flat and chilled altogether that
+I could not look pleased or bright. It was impossible. Nobody could
+have done so in my place. Mother said, "How altered!" I knew she was
+dreadfully disappointed, and a lump in my throat half-choked me.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhoda has changed a good deal the last half-year." Aunt Jessie seemed
+to think she had to apologise for the fact. "But she does not grow
+fast. She will never be tall."</p>
+
+<p>Mother said, "Perhaps not," keeping her eyes on me still.</p>
+
+<p>"I am almost as tall as Juliet," I said, and I know my voice sounded
+curt.</p>
+
+<p>"Within two inches," Juliet remarked; but the difference is less than
+one inch.</p>
+
+<p>"She will be tall enough," Mother replied; and that was my first scrap
+of comfort. If "she" is satisfied, I don't care about other people.</p>
+
+<p>When the twins' bedtime came, she insisted on taking them upstairs
+herself. I wanted to help, and the moment I came near, they began to
+shriek. Juliet ordered me off, and took my place, and they were good
+directly. I cannot understand it. I did feel so sore and miserable at
+not being able to do anything. And it has been just the same since.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>December 19th.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>We go to our new little country home the day after to-morrow.</p>
+
+<p>Everything is ready for us, settled by Clarissa and Juliet. Mother just
+submits. She doesn't seem to have any will of her own. I have hardly
+heard her ask a single question about the house or the place, or why we
+are to be there at all.</p>
+
+<p>Though she has lost her old colour and prettiness, there is still
+something about her unlike other people, and I am proud of her. But I
+am afraid she is not proud of me. Clarissa and Juliet are always trying
+to show me off in the worst lights before her.</p>
+
+<p>As for my being the eldest daughter of the house, nobody could guess
+it. Mother behaves exactly as if I were only her third daughter. She
+puts Clarissa and Juliet first in every single thing. Of course it is
+all right that she should be kind to her nieces, especially as they
+are orphans, and have no real home of their own. But then they are not
+poor, and I have my rights as well as they; and I must say I did not
+expect things to be like this. I did think that with my mother I should
+find a difference, however other people might treat me. I do long to
+know that I have the "first" place in her heart. If once I could be
+sure of that, nothing else would matter so much.</p>
+
+<p>Johnnie has come, and I can see how dearly she loves him. He is her
+only boy, and he always is so good-humoured and pleasant. Nobody counts
+him handsome or clever, but he does his lessons fairly, and he is good
+at games, and he is a thorough gentleman,—much more so than most boys
+of fourteen,—and everybody likes him. Of course, I do too; only somehow
+he and I don't quite fit in together, as Connie and I did. He has such
+a provoking admiration for Clarissa. It is absurd.</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday evening Mother came to my room late, for the first time. She
+has been too tired on other nights. I thought she wanted to speak about
+Connie, and I wanted it too; but a shy fit seized me, and I talked so
+fast about all sorts of stupid things that she had not a chance.</p>
+
+<p>After she was gone, I did wish I had not been so foolish. I know she
+has already spoken of Connie to others, for I heard Clarissa say so.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image008" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image008.jpg" alt="image008">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_2">CHAPTER II.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>December 20th.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>WE start early to-morrow. I have only time for a few words to-night.</p>
+
+<p>My mother and I were out alone together this afternoon, for once. As we
+were passing through the shrubbery, I suddenly found myself saying:</p>
+
+<p>"You haven't spoken one word to me about Connie since you came!"</p>
+
+<p>She turned her face away.</p>
+
+<p>"I have not been able," she said. "Another time—"</p>
+
+<p>"If only you could!"</p>
+
+<p>I saw her throat working. She said after a little pause,—</p>
+
+<p>"You remind me of her incessantly."</p>
+
+<p>It was a great surprise to me.</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Mother! I am not like Connie."</p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes. More than you used to be."</p>
+
+<p>"But Connie was so pretty."</p>
+
+<p>Mother looked at me in a curious steady way.</p>
+
+<p>"It is not a question of prettiness," she said, "nor of features at
+all. The look comes and goes. And you are pretty enough for my eyes. A
+mother sees differently, you know, from other people. Perhaps others
+would not see the likeness, but I do."</p>
+
+<p>I am very glad. If "she" thinks so, it matters very little what anybody
+else thinks.</p>
+
+<p>I mean to devote my life to her, and not to care for any single thing
+except her comfort and happiness. Then, perhaps, in time, she will love
+me as I want to be loved, and as I love her, not merely as she loves
+Clarissa and Juliet, or because of my likeness to Connie.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>January 2nd, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>After a busy Christmas, we are pretty well settled in our new home.
+On the whole, I do not dislike the little place; and the house is
+comfortable, only small. The garden will be nice in summer. I have a
+room opening into my mother's, and the elder girls, as usual, sleep
+together.</p>
+
+<p>We have no friends yet in the place, but there are a few neighbours
+whom we expect in time to know. Nobody that I shall care for, most
+likely. Clarissa will monopolise everybody, and give me no chance. But
+if I can have Mother sometimes to myself, I care very little about
+other friends.</p>
+
+<p>We have had a very dull Christmas—more dull than I could have thought
+possible, so soon after their coming home—but at Christmas it does seem
+natural to have a little excitement of some sort. And we have had none
+whatever. I do not seem to have anything particular to write about.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 3rd.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have been thinking lately how terribly difficult a thing it is to
+keep straight, and how hopeless to manage to please everybody, and what
+a puzzle life is altogether.</p>
+
+<p>Only a few weeks ago, I was looking forward in a perfect rapture of
+delight to my mother's coming home.</p>
+
+<p>I thought everything was sure to go right, when once I had her. I
+thought worries and misunderstandings would be at an end. And it has
+not been so at all. There are just as many worries and rubs here as
+there used to be at school, or at aunt Jessie's in my holidays. I am
+quite as often fretted and vexed. And I can find no way of keeping out
+of troubles—little stupid needless bothers, which are almost the worst
+of all to bear.</p>
+
+<p>If Connie had but lived! I do feel so lonely without her. She always
+understood me, and I never was put out with her, or, at least, scarcely
+ever. I hardly knew I had a temper till Connie was gone. She seemed to
+come between me and aunt Jessie, between me and the girls. She seemed
+to smooth down everything, and to make life go right. And everybody
+loved Connie.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps I did not get vexed then, because Connie never did anything to
+vex me. But other people are so unreasonable. I don't see how I can
+be expected not to mind. Clarissa is always saying, "There you are
+again!" And Juliet says, "Sulking as usual!" And an hour ago, my mother
+herself found fault with me. I had not meant to be cross, and indeed
+this morning I went downstairs with a particular resolution to let
+nothing whatever vex me, no matter what might happen. But resolutions
+don't seem to be of much use. Clarissa does set one down so, and Juliet
+meddles, and both of them sneer. If only they would let me alone!</p>
+
+<p>I said so to my mother, and she said that was a childish wish, for
+nobody could be "let alone" in life. She told me that I must expect
+little contradictions, and that I was old enough to be able to take
+them patiently.</p>
+
+<p>I am afraid she thought me hard, for I did not know what to say, and
+so I made no answer. I could not possibly say that I thought Clarissa
+and Juliet were not to blame, because I do think they are very much to
+blame. If they were different, I should never feel cross. They do worry
+me so fearfully! Perhaps I ought to have said that I was sorry; for I
+suppose I did not speak exactly as I ought to Juliet—but still—Well, if
+it had been anybody else, I would have said so, but I couldn't! And I
+came up here for a little peace. I don't mean to go down yet.</p>
+
+<p>Mother always seems to be sure that I am the one who is most to blame.
+And yet why should I be? She never blames Clarissa or Juliet, at least
+I never hear her do so. And yet I am her own child, and they are only
+her nieces, but really it almost seems as if she forgot that.</p>
+
+<p>She does not know how dearly I love her, or how utterly miserable it
+makes me to think that she is the very least displeased with me.</p>
+
+<p>I do wish, too, that she would sometimes make a stand for her own way.
+One might almost think that the house belonged to Clarissa and Juliet.
+To be sure, they are very fond of her, or they seem so—after a fashion.</p>
+
+<p>But Clarissa calls her "the dear little mother," in a petting
+patronising way which I detest. She is not their mother, to begin with;
+and though she is very slight, she is taller than Juliet, and almost
+as tall as Clarissa. I can't bear Clarissa to speak in that horrid
+patronising way. And Juliet is for ever trying to get things into
+her own hands, managing this and deciding that without so much as a
+reference to her. She pretends that it is all to save her trouble, but
+I know better! She gives my mother no choice; and things are constantly
+arranged as Mother would not have chosen, and as she does not really
+like, only she is too gentle to complain. I do wish she would now and
+then make a stand. And I don't see why I am never to have a voice in
+any single thing!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 9th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>A pouring wet day, and no going out; and I am thoroughly out of sorts.
+Everything has gone wrong the whole morning.</p>
+
+<p>I have been in such a stupid unhappy state lately. Life seems so tame
+and dull and disappointing. Before we came here, and still more before
+my mother came home, I meant to be so busy and useful to everybody,
+and I thought I should be perfectly happy. But I can't! It is not the
+very least use trying! I feel inclined just to give up, and not try
+any more. If Clarissa and Juliet were not here, that would make all
+the difference; but while they are in the house, nothing ever can or
+will go straight. I hate to do things just because they tell me that I
+ought. It only makes me want to do exactly the opposite directly. And
+really I don't see any need for me to do things.</p>
+
+<p>I did mean to be my mother's companion everywhere, and to save her
+trouble with the housekeeping, and to do everything for the twins.
+But when she does want to go anywhere, Clarissa is almost always her
+companion, and then I don't care to go too. And Juliet has taken up
+the housekeeping. And as for the twins, they are so dreadfully spoilt
+that I can do nothing for them. If I say a word, they begin to shriek,
+and then my mother is worried. They are always good with Juliet, and I
+wonder Mother isn't hurt at their devotion to her. But, at all events,
+it is of no use for me to interfere. Sometimes, when they are good, I
+play with them, but it is sure to end in a fit of naughtiness; and all
+the blame is laid upon me.</p>
+
+<p>I cannot imagine how it is that so many people go through life in
+such a steady jog-trot fashion, taking each day as it comes, and
+never seeming to mind what happens. Perhaps they think and worry more
+than one would suppose; for, after all, nobody would guess what I go
+through in that way. I don't talk about it, and I am supposed to be
+quite wrapped up in my own interests. I like reading story-books; and
+sometimes I get into a merry mood, and talk and laugh. And people think
+me just an empty-headed school-girl—at least I am sure some do.</p>
+
+<p>But I am not. I do think—oh, a great deal! And sometimes I do so wonder
+how it will all look to me by-and-by, when life is over. And then I
+make up my mind that I will be quite different, and nothing shall put
+me out. I go downstairs, feeling so good, and ready to do or bear
+anything. And then Clarissa puts on one of her airs, or Juliet says
+some sharp thing, or somebody tells me to do what I shouldn't in the
+very least mind doing if only I were asked nicely, and not told as if
+I ought,—and in a moment I am upset, and I speak out, and I am treated
+like a naughty child for the rest of the day. I really do not see that
+I am to blame when things happen so. It seems as if one could not
+possibly keep right with some people.</p>
+
+<p>After breakfast, I was trying to forget everything and everybody in an
+interesting book, when suddenly Juliet began reminding me that I had
+not practised for three days past. I knew I had not, but I had not felt
+inclined—one does not in some moods—and she might have seen that I was
+not in the mood for it. Some people are so stupid! I told her I did
+not want to play just then; and of course I said it sharply. Anybody
+would, who felt as I had been feeling all the week past. Juliet began
+to argue, and I said I wished she would not meddle; and then Mother
+told me to go at once to the piano. It was so provoking of Juliet! When
+Mother spoke, I went, of course, but it was of no use. I really could
+not take pains, or help striking false notes. Presently Clarissa said,
+"Torture!" with a groan. And my mother said, "You are not doing your
+best, Rhoda. Go upstairs instead, and mend your stockings. When you
+feel happier, you may come down again."</p>
+
+<p>And here I have been ever since. I don't mean to go down till it is
+time for our walk.</p>
+
+<p>I wish nobody ever was tiresome. O Journal, you don't get cross with me.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 11th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>To-day has been just as bad as yesterday. Mother looks so sad that I
+hate myself for giving way to temper; and I think I detest certain
+other people still more, for making it impossible for me to keep
+good-humoured. I have tried praying that things might be different, and
+it doesn't seem to have done the smallest good.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 12th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday evening, Mother sent me away from the dinner-table for
+answering Juliet. Juliet spoke to me about stooping at meal-times. I
+know it is a bad habit, and makes one look awkward and lazy; and I mean
+to get over it in time. But I didn't think Juliet had any business to
+find fault with me before the children; and they are generally allowed
+to play about in the room all dinner-time. So I told her it was no
+concern of hers. Juliet answered me sharply; and I answered her again;
+and then Mother told me I had better go to my own room. So I went off
+with a bounce, and slammed the door, because I thought they deserved
+it—Juliet, I mean, not Mother. I didn't think at the moment that I was
+punishing her as well.</p>
+
+<p>About half-an-hour later, she came to me. I had not been doing anything
+except sit at the window to watch three or four children playing in the
+back field. I felt so dull and moody still that I did not even look
+round when my mother opened the door. She shut it, and the next thing I
+knew was her hand on my shoulder.</p>
+
+<p>"Are you quite well, Rhoda?" It was not at all what I had expected her
+to say.</p>
+
+<p>"Quite."</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing wrong in that line? Then what has been the matter lately?"</p>
+
+<p>I do not know what I wanted to say, but I know that the only word which
+would come to my lips was, "Connie." I smothered it back; but when
+Mother put the question again, I could not help myself. The name seemed
+to force its way out; and then her arm came round me, and in a moment,
+I was crying as I have not cried once since the night when Connie was
+taken from us.</p>
+
+<p>Mother did not say a word. She only held me fast, and just touched my
+face now and then with her lips; and presently, when I was better, I
+found her struggling not to give way too. For a long while neither of
+us could speak, and we only clung together. But it seemed such a help
+to know that she was going through it all too. I don't think I can ever
+again have quite that lonely feeling, as if nobody in the world knew
+anything of what I felt.</p>
+
+<p>Then I wondered whether, perhaps, Juliet might be coming after us, so I
+went and bolted the door; and the very next moment, there was a rattle
+of the handle outside, and Juliet's voice called my name.</p>
+
+<p>"You can't come in just now," I said.</p>
+
+<p>And she spoke indignantly,—"Rhoda, how can you go on in this foolish
+way? You will make your mother ill."</p>
+
+<p>But I only repeated, "You can't come in just now;" and when she had
+argued a little, she went away.</p>
+
+<p>Mother was herself again by that time. She made me sit down beside her,
+and said, "Perhaps we shall both feel better for this by-and-by. But
+now you must bear a few words from me, which you will not exactly like.
+Words of something like blame, I mean."</p>
+
+<p>"I can bear anything from you," I replied. "It is Juliet's worrying
+that I can't stand."</p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes we 'have' to stand things that we should not choose, if the
+choice were given to us. And it will not do to make sorrow an excuse
+for ill tempers." Then she told me plainly how disappointed she had
+been in me lately. She said she had expected things to be so different
+on her return.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I know. That is just how I feel," I said. "Everything goes wrong;
+and I am sure it is not my fault. It is all the fault of Carissa and
+Juliet."</p>
+
+<p>"Not altogether, not nearly altogether, Rhoda. Think for yourself,
+and you will see it." Then she reminded me of her wish that I should
+practise regularly before breakfast; and she asked how often I had
+taken the trouble to do so. I could not say that I had done it. "The
+girls are hardly to blame for your remissness in that line, at all
+events." She went on to explain that my father had spent a great deal
+on my education, and that the least I could do was to take care that
+the money spent should not have been thrown away.</p>
+
+<p>Of course, all that was reasonable enough, and I am not so stupid as
+not to see it. I do not think in fact that I am a stupid girl, though I
+make no pretensions to cleverness.</p>
+
+<p>"Everything that you have learnt at school will soon become useless
+if you do not keep up what you know. And you hardly attempt to do so.
+There is little enough to occupy your time, yet you never seem to have
+leisure for what ought to be done. If an interesting story-book comes
+in your way, all else goes down before it. Is that right? You are not a
+little child any longer; and duty ought to stand before amusement."</p>
+
+<p>I did not find it easy to bear all this, even from my mother. Once or
+twice I tried to interrupt her, but she went on to the end.</p>
+
+<p>"If only Juliet would not meddle so!"</p>
+
+<p>"Juliet means it kindly. You must remember that she is five years
+older than you. If you cannot remember your own duties, you ought to
+be grateful to her for bringing them to mind. To refuse to do right,
+merely because one is told of it, is really too childish."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't always forget. But reminding does no good. I mean, reminding
+in Juliet's way. And even when I remember, it is so hard always to
+leave off doing what one likes, for the sake of doing something that
+one detests."</p>
+
+<p>"For the sake of doing what is right!"</p>
+
+<p>"One can't be always in the mood for work."</p>
+
+<p>"No, one cannot. And those times when one is least in the mood are
+often the times when it is most one's duty to do the work."</p>
+
+<p>"Only people do have lazy moods now and then," I could not help saying,
+though I did not really mean to be perverse.</p>
+
+<p>"People do undoubtedly."</p>
+
+<p>"And one can't help it."</p>
+
+<p>"One cannot help having the mood, I grant you. One can certainly help
+yielding to it. There is hardly any more miserable slavery than the
+slavery of those who are victims to every passing mood and humour. It
+is in just such little fights that the real battle of life is carried
+on. If you do not discipline yourself in little duties, you will never
+be fit to undertake great duties."</p>
+
+<p>"But still—"</p>
+
+<p>"Still, you think people may please themselves. A governess may teach
+when she is in the mood, and let teaching alone when she is not in the
+mood. The captain of a ship may attend to the navigation of his vessel
+so long as he feels inclined; and when he gets a lazy fit, he may
+retire to his cabin, and leave the ship to take care of itself. Is that
+the sort of thing you mean?"</p>
+
+<p>I could not help laughing.</p>
+
+<p>"But such stupid little things as half-an-hour's practice, or a page of
+French translation—"</p>
+
+<p>"Or such stupid little things as putting aside a delightful story, for
+the sake of a French translation; or getting up early, for the sake of
+the morning practice; or overcoming small tricks, for the sake of being
+more agreeable to other people—"</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, if only you would always tell me, and no one else!"</p>
+
+<p>"But I cannot promise that, Rhoda. What right have I to seal other
+people's mouths? Juliet is very good to take the trouble to look after
+you. She is a great help to me."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think she is good at all!" I burst out. "She interferes and
+meddles, and makes herself perfectly unbearable."</p>
+
+<p>Mother looked really displeased, and her hand came over my mouth.</p>
+
+<p>"Hush, Rhoda! I will not have you speak in that manner. Juliet is to
+all intents and purposes your elder sister, and I expect her to be
+treated as such. You have given way far too much to these feelings.
+Instead of helping me to keep a peaceful atmosphere in the house, you
+are doing your best to stir up strife."</p>
+
+<p>Then my mother went on to say that she had always hoped I was one with
+Connie in desiring above all things to serve God, to do the will of
+Christ. She is very shy in speaking on such subjects; and I could see
+her hands trembling. But I thought it rather hard that she should seem
+to doubt whether I cared at all about such things, when I am sure I
+mean to do right as much as any one does. Of course it is difficult for
+me, as it is for everybody, but I am sure I do try. And if it wasn't
+for Clarissa and Juliet, I should be quite good-tempered. It is only
+they who put me out so horribly; and anybody else would be put out in
+my place.</p>
+
+<p>I did tell Mother that I would see if I could do better; but she did
+not seem satisfied, and I could not say more. Only I have written all
+this down, as a sort of punishment to myself, and because I mean to
+try. I intend if possible to make myself not care what the elder girls
+say or do.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image009" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image009.jpg" alt="image009">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_3">CHAPTER III.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>UPS AND DOWNS.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 19th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>UP early this morning, and had a whole hour's practice before
+breakfast. Mother looked so pleased; and Clarissa and Juliet have
+really been quite kind. If people would always behave like that, it
+would be so much easier to get long smoothly.</p>
+
+<p>After breakfast, I had a busy hour, taking care of the children, and
+playing games with them; and they were as good as one could wish.
+Certainly it is much nicer to be busy and useful than to be doing
+nothing in particular; and I have made up my mind to turn over a new
+leaf.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 20th.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Desperately hard to get up this morning; and I only managed to secure
+twenty minutes for music. Juliet remarked, "Too good to last! I thought
+so yesterday!" And though I was not meant to hear, I did hear, and I
+knew what she meant. But after all, I made up the full amount later: so
+nobody was the worse.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 21st, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I don't see the good of bothering myself. After all my resolutions, I
+only contrived to get down just in time for breakfast. And directly
+afterwards, instead of offering to look after the little ones, as I
+have done the last day or two, I sat down for one moment with a book
+from the library, just to see how it went on. And it was so interesting
+that I simply could not put it down again. Addie came to me for a game,
+and I told her to go away; and as usual, she must needs begin to cry.
+Those children wail about every single thing that they cannot have.</p>
+
+<p>Whereupon, of course, everybody seemed to think I had done something
+perfectly shocking; and Juliet petted the twins, and Addie scowled
+at me, and Mother was worried, which is the worst of all. Then my
+music-master came, and was vexed that I had not practised more. It is
+rather wonderful that a music-master is to be had at all in such an
+out-of-the-way place as this, but he comes once a week to give lessons
+to several families in the neighbourhood, and the girls have seized on
+him for me. I am not in the least grateful, for I simply detest music.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 27th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have not managed to be up in good time for some days past, and I
+am vexed with myself every morning. Yet when the next morning comes,
+somehow I do just the same. It is provoking, because one does not
+like to feel that one is easily beaten. But at the moment when I am
+first called, when I ought to spring straight out of bed so as to have
+time enough, I only feel that it is perfectly impossible! Nothing on
+earth seems of the very smallest consequence then, except getting
+half-an-hour more of sleep. Do other people ever feel so, I wonder? And
+if they do, how in the world do they get over it?</p>
+
+<p>At all events, one thing is better; there has not been nearly so much
+disagreement between me and the girls. Once or twice, when Juliet has
+been sharp and unjust, I have borne it quite quietly and have not
+said in return what she really did deserve. So I think I "must" be
+growing a little more patient and gentle. I am sure I have prayed often
+enough lately that I might be made so; and it is nice to feel that
+one's prayers are answered. Some people talk as if they were always
+having answers to prayers, at least people in books and memoirs do,
+but I am afraid that is not my way. Perhaps I don't pray often enough;
+and perhaps I don't always mean what I say in my prayers. It is so
+difficult to know sometimes what one wants exactly. I am sure I want to
+be good, and not to worry my mother; and yet I do not want to be always
+knuckling down to the girls, because I really can't see what right they
+have to manage everything in our house. However, I am glad to have got
+on more smoothly, and I don't mean to be cross any more.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 2nd, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I am more than half inclined to tear out that last entry. This has been
+such a miserable afternoon. Juliet has been so provoking! I don't know
+who could bear with her.</p>
+
+<p>She put me out so fearfully that I hardly knew what I said. But I know
+I told her that she was for ever meddling with me, and that I did not
+want to be meddled with. I said I wished she lived anywhere except with
+us.</p>
+
+<p>Juliet turned quite white—I cannot think why!—and said in a voice not
+like her own: "There is no need that I should. I have another home. If
+we are not wanted here, we are wanted by aunt Jessie."</p>
+
+<p>Mother came in, and was told what I had been saying; and she seemed so
+distressed. More distressed, I should think, than there was any real
+reason for. She insisted on my begging Juliet's pardon; and at last,
+just to please her, I did say that if I had been rude, I was sorry. The
+word stuck in my throat, for I don't think I really was sorry.</p>
+
+<p>Mother said—"Much more than 'rude!'"</p>
+
+<p>And Juliet begged that the subject might be dropped. "Some things are
+best not discussed," she said. And I saw her afterwards caressing my
+mother, as if she had to comfort her for my naughtiness.</p>
+
+<p>If I had been sorry before, that would have cured my sorrow fast enough.</p>
+
+<p>If only everything were different! It is so frightfully hard now to do
+right. If only Clarissa and Juliet were pleasant and kind, we might
+be so much happier. And if only they did not live with us at all, and
+I had my mother and the children to myself, then I know I should be
+good. There would be nothing to make me naughty. I can't think why they
+should live with us, for they have quite enough money of their own to
+get on upon; and besides, aunt Jessie would be glad enough to have them
+both. That was true, and I know it was; and why they do not go to her
+when she wants them, and when I am sure we don't, is a mystery to me.
+Oh, if only they would! I know they do not do me any good by staying
+here. To-day I feel perfectly hard and cold, as if I did not care in
+the least about anything good. I feel as if religion had no sort of
+hold upon me.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 4th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mother and I have had a long private talk to-day about the girls, and
+she has told me things that I did not so much as guess before—things I
+had no idea of.</p>
+
+<p>Nobody has ever said a word to me about the heavy money-losses that
+my father has had in the last few years. He is not at all well off
+now. That is quite a piece of news to me, because I have always
+supposed that he had plenty. Another piece of news is that Clarissa
+and Juliet are very well off indeed. I knew that they had enough to
+make them independent, but I always supposed that they lived partly on
+"us,"—instead of which, things are just the other way.</p>
+
+<p>Now that they are both of age, they are entirely free to choose what
+home they would wish to live in, and aunt Jessie would be delighted to
+have them. I was right there, at any rate. At one time, it was quite
+thought that they would make a home with her, and they gave up the
+idea, partly because they are so fond of my mother, too fond to put
+even aunt Jessie in the same place—I say "even," because they do care
+for her very much, though I do not,—and partly because of my father's
+losses.</p>
+
+<p>Mother says it is most good and self-denying of them to stay on with
+us. It is a great help to her and my father; and the expense of keeping
+up a home in England, as well as in India, is so heavy that if the
+girls had decided to remain permanently with aunt Jessie, she does not
+think she could possibly have come home for another year or two, even
+though her health so much needed it. She says that the girls are most
+generous in taking upon themselves the main proportion of expenses; far
+more, in fact, than she would have had the least right to expect.</p>
+
+<p>"This house," she said, "is literally more theirs than it is mine. And
+when you complain of their 'interfering,' Rhoda, they are really doing
+what they have every right to do."</p>
+
+<p>"But, Mother, it is almost like living partly on charity!"</p>
+
+<p>"I am much too fond of them both to think of matters in that light," my
+mother answered, though she flushed.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't like it," I said indignantly; "I don't like it at all. I would
+much rather—oh, much rather—be with you and the little ones in some
+tiny house by ourselves. I should not mind how small a house it was, or
+how plainly we lived, if only it was really our own."</p>
+
+<p>"Impossible. But for their help, I should not be in England at all now.
+So you ought to be grateful to them."</p>
+
+<p>Of course I could not help seeing how my words must have sounded
+yesterday; and I asked if I should tell Juliet that I had not
+understood how things were. She said "No," for the girls would not like
+any talk about their affairs. She had thought it needful to tell me so
+much, but I must on no account mention to any one that she had done so.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't see why not. It is nothing very particular to be ashamed of."</p>
+
+<p>"People have their own ways of thinking and doing. I have almost given
+up trying to make everybody see everything as I do myself. If it is
+their wish to do kindnesses in secret, they have a right to please
+themselves in their own fashion."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, you are always talking about their rights, and never about
+mine!"</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, there is not the smallest fear that you will not take
+abundant care of your own rights," she replied. And I do not think she
+has ever said a harder thing to me. Yet, let me be honest with myself.
+Is it not true?</p>
+
+<p>One thing is plain; I must not be vexed any more with either Clarissa
+or Juliet, whatever they may choose to do or say. For my mother's sake,
+partly, and partly for my own. It puts me too much in their power as
+things are now. And suppose I were to annoy them so far that they
+should refuse to live any longer with us! Not that I should mind that
+in itself—only I do not see how we could get on then. Mother might even
+have to go back to India before she is fit for it. And then, suppose
+she were taken ill! Why, I could never forgive myself.</p>
+
+<p>Not a very grand reason for keeping my temper.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 13th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>We have gone on far more quietly for some days now. I do not know
+whether Juliet has heard anything of that talk of ours, but certainly
+she has not been so worrying.</p>
+
+<p>A new idea has cropped up. I am to take the twins every day for an
+hour of lessons. I said to my mother that I wished I could do anything
+to help in the house, and she said this would be a real help. She has
+given them about half-an-hour herself, when able, but she is often too
+poorly. Juliet has been wanting to undertake it, but my mother has
+held back, because she felt that the girls were already doing too much
+for us; and certainly I do not think we need go out of our way to be
+further indebted to them.</p>
+
+<p>Why did I never think sooner of offering to teach? Mother says she
+did think of it, but she fancied that I might not like the trouble.
+What nonsense! As if I minded trouble! It just shows how little one is
+understood by even those people who love one best. Mother says that
+of course she will expect me to be very regular, and not to put aside
+the lessons for any other thing that I may want to do. I was almost
+indignant with her for even thinking it needful to warn me. As if I
+could ever dream of such a thing! Does everybody believe that I really
+have no sense of what is right?</p>
+
+<p>I am quite delighted at the thought of having this work. It will be
+such an interest; and I shall love to see the pets getting on as fast
+as I mean them to do. I intend to make the lesson hour so pleasant that
+they will always be sorry to leave off.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 15th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I never thought I should be such a good hand at teaching. Both
+yesterday and to-day the children have been perfect little gems over
+their lessons—not a cross word or a tear. They cuddle close up to me,
+one on each side, and do exactly what I tell them, and are as quick and
+clever as possible. They seem to enjoy my way of teaching so much, that
+the only difficulty is to persuade them to leave off. To-day we were
+nearly an hour and a-half. Of course, when I spoke of this, Juliet must
+needs say—"That is a mistake." As if I didn't know what I was about!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 22nd, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Work goes pretty smoothly. Sometimes I have a lazy fit, and do not
+manage my early practice: but nothing has once interfered with the
+twins' hour. So I hope by this time that my mother sees I am to be
+trusted.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 28th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Teaching is not such easy or pleasant work as I expected. For a few
+days the twins were charmed, and everything went as well as one could
+wish; and I thought they would both be able to read nicely in a very
+few weeks. But now all the novelty has worn off, and Addie will not sit
+still for five minutes, and Emmie cries at the least word. And whatever
+I manage to get into their heads one day seems to have evaporated by
+the next morning. In fact, I cannot see that they get on at all. And
+one thing is quite sure—if any single thing happens to go wrong, "I" am
+the one to be blamed for it.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 5th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I am getting most desperately tired of being so hard at work day after
+day. What with the twins' hour, and my own practising, and reading
+French and German, and mending my clothes, and being sent here and
+there, I really seem to have no time at all to myself; hardly an hour
+that I can properly call my own. Addie and Emmie have to learn to read,
+of course, but anybody could teach them their A B C; and I believe my
+mother has given it to me, not in the least because she really wants
+the help, but because she thinks the employment will do me good. That
+takes away every scrap of interest in it.</p>
+
+<p>For what I want is to be of real use to her, not merely to be busy for
+my own sake. And I begin to find that I have no particular gift for
+teaching. One has to go over and over and over the same things in such
+a wearisome way, till one is perfectly sick of them; and after all, not
+a scrap of good is done.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 9th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I could not get up in time for practising again—Juliet says "would
+not," but really it did seem impossible. And after all, though such a
+fuss is made, what does it matter? I am seventeen years old, and many
+girls leave off music altogether at seventeen, when they detest it as
+I do. Why should I be made to keep on at my practising as if I were
+a little child still, not able to judge for myself? If it were not
+for Juliet, I do not believe my mother would care in the very least.
+Nothing will ever come of all this strumming. I have no gift for music,
+none whatever. And I do not care to do just a little of a thing—just
+enough to be respectable, and not so well as perhaps half-a-hundred
+other girls. I would much rather leave things alone altogether.</p>
+
+<p>If I only had one great marked talent, then I would make the very best
+of it. I would work night and day to get on. I would not mind any
+amount of fatigue. But as things are, it does not seem worth while. No
+good comes of all the trouble.</p>
+
+<p>Of course I know well enough that, as such a talent has not been given
+to me, I ought not to wish for it. All the same I "do" wish, and I
+don't see how one is to help wishing. I am not lazy by nature; only
+it takes all the spring out of one's practising and reading to know
+that, work as one may, one will never be able to shine in anything.
+Not really to shine. I suppose I can do most things fairly well,—quite
+decently—but that is not enough for me. I want to excel, or else to
+leave things alone. And that is just what other people never seem to
+have sense enough to understand.</p>
+
+<p>Juliet has been setting my mother on to talk to me about the
+twins' lessons: and to complain that I have been irregular lately,
+and impatient with the children. I don't know what she means by
+"irregular,"—at least, if I know, I don't think it is fair. They almost
+always have their full time; and what difference "can" it make if one
+begins a few minutes later?</p>
+
+<p>Mother reminded me of a resolution that I made one day lately, not to
+read tales until after lunch. If I had kept to that, I should not have
+been tempted, she said, to put off calling the little ones at the right
+time. I wish I had not told her of my resolution; it is so disagreeable
+to be reminded afterwards, when one has changed one's mind. One cannot
+always be bound by such fidgety rules. I said so, and my mother
+answered,—"No use to make rules, unless one is to be bound by them."</p>
+
+<p>"Then why should one make any?"</p>
+
+<p>"Because, Rhoda, you must be either mistress of yourself, or slave
+of yourself. And if you do not master yourself, that Self is sure to
+master you."</p>
+
+<p>"But such an absurd little thing, as what time in the day one will read
+a particular book!"</p>
+
+<p>"Not absurd at all, if the reading or non-reading of that book means a
+part of self-conquest. Wherever your weakness of will lies, there you
+have to resist. And most of life's fighting is done in side-skirmishes,
+not in great battles. We have a few great battles in the course of
+years—most of us—but there are a good many tiny rehearsals beforehand.
+The soldier who is beaten in his skirmishing has no chance at all when
+the heavier fighting comes on."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, one would think you were in the army."</p>
+
+<p>Mother said no more, and I think from her face that she was rather
+hopeless. She might have known that I felt more than I would show.</p>
+
+<p>I liked what she said, and I do not mean to forget it. But for Juliet,
+I believe I should keep all my good resolutions quite easily. She gets
+past all bearing.</p>
+
+<p>As for impatience, I do not know who would not be impatient in my
+place. The twins are so awfully spoilt and fractious that the merest
+word makes them set up a duet of shrieks, and that brings the whole
+household about my ears. I told my mother how frightfully cross they
+were, and how difficult to manage, and she replied that they were
+delicate children and easily upset, but that I, being so much older,
+ought to be able to make allowances for them.</p>
+
+<p>But why does nobody ever think of making allowances for me?</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps my mother does behind my back, when she is talking to the
+girls. It is her way to excuse everybody.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image010" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image010.jpg" alt="image010">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image011" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image011.jpg" alt="image011">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_4">CHAPTER IV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>I AND MYSELF.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 1st, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>UNCLE Basil Ramsay is coming for a fortnight's visit, and I have not
+seen him for years and years; indeed, I can hardly remember him at all.
+He lives so far off, and goes about so little,—I suppose on account of
+his wife's health. I believe she never leaves home. He is my mother's
+only brother, so I ought to like him, but somehow I do not manage to
+like people "to order," merely because it is expected of me. Mother
+seems rather nervous about having him. I do not know why. Perhaps he is
+fussy, and, if so, I certainly shall not take to him.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 5th, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>This morning I woke up quite early, almost before it began to be light,
+and for a long while I lay thinking. I cannot tell what set me off.
+In the night, everything seems so different from the day, when people
+are bustling about and talking. It came over me how very short life
+is, and how little all the small bothers and worries really matter,
+compared with what is to come by-and-by. I thought of Connie, and tried
+to picture her where she is. She must care now not in the very least
+whether she had or had not the things she wanted in this world, but
+only whether she did what was right. And I made up my mind that I would
+turn over a perfectly new leaf, that I would never again be vexed with
+Juliet or anybody, because it was not worth while, but would always
+keep in mind how fast the years are going, and how soon I shall be old.</p>
+
+<p>I saw a sort of picture of myself passing through life in a perfectly
+calm gentle way, never flurried or worried, never saying a sharp word
+to any single person, and so full of the thought of Heaven and the
+future that nothing here could possibly disturb me or make me cross.
+I thought how sorry Juliet would be then for having treated me so
+unkindly as she certainly has done; and I thought how fond everybody
+would get of me, and how the twins would lean to run to me for whatever
+they wanted, and how my mother would lean upon me, and how sweet I
+should be to them all!</p>
+
+<p>Such a life looked beautiful, as I lay there in the dark:—so beautiful
+to be able to forget self altogether, and to live for others, and
+not to be upset by trifles, but to think of this world as a mere
+stepping-stone to Heaven.</p>
+
+<p>Uncle Basil arrived late yesterday evening, too late for me to see much
+of him; only I fancied I should like him, and I wanted him to like me.
+And I felt sure he "would" like such a gentle calm niece as I meant to
+be from that time, never flurried or vexed, but always perfectly kind
+and composed and collected. It seemed quite simple and easy.</p>
+
+<p>Then I dropped asleep, and somehow when I woke up again, things did
+not look exactly the same. I could not help caring for one thing very
+much indeed, and that was having to get up in time for breakfast. Of
+course I had not to practise, as it was Sunday, but it was every inch
+as hard to be ready for breakfast as on other days for music. I suppose
+one always wants just a degree more than one is allowed in the way
+of comfort. Anyhow, I was late for prayers, and I knew my mother was
+sorry, because she had told me that uncle Basil is very particular
+about punctuality. I saw him put up his eyebrows, and Juliet said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Rhoda all over! If half-an-hour's grace is allowed, she must needs
+take a full hour."</p>
+
+<p>It was not the words, it was the manner. Mother says Juliet does not
+mean anything by her manner, but she drives me frantic. As for not
+minding—I do mind, and I must mind, and I don't believe any single
+human being could go through what I go through and not mind. It did not
+help me in the very least to think about life being short, or about
+what lies beyond. Life does not seem to me to be short; it seems very
+long and fearfully difficult, and every minute has to be lived through,
+and sometimes one does not know how to live through them.</p>
+
+<p>I did think it too unkind of Juliet to try and set uncle Basil against
+me, when she knows how my mother wishes him and me to like one another.
+Why Mother should care so much, I cannot tell, but it is easy to see
+that she does. It was too bad of Juliet; and I coloured up scarlet, and
+flew out at her for meddling. Perhaps I said rather more than I ought,
+though Juliet richly deserved every word. Clarissa muttered a—"Really!"
+And uncle Basil's eyebrows went up again, and my mother said in her
+most pained voice, "Rhoda, you had better leave the room."</p>
+
+<p>Of course I went, for I always do what "she" tells me, and my breakfast
+was sent after me. I should have liked to leave it all, quite
+untouched, but somehow, being unhappy does not take away my appetite. I
+wish it did.</p>
+
+<p>So that was a nice beginning of Sunday, and of my uncle's visit! And I
+had meant everything to be so different.</p>
+
+<p>Is it any use trying—any use making resolutions—if one must always
+fail? I feel hopeless and out of heart.</p>
+
+<p>Uncle Basil will not like me now of course. That is settled. I am not
+sure how far I like him. He is good-looking, but not like my mother.
+He has rather a slow way of talking and doing things. When he smiles,
+he has a pleasant look, but he does not smile often. Mother seems very
+fond of him. But I should think he is very particular, perhaps fussy;
+and I do not care for fussy people.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 8th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday, uncle Basil gave me a present of a five-pound note. So I
+suppose he does at least feel kindly towards me. It means the more from
+him, because he is not, I believe, particularly well off. I am planning
+all sorts of things to do with the money. Some present for my mother
+certainly, and for Johnnie. It might be rather nice if I were to get
+something for the girls, but I do not feel at all inclined to do that.
+Not at all.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>Same Evening.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Uncle Basil has been—I do not know what to call it. He asked me to go
+out for a long walk with him, and of course I went. And when he had me
+all alone, away from everybody, he gave me such a talking. I cannot
+think what made him do so,—unless Juliet has put the idea into his head.</p>
+
+<p>He told me I was making everybody miserable with my temper; and he said
+that, if I were not careful, I should end by making my mother ill. I
+tried to defend myself; and then he spoke of the "great kindness,"
+as he called it, of Clarissa and Juliet, and told me that I was most
+ungrateful. That was bad enough, but it was not all. He went on to ask
+me questions which I did not choose to answer, because I felt vexed,
+and besides I could not. There are things which one can't say to
+everybody. And he said to me in plain words that I did not love God, or
+care to serve Him. He warned me not to go on fluttering away my whole
+life like a butterfly, only trying to please myself. As if he knew! I
+am not a mere butterfly; and I do care for a great deal more than mere
+self-pleasing. I don't see what business it is of uncle Basil's either;
+and I wish he had not begun by giving me a present, and then I could
+have said anything I liked to him,—at least, not anything, but a great
+deal more than I did say.</p>
+
+<p>All I did was to answer as little as possible. And on the way home, I
+hardly replied to a single thing that he said. So of course, he counted
+me dreadfully hardened. But I felt so miserable, it was the utmost
+I could do to keep from crying. And when I got home, I had a good
+breakdown in my own room. Mother found me in the middle of it; and she
+would not leave me till I told her the reason. I am afraid I called
+uncle Basil "horrid," and "meddlesome;" for she said, "Hush!" two or
+three times. As usual, she would not blame him, and only said,—"He
+meant it kindly, Rhoda."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, you think everybody means everything kindly."</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image012" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image012.jpg" alt="image012">
+</figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>Uncle Basil asked me to go out for a long walk</b><br>
+<b>with him, and of course I went.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>"I am sure of it in this case. And what if you are intended to learn
+something from what he said?"</p>
+
+<p>"It wasn't his business to say anything to me."</p>
+
+<p>"I do not see that," Mother answered slowly. "It is everybody's
+business to help other people."</p>
+
+<p>"But if I don't want his help—"</p>
+
+<p>"Then I want it for you, Rhoda."</p>
+
+<p>"I shall never learn anything from uncle Basil—never. He had no right
+to lecture me. And I don't see why he should be so sure that I am
+altogether and utterly bad."</p>
+
+<p>"Not—surely—altogether!"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, he seemed to think I did not care in the very least for doing
+what is right."</p>
+
+<p>Mother was silent.</p>
+
+<p>"And I do care."</p>
+
+<p>But she was silent still.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, I care a great deal. You know I do."</p>
+
+<p>And all she answered was, very low,—"I wish with all my heart that I
+did know it, Rhoda!" Then she got up, and went away; and I saw that she
+was in tears.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 9th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I cannot get over what my mother said to me. What uncle Basil thinks
+matters very little, but that "she" should have such an opinion,—hardly
+anything could have touched me so closely!</p>
+
+<p>All I can do is to resolve from this time to be different. She shall
+see that I do really care, and that I do wish to do what is right.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 17th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>The fortnight of my uncle's visit has gone all right till to-day,
+hardly a rub since the very beginning. Juliet has been tiresome, and I
+have borne it patiently; and uncle has seemed rather to take to me. And
+now all the good has been undone, and everything is wrong.</p>
+
+<p>At breakfast, he said he hoped I would pay him a long visit soon. I
+did not know what to answer; for it did not sound delightful. Mother
+thanked him, and said that perhaps some day we could arrange it; and I
+mumbled some sort of response, awkwardly enough. There the matter might
+have rested, but Clarissa chose to drawl out a—"When do you want her?"</p>
+
+<p>"Any time. The sooner the better. Next month," uncle Basil said at once.</p>
+
+<p>And Clarissa, to my amazement, answered,—"That would do very nicely,
+would it not?" She was looking at my mother, not at me. "We shall be
+glad of the second spare-room about then."</p>
+
+<p>"To be sure. I did not think of that," Juliet added, in her brisk way.</p>
+
+<p>And, still more to my amazement, Mother said quietly,—"We will think
+about it."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother!" I cried indignantly.</p>
+
+<p>If only I had let matters alone! I might have known better than to
+speak just then.</p>
+
+<p>"What now?" Juliet asked.</p>
+
+<p>"I am not going. I don't want to go. I shall stay at home. The idea of
+turning me away because you want my room!"</p>
+
+<p>"We had better drop the subject," Mother said gravely.</p>
+
+<p>And I saw uncle Basil looking me all over, as if he were trying to make
+me out. But I was in no mood to take my mother's hint.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't see,—you don't understand," I cried passionately. "Clarissa
+and Juliet have made up their minds to get rid of me, that they may
+have friends of their own in my room. I don't choose my room to be used
+when I am away. It is too horrid of them. And I don't mean to go."</p>
+
+<p>"Highty-tighty, what is all this about?" asked uncle Basil, in his most
+deliberate tone. "Because I want my niece for a visit? Is that the
+trouble?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mother does not want to get rid of me. It is only the girls," I burst
+out again, almost beside myself.</p>
+
+<p>I know now how I must have looked, though at the time I only saw
+Clarissa's sneer, and heard Juliet's laugh. Mother says that Clarissa
+did not sneer, and that Juliet's little laugh is part of herself, but
+at the time it seemed to me so.</p>
+
+<p>"But suppose my wife and I are dull at home, and wish for the pleasure
+of our niece's company?"</p>
+
+<p>"You don't. It is not that, I understand. It is only that the girls
+want to get me out of their way. And I don't intend to be managed. I do
+not mean to go."</p>
+
+<p>I saw Mother look at Juliet as if she were apologising for me; and
+Juliet smiled and shook her head.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, we need not settle the matter now. As your mother says, we'll
+wait. Time enough before next month."</p>
+
+<p>I don't know what more I might have said, but my uncle went out of the
+room with Mother. And only the two girls stayed behind.</p>
+
+<p>"You have made a nice exhibition of yourself now, certainly," Clarissa
+observed in her coldest tone. "A grateful way of receiving an
+invitation!"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't care. It is your fault, the way you both treat me—"</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa shrugged her shoulders. Juliet came a step nearer.</p>
+
+<p>"Hardly worth arguing with you in your present state of mind," she
+said. "But perhaps, when you recall what is past, you may find that,
+after all, nothing so desperately cruel was said."</p>
+
+<p>"I know what was said. You want to send me away from Mother that you
+may have the use of my room."</p>
+
+<p>"And if it were so, would that be very surprising? Have you never
+wished to get rid of Clarissa and me?"</p>
+
+<p>I had nothing to say. "That" was true enough.</p>
+
+<p>"The kind of feeling is generally mutual." Juliet stood still, looking
+at me. "Things might have been very different," she said gravely. "But
+it seems to be a hopeless case. For your comfort, Rhoda, I may as well
+tell you that your persistent efforts to get rid of us are likely to
+succeed. We have borne a good deal, but we have pretty well arrived at
+the outer edge of our patience. I do not fancy we shall trouble you
+much longer. Except for your mother's sake, we should not be here now.
+No need to say more. Come, Clarissa."</p>
+
+<p>My passion was gone. I remembered that conversation with my mother, and
+all she had told me. Had I at last done what then I had feared? Would
+the girls stop helping us? And in that case, would our little home be
+broken up, and would my mother be driven back to India before the right
+time?</p>
+
+<p>It was like a shower of ice falling. I did not know what to think or to
+do, and it is the same now. Mother has hardly been near me all day; and
+I cannot get to see her alone. Is she very much displeased?</p>
+
+<p>The whole scene comes back to me, and I begin to see how little real
+cause I had for my anger. It was so rude to uncle Basil, too. For after
+all he meant kindly. I will never never behave so again.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image013" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image013.jpg" alt="image013">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_5">CHAPTER V.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>BANISHMENT DECREED.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 19th, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>YESTERDAY was a wretchedly uncomfortable day. Everybody seemed to hold
+aloof.</p>
+
+<p>Uncle Basil went away early; and his last words to me were,—</p>
+
+<p>"I shall look-out for you next month."</p>
+
+<p>I tried to mutter some sort of thanks; and if only we had been alone,
+I think I would have begged his pardon. But they were all round, so it
+did not seem possible. Ought I to ask the girls' pardon? Oh, I can't. I
+couldn't.</p>
+
+<p>I had not one word alone with Mother till the last thing yesterday
+evening. She looked dreadfully tired; and Juliet, kissing her,
+whispered,—</p>
+
+<p>"Don't stay up long, you poor dear!"</p>
+
+<p>Then Mother sat with her eyes on me, and I did not know what to say. I
+could see that she expected me to say something. The silence went on
+for a whole long minute, and she never stirred.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, I did not mean—" at last I began, for I could not stand it any
+longer.</p>
+
+<p>"Did not mean what?" It was not Mother's usual way of speaking.</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't mean—to bother you."</p>
+
+<p>"No; you only meant to gratify your own feelings of dislike and spite."</p>
+
+<p>I exclaimed at the word "spite."</p>
+
+<p>"Of childish spite," she repeated. "I would not have believed it of
+you. Knowing what you do know,—after all the kindness of those dear
+girls to me,—all that they have done for us,—to say such things to
+them. And before my brother!"</p>
+
+<p>"I did not mean any harm."</p>
+
+<p>"Hardly worth while to discuss your intentions," she replied wearily.
+"I find it a waste of time. One thing I must explain, that you were
+entirely mistaken in your conjecture. It was not 'they' who spoke to
+your uncle, suggesting a visit from you some day, but I."</p>
+
+<p>"You, Mother!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. 'I' put the idea into his head, not as an immediate thing, but
+as a future possibility. Partly for your own sake because I think it
+good for you to have variety. Partly for my sake, because I am getting
+worn-out with all the jarring, and I should like a month of quiet."</p>
+
+<p>I do not think anything that has ever been said to me in all my life
+has pierced me like those words of Mother's. That she should want to
+get rid of me!</p>
+
+<p>She must have seen in my face what I felt. I saw her lips quiver.</p>
+
+<p>"That was how it came about," she went on firmly. "Your uncle was doing
+what he knew I wished. Not what the girls wished. I do not say they
+would be sorry. Is it likely that they should? And as for using your
+room—'they' pay the rent of this house, Rhoda. Not I; and certainly
+not you." Then, after a little break, she went on, "At the same time,
+I had not positively made up my mind to send you away so soon. I did
+intend to give you one more chance. If you had let the matter drop
+when I wished you to do so, nothing would have been settled. You have
+complicated the whole affair by your manner of speaking."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, I am sorry to have troubled 'you,'" I burst out. "I am really."</p>
+
+<p>"That is not enough. The wrong has been to the girls mainly; and only
+to me through them."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't beg Juliet's pardon! I could not do it," I said passionately.
+"You couldn't in my place."</p>
+
+<p>"I hope that in your place I should be unable to do anything else.
+Apart from any higher principle, when one has insulted and wrongly
+accused another, mere ladylike feeling alone would force one to
+apologise."</p>
+
+<p>Then she waited a minute, and I said nothing. I did not feel that it
+would be possible.</p>
+
+<p>"If you are not really sorry, and do not intend to do differently, an
+apology would mean very little. There is nothing for it, I am afraid,
+but a different arrangement. Good night, Rhoda. I am too tired to stay
+up any longer."</p>
+
+<p>I would have given anything to ask what she meant by a "different
+arrangement," but somehow I had not courage. She went away, and I have
+been writing in my journal ever since, because I feel too unhappy to go
+to bed.</p>
+
+<p>Ought I to pray to be able to beg Juliet's pardon?</p>
+
+<p>But I do not "want" to be able to do so. I do not "want" to knuckle
+under to the girls. Why should I? I did once tell one of them that
+I was sorry for something; and I could see how they crowed over me,
+though I dare say nobody else saw it. I cannot, cannot, do that again.
+If only it were anything else, anybody else, I would do it for Mother's
+sake. I cannot bear to distress her. But still, isn't she a little
+unreasonable, always to expect me to give in to everybody?</p>
+
+<p>Do other girls get into these difficulties? And how do they get out of
+them? Am I so much worse than other girls? Or is it that very few have
+such trials in their own homes as I have? I think it must be that. If
+only my mother, would make up her mind to live in a tiny house, alone
+with the twins and me, I should be so happy. Is it likely that she ever
+will? She said once that it was impossible, as things are now; but is
+it really? People sometimes say that kind of thing, without actually
+meaning it. If she would but try the plan. There would be no one then
+to come between her and me.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 25th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I know now what my mother meant last Sunday. It has all come out. And,
+oh, how I wish, I wish, I could live the last few weeks over again!</p>
+
+<p>Ever since last Saturday, things have been uncomfortable, everybody
+seeming to be vexed with me, and that makes it so hard to be pleasant
+and good. I thought it would pass off in time, and we should get smooth
+and right again. I knew my mother wanted me to ask the girls' pardon,
+and I could not. It did seem perfectly impossible. The words would not
+come. Can one force oneself to do every single thing that one is told
+one ought to do, no matter how much against the grain it may be? I know
+I could not.</p>
+
+<p>All the week, Mother has been very poorly; and I could see that the
+girls blamed me for it. I suppose she was waiting to see what I would
+do. If I had known, would that have made the doing any easier, I wonder?</p>
+
+<p>To-day, she and I were alone together, and I saw her turning whiter and
+whiter. I asked if she felt ill, and if I should call somebody. She
+said,—</p>
+
+<p>"No; I have to speak to you, Rhoda."</p>
+
+<p>Then I felt sure something was coming; though I could never have
+guessed what.</p>
+
+<p>When she did speak out, it came like a thunderclap. In one fortnight
+I am to go to uncle Basil and aunt Marian, and I am to stay with them
+for three months. Three long dreary months. How in the world shall I
+get through the time? It seems too dreadful. And it is quite settled. I
+never saw my mother so decided, as if nothing in the world could move
+her. She looked very very sad, but she held to her point. It had to
+be, she said. Things could not go on any longer as they had gone on. A
+fresh arrangement was absolutely necessary; and at present, no other
+plan was feasible.</p>
+
+<p>At first, I was half beside myself. I said it was cruel of the girls,
+and I would not go,—I would not be driven from my home. I was as angry
+and miserable as any one could be, and I spoke out just what I felt,
+and Mother did not interrupt me. She sat listening patiently, and
+allowed me to go on as long as I liked, but there was no giving way in
+her look. And when I came to a stop, she said softly,—</p>
+
+<p>"All that makes no difference at all."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, you will not force me away," I cried. "You will never drive
+me from home!—Me, your own child,—for the sake of those two girls. You
+could not."</p>
+
+<p>"Nay, Rhoda, it is you who force me."</p>
+
+<p>"If they don't want me, why cannot they go, and leave us in peace?
+Anything else rather than this."</p>
+
+<p>"I have no choice," my mother answered. "And it is not they who do not
+want you, but you who do not want them."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother!" I cried.</p>
+
+<p>"Or, at least that has been so, and would be so still, but for
+yourself. Clarissa and Juliet have all along felt and spoken most
+kindly of you. Their one wish has been to smooth everything down for
+me, so far as was in their power. They do say now, at last, that a
+change of some kind has become necessary, and can one wonder? I have
+been sorely ashamed of my own child lately."</p>
+
+<p>I did not know what to say.</p>
+
+<p>"They have done all they could, and it has been in vain. Your uncle,
+seeing the difficulty, most kindly offered before he left to give you
+a home for a few months. He said he could answer for a welcome from
+your aunt, before speaking to her. I told him we would think it over;
+and the girls said that if you should seem really to regret what had
+passed, they were most willing that you should have another trial. Not
+that they or I suppose you would not enjoy a visit to your uncle and
+aunt. Only to go away because you cannot live happily, or let others
+live happily, at home, seems very sad. But you know how things have
+been this week. Now I have written to my brother, and it is settled."</p>
+
+<p>I hardly know what I said. More angry words came, but Mother was not
+moved by them. She said she had entirely made up her mind.</p>
+
+<p>"Even if the girls wished it, I would not change now," she added.</p>
+
+<p>"Not likely that they will wish anything of the kind."</p>
+
+<p>"You are mistaken, Rhoda; nothing is more likely. But I see that it is
+for your good to be away from home for a time. You have fallen into an
+unhappy state of mind, and complete change may make a difference. If
+not—"</p>
+
+<p>She stopped, and I looked at her, but no more came. After a break, she
+only added,—</p>
+
+<p>"No talking has any effect, and I seem to have no influence over you.
+If your father were at home—but, as it is, I can only try this plan."</p>
+
+<p>"And they are to be here with you, while I—"</p>
+
+<p>"No other plan is possible."</p>
+
+<p>Then she told me that Clarissa and Juliet had offered to continue
+paying the rent of this house during the rest of the year, as it has
+been taken for a year, while they themselves would not live with us in
+it, but would go to aunt Jessie. That would prevent all rubs, they had
+told her, and aunt Jessie was willing.</p>
+
+<p>"A plan perfectly out of the question," my mother observed.</p>
+
+<p>And I could not but agree with her in my heart. No; even I am not able
+to wish that. I only long to be independent of them. And I wish, yes, I
+do wish, that I were different in some of my ways.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 6th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Almost at the end of the fortnight; and the day after to-morrow, my
+banishment begins.</p>
+
+<p>I am not reconciled to it, not in the least. I only do not go on
+resisting, because I see it to be of no use. Mother is resolute. I know
+Juliet has asked her to give me one more trial, or at least to shorten
+the three months into one. Mother told me this, and I ought perhaps to
+feel more grateful than I do. But I am to go, just the same, for three
+months, not less. Mother's voice never falters, only she looks so white
+and worn. Have I made her look so? And I meant to be such a comfort to
+her, when first she came home. Everything has been a failure, and I am
+no sort of good to anybody.</p>
+
+<p>The girls have been kind to me, since my going away was settled.
+Juliet has worked hard at my clothes; and Clarissa has bought me a new
+writing-case. It sticks in my throat when I try to thank them, but for
+my mother's sake, I do want at least to have no more fusses before I
+leave. And when I come back, she "shall" see a difference.</p>
+
+<p>What I really mind so terribly is not that the girls will be here while
+I am away, nor is it so much the actual going away, if only it were not
+for quite so long, but it is that I am banished by my mother's wish,
+and that she will feel relieved when I am gone. I think that has woke
+me up. I did not know myself before. Now I seem to see myself more as
+others have seen me; and I feel so desperately ashamed. Not angry now,
+only ashamed. Only longing to do anything in the world to make up to my
+mother for all the worry I have given her.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 7th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have asked them to forgive me—at last. It seemed as if I must. And I
+do feel so much happier. Mother and I had a cry together, after tea;
+and the girls came in and found us at it. They were both so good.</p>
+
+<p>"You poor dears!" Juliet said, and then she tried her best to comfort
+us both.</p>
+
+<p>And I got out the words; I don't know how. I could say I had done
+wrongly, and was sorry; and they were so nice.</p>
+
+<p>But Mother still makes no change. She says the three months away are
+good for me in every way; and she says that now I shall be able to go
+happily. Well, yes; perhaps I shall.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image014" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image014.jpg" alt="image014">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image015" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image015.jpg" alt="image015">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_6">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>AT WAYATFORD.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 10th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>HERE I have been ever since Saturday evening, and I might have been
+here for weeks, judging from my own feelings. It seems "ages" since I
+said good-bye to them all, and yet I am not unhappy, as I expected,
+only everything is strange. I mean, it is strange to think of spending
+three months in this house. It would not be strange if I were here for
+just a week or two.</p>
+
+<p>Wayatford is a country town, more of a town than I fancied as to size,
+but so sleepy, oh, so sleepy! The people look drowsy, and the houses
+and shops as if nothing could ever wake them. Nothing goes on, I am
+told, and nothing happens, except the little everyday round of meals
+and house-doings and Parish-work.</p>
+
+<p>"Why should anything happen?" uncle Basil asks. But I don't agree with
+him. I like things to happen; and I like a stir. If one is utterly
+buried in a tiny village, as we are at home for a year, why one makes
+up one's mind to it, and one doesn't look for anything else. But if
+one lives in a town as large as Wayatford, one does look for something
+a little different. "I" should not care to be in Wayatford year after
+year, with nothing to look back upon and nothing to look forward to.
+Unless of course I were obliged. I suppose one can do or bear anything,
+if one is absolutely obliged.</p>
+
+<p>Uncle Basil's house is in the main street all among the principal
+shops, only it stands well back in its own garden, among masses of
+evergreens. It is the oddest little low house, with queer little low
+rooms, any and no sort of shape; and each room has at least three
+doors. One can perform the tour of all the ground-floor rooms, without
+once passing through the passage or once turning back. The garden
+is old-fashioned; and there are two middle-aged old-fashioned prim
+maid-servants, and an old-fashioned talkative gardener. I cannot
+imagine for my part why my uncle and aunt live here at all, except that
+the house happens to belong to them. But if I were they, I would let
+it, and go somewhere else,—somewhere a little more lively. I don't see
+that uncle Basil has anything whatever to do except to read books, and
+to take walks, and to look after aunt Marian. But he seems to count
+himself a desperately busy person, none the less.</p>
+
+<p>He is not exactly the same uncle Basil who paid us a visit; I mean, he
+does not seem the same to me. I do not quite know how or why; I only
+feel that he is different. Not better or worse, but just unlike. Are
+people always so when one sees them first in somebody else's house, and
+then in their own? I like him more in some ways, and less in others. In
+fact, I can't quite make up my mind about him; and I am sure he cannot
+make up his mind about me.</p>
+
+<p>And why should he? I do not understand myself; and I am perpetually
+puzzled at things I do and say, not knowing at all why I have done or
+said them. And if I cannot fully understand myself after all these
+years, is it likely that uncle Basil should have managed to get to the
+bottom of my character in just two or three weeks?</p>
+
+<p>As for aunt Marian, I have an idea that she knows a great deal more
+about everybody than most people do; all the more, because she is not
+one of those people who are always making believe to read everybody,
+and to know what others are thinking about. If she began in that sort
+of way, one would know directly how little it meant.</p>
+
+<p>I have never seen her before. It is fifteen years—not more—since uncle
+married her; and almost directly afterwards, she had a frightful
+accident which injured her spine, and laid her aside for several years.
+Though rather better now, she can never get over it. She never leaves
+home, and uncle seldom leaves her.</p>
+
+<p>She is very small and thin, and her figure is quite crooked. Most of
+her time is spent lying on a particular kind of couch, near the window
+of the drawing-room, where she writes letters, and keeps accounts, and
+gives household orders, and sees people, and does no end of work with
+her poor little bony hands. She has a rather pretty small wedge-shaped
+face, pink and white like a girl's, with a big forehead, and eyes that
+look at you straight and steadily, in a curious quiet way, as if she
+meant to find out every single thing, before making up her mind whether
+to like or dislike you. Not that I think she ever dislikes anybody
+really—I mean as I do,—but only pities them.</p>
+
+<p>When I first came, I thought she would never get to the end of her
+prelim. exam. Not that she stared in a horrid unblinking way, as some
+people do, but only that I "felt" her to be reading me. Somehow I did
+not very much mind. Only she seemed rather a cold sort of person, and I
+began to wonder how we should manage to get on together for three whole
+mouths.</p>
+
+<p>But presently there came a little smile into her eyes, which changed
+the whole face. I don't mind saying to you, old journal, though I
+wouldn't say it to anyone else, that it was a look which made me think
+of somebody who should once in her life have taken a tiny peep inside
+the gates of heaven, and brought away a glimmer of the light for all
+her life after! And she said,—</p>
+
+<p>"We shall contrive to rub on together somehow, shall we not?"</p>
+
+<p>It was exactly as if she had known what I was thinking of. And I was
+so much taken by surprise that I all but said so outright. I only just
+stopped myself in time.</p>
+
+<p>"I intend to make you useful," she went on. "This may be a Sleepy
+Hollow kind of place,—yes, I see you think that; but even in the
+sleepiest of Sleepy Hollows people have to be clothed and fed, and
+occasionally to be nursed."</p>
+
+<p>"I shouldn't think you could do much nursing, aunt Marian."</p>
+
+<p>"If not, I may pull some of the strings which set others to work. And
+if I cannot lift a sick person out of bed, I may make him a vest or a
+nightingale to wear in bed."</p>
+
+<p>"I should like to be useful—if I can!" I said, with a rather melancholy
+glance back upon the last few weeks.</p>
+
+<p>"Your mother told me that she was sure you would wish it."</p>
+
+<p>I wondered if my mother had said any more. But of course, if she had
+not, it would make no difference. Uncle Basil will have said more. He
+seems to have quite given up any idea of setting me to rights. Perhaps
+he has handed over to aunt Marian the responsibility of me. He has not
+once attempted any lecturing since I arrived.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 11th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I find no end of things to write about already.</p>
+
+<p>A walk with my uncle is the first thing after breakfast; and then aunt
+Marian keeps me busy for a full hour over letters and accounts. She
+makes me work in good earnest, and yet somehow I like it. "New broom!"
+Juliet would say. Is that it?</p>
+
+<p>To-day, after lunch, in came the Rector, Mr. Farrars, and his eldest
+daughter. I had heard him in Church on Sunday, and I knew his face
+again directly, a kind face but rather anxious and absent, as if he
+had a lot to think about. But it was not so much he as the girl that
+interested me. This was my first glimpse of her, because on Sunday she
+was not in the pew with the Rectory children. In the morning, she had
+to take the place of some absent teacher with the school-children, and
+in the evening she was not there at all.</p>
+
+<p>When she came in with her father, I could hardly attend to anybody
+else. She is about my height or a shade taller, and slight, with a pale
+face, not in the least pretty. I cannot think what there is about her,
+so unlike the common run of girls; but certainly there is something.
+It is not good looks, though I found myself going back again and again
+to her face. I don't think it is exactly what people call "sweetness"
+either. There is a kind of composure, almost like middle-age, and a
+want of lightness, a want of spring, as if she had lived through so
+much already as to have grown old before her time.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps she has; for ever since Millicent was seventeen, and that is
+four years ago, she has been head of the household, and has had to
+manage everything. Yes, really to manage everything, and to think of
+everything; because her father is very busy in the Parish, and is
+rather a forgetful man, and he leaves all the home arrangements to her,
+exactly as he used to leave them to his wife.</p>
+
+<p>Only think! Ever since she was seventeen, just my age, to have had the
+whole household upon her shoulders, and her father to see to, and all
+those children to arrange for, and Parish doings besides, and nobody
+to be any help. Four years of it; and before that for a whole year and
+more, her mother was slowly dying; and Millicent did the chief part
+of the nursing. So I don't see how she "can" be young still. I do not
+wonder that at twenty-one, she has the look of thirty or forty,—in her
+expression, I mean.</p>
+
+<p>It is such a patient face, with its soft pale skin, and such quiet
+gentle brown eyes, that I think I fell in love with it and her straight
+off. And if she is not pretty, she is far better than pretty. I would
+rather, oh, much rather, be like Millicent than like Clarissa and
+Juliet, even though they are counted so handsome by almost everybody;
+and I suppose nobody would count Millicent in the least good-looking.
+She is "good," not good-looking, and is not that the best?</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent is a much occupied person," aunt Marian said; "but I want
+you two girls to be together sometimes."</p>
+
+<p>"I should like it, too," Millicent added.</p>
+
+<p>There the matter stood still. Nothing was arranged, as I had hoped.
+Perhaps aunt Marian waited to see first what I should wish. After the
+two were gone, she told me some of what I have written down about
+Millicent's past, and then went on,—"The child has had a severe life,
+so far. She is the pivot upon which everything turns at the Rectory.
+Mr. Farrars depends upon her utterly."</p>
+
+<p>"She must be very clever."</p>
+
+<p>"That depends on what you mean by 'clever.' She has the gift of
+resolute concentration of purpose to each duty in succession, and it
+goes a long way."</p>
+
+<p>"And she must be very strong."</p>
+
+<p>"Strong in will, and strong in self-forgetfulness. Not strong at all in
+body."</p>
+
+<p>"I like her face very much. She is a girl I could make a friend of."</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian looked so much amused, that I could not help saying, "You
+mustn't think I can make friends quickly with anybody and everybody. I
+don't make friends like other girls; only I think I could make a friend
+of Millicent Farrars."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not make friends like other girls?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why,—I don't! It isn't my way. People have different ways. I can't
+take to most people."</p>
+
+<p>"The 'taking' must of course be mutual."</p>
+
+<p>It was said so very quietly, that just at the moment, I really did not
+see all that she meant. Since then, I have been thinking a great deal.
+Did she mean that people do not take to me? Am I such a disagreeable
+girl? Would my mother say so? But of course Mother loves me; and she
+would love me whatever I might be like, in spite of everything. Other
+people would not. Do I really make few friends, because others do not
+take particularly to "me?" I always thought it was just the other way,
+because I was slow in liking other people.</p>
+
+<p>Some day I will ask aunt Marian, but not yet. She does not really
+know me yet, and perhaps when she does, she will have a rather better
+opinion. I mean to make her like me if I can, in spite of all that I
+suppose the girls have said to uncle Basil about my ways. And I mean to
+make Millicent like me too.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 14th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday uncle Basil and I called at the Rectory, to find nobody at
+home. And to-day a message came, asking me to go in to tea at five
+o'clock. So at five I went.</p>
+
+<p>There are eight brothers and sisters younger than Millicent; no, I
+mean seven brothers and one sister. The three biggest boys are away
+at school, but the four at home make quite noise enough for anything
+and anybody. All the four are exactly alike, except in size; I could
+not see a shadow of difference. As for learning their names, one might
+of course do that, but to pin the right names to the right boys seems
+hopeless. The little girl is only eight years old, so she is no help
+to Millicent. A governess comes every day for four hours to teach the
+little girl and the two youngest boys; and the two elder go to school,
+and Millicent overlooks their preparation.</p>
+
+<p>Besides that, there is the housekeeping,—no easy matter, because they
+are not at all well off,—and there are the accounts, and the mending,
+and the Parish, and Mr. Farrars. And worst of all, there must be the
+feeling of responsibility, the knowing that "she" has to do everything,
+and think of everything, and to keep everything going, with no one to
+help or remind her.</p>
+
+<p>I never could have believed in any one girl getting through such an
+amount. And yet Millicent makes no fuss.</p>
+
+<p>"It isn't always quite easy," she said, when I exclaimed at it all,
+"but if one is methodical, one can manage pretty well."</p>
+
+<p>It slipped out, just by the merest accident, that she is always up and
+dressed by seven o'clock every morning, and that she hardly ever gets
+into bed before twelve o'clock. No wonder she looks pale. But when I
+said so, she answered, "The things have to be done, you see!" and then
+let the question drop, as if there were nothing more to be said.</p>
+
+<p>She is really good, I am sure of that, not with show goodness, but
+true genuine goodness. I know it, not so much from what she says, as
+from what she does not say. And I know already that I shall like to
+have Millicent for my very particular friend. I shall like to tell her
+everything, and to do whatever she advises. She is not full of fun and
+laughter like some girls, and perhaps some people might even count her
+a little dull, but I do not, and I never shall. Even though she seems
+so quiet and gentle, and inclined to be silent, and almost as if she
+hardly cared for a joke, still that makes no difference. Or rather, I
+like her all the better for it. Any commonplace sort of girl can joke
+and laugh, and say silly things, but very few girls could ever do what
+Millicent does.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image016" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image016.jpg" alt="image016">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_7">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>DERWENTWATER.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 15th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>THERE was no time to finish yesterday my account of tea at the
+Vicarage, or to tell about the name of "Ernest Derwentwater" coming up.
+That interested me.</p>
+
+<p>I had not heard the name before, but I noticed it directly, because of
+Millicent's face. One of the children said something about him, and I
+saw her in a moment flush up, such a soft little flush, it made her
+almost pretty for the moment; and I saw the anxious way in which she
+tried to turn to something else.</p>
+
+<p>But that provoking small scarecrow, the second youngest boy, would
+persist in saying, "Ernest Derwentwater! Ernest Derwentwater! Yes,
+Ernest Derwentwater! Wasn't it Ernest Derwentwater? I'm sure it was
+Ernest Derwentwater! Sissie, it was Ernest Derwentwater!" Till I could
+have shaken the little wretch, for Millicent looked quite distressed.
+It seemed as if the boy were bent on teasing her.</p>
+
+<p>And then the Rector heard, and he turned round with his forehead all
+puckered, and asked,—</p>
+
+<p>"Has Derwentwater been here, my dear?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, father."</p>
+
+<p>"You are sure?" Mr. Farrars spoke in a curious grave manner, not as if
+he were displeased, but more as if he were puzzled.</p>
+
+<p>"No, father," she said again. And then, after thinking for a
+moment,—"But I did hear that he talked of running down for a few days."</p>
+
+<p>"When?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. I don't think anything was settled."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh,—but I meant, when did you hear, it, my dear?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know exactly," and there was a little shake in her voice. "Mr.
+Collins told me, and I forget exactly which day I saw Mr. Collins last."</p>
+
+<p>"And you did not think of mentioning it to me?"</p>
+
+<p>I knew from her face that she "had" thought of it. She had not
+forgotten.</p>
+
+<p>"I think he will stay at the Park. But nothing was settled."</p>
+
+<p>"What were you saying just now about Derwentwater? I did not quite
+hear."</p>
+
+<p>"Only Phil's nonsense,—something about a little picture. Nothing of the
+least consequence."</p>
+
+<p>"It was Ernest Derwentwater, his very own self. And I 'know' it was,—I
+know it quite well. He gave it to Sissie," persisted Phil. "And I know
+he did, 'cause I saw him. And he didn't mean nobody to see. I know he
+didn't."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, well, well," Mr. Farrars murmured, in a resigned sort of
+tone, as if something or other were very melancholy, but could not
+possibly be helped. And then he sighed, and Millicent went across in
+her quiet way,—she always moves so quietly, without the least noise
+or bustle,—and stood looking down upon him. And after a minute, she
+stooped and gave him a kiss on his forehead, as if she were trying to
+smooth away the wrinkles. That brought a smile, though the worried look
+did not go quite away. Mr. Farrars has a nice smile, and Millicent
+seems very fond of him.</p>
+
+<p>Nothing more was said just then, and Millicent managed to get rid of
+Phil and his notions, by sending him off for a game of play. Later on,
+Mr. Farrars went away too, and I was looking through some photographs
+with her, when we came across a cabinet likeness of a young man. I do
+not know what made me stop to look at it so very particularly, unless
+it was that I saw a sort of tiny movement of Millicent's hand, as if
+she wanted to slip that photo away, out of sight.</p>
+
+<p>Then I think in a moment I suspected who it was. Perhaps it would have
+been kinder to let her do as she liked, but how could I, when I was
+brimful of curiosity? So I kept my hand on the card, and didn't seem
+to see what she wished: and I examined the face well,—such a handsome
+face, with a good expression.</p>
+
+<p>I said, "Who is this?"</p>
+
+<p>And in a moment, there was another little tinge of colour.</p>
+
+<p>"That! Oh, only Mr. Derwentwater."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose he is a particular friend of yours?"</p>
+
+<p>"A particular friend to all of us,—especially to the boys." I wondered
+whether Mr. Derwentwater would have agreed to that "especially." But
+she went on,—"We have known him more or less all our lives. His father
+was my father's greatest College friend."</p>
+
+<p>"He doesn't live here?"</p>
+
+<p>"No,—in London. He has a very good appointment in a Bank. He has rooms
+in London."</p>
+
+<p>"And he often comes here."</p>
+
+<p>"Not very often. Sometimes. Mr. Collins is his uncle. But of course, he
+goes oftenest to see his father and mother."</p>
+
+<p>"It is a very nice face."</p>
+
+<p>"He is thought rather good-looking." She spoke carelessly.</p>
+
+<p>"You think him so,—now don't you, Millicent?" I asked, laughing, and
+wanting to make her laugh.</p>
+
+<p>But she never seemed to dream of laughing. She only looked at me
+straight, with those quiet eyes of hers, and said, "Perhaps I do. I
+don't think it matters. One doesn't think about people being handsome,
+when one knows them very well."</p>
+
+<p>"Doesn't one? I do. If a face is handsome at all, the more one knows
+it, the more handsome it seems to grow."</p>
+
+<p>"One of the most beautiful faces I ever saw is your aunt Marian's
+face." Of course, I saw that she wanted to get me off to some other
+subject, and of course, I tried to prevent it. But Millicent is not
+easy to manage. She has such a quiet sort of determination. Do what I
+might, I could not bring her back to Mr. Derwentwater.</p>
+
+<p>But she could not prevent me from thinking, from wondering what it
+all means, and whether it means anything. Is Millicent in love with
+Mr. Derwentwater?—And is he in love with Millicent? And are there any
+difficulties in the way? I should like Millicent to marry, and to have
+a happy home of her own. At least, I should like it by-and-by, when we
+have seen a good deal of one another, and have become thorough friends.
+I do not want her just now to have her head so full of him that she
+cannot give a single thought to me. But by-and-by.</p>
+
+<p>Only I do not quite see how they are to get on without her at the
+Rectory. That may be the difficulty.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Farrars is so very kind and good, and uncle calls him "a most able
+preacher," and they say he is perfectly worshipped by the poor. But
+he does seem a little helpless about household arrangements and the
+management of all those boys.</p>
+
+<p>Still, if that is all, why should there not be an engagement, and Mr.
+Derwentwater might wait. Amy is eight years old now, and she will be
+growing older in time. It would only be a few years,—seven or eight
+years, perhaps. In eight years, Amy will be sixteen. If I were in love
+with a girl like Millicent, I would wait for her gladly any number of
+years. It would not matter how many, if only I might get her in the
+end. But, I suppose men are more impatient than women.</p>
+
+<p>And perhaps he does not really care for her. Of course, I do not know
+yet about that. How interesting it will be, when he comes down, to see
+whether anything of that kind is really going on! Like a scrap of real
+life in a story,—or like a bit of story in real life,—I do not know
+which to call it. I have never come across anything of the sort before.
+And though I think I am too sensible a girl to have my head full of
+nonsensical ideas as to love affairs, still one cannot help being
+interested if one's own friend is perhaps going to have a love affair.</p>
+
+<p>Of course I must say nothing to anybody. I must only use my eyes, and
+that at all events I am free to do. Millicent is very reserved, I
+fancy, but she does not know me well yet. When she does, perhaps she
+will speak out, and tell me how things really are.</p>
+
+<p>She did not look very happy when his name was mentioned. A kind of
+worried expression came, and that puzzles me.</p>
+
+<p>Is there something about him not quite nice,—not quite as it should
+be? Does Mr. Farrars not quite like him? He has such a frank open face
+in the photograph,—not the sort of face which, I should think, could
+possibly mean anything really wrong. Perhaps she was only a little shy,
+and did not want me to suspect anything, only it did not look like
+shyness. Well, she will soon know me better, and will not mind what I
+see or know about her.</p>
+
+<p>I have been wondering whether I might not offer to help her with some
+of the mending of the boys' things. She has such a lot of it to do; and
+then perhaps she might get to bed a little before twelve o'clock.</p>
+
+<p>I don't mean, just to help her only once, but to promise it
+regularly—once or twice a week while I am here, so that she would be
+able to depend on me. She could not possibly mind, and I should feel
+myself then of real use.</p>
+
+<p>What an amount I have written to-day!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 17th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps it was rather stupid of me to speak so soon, but I have spoken
+and been refused.</p>
+
+<p>I had to go to the Rectory after breakfast with a message from aunt
+Marian, and the temptation was too strong. Millicent was darning a sock
+at the moment when I went in. And when I had given my message, I said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I have been thinking I should 'so' like to help you with your
+mending, Millicent. Will you not let me? I want to come in regularly
+while I am at Wayatford—twice a week, perhaps, and sit and work with
+you. Do let me."</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday, I asked her to call me "Rhoda," and she said I might call
+her "Millicent." Though from her manner, I fancied she thought it
+rather soon.</p>
+
+<p>She looked up in a sort of surprised way at me, and said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Help me! O no, thank you."</p>
+
+<p>"But I mean it. I really do mean it. I should like nothing better. I do
+want to be useful to somebody."</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks, you are very kind," she said coldly, and not as if she were
+in the very least grateful. "But please do not speak of such a thing
+again."</p>
+
+<p>"But why? Don't you know me well enough yet? Do let me, Millicent."</p>
+
+<p>She got up, with a little flush on her face, and put away in a drawer
+the sock she had been darning, and only said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Would you like to come into the garden with me?"</p>
+
+<p>"You know I have not come here to hinder you. If I must not be a help,
+I will go away at once."</p>
+
+<p>"I could not think of it," was the only answer she made. And then she
+turned the subject altogether in her determined way, and not another
+word could I get in about my wish.</p>
+
+<p>I was so disappointed and hurt, that when I got back, I told aunt
+Marian all about what had passed.</p>
+
+<p>She listened with a queer little laugh in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"So you are very fond of needlework!"</p>
+
+<p>"Not fond of needlework in itself; no, not at all. But if it is to help
+somebody that I am fond of—"</p>
+
+<p>"And you care enough already for Millicent!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I like her very much, very much indeed. And she works so hard, I
+should like to be able to help her."</p>
+
+<p>"The wish is right enough. But suppose you started helping her, and
+then grew tired of it."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I should."</p>
+
+<p>"If you are fond enough of Millicent! That is the question, of course.
+However, I think you were in rather too much of a hurry. How much does
+Millicent know of you?"</p>
+
+<p>"As much as I know of her."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps not. I have told you a good deal about Millicent that is
+admirable."</p>
+
+<p>And of course she has not told Millicent anything about me that is
+admirable. I saw what aunt Marian meant.</p>
+
+<p>She would not seem to know whether I understood, and only said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps we may bring it about yet; only you must have patience."</p>
+
+<p>"Is Millicent very proud?"</p>
+
+<p>"I imagine not. Why? Because she does not plunge into the first offer
+of help from a stranger?"</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt Marian! A stranger!"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, what else? How often have you two met?"</p>
+
+<p>"But for me just to sit and work with her?"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite simple, of course. Still, we must have patience. Perhaps
+Millicent was not anxious to expose to your criticism the state of the
+family stockings. Perhaps she thought her father would object. Perhaps
+she fancied it would be no kindness to you."</p>
+
+<p>"But it would be kindness. I should like nothing better."</p>
+
+<p>"If so, when Millicent knows you better, she may not be unwilling," was
+all aunt Marian would say.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 20th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Millicent and I had a ramble in the field to-day. She doubted about
+sparing the time, but I gave her no peace, and at last she went.</p>
+
+<p>She was even graver and paler than usual, I thought, yet I could find
+no particular reason. It almost seemed as if she had none.</p>
+
+<p>I had made up my mind that I really would for once get Millicent to
+talk about herself, a thorough long talk. I meant to find out ever so
+many things that I have never yet been able to find out. Though I like
+Millicent so much, it is wonderful how little I know about her, and I
+don't see why, and I don't like it. If we are friends, she ought to
+treat me with confidence. I tell her all sorts of things quite openly,
+and why should she not do the same to me?</p>
+
+<p>Some people love nothing so dearly as to talk about themselves, and
+they are always and for ever twisting round the conversation to the
+one thing they care for—either themselves and their aches and pains,
+or themselves and their feelings, or themselves and their worries—but
+Millicent is altogether the other way. If one can edge her into
+speaking for one minute about anything connected with herself, she is
+off again in a trice to some other subject.</p>
+
+<p>Of course one likes and admires that in her, and the people who do
+love to discuss themselves are awfully wearisome. "I" should not like
+to do that sort of thing. I should hate to be always thinking and
+talking about myself. But still, the very fact that Millicent is not
+one of those people makes me want to know more of herself and her inner
+life. It does not seem natural that a girl should be so shut-up, and
+have nothing whatever to say about her own troubles. For Millicent has
+troubles enough of her own; one can see that in her face. Only it is
+difficult to make out exactly what the troubles are.</p>
+
+<p>And to-day all my trying was in vain. I did my best, and I could not
+succeed. She got me off somehow upon "my" home troubles; at least, I
+am sure she did. Because I had not the very least intention when we
+began talking to say a single word about myself, and yet somehow I
+found myself doing it. I don't remember her asking any questions, and I
+don't think Millicent does ask questions, but she has a way of setting
+one off. I have not a notion how she does it. Before I knew what I
+was about, I was telling her all about Clarissa and Juliet, though I
+had quite made up my mind never to let slip about them to anybody in
+Wayatford.</p>
+
+<p>Talking seemed to bring up the old feelings, and I suppose I got a
+little excited, and let out what I really felt. For, after all, though
+they were kinder just at the last, they were "not" kind before, and it
+is their doing really that I am banished from home and from my mother
+all these months. But for them, I should be with her now.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent never tried to stop me. She waited and listened, while I went
+on as long as I liked. I am afraid I forgot all about making Millicent
+tell me "her" troubles, and I only told her "mine." And at the end,
+when I came to a stop, she said in her very quietest voice,—</p>
+
+<p>"I would not have things so in the future, if I were you."</p>
+
+<p>"Why, what can I do? How could you help it? How could anybody help it?
+If people will be so provoking—"</p>
+
+<p>"Almost everybody has something provoking to put up with. How could one
+learn to be patient without?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't pretend to be so very particularly patient. But I am sure
+Juliet is not either."</p>
+
+<p>"Only you have not to do with that."</p>
+
+<p>I thought I had a great deal to do with it, and I said so.</p>
+
+<p>"I mean—you have no responsibility there. You have not to answer for
+her, but only for yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I know one thing," I said—and I am afraid I spoke rather
+snappishly, for it seemed to me that Millicent was taking Juliet's
+part, and if she were my friend, I thought she ought to take "my"
+part,—"I know one thing, and that is that when I am away from those
+two, I can be perfectly good and patient. I always have said that I was
+sure I could, and now I find I can. It is they who put me out, and make
+everything go wrong. It is not 'me.' I have been quite good and patient
+ever since I came to Wayatford."</p>
+
+<p>"Patient about what?"</p>
+
+<p>I did not understand, and I told her so.</p>
+
+<p>"I mean, what have you to bear at Mrs. Ramsay's, that is so
+particularly trying?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, nothing. That is the very thing. They don't worry and plague me
+here. It all goes smoothly."</p>
+
+<p>"But where is the particular virtue of keeping straight, when there is
+nothing to make you go crooked?" she asked in a dry sort of tone.</p>
+
+<p>It was a new idea to me, and I stared at her.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you see, Rhoda? How can one be patient, unless something in
+one's life might make one impatient? One may be in a good temper,
+merely because everything is exactly as one wishes, but that is not
+patience. Patience means bearing—enduring—when it is not easy to bear
+or endure. If there is nothing to be borne, how can there be any
+patience? One may be comfortable, but being comfortable is not being
+patient. Don't you understand?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. I have not thought much about it."</p>
+
+<p>"Have you not?" And she seemed surprised. "I had to think it all out
+for myself so long ago. One is not put into the world just to enjoy
+oneself, and to get along smoothly. Life means so much more than that."</p>
+
+<p>"Everybody doesn't have to live with a Clarissa and a Juliet."</p>
+
+<p>"Not all their lives, perhaps. You have not lived with them always, and
+I don't suppose you will have to live with them always. But if they go,
+some other trouble will come—perhaps a worse one!"</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing could be worse!" I declared.</p>
+
+<p>She spoke very low, so low that I could hardly hear,—"Don't say that,
+while your mother is still left to you!"</p>
+
+<p>I had no answer to make. If my mother were taken, as Connie was
+taken—it came over me with a kind of stab. What would anything else
+matter by comparison?</p>
+
+<p>"You see," Millicent went on, "people who are truly patient have
+always had a good deal to make them so, one way and another. Either
+bad health, or want of money, or very hard work, or tiresome people to
+live with. It doesn't much matter what, so long as there is something
+that rouses one's impatience, because then the opportunity for patience
+comes in. Of course one might have all those troubles, and yet never
+learn patience. But I don't see how one could possibly learn patience
+'without' some such troubles."</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent, you ought to be a female lecturer. I didn't know you could
+talk half so well."</p>
+
+<p>"I have to explain things to the children, and so I am in practice,"
+she said, not in the least abashed.</p>
+
+<p>"But you don't mean that one 'must' have bothers and worries, all one's
+whole life through?"</p>
+
+<p>She waited a minute before speaking.</p>
+
+<p>"I think it depends—It is part of the preparation. Each of us has to
+learn certain lessons, and the teaching goes on and on until we do
+learn. Some people learn patience very quickly; and others are very
+slow, and need long teaching, perhaps all their lives through. One gets
+a breathing-space now and then, like what you are having now, but it
+does not last, of course. Either you will be at home again and have
+little rubs there, or you will stay long enough to find little rubs
+here. Everything can't be kept perfectly smooth for very long together."</p>
+
+<p>She spoke so like an old person, as if she had learnt it all from
+experience; not like a mere girl, repeating what others might have told
+her.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I only know that things in 'my' home are much harder to bear
+than in most people's homes."</p>
+
+<p>And she asked, "What if it is your own fault, Rhoda?"</p>
+
+<p>I was so angry that I did not say a word. It took me by surprise. I
+had not gone to Millicent for her to find fault with me. If one has a
+friend, one expects one's friend to be sympathising. That was why I had
+talked to Millicent. It seems so hard that I should be banished from my
+home, just because of Clarissa and Juliet, and I thought she would feel
+for me. And instead of that, to tell me it was all my own fault—or, at
+least, to ask a question, which meant that it was. For a little while,
+I was so vexed that I almost thought I should never like Millicent
+again. And I was quite glad she had not agreed to let me work for her.
+There was no need for me to see her often.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent did not say a word for a good while, and then she spoke on
+some different subject.</p>
+
+<p>She must have seen that I was angry, but I do not fancy she minded very
+much. At all events, she did not say a word about being sorry.</p>
+
+<p>She is an odd girl. I don't feel as if I altogether knew her yet.</p>
+
+<p>We did not say any more about my home troubles, but I mean to have it
+out with her another day. I mean to know what she really thinks. Even
+if she is unjust, I will make her say plainly what she has in her mind.
+It will show me what my uncle and aunt have said to her, and what the
+girls said to uncle about me.</p>
+
+<p>Of course I know that I was in the wrong at home, and I do not deny
+that some part of the fusses and difficulties were in some measure my
+own fault. I'm not trying to make myself out to be immaculate. I have
+my faults, like other people. But I do think Juliet was much more to
+blame; and I "don't" see that it is Millicent's business to set me to
+rights, and to settle how much I was to blame.</p>
+
+<p>I suppose a person cannot be too truthful, but certainly I do think
+people can be too downright. Millicent is so very downright—not in a
+rough rude positive way, because she is always gentle, but she does not
+seem to mind what she says.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image017" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image017.jpg" alt="image017">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image018" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image018.jpg" alt="image018">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_8">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>PEOPLE'S RIGHTS.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 22nd, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>YESTERDAY I could not get hold of Millicent, but to-day I made her come
+out for a walk. She said she could spare half-an-hour. And as soon as
+we were outside the town, I asked her point-blank what she had meant.</p>
+
+<p>"Had we not better drop the subject?" she enquired. "If I say anything
+at all, I must say what I really think, and you will be annoyed."</p>
+
+<p>"No, I will not. I want to know what you have in your mind, and what
+has been said to you about me."</p>
+
+<p>She repeated, "Said to me" in such a puzzled voice, that I saw I had
+been mistaken.</p>
+
+<p>"I thought my uncle or aunt might have told you—"</p>
+
+<p>"About your home affairs? Not a word. Why should they? Was it likely? I
+only know what you have told me yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, well; then I don't mind. And I want to know how you think I am to
+blame. What have I done that is wrong?"</p>
+
+<p>I half thought she would try to shirk giving an answer, but she did not.</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps there has been a want of right feeling."</p>
+
+<p>"What sort of right feeling?" I really did try not to speak curtly.</p>
+
+<p>"The Miss Friths are older than you. And you tell me yourself that they
+have a right to settle things as they choose—in your home, I mean. You
+have not the right. If you always remembered this, would it not make a
+great difference?"</p>
+
+<p>"But that is just what is so horrid."</p>
+
+<p>"Does the horridness matter, if one 'ought?'"</p>
+
+<p>After a minute, she added, "Is it not a matter, really, of 'rendering
+to all their due'? Perhaps you have not been careful enough to render
+to the Miss Friths their due—their rights in the house."</p>
+
+<p>"Everybody is always thinking about their rights."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think so? But, Rhoda, yesterday you never said one word about
+their rights. It was all about your own rights. I could not help
+fancying that if only you thought a little more about their rights,
+they would probably think a great deal more about yours."</p>
+
+<p>I felt angry again. Millicent may have said what was true, but it is
+one thing to see for oneself where one is in the wrong, and quite
+another to be told of it, especially by a mere girl. But I had invited
+her to speak out, so what could I say?</p>
+
+<p>We walked on solemnly for some minutes, without a word, going through a
+small copse. Millicent waited to pick a flower now and then. And as we
+came near the further side, she suddenly stopped short. I was in front,
+and I had just turned back to examine something, so I saw the change in
+her face. I could not help seeing. She is almost always pale, but in a
+moment, she grew quite white, as white as a sheet.</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Millicent,—" I said. And then I knew from her manner that she
+did not mean to be questioned. Not merely that she did not want to be,
+but that she "would not" be. I knew it would be quite useless to ask
+anything.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you want any blue-bells, Rhoda?" she asked, and she stooped to pick
+two or three, and held them out. She seemed to have forgotten that she
+had offended me.</p>
+
+<p>I took them, and said, "Thank you," and we moved on again, a good deal
+more slowly than before.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent looked like one in a dream.</p>
+
+<p>When we came to the border of the copse, where it was bounded by a low
+hedge and a shallow ditch, I noticed a young man walking briskly along
+in the field, just beyond the ditch. His back was nearly toward us, but
+he had passed close by the moment before, and if we had walked a very
+little faster, we should have met him. Did Millicent want to miss him?
+That thought sprang up first.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is it?" I asked. "A friend of yours?"</p>
+
+<p>And as she did not answer instantly, I said—"It looks rather like that
+photo,—your friend, Mr. Derwentwater!"</p>
+
+<p>I think I did see a sort of likeness, but what made me think of Mr.
+Derwentwater was not that; it was the look in Millicent's face.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," she said, in an undertone.</p>
+
+<p>"I" had not spoken in an undertone; on purpose, I am afraid; and I
+laughed now, and said:—"How funny of you! One would think you didn't
+care to see him."</p>
+
+<p>The young man must have heard my voice or my laugh, for he glanced
+round, and then he came striding back over the rough clods, and leaped
+hedge and ditch together, in one bound.</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Millicent!"</p>
+
+<p>She put out her hand quietly, with a—"How do you do?" Not as if she
+were especially delighted to see him.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm at the Park,—got there late last night. You knew I meant to come,
+didn't you? All quite well at the Rectory? I am coming round to see you
+by-and-by."</p>
+
+<p>"Not to-day, I think."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm too busy."</p>
+
+<p>He made an impatient movement. "Always too busy where I am concerned."</p>
+
+<p>Millicent looked a little reproachful. "I have work to do for my
+father."</p>
+
+<p>"And you cannot put that off?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Short and sweet!" muttered Mr. Derwentwater.</p>
+
+<p>He had not so much as seen me yet, he was so full of Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>And she had forgotten to introduce us,—unless she did not mean to do
+so. I kept quite still, rather to one side of them both. At first
+sight, he did not seem to me so handsome as I had thought him in the
+photograph: but it is a nice frank taking face; and he is tall and
+well-made,—I should think thoroughly manly.</p>
+
+<p>"Well—no use coming, if you will not see me. I am engaged all
+to-morrow. Come, Millicent,—think better of it. For old friendship's
+sake."</p>
+
+<p>A sorrowful look crept into her face, and she shook her head.</p>
+
+<p>"If you cannot—or will not—there is nothing more to be said."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I can." The words were so low I could hardly catch them.</p>
+
+<p>"When 'may' I come, pray?"</p>
+
+<p>"Any time that you like, of course."</p>
+
+<p>"Take my chance, you mean,—to find everybody free except yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"The boys will want their old playfellow," she answered, trying to
+smile.</p>
+
+<p>"Good-bye!" he said abruptly. And in a moment he was gone, over hedge
+and ditch, and disappearing in the distance with great strides.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent stood perfectly still, gazing on the ground, as if she had
+forgotten where she was and all about me. I waited for some seconds,
+and then patience failed.</p>
+
+<p>"So that is Mr. Derwentwater!"</p>
+
+<p>She gave a start, and began to walk along the muddy grass-path, just
+within the hedge. I could see the muscles round her mouth working.</p>
+
+<p>"So that is Mr. Derwentwater!" I said again, for I wanted to make her
+speak. There was just room for me to keep by her side.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes!"</p>
+
+<p>"He is nice-looking."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Why wouldn't you let the poor man call to-day, when he wanted it so
+much?"</p>
+
+<p>"I—" and a pause—"could not."</p>
+
+<p>"He looked so dreadfully disappointed. Almost angry with you."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent, do you like making people angry?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"You did not particularly want to vex him?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know."</p>
+
+<p>Something in her voice, quiet as it was, and something in the way she
+stumbled against a tree-root, made me look more closely; and I saw her
+eyes to be full. Then she did care, really. It was not that she did not
+care.</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent, look at me," I entreated, but she kept her head fixedly
+turned away. "Millicent, don't be so shut-up, dear! Why don't you tell
+me about it? I cannot help seeing. How can I? If you like him, and he
+likes you, why must you treat him so cruelly? And I see that he does
+like you."</p>
+
+<p>"It is not cruelty." She turned and faced me with a desperate effort;
+I am sure it was a desperate effort, for her lips were white, though
+the tears were gone in a moment, and she looked straight in my face,
+with her most determined air. "Rhoda, you ought to understand better,
+without so much explaining. Ernest is very—a very nice fellow—but it is
+not—not that!"</p>
+
+<p>"Are you sure?"</p>
+
+<p>"I know what I am talking about, of course. He cares for all of us. And
+he thinks he has a right to come in and out,—like a brother—as often as
+he chooses. I have to be careful. It is not as if—as if my mother were
+here. You must not make things harder for me, by—"</p>
+
+<p>"By what?"</p>
+
+<p>"By noticing and talking,—when I do not wish. You ought to understand
+better. Of course I have home duties to attend to. I cannot put them
+aside. If he is vexed, I cannot help it."</p>
+
+<p>"But if you do not mind, and if it is all right, what makes you look
+like this?"</p>
+
+<p>"Like what?" She spoke quite sharply, and took me by surprise. "How do
+I look?"</p>
+
+<p>"Only as if you were not happy."</p>
+
+<p>"I am quite happy. You talk nonsense, Rhoda. If you are always fancying
+things, it will be disagreeable, and I shall not like to be with you."
+Then her manner changed, and she looked at me gently, with a kind of
+apology. "I ought not to be cross; you don't mean to be unkind, I know.
+It is only that you don't understand."</p>
+
+<p>"But I do understand," I said. I was more vexed with that, than with
+her speaking for once sharply.</p>
+
+<p>"No, you don't, and I do not see how you can. You are years and years
+younger than me," and she laughed. "But all the same, I ought not to
+be so cross. I'm tired to-day,—rather,—and that makes things seem more
+than they are really."</p>
+
+<p>"Were you tired when we started?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes." But a little faint flush came, and she did not lift her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"If only I could help you in some way!"</p>
+
+<p>"You can't. There is no help wanted,—none at all. People have to be
+tired sometimes. It is just a part of one's life."</p>
+
+<p>And after that, she would say no more about Mr. Derwentwater.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 23rd, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have come across a short sentence to-day, in a small book which lies
+on the side-table in my room. I cannot get the sentence out of my
+head. It makes me think of what Millicent said about my home troubles
+yesterday, and the time before. This is it:—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Self-love leads us to do certain things because we choose them for
+ourselves, although we would not do them at another's bidding, or from
+mere obedience. If things are our own originating we like them, but not
+when they come through other people. Self is for ever seeking self,
+self-will and self-love; but if we were perfect in the love of God, we
+should prefer to obey, because in obedience there is more of God and
+less of self."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Is that why I so hate to be told things, or to be reminded of my duties
+by the girls,—just because I think so much of myself? What a horrid
+mean reason! Yet I am afraid it is true. Has not my mother said as much
+to me more than once? It isn't so much that I mind doing the things
+themselves, but I do detest to be obliged to do them because Juliet or
+somebody says I ought.</p>
+
+<p>Of course, if I really and truly wanted above all things to do what is
+right, it would make no difference at all whether I was told or was not
+told of it by anybody else. I should only be grateful to anybody who
+would remind me.</p>
+
+<p>That is—if I were humble. I know I am not. I never made any pretence to
+be humble.</p>
+
+<p>And I am sure Juliet is not. Juliet humble!! I could laugh at the idea.</p>
+
+<p>But then, as Millicent says, I have not to answer for Juliet. I only
+have to answer for myself. And "I" am not humble. And "I" do not care
+most and first and best of all for doing the things that are right. And
+I am afraid I do care most and first and best for doing what pleases
+myself.</p>
+
+<p>That at least I have learnt by being away from home, and having time
+to think, and seeing what Millicent is. Yes,—I do believe it is seeing
+what Millicent is, more than anything else, that has shown me a little
+of what I am in myself.</p>
+
+<p>I don't mean that I think Clarissa and Juliet were right, or that they
+could not have been kinder; but still I "do" see that I have been in
+the wrong.</p>
+
+<p>If I could but get rid of this SELF in my life! I begin to see the
+need. I begin to see that the mischief lies there. And I begin to see
+what a horrid mean thing it is to be always thinking about Self,—always
+putting Self first,—always ready to take offence about Self. Yes, it is
+just that. Whatever I do, I cannot forget myself. The Self clings about
+me like a leech.</p>
+
+<p>Properly, I suppose, it is not Self, but the love of Self, which has to
+be got rid of.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 29th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I do not often write so much at one time in my journal as in those two
+long entries, a week and more ago. And on reading them through, I am
+not pleased with myself. It seems to me that I was too meddling, and
+did not think enough of Millicent's feelings. I should not like anybody
+to say this to me, but I can say it to myself. I can see my own faults,
+I hope, when I have done wrongly.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent really had some reason to be vexed with me; but except for
+that one moment, when she spoke rather sharply, I do not think she was.
+At least, she has been just the same as usual since.</p>
+
+<p>I have not once met Mr. Derwentwater at the Rectory. And from something
+that slipped from Mr. Farrars yesterday, I almost think he has not been
+there at all. Mr. Farrars spoke in what seemed to me a rather puzzled
+tone. Millicent is so very very quiet and shut-up and reserved, that I
+am positively quite provoked. Why should she not treat me as a friend,
+and speak out? I am sure, if she were in my place and I were in hers, I
+would just tell her everything about it. And she "might" do the same to
+me now.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 1st, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater is coming to dinner this evening.</p>
+
+<p>I am glad, because I want to see for myself whether he cares for
+Millicent,—I mean whether he cares in "that" sort of way. I feel more
+and more sure that Millicent cares for him. Perhaps she feels that she
+could not well be spared from her home, as things are now, and so will
+not let herself think about marrying. Of course, it is not as if there
+were a second daughter old enough to manage. But still, it does seem
+such a pity! I wonder if it is that. If it were, would not Mr. Farrars
+see, and would he not keep her from sacrificing herself?</p>
+
+<p>When uncle Basil came in, and said he had asked Mr. Derwentwater to
+dinner, aunt Marian at once said,—"Then we will have Millicent and Mr.
+Farrars too."</p>
+
+<p>But Millicent has declined the invitation. Mr. Farrars is engaged, and
+for herself, she simply says she "cannot be spared."</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian made a queer little shake of her head over the note, as if
+she understood more than lay on the surface.</p>
+
+<p>And I found myself saying,—</p>
+
+<p>"Do you like Mr. Derwentwater?"</p>
+
+<p>"Very much. Most people do."</p>
+
+<p>"And he is a great friend of the Farrars'?"</p>
+
+<p>"No doubt. Also he is a great friend of mine."</p>
+
+<p>"Of yours!"</p>
+
+<p>"You think me too old, of course," she said in her quick way: for
+that was exactly what I did think. "Too old, and too crooked, and too
+helpless. You need not say 'O no,' for in a sense, it may be true.
+Yet friendship is not a matter of age-equality, or of what one calls
+'suitability.' Ernest Derwentwater does not seem to find me too old.
+And cannot you imagine what a freshness his young face brings into my
+life?"</p>
+
+<p>I said,—"Yes." And I wondered whether I might not bring some freshness
+into it too. Somehow, I have not thought of that before, in coming
+here. Does aunt Marian like to have me for her own sake, or is it only
+all for my sake,—because she wants to do me good? I do not much like
+being done good to. Does anybody? If I thought I were a comfort to her,
+things would seem different.</p>
+
+<p>"And if I cannot bring freshness into his life?—But why should I?" she
+went on musingly. "He does not need it. If I cannot bring him that,
+I may bring him something better. Yes, he and I are friends. He has
+a good many friends, and he would not hesitate to rank this helpless
+little me among them."</p>
+
+<p>"Why do some people make so many more friends than others do?" I wanted
+to know whether she thought that I was not liked generally.</p>
+
+<p>"Some are more lovable than others," she said at once. "And some have
+wider sympathies; and some have more power to enter into others'
+interests. In the truest friendships, there is much more of giving out
+than of taking in. Some do not seem to have room in their hearts for
+more than a few friends, and then they must be content with the few.
+But the larger the heart, the more love it has to pour out, and the
+wider may be the range of friendships."</p>
+
+<p>"I shouldn't like to tell my secrets to a great many people."</p>
+
+<p>"Your secrets!" And how she did laugh. "You child! I am forgetting
+that you are hardly out of the schoolroom. Telling one's secrets is a
+very minute part of friendship. If you had said, 'listening to others'
+troubles,'—but I suppose the telling comes first. I 'have' seen it last
+through life, with a stunted nature."</p>
+
+<p>"But if one friend tells her troubles, the other must listen." I
+thought I "had" aunt Marian there.</p>
+
+<p>"That is a mere incident," she said, and she laughed again. "It is not
+the essence of friendship."</p>
+
+<p>In the end, I had had no answer to either question that I wanted to
+ask. There is no getting aunt Marian to the point, any more than
+Millicent, if she does not choose.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image019" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image019.jpg" alt="image019">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image020" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image020.jpg" alt="image020">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_9">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>SUPPOSITIONS.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 2nd, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>MR. DERWENTWATER spent a long evening with us, and I like him immensely.</p>
+
+<p>It is beautiful to see him with aunt Marian. His manner to her is so
+gentle, even reverent, and at the same time protecting. He looks so
+strong and big and full of life, while she is such a little frail
+crooked thing. But somehow, I do not think he feels that the giving is
+all on his side, and the receiving all on hers. He watches her face,
+and listens with the greatest attention when she speaks, not with a put
+on attentive manner like one going through a tiresome duty, and not
+even only as any real gentleman would always listen to a sickly elderly
+woman, but as if he quite loved the sound of her voice, and delighted
+in what she had to say.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian can be delightful,—I see that. She is clever and quaint,
+and unlike the common run of people. Before her accident, she must have
+been wonderfully pretty and taking. I see more and more how clever and
+bright she still is, but one would hardly expect a young man to see it.</p>
+
+<p>I begin to feel very doubtful and puzzled about his feeling for
+Millicent. His manner to aunt Marian is so affectionate, so much "more"
+than his manner to Millicent; and if he were in love with Millicent,
+how could that be? When I spoke of Millicent to him, and said how fond
+I was of her already, and how nice she seemed, his face did not light
+up in the least. He fiddled with a paper-knife on the table, and just
+muttered a "Yes," and then began upon something quite different.</p>
+
+<p>And yet a little later, when aunt Marian was talking in a low voice,
+and I had been attending to uncle Basil, I caught the word "Millicent,"
+and I saw Mr. Derwentwater bending forward to listen with such a
+curious earnest look, as if his whole heart were in what she had to say.</p>
+
+<p>So I cannot at all make up my mind as to how things really are between
+them.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 4th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater came in this afternoon again. He said it was a call
+upon aunt Marian. But all the same, when he found that she was too
+poorly to see anybody, he sat down to have a talk with me. And he
+stayed on and on, for ever so long.</p>
+
+<p>We got upon all sorts of subjects together: books, and places, and
+scenery, and travelling, and ways of spending one's life. He has plenty
+to say, and he seems to be able to draw out other people. At least, he
+certainly drew "me" out. I do not think I ever talked so well in my
+life. One cannot help knowing if one has talked well. When Clarissa
+and Juliet are sitting by, ready to criticise everything, it is such a
+damper; I never can be at my best. To-day I felt quite free, and I said
+whatever came into my head.</p>
+
+<p>Part of it was nonsense, I suppose, but is there any harm in a little
+nonsense? Sometimes Mr. Derwentwater laughed; and sometimes he agreed
+with me, and sometimes he did not. But it was all in such a pleasant
+way.</p>
+
+<p>At first, I talked about Millicent a little; and he let me do so, and
+neither helped nor hindered. Afterwards, she seemed to slip out of my
+mind altogether.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 6th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I went to the Rectory to-day, and saw Millicent. And I asked her
+whether Mr. Derwentwater had been to call, since that time when she
+and I met him. Of course I did not mean to meddle, and the question
+was natural enough surely. But Millicent looked up at me, in a kind of
+astonished way, as if I had been quite impertinent, and made no answer
+at all.</p>
+
+<p>"He has been to us three times this week," I said.</p>
+
+<p>"Has he?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, three times." I do get provoked with her persistent way of hiding
+from me whatever she feels. And it came over me that I would "make" her
+show what she felt.</p>
+
+<p>She gazed at me still in that grave slow way of hers, which gives me a
+kind of abashed feeling, almost as if I were a naughty child. I cannot
+think why I am so fond of Millicent, when she is perpetually vexing me,
+but somehow I am.</p>
+
+<p>"He always does," she said. "Mrs. Ramsay is such an old friend of his!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, aunt Marian—yes,—of course aunt Marian is an old friend,—and so
+are you. But 'I' am not."</p>
+
+<p>And then the sound of that "I" came back to me, and I knew how silly it
+must have sounded.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent laughed quietly. "No,—very new indeed!"</p>
+
+<p>If it had been anybody else, I could have declared that she did not
+mind an atom. But I am beginning to understand her face, and I noticed
+a tiny white streak on one cheek. That ought to have warned me to say
+no more; only it was provoking to see how little she cared to treat me
+like a real friend. Besides, I did not like to be laughed at by her.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course I don't mean anything particular. I am not so absurd. Only,
+when he came to call on aunt Marian, she was upstairs, and he stayed
+for a talk with me. That was all. We had quite a long talk, and I like
+him very much. And I think you treat him very badly."</p>
+
+<p>"I think you are much too fond of interfering, Rhoda," Millicent spoke
+in a cold tone. "Once before, I asked you not to chatter in this way;
+and it seems to have been of no use."</p>
+
+<p>"But, Millicent,—where is the harm?"</p>
+
+<p>"It does not matter whether there is any harm, or no. It ought to be
+enough for you that I dislike such talk extremely."</p>
+
+<p>And then I came away as fast as I could, and sat down straight to my
+journal. If Millicent goes on like that, I do not think I shall make a
+friend of her. How disappointing people are! I did think that for once
+I had found a friend worth having.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 9th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I suppose that I was rather hasty! I was vexed, and anybody would
+have been vexed in my place,—because really it was all interest in
+Millicent, and she ought to have understood. But she is slow in making
+friends, I suppose; and perhaps she did not quite understand. When I
+saw her yesterday, she was exactly the same as usual in manner. And
+though I had meant to be different, I did not keep it up.</p>
+
+<p>But I feel perfectly sure now that Millicent does really care for Mr.
+Derwentwater and that she is sacrificing herself for her brothers and
+her father!</p>
+
+<p>Ought she to be allowed? Can nobody do anything?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 12th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Five whole weeks since I came here! One week more, and I shall have had
+half of my three months of banishment.</p>
+
+<p>The weeks have gone faster than I expected; and they do not seem long
+to look back upon. Besides, the last half of a time always slips away
+much faster than the first half. So it will not really be long now
+before I get home again.</p>
+
+<p>Home to my mother! That will be the joy of it. I shall be sorry to
+leave some people and things here, but it will be going home to her.</p>
+
+<p>And I mean to be quite different from what I was before I came
+away—different altogether. I mean to be utterly unlike my old self. I
+can see that I was in the wrong, and I mean to change. I am not one
+of those weak creatures who never manage to carry out a resolution—at
+least, I am sure I hope not.</p>
+
+<p>Juliet was wrong, and she ought to change too. But, as Millicent says,
+I have not to do with that. I have not to answer for her, but only
+for myself. And I do mean to be a comfort to my mother, not to worry
+and distress her any more. I intend to be like Millicent and to take
+everything quite calmly and quietly, and to spend all my time for other
+people. And then perhaps people will love me. I should like to be loved
+by everybody.</p>
+
+<p>Even if Juliet tells me in her provoking way that I "ought" to do this
+and that, I intend not to be angry, but just to do it, and not to let
+myself mind. It isn't really worth while to be so easily vexed, and I
+begin to see that plainly. So I do think I have learned some wisdom
+while staying here.</p>
+
+<p>For another thing, I am learning to be more punctual. To be sure,
+breakfast is a good deal later than at home, and I am not expected to
+practise before breakfast. I did think at first that I would try to
+keep it on, because it had been my mother's wish. But I found that the
+noise at that early hour would try aunt Marian's head very much, so of
+course I gave it up.</p>
+
+<p>Even though breakfast is not early, I was late one day, just after I
+first came. And a most polite message was brought up from uncle Basil,
+to say that I was "not to hurry, because they would all wait." I should
+think I did hurry then, and no mistake! And when I got down, the whole
+household was waiting—uncle Basil at the table with the big Bible open,
+and aunt Marian on her couch, and the servants in a solemn row, all
+waiting till I should come, before they would begin Prayers. It was
+rather too awful, and I have managed since then never once to be late.
+So, at all events, I see now that I "can" be punctual.</p>
+
+<p>Other things have gone pretty smoothly too. I can almost always do
+what aunt Marian wishes without any struggle. She is so helpless, and
+so gentle in her ways. I am getting very fond of her; and I would give
+a good deal to know whether she is really fond of me. But I do not
+know. She is so kind, always kind; and I cannot tell whether it is only
+kindness and nothing else.</p>
+
+<p>The one person here who does really provoke me is Millicent; and yet
+she is the one I care for most of all, in a sort of way. I do not know
+why I care for her so much, but I do. If a few days pass without my
+seeing her, I get restless; and yet when I am with her, she provokes
+me. She is always still so shut-up, and so unlike most girls. And I do
+not know in the least whether she cares for me either—really caring,
+I mean—or whether she is only kind, because she wishes to please aunt
+Marian. I would rather have people kind to me for my own sake, and
+because they love me, not out of politeness, or from a feeling of duty,
+or because they want to please somebody else.</p>
+
+<p>Of course aunt Marian is a near relation, and near relations often have
+to do things from a sense of duty. But Millicent is no relation; and if
+she cannot be fond of me for my own sake, I would a great deal rather
+she should leave me alone altogether.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 16th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I had a talk yesterday with aunt Marian about Millicent. It came up
+naturally; and this time aunt Marian let me say what I wanted to say.
+She just listened till I had done. I told her how much I had been
+wondering whether Mr. Derwentwater was in love with Millicent, and
+whether Millicent was in love with Mr. Derwentwater, and whether there
+was some difficulty in the way.</p>
+
+<p>"Well?" she said when I stopped.</p>
+
+<p>"Couldn't anything be done, aunt Marian?"</p>
+
+<p>"Done—by whom and to whom?"</p>
+
+<p>"I mean, to put things right for Millicent."</p>
+
+<p>"Are you so sure that things are wrong? My dear, you and I are not
+Millicent's Providence."</p>
+
+<p>"But if it is only that and nothing else—if it is only that she can't
+well be spared—couldn't Mr. Derwentwater wait? Or couldn't Mr. Farrars
+get a good governess, and let Millicent marry?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing is easier than for one person to settle another person's
+duties in life. And the less one knows of another, the easier it
+becomes."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure I don't want to meddle. Only it does seem rather hard upon
+Millicent."</p>
+
+<p>"You are taking her wishes too much for granted. What do you really
+know about the matter?"</p>
+
+<p>"I can't help seeing things. And if he cares for her—"</p>
+
+<p>"If he does, and if she does! Two very weighty 'ifs!' And if neither
+cares for the other?"</p>
+
+<p>"But you see it all, as much as I do," I said, rather positively.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian went on with her work, not answering at once.</p>
+
+<p>"If Millicent were not imperatively needed at home," she said at
+length, "one might then consider the question."</p>
+
+<p>"But surely," I cried, "oh, surely, Mr. Farrars would not want to spoil
+her life!"</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent's life will not be spoilt. She will do what she feels to be
+her duty; and she would not be happy doing anything else."</p>
+
+<p>"Only, Mr. Farrars might make it all easy for her. And if he did?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Farrars cannot change the existing order of things. He might be
+willing to give Millicent up: and Millicent might refuse to be given
+up . . . I am merely going upon the general supposition that some day
+something of the kind that you are suggesting 'may,' sooner or later,
+turn up . . . Mr. Farrars has not only to think of himself and his
+own comfort; or only of Millicent's happiness. He has to think of the
+training of all those children."</p>
+
+<p>"Only if Mr. Derwentwater—"</p>
+
+<p>She would not let me finish the sentence. "We are not speaking about
+Mr. Derwentwater or about Mr. Anything in particular. Some day,
+somebody may of course wish to marry Millicent; and it may be somebody
+whom she could be willing to marry. But the first question with
+Millicent will be—what is her duty? She will never put aside plain
+duties, for the sake of her own wishes."</p>
+
+<p>"But suppose it were a question of making somebody else dreadfully
+unhappy? Suppose it were a question of somebody breaking his heart?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nineteenth century hearts do not break so easily, my dear! People are
+too busy, and have too many interests, to break their hearts over one
+unattainable wish."</p>
+
+<p>"Only it might make a person awfully miserable."</p>
+
+<p>"For a time, perhaps. Then he would take to shooting or golfing, and be
+comforted."</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt Marian, don't you believe in 'any one' having a heart?"</p>
+
+<p>She looked at me in a curious gentle way.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," she said; "but having a heart doesn't always mean having an
+easily breakable heart. Millicent has a heart, and a very loving one,
+but she will never put her heart's longings before her plain duty."</p>
+
+<p>I dare say it is true; true, I mean, that Millicent will always
+consider duty before love. One can quite fancy it of her. And of course
+it is all right that she should—only—I don't exactly know what I mean!
+Only, although of course Millicent "has" a heart, I shouldn't precisely
+have described it as "a very loving one." Does Millicent love anyone
+very much indeed? I wonder if she does.</p>
+
+<p>I wonder whether, if I were in Millicent's place, I should do what aunt
+Marian says, put duty altogether first, quite before love and before
+one's greatest wishes? Anybody ought to do so, I suppose, but it must
+be fearfully hard. I mean if one really and truly cared very much,
+very very much, for somebody else—to have to give him up of one's own
+free will, just because one was needed somewhere else. I don't believe
+I could do it! And I don't believe Millicent could, either, "if" she
+really and truly cared so much for Mr. Derwentwater as I have been
+thinking that she cared.</p>
+
+<p>I begin to think it must be that. I begin to think that she cannot
+possibly care for him in that sort of way, but that she only likes him
+as an old friend, just as a sort of family friend.</p>
+
+<p>Yes, I believe it must be so! I am rather glad to think it, though I do
+not know why I should be.</p>
+
+<p>At all events, he goes back to London in two days and I am sure he has
+not seen much of Millicent lately.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 20th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Such news! Oh, such news!</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa is engaged to be married.</p>
+
+<p>I have a little note from Clarissa herself, and a longer letter from my
+mother.</p>
+
+<p>It is a Mr. Griffith, and he has an estate in the north. He has been
+staying lately at Alverton. He has never seen Clarissa before, until
+about five weeks ago; and he thinks her the very handsomest woman in
+all the world, so Mother says. Well, I don't, but I am glad he does.
+And Clarissa says she is as perfectly happy as it is possible for a
+woman to be, and I am to write and congratulate her. I can do that, at
+all events.</p>
+
+<p>The wedding is to take place quite soon, in about six or seven weeks.
+Shall I go back just in time for the wedding? Or will my mother have me
+a little sooner, with "this" coming on?</p>
+
+<p>I have never felt certain whether I was to be away only twelve weeks
+or three calendar months. That would mean not getting home, I suppose,
+till Clarissa was gone.</p>
+
+<p>Juliet is going too. She will not live with Clarissa and Mr. Griffith,
+but she and aunt Jessie mean to make a home together in the north,
+somewhere not far from Clarissa's new home.</p>
+
+<p>Mother does not say whether Juliet is going, because of the way I have
+behaved, but I almost think it must be that. I cannot help being afraid
+I have brought this on my mother. Otherwise, why should not Juliet live
+with us still? Unless, indeed, she wishes to be nearer to Clarissa.
+When I told aunt Marian about it all, I said, "Why should not Juliet
+live with Clarissa and Mr. Griffith?"</p>
+
+<p>But aunt Marian said, "O no, that would never do. It would not be fair
+upon Mr. Griffith. Newly-married couples are best left to themselves—at
+all events, for the first few years of their married life."</p>
+
+<p>And I dare say that is true.</p>
+
+<p>I feel quite dazed with it all. The change is so sudden.</p>
+
+<p>My first dread was that Mother would say she must go back at once to
+India. But she does not. Instead of that, she talks of a little house
+somewhere, and of hoping to find me a great help and comfort. And she
+"shall!" I will be her right hand.</p>
+
+<p>Is not this the very thing I have so longed for—just to be in a tiny
+home alone with my mother and the twins? It does sound like great
+happiness.</p>
+
+<p>I could not honestly declare that I shall be very sorry to say good-bye
+to the girls. But still I do wish things had been happier between us.
+If only Mother would let me go back sooner, so that I might make a
+difference before they leave us.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 23rd, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Another letter from my mother, answering mine. I asked whether she
+meant me to keep to the time fixed for going home, and this is what she
+says:—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"About your return. You know that you left home on the eighth of June.
+I have always had in my mind that day three months for your coming
+back, or, rather, September the seventh, because the eighth will be on
+a Sunday."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Then she had looked all this out, and had thought it all over. It seems
+as if she wanted me. She goes on:</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"But the wedding day is now pretty well settled for Wednesday,
+September 4th; and I think we must have you back on the Monday before.
+Then you will see something of Clarissa; and Juliet does not leave us
+till two or three days later."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Is my mother afraid that I should make fusses, if she allowed me to go
+home any sooner?</p>
+
+<p>But that is not all. In the end of her letter she says:—</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I hope we have found a sub-tenant for this house during the remaining
+months that it is on our hands. When the girls are gone, it will be too
+expensive for us. They would not leave the whole expense to me if it
+could not be let. But since it can be, we are all glad. I have thoughts
+of a little house in Bath, as house-rent is not high there; and I
+want you to be able to attend occasional classes, and to keep up your
+education. I am not very happy about your dear father's health just
+now, but you shall hear more when I hear again. He is trying to arrange
+to come home."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Then of course Mother will not have to go out. That is a great relief.
+Now I feel perfectly happy, and I want nothing else. A home in
+Bath—beautiful Bath—and friends, and walks, and my mother always at
+hand, free to have me with her, and the twins, and nobody to fuss or
+interfere or make me feel cross. How delightful! And how silly it seems
+that I should have minded so desperately having the girls to live with
+us, when it was for such a short time. Only of course, I could not tell
+that the time would be short. If I had known, that would have made all
+the difference. And it might have gone on for years and years, if Mr.
+Griffith had not happened to turn up.</p>
+
+<p>And perhaps my father will be with us too. That seems very wonderful.
+Mother did not think he could come home for ever so long. Of course it
+will be delightful if he does.</p>
+
+<p>I hardly remember him at all. At least, it is not real remembering.
+There is a sort of picture of him in my mind. But I think it is partly
+made up of the photographs of him, and partly of things that Mother has
+told me. I do not really remember what he looks like.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 30th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I cannot quite understand the way in which Mother writes about my
+father's health. She does not say much, but she seems so sad, and the
+word "anxious" comes over and over again. The doctors have ordered him
+home, all in a hurry, though I cannot make out what for. He has not had
+fever, at least not lately, or any other particular kind of illness. He
+may arrive a week or two after the wedding, just when we are settling
+into our new home.</p>
+
+<p>For the house at Alverton is really let. And now aunt Jessie, who has
+gone to Bath for a few weeks, is hard at work there, hunting for a tiny
+house which might do for us. Mother says it is so kind of her to take
+the trouble. Well, yes, I suppose it is, but aunt Jessie always enjoys
+managing other people's businesses.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image021" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image021.jpg" alt="image021">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image022" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image022.jpg" alt="image022">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_10">CHAPTER X.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>THE CHOICE GIVEN AND TAKEN.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 19th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>THIS day fortnight I go home. I am making, oh, such a lot of good
+resolutions! I mean to be such a good, useful daughter to my mother!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 20th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>To-day I told aunt Marian a little of what I mean to be and do, and how
+I intend to help Mother in every possible way. My head seemed so full
+of the thought that I could not keep it to myself any longer. And when
+we were sitting together, it all came out.</p>
+
+<p>She said, "Yes; things ought to be different."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother told you about it all, I suppose?"</p>
+
+<p>"Your mother said there had been troubles. And your uncle saw a little
+of what was going on. And you have told me a great deal more yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"I! Aunt Marian?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not intentionally. Never mind. You are going back now with at least
+happier intentions."</p>
+
+<p>"It will be so much easier."</p>
+
+<p>"Will it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, of course, aunt Marian! I don't mean that I wasn't in the wrong;
+for I know I was, sometimes. But they were very tiresome, and very hard
+to get on with. And now I shall not have them."</p>
+
+<p>"'They,' and 'them'?"</p>
+
+<p>"I mean Clarissa and Juliet. I suppose I was tiresome to them
+sometimes. But—"</p>
+
+<p>"From your own accounts, I should say you were a good deal more than
+merely 'tiresome,' Rhoda, my dear!"</p>
+
+<p>She was looking at me with such a kind smile that I could not well be
+angry.</p>
+
+<p>"But what have I told you?"</p>
+
+<p>"A great many things, one way and another. Two people cannot live
+together for ten weeks and not learn a little about each other's ways."</p>
+
+<p>"I thought I had not said much about 'them!'" I said. And tears somehow
+came into my eyes, because I really had meant not to talk.</p>
+
+<p>"Not much! No, not a great deal. It is not the amount said, but the
+spirit shown. Sometimes a tone and a look are sufficient. Sometimes the
+absence of a tone or a look."</p>
+
+<p>"Only you don't really know all about it," I could not resist saying.</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody in this world ever knows 'all about' any single thing or
+person. No, I do not know all about it, by any means. I only know
+something."</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt Marian, what 'do' you know?"</p>
+
+<p>"Do you really wish to be told?" she inquired slowly. "I think I can
+gather that there has been a good deal of egoism in the past, egoism
+of a common girlish kind, self-seeking in little ways. The chief aim
+of your life seems to have been self-pleasing. I think you would have
+liked to alter the whole order of things. You would have preferred
+to be the eldest, to have had all the money, and all the rights of
+management. And since you could not have that, you have fought against
+the order of things, bruising yourself and injuring others."</p>
+
+<p>"Only they were so cross."</p>
+
+<p>"You mean that they did not yield to you in every particular. Why
+should they?"</p>
+
+<p>And then there was a break. I could have cried heartily, if I would
+have let myself do it.</p>
+
+<p>"I know I was wrong," I said at length, trying not to show what I felt.
+"And I did mean to do differently, I meant it before I heard about
+Clarissa getting married. But of course I can't help thinking how much
+easier things will be now."</p>
+
+<p>"Because your mother is so gentle and yielding. But that will not put
+you in the right, if you still take your own way."</p>
+
+<p>"O no, I don't mean that. I only mean that it will be easier to keep my
+temper."</p>
+
+<p>"I would not be too sure as to the easiness, if I were you. One worry
+is apt to come when another goes. It is a way things have."</p>
+
+<p>"Only I don't see why I need expect it. And nothing else could be so
+bad as this has been."</p>
+
+<p>"The present worry generally seems the worst one could have. My dear,
+you need not be dolefully looking out for troubles, of course. Still,
+I should like to see you in a 'braced' condition, not bent on finding
+things 'easier.' It matters very little whether the fight is hard or
+easy. Whether you conquer, or whether you are beaten, is the question
+which does matter."</p>
+
+<p>But whatever aunt Marian may say, I know things "will" be easier. I
+am perfectly sure they will. I shall not have Clarissa and Juliet to
+plague and pester me at every turn.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 21st, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater came in to-day, quite suddenly. Nobody had expected
+him. He has been a little out of sorts, he says, and he has a
+fortnight's holiday; and he is going to spend it down here, at the Park.</p>
+
+<p>The last fortnight of my stay. That will be pleasant. I like him very
+much. Anybody might like him. When he came in, I was alone in the
+drawing-room and his face lighted up, as if he counted me an old friend.</p>
+
+<p>"Then you are here still," he said. "I was not sure."</p>
+
+<p>His manner said he was glad. And I am glad that I have not just missed
+him.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 24th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater comes in every day, for some reason or other. Always
+to see aunt Marian; and if aunt Marian is down, he talks to her
+chiefly; and if she is not, he stays for a little talk with me.</p>
+
+<p>I have not seen Millicent since he came, and we have not talked about
+her much.</p>
+
+<p>To-day, however, something was said, which made me ask him, "Do you
+think Millicent pretty?"</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent? Pretty!" he said, and he gave a short laugh. "What makes
+you ask?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. I always like her face so much, but I do not think it is
+exactly pretty,—is it?"</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater laughed again, and said nothing.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian spoke for him. "Nobody could help liking Millicent's face.
+Not because of beauty, but because of its truth and goodness."</p>
+
+<p>"Only, mightn't a face be pretty as well as good?"</p>
+
+<p>"Decidedly," aunt Marian replied.</p>
+
+<p>And then I saw Mr. Derwentwater looking at me. I don't know what made
+him do it, or what he was really thinking. But something or other in
+his look made me, when I went upstairs, go straight to my glass.</p>
+
+<p>Did he mean that "I" was pretty? And "am" I pretty? I have been used to
+think of myself as plain. I was always told in the nursery that I was
+so ugly compared with Connie; and aunt Jessie and the girls have seemed
+to count me the same. Am I really and truly so very plain?</p>
+
+<p>It was just that something for one moment in Mr. Derwentwater's look
+which made me wonder about this. And I am not sure, but it does seem
+to me that my face has improved a good deal of late; that if I used to
+be ugly, I am not ugly any longer. Of course, I would not say this to
+anybody except my own old private journal. Nobody is ever supposed to
+think oneself pretty; and I should be considered awfully vain, if I
+were to speak out all that I am thinking, in plain words.</p>
+
+<p>But now that I have begun to think about it, I cannot help seeing that
+I have a nice little straight nose, and not at all a bad mouth, and
+lots of hair. And when I first came to the glass, I had such a bright
+colour in my cheeks. I could not help feeling that if I saw that colour
+in somebody else's face, I should certainly admire it.</p>
+
+<p>It is nice to think that after all, perhaps, I am not so disagreeable
+looking as some people have tried to make out.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 26th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Millicent was so white in Church yesterday. I wonder why.</p>
+
+<p>Afterwards, I walked with her as far as the gate of the Rectory garden,
+and I told her I thought she was doing ever so much more than she ought.</p>
+
+<p>And she said as she always does, indifferently, "Things have to be
+done."</p>
+
+<p>"But it is of no use to make yourself ill."</p>
+
+<p>"I am not ill, thanks."</p>
+
+<p>"And nothing is wrong?"</p>
+
+<p>Nothing was wrong at all, she said; and she did not ask me to go
+through the garden with her. I thought she was rather glad to get rid
+of me.</p>
+
+<p>It does not seem that much good is to be got out of that friendship. I
+know Millicent just about as well now as I knew her after a fortnight's
+acquaintance.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 27th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Oh, delightful! Mr. and Mrs. Collins have got up a big excursion for
+Thursday; and uncle Basil and I are going, and Millicent and Mr.
+Farrars, and one or two of the boys. And of course, Mr. Derwentwater
+will be there. I wonder whether Millicent will treat him kindly. She
+will not be able to get off going, as she so often does, because Mr.
+Farrars will be sure to want her.</p>
+
+<p>The excursion is to be to a ruin, ten miles off,—"the Castle," it is
+called. Nobody knows anything about the history of the castle, but it
+seems to be rather old, and they say it is very prettily placed, on
+a hill, with lovely views around. Provisions are to be taken, and we
+shall all have a sort of heavy afternoon-tea on the grass. And then
+those who like it will walk to a waterfall two miles off, and those who
+don't can sit in the ruin, and enjoy a lazy time.</p>
+
+<p>If only it will be fine. We are having lovely weather now, but how long
+will that last?</p>
+
+<p>Six more days, and then home. I begin to feel how very sorry I shall be
+to say good-bye to everybody here.</p>
+
+<p>One week more, and Clarissa will be "Miss Frith" no longer. They
+say she is having beautiful presents. I am working a most difficult
+chair-back for her; and it takes an enormous amount of patience. Aunt
+Marian has shown me how to do it; and I bought the materials with the
+last remains of my five pounds. And of course I must go on and get the
+thing done, though I begin to detest it heartily.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 28th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Weather still perfect, and very hot. The only fear is of a storm
+coming. Aunt Marian is so exhausted with the heat that she can hardly
+speak. And when Mr. Derwentwater came in to-day, she left him and me to
+do all the talking.</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder how many people are going to-morrow," I said.</p>
+
+<p>"Somewhere about twenty," he told me. "But some come in their own
+carriages. My uncle only undertakes the transporting of ourselves and
+yourselves and the Rectory party."</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image023" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image023.jpg" alt="image023">
+</figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>Nothing was wrong at all, she said; and she did not ask</b><br>
+<b>me to go through the garden with her.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>Then he asked suddenly, "Which way would you like to go?"</p>
+
+<p>I did not know exactly what he meant, and I said so.</p>
+
+<p>"There is a landau for my uncle and aunt, and Mr. Ramsay, and one lady
+beside. And I shall drive the dog-cart."</p>
+
+<p>"Who goes in the dog-cart?" I asked, for that sounded tempting.</p>
+
+<p>"May Collins and Jack Farrars will be in the back seat. Mr. Farrars has
+the offer of a seat in Lady Wills' carriage. And the old pony-trap will
+take half a dozen children,—Rectory boys and others. It is all pretty
+well arranged, except those two seats. One in the landau, and one in
+the dog-cart. Which would you like best?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, the dog-cart! Of course the dog-cart. I have never in my life
+driven in a real high dog-cart." Then I thought of Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>"You can choose whichever you prefer."</p>
+
+<p>"But would not somebody else—I mean, where will Millicent be?"</p>
+
+<p>"She will take whichever seat of the two you leave for her."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater's face puzzled me. I could not make it out.</p>
+
+<p>"Choose whichever you like best," he repeated.</p>
+
+<p>I did not look at aunt Marian. It seemed too hard to think of giving
+up what I should like so desperately. If it had been settled for
+me,—but to go into the dull big carriage of my own free will, among the
+dull elderly people, when I might have the front seat in that lovely
+dog-cart—And of course I like to be with Mr. Derwentwater. Why should
+I not? He is so nice-looking, and so polite, and so clever, and so
+full of fun! Everybody likes him, and why should not I like him too?
+It seems to me that the only one person who does not understand and
+appreciate him is Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>"Well?" he said, as I sat and thought.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course I cannot help liking the dog-cart much the best. Only, if
+Millicent would rather—"</p>
+
+<p>"I have failed to get any expression of opinion from Millicent," he
+said; and an odd hard look came into his mouth for a moment. "It rests
+entirely with you. Choose for yourself, please, whichever you would
+prefer."</p>
+
+<p>"I should 'prefer' the dog-cart."</p>
+
+<p>"Then the matter is settled." And almost directly, he went away.</p>
+
+<p>When he was gone, I could not resist a glance towards aunt Marian. She
+was looking at me.</p>
+
+<p>"Ought I to have chosen the other?"</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, you are perfectly right to do what your conscience dictates,"
+she replied, in the faint voice she has had all day.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't suppose it was conscience—exactly," I said, not very
+willingly, but it did not seem honest to let that pass. "Only I do want
+very much to go in the dog-cart."</p>
+
+<p>"If you think it quite right,—why not go?"</p>
+
+<p>"I can't see why it should not be right, aunt Marian."</p>
+
+<p>"Then—go."</p>
+
+<p>It was horribly unsatisfactory. All the time I knew quite well that she
+was condemning me. And I could not think that fair.</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent might have chosen, if she had liked. And she did not. Why am
+I to choose for her? I don't see why she should be forced to go in the
+dog-cart, against her will. And if she does not care,—and if I do care
+very much—"</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, do as you think right!" was all aunt Marian would say.</p>
+
+<p>I could have had a good cry, it was so uncomfortable.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 28th; same evening; later.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Ought I to refuse? Ought I to give up the dog-cart? Ought I to make
+Millicent have the pleasure?</p>
+
+<p>Well, but how do I know that it would be any pleasure to Millicent? She
+had the choice given her, and she would not take it. I did not try to
+get this for myself. Now that it has come, I really cannot see why I
+must throw it aside. I shall like, oh, how I shall like it!</p>
+
+<p>The dog-cart itself will be so delightful; and the horse that always
+goes at such a pace, and Mr. Derwentwater's driving. He drives
+splendidly, I know, because uncle Basil says so. The whole thing will
+be perfect. I could not really give it all up for nothing. Millicent
+either does not care for Mr. Derwentwater, or else she has made up her
+mind that she cannot be spared from home, and must not let herself
+think of him, or be with him. And if she has made up her mind, nothing
+in the world that "I" could say would alter it.</p>
+
+<p>It isn't a question of conscience at all. What made aunt Marian say
+such a stupid thing, I wonder? I don't see why it need be any matter
+of conscience either way. I am not bound to choose for Millicent; and
+certainly I am not bound to try and bring her and Mr. Derwentwater
+together. If I did, I should only be snubbed for meddling. So I mean to
+let things take their course.</p>
+
+<p>Most likely Millicent would not say a kind word to Mr. Derwentwater. I
+believe she is too proud,—and so he just came off to me instead.</p>
+
+<p>And why should he not? And why should not I take what he has offered
+me? What can be the harm?</p>
+
+<p>It is not as if I were sure that Millicent really cared for him. I used
+to think she did; and that must have been a fancy. Certainly she shows
+no particular signs of caring now.</p>
+
+<p>I do wonder if it is fearfully conceited of me to imagine that Mr.
+Derwentwater thinks I have a—perhaps not exactly a pretty face, but
+rather nice-looking? I only think so because of the way in which I
+catch him looking at me now and then. And he seems to like to talk.</p>
+
+<p>Would he have laughed at the idea of Millicent being pretty, if he were
+really in love with her?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>Same evening; still later.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I did not mean to listen, but how could I help it? I was just going
+into the drawing-room, and was behind the screen, when I overheard
+uncle Basil's voice saying,—</p>
+
+<p>"So Derwentwater is going to take the child with him in the dog-cart
+to-morrow?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; I am sorry for it," aunt Marian replied.</p>
+
+<p>"Sorry!" And uncle laughed. "Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have always reckoned on his liking for Millicent."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't think he would ever be such a goose, my dear, as to prefer
+that pussy-cat face of hers to Millicent's!"</p>
+
+<p>I was drawing back noiselessly, as fast as I could, not wishing to be
+discovered, or to hear any more. But when uncle spoke of me in such
+a way, it gave me a shock of surprise; and I came to a stop in the
+doorway, still hidden by the screen.</p>
+
+<p>"Many a man prefers a pussy-cat face to one with character in it," aunt
+Marian said.</p>
+
+<p>As if there were no character in mine! It really was too bad.</p>
+
+<p>"It is a pretty type of pussy-cat," she added. But that was not much of
+a compliment.</p>
+
+<p>"Derwentwater is a man of sense, my dear. Don't you be afraid. It will
+be all right. He thought he would give the child a treat, no doubt—just
+as she is going away."</p>
+
+<p>I heard a little sigh from aunt Marian, and I knew she did not agree
+with uncle. But I would not stay another moment. I slipped off,
+dreadfully ashamed of having listened to so much, and dreadfully
+insulted, too, at being said to have a pussy-cat face. After all
+these months, I shouldn't have expected it from aunt Marian. And
+yet—and yet—somehow I was quite as much pleased as vexed, to know
+that aunt Marian could think there was the very tiniest danger of Mr.
+Derwentwater liking me or admiring me more than Millicent. Uncle did
+not think as she did, but I know how much more aunt Marian sees and
+understands than he does. She is very seldom mistaken. There must be
+something to make her afraid.</p>
+
+<p>At all events, this has quite settled me. I shall let things go.
+Whether I have a pussy-cat face or not—if Mr. Derwentwater likes it,
+and likes to have me with him to-morrow, ever so tiny a little bit,
+I don't mean to snub him or to refuse. And I mean to enjoy myself as
+much as possible, and to be as pleasant as I can. I'll let things go. I
+don't see why uncle and aunt should talk about me in that way—as if I
+were worth just nothing at all, compared with Millicent. Millicent is
+very good and useful, of course, but she is "not" pretty, and she is
+"not" amusing, and I don't wonder at all if Mr. Derwentwater finds her
+a little dull. I have found her so sometimes, even though I am really
+fond of her—in a way.</p>
+
+<p>I cannot help wishing now that I were going to stay here a few days
+longer.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image024" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image024.jpg" alt="image024">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image025" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image025.jpg" alt="image025">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_11">CHAPTER XI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>A DAY OF DELIGHTS.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 30th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I HAVE a good deal to write down; and I want to write it at once, while
+things are fresh in my mind.</p>
+
+<p>It has been a wonderful day to me—such a day as does not come often in
+one's life. This evening I feel half-dazed, and it is no use to think
+of sleeping, so I may just as well journalize.</p>
+
+<p>Uncle was called for first by Lady Wills; and then up came Mr.
+Derwentwater in the dog-cart with nobody beside him, and May Collins
+and Jack Farrars in the back seat. A sort of little twinge came over
+me, whether Millicent "ought" not to be there. But I had quite made up
+my mind; and even if I had not, it would have been too late to change,
+because the landau had already started. So in another moment, I was up,
+and he was tucking in the rug round me; and then we were off, bowling
+along at such a rate, and the air was delicious, and the sun was
+bright, and I felt as if I had never enjoyed anything so much in all my
+life.</p>
+
+<p>The first part of the way, Mr. Derwentwater was rather silent, and he
+seemed to have to attend a good deal to his horse. Then he began to
+brighten up, and to make little jokes; and May and Jack kept turning
+round to laugh. When we saw the landau ahead, I wondered whether
+perhaps Mr. Derwentwater would be sorry that he had not Millicent with
+him. But instead of seeming sorry, he grew merrier than before, and
+laughed quite loud, and leant over to tuck in the rug round me afresh,
+though it was all right;—and that was just at the moment when we were
+passing the landau. He took off his cap and bowed, but in a way as if
+he were almost too much occupied and interested in what we were saying
+to be able to attend to anything else. I could not help noticing all
+this; and I could not help feeling rather proud, because I knew quite
+well that I was looking and talking my best, and I liked them all to
+see it.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent was not looking "her" best, and she was not talking at all.
+She just moved her head a little, in a sort of indifferent "How do you
+do?" to us both. Perhaps, after all, she liked being in the landau, I
+thought, quite as well as she would have liked being in the dog-cart.
+Millicent is so odd and old in her ways, not like other girls of
+twenty-one. From her face at that moment, I really could believe—or
+almost believe—that she wanted nothing different. To be sure, she
+looked rather pale and dull, but that is her way.</p>
+
+<p>For a little distance, we kept in front of the landau, not going nearly
+so fast as before. And presently we dropped behind it again; I did not
+know why, and I was rather sorry. I said to Mr. Derwentwater,—"Wouldn't
+it be nice to get ahead?"—But I don't think he can have heard me,
+because he made no answer. He had been rather absent and silent while
+we were in front. But after we dropped behind, he brightened up again,
+and seemed full of fun. He and I talked any amount. And I could see
+Millicent watching us quietly, from her seat in the landau, with her
+back to the horses, not an atom as if she cared.</p>
+
+<p>We all reached the castle at very much the same time. The horses and
+carriages went off to the village, to be put up; and Mr. Derwentwater
+drove the dog-cart there, and most of the other gentlemen disappeared
+too, in the same direction. When they were all gone, May Collins and I
+rambled about the ruin, which is not much of a place after all, only it
+is pretty.</p>
+
+<p>And presently I came across Millicent, unpacking the baskets of
+provisions. She always seems to do that sort of thing, as a matter
+of course, though really there was no need; for it was the Collins'
+picnic, not the Farrars'.</p>
+
+<p>May Collins had just left me.</p>
+
+<p>And I said to Millicent,—"Why don't you leave all that, and come for a
+stroll?"</p>
+
+<p>She looked up at me very slowly, in such a curious way,—I didn't
+understand, and I don't understand, what she meant. It was not
+anger,—not exactly,—but more as if I had done her a wrong, and she were
+trying hard to forgive me. That was the sort of feeling that came;—but
+what nonsense! Of course there is no "wrong" in the question,—how can
+there be? She would not take the choice, when it was offered her; and
+why should not I?</p>
+
+<p>"Come, I wouldn't bother with those stupid baskets. Somebody else can
+unpack them."</p>
+
+<p>"If everybody said so, they might have to wait long enough. You will
+not think them stupid when tea-time has arrived."</p>
+
+<p>"But it is Mrs. Collins' picnic, not yours. Come, and take a look at
+the moat."</p>
+
+<p>No, she would not. She had seen it a hundred times, she said: and of
+course that was true, while it was all new to me. I think I would have
+stayed to help her, if she had not had that manner,—as if I had done
+her some injury. It made me feel uncomfortable, and I was glad to get
+away. Now I am sorry that I did not stay. It might have been kinder.</p>
+
+<p>The picnic tea itself was rather dull; for I was put down between two
+of the Rectory boys; and I did not care for them or they for me. They
+are such uninteresting boys,—at least, I think them so, though uncle
+Basil does call them "nice intelligent fellows,"—I mean, the elder
+ones, who are at home now for the holidays. I am sure the eldest, Jack,
+is about one of the plainest boys I have ever seen. He is very fond of
+Millicent, and that is his one good point.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater did almost nothing except wait on all the old ladies;
+and Millicent hardly said one single word from beginning to end of
+the meal. It lasted long enough. To be sure, her two neighbours were
+talking to their other two neighbours. But if I had been in Millicent's
+place, I would have found some way to remind them that I was there. I
+would not have sat like a dummy the whole time. However, nobody seemed
+to expect her to be any livelier; so perhaps that is her way at a
+picnic.</p>
+
+<p>When everybody had had enough, a discussion was started us to who
+should walk to the waterfall and who should not. Millicent was standing
+rather apart from us all; and I saw Mr. Derwentwater go and speak
+to her in a low tone. I could not hear what he said, but I saw that
+she shook her head; and then he spoke again, and she shook her head
+more decidedly. And he turned off quite sharply, as if he were rather
+disgusted, and came close to where I was standing.</p>
+
+<p>At the moment, I fancied that she must have told him she would not go
+to the waterfall. But it could not have been that, because when we all
+came together to start, Millicent was of our number. So they must have
+spoken about something else.</p>
+
+<p>At first, Millicent and I walked together, and she had very little to
+say. Things were not particularly cheerful. Then Mr. Collins joined
+us, and that was an improvement. And when he dropped off, I found Mr.
+Derwentwater in his place. He talked a great deal to me, and hardly
+at all to Millicent; and of course I could not help noticing this—who
+would not?</p>
+
+<p>In a little while, Millicent actually slipped away, leaving Mr.
+Derwentwater and me together. If she had really cared, she could not
+possibly have done such a thing. I had a glimpse of her walking with
+her brother Jack. After that, she vanished entirely, getting behind
+and Mr. Derwentwater was so interesting and amusing that I am afraid I
+forgot all about Millicent till we reached the waterfall, and then I
+heard somebody say,—</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent Farrars has gone back to the castle. She seems to be tired."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater gave a kind of little start, as if the words took him
+by surprise, though I don't know why they should. Anybody may be tired
+now and then. But I suppose he had fancied all the time that she was
+following behind us, as I had fancied. He went off into a dream, and
+said very little to anybody, till we got nearly back to the castle.
+And then he joined me again, and began to talk and laugh as merrily as
+ever. And Millicent was sitting on the bank, outside the ruin, and of
+course she saw us. But she didn't seem to mind, any more than he did.</p>
+
+<p>I forgot to say that the waterfall was nothing much in itself, a tiny
+trickle of water, with pretty rocks and trees around. I did not think
+it worth much; only the going and the coming were worth a great deal to
+me.</p>
+
+<p>When the time came near for starting on our way home, I began to wonder
+whether Mr. Derwentwater would propose that Millicent and I should
+change places, and I did dread the thought. I wanted—oh, so much—to
+drive back in the same way, up on the front seat of the dog-cart,
+beside Mr. Derwentwater, instead of in that stupid big open carriage,
+with no one worth talking to. It seemed "such" a difference. And
+Mr. Derwentwater said nothing at all. So I began to wonder whether,
+perhaps, I ought to propose it; and I didn't really see that I needed
+to do that. Why should I? It was the very last chance I should have of
+anything half so delightful. So I said nothing at all, but just left
+things to settle themselves.</p>
+
+<p>Then, only a few minutes before the start was to be made, Jack Farrars
+came to me. He is a big awkward fellow, about sixteen or seventeen
+years old, without a scrap of good looks, just like all the Farrars
+boys. And he said,—</p>
+
+<p>"I say, do you know if Millie is to go home in the dog-cart?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have not heard anything about it."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't tell Millicent that I am asking,—" and he dropped his voice—"but
+I do wish she could. Driving backwards always makes her awfully seedy,
+you know; and she wasn't good for much at starting, to begin with. I
+thought perhaps—if you knew—"</p>
+
+<p>"'I' haven't got to arrange things," I said; and I felt cross.</p>
+
+<p>"Only perhaps you might offer—" Jack suggested, as if he were asking me
+to give up nothing at all.</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent had the chance first, and she wouldn't take it."</p>
+
+<p>"The chance! What chance?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, to go in the dog-cart. I know she had, and she would not choose."</p>
+
+<p>"Millie always thinks of other people before herself; she's so awfully
+unselfish," said Jack; though I am pretty sure that was not the real
+reason. "But if you could just manage it for her, you know—"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm quite sure Millicent wouldn't like me to interfere. She hates to
+be interfered with."</p>
+
+<p>Jack opened his eyes rather wide. "I don't see what interference has to
+do with it," he said in a puzzled voice. "I'm only asking you to do her
+a kindness."</p>
+
+<p>"She mightn't think it a kindness."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, but she would! I can tell you that," Jack answered readily enough.
+"She would like it of all things. Of course she would."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I'll see what I can do. I'll say something." It seemed the only
+way to get rid of Jack. "I'll ask Mr. Derwentwater."</p>
+
+<p>And then I walked off, and I was angry with myself for having promised,
+because I did not see why I must do such a thing only just to please
+Jack, when I was so looking forward to the drive. But I had promised,
+and so of course I had to speak. I put it off till the very last
+moment. And then, when Mr. Derwentwater came to call me to take my
+seat, I said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Wouldn't Millicent like to go in the dog-cart for a change?"</p>
+
+<p>A little flash passed over his face. I wondered if it meant that he was
+pleased with me for proposing such a thing.</p>
+
+<p>"Has Millicent said that she would like it?"</p>
+
+<p>"O no. Not Millicent. She hasn't said anything at all. It was not
+Millicent,—only Jack. It was Jack's notion; and so I said I would ask
+you."</p>
+
+<p>"If Millicent wished it herself—" And then he broke off, and walked to
+the dog-cart, as if everything were settled.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent was getting into the other carriage at that very moment; and
+I did not see that I could do any more,—or at all events, I did not
+feel inclined. Jack stood close to the dog-cart, and I saw his face
+fall, when I came up with Mr. Derwentwater. He was looking earnestly
+at me, but I did not look at him, though of course I could not help
+seeing. I suppose I might have said rather more; perhaps I might even
+have insisted. But why should I? If Millicent did not care, and if Mr.
+Derwentwater liked to have me with him—</p>
+
+<p>Did he really like it? I keep asking myself that question, and I cannot
+find any certain answer. Am I very silly to think that perhaps he did?
+He was so very kind and nice and pleasant all the way home. It was a
+delightful drive. I have never enjoyed anything like it in all my life
+before. Shall I ever have anything like it again?</p>
+
+<p>We did not go fast most of the way, but kept behind the landau, not
+far off; and he and I had any amount of fun. Only, I rather wished he
+would not keep just there, because I could see Millicent's face, and
+she looked so white. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, I thought of
+what Jack had said, and wondered whether I ought to try again to bring
+about a change. But it would have made such a fuss; and how could I
+be sure that Millicent would like it? And the drive was so perfectly
+delightful,—the simple fact is, I could not do anything of the sort.
+It was out of the question. So I would not think; and I tried all I
+could not to see Millicent's face; and I talked and laughed as much as
+possible, so as to forget about her. Mr. Derwentwater seemed very much
+amused with some of the things I said.</p>
+
+<p>Jack was sitting with his back to us, talking to May Collins; and of
+course he could not see Millicent as I could. He did not say anything
+more to me about her. I wonder what he thought! But I don't see that
+it matters. And at all events, I kept my promise, and spoke to Mr.
+Derwentwater. I was not bound to do any more than that.</p>
+
+<p>When we reached the garden-gate and Mr. Derwentwater was helping me
+down, he said,—"I must look in to say good-bye to you, before you go."
+And he gave me such a kind squeeze of the hand.</p>
+
+<p>I saw Millicent looking at us both from in front,—straight at us, not
+as if she cared in the very least. But Jack turned half round, and
+stared at Mr. Derwentwater and me, as if we were wild beasts.</p>
+
+<p>Well,—what does it matter?</p>
+
+<p>I wonder if he will come in to-morrow.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>August 31st, Evening.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater has not been all day. Will he come at all?</p>
+
+<p>He meant to come, I know, because he said so.</p>
+
+<p>It does seem strange to me that I should be thinking of him all the
+time, when I am going home,—and even longing not to have to go just
+yet. I was so miserable at having to leave home; and now I would give
+anything to stay here a little longer.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater will be at the Park for three or four more days. If
+only something would put off my journey for those three or four days!
+But I am afraid there is no chance, not the very least in the world.
+Unless I were to tumble down and sprain my ankle, or something of that
+sort,—but such things never happen when one would really like them to
+happen. And everything is settled, and of course I must not even seem
+to want to put off going.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 1st, Evening.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater looked in this afternoon for five minutes, just when
+he might have known that I should be away at the Sunday-school. I told
+him I had a class there, and he seemed quite interested. Aunt Marian
+supposes that he did not recollect, but it seems odd. She says he "left
+a polite message," asking her to say good-bye to me, and hoping that
+some day I should find my way again to Wayatford.</p>
+
+<p>It did not sound much, said in aunt Marian's quiet voice, with no
+particular expression. And I was so dreadfully disappointed to have
+missed him that all in a moment my face flushed up, and before I knew
+what was coming, my eyes were quite full of tears,—so full that it was
+all I could do to hold them back from falling.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian gave me one look, and then looked away, and that showed me
+that she saw. But I don't think I cared. I didn't seem to care much
+about anything, except that I had missed seeing him.</p>
+
+<p>"If only I had not been to the school to-day!" I heard the choke in my
+own voice, so she must have heard it too.</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, what reason had you for not going?"</p>
+
+<p>"No reason at all,—only—if I had stayed at home, I should have seen Mr.
+Derwentwater."</p>
+
+<p>"Would not that have been neglecting a plain duty for the sake of a
+very unimportant little pleasure?"</p>
+
+<p>It did not look unimportant to me; but how could I expect her to
+understand?</p>
+
+<p>"I should have liked to say good-bye—of course—"</p>
+
+<p>And then I slipped away, and up in my room I had a good cry. I knew I
+should make my eyes red, and everybody would notice it. But nothing
+seemed to matter, except that I was going away, and that I had missed
+my last chance of seeing Mr. Derwentwater once more, and that it might
+be years and years before I should ever see him again. I felt perfectly
+miserable.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps by the time we do meet again, he will have forgotten all about
+me. But I shall never forget him—Never! Never! Never! And to-morrow I
+go home. I do mean to be good and patient, when little worries come,
+and to be a comfort to my mother, but somehow since Thursday, the
+"spring" seems to have gone out of the thought of home-life. I cannot
+think why it should.</p>
+
+<p>One happy day ought not to make everything else seem dull and stupid,
+but that is just what Thursday has done. I feel as if I would give
+anything in the world to have those lovely drives over again, the
+going and the coming home. And I am quite perfectly sure that if I had
+the choice of going, or of letting Millicent go, I should do exactly
+the same over again. I could not and I would not give up,—no, not for
+anything.</p>
+
+<p>I wonder if this is wrong.</p>
+
+<p>Well, I cannot help it. I cannot feel differently.</p>
+
+<p>Only one thing I must be careful about. I must not let my mother see
+that I feel dull about getting home, and seeing her again. She would be
+so pained. So I must seem to be delighted, whatever I feel. Perhaps,
+when I am among them all, I shall feel just as I ought.</p>
+
+<p>I cannot help being thankful that the girls will not be there, to spy
+out everything that I feel, and to imagine all sorts of things that are
+not true. If once they guessed, I should have no more peace in life.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian must have seen that I had been crying, because my eyes
+always show it for such a long while after, and bathing only makes them
+worse. People in stories can weep for an hour, and then just wash their
+eyes and come downstairs, and nobody ever guesses that anything has
+gone wrong. But when I cry for ten minutes, I am an object for the next
+three hours.</p>
+
+<p>If only I could know exactly what Mr. Derwentwater said to her, and
+what she said to him, this afternoon! Did she tell him about any of
+my home troubles, and why I had come here? She might do so, if she
+wants him to care for Millicent so very much as I know she does care.
+She might think it her duty to tell him,—for his own sake, of course,
+she would say. If only I knew! And did she say to him that I have a
+"pussy-cat face?" And would he agree with her? I don't believe he
+would. I am quite sure he does not feel about me as she does.</p>
+
+<p>And yet aunt Marian is very kind, and she seems sorry to be saying
+good-bye. If I had not overheard that one little bit of talk, I could
+think she was really fond of me. But if she were, she could not
+possibly have spoken in such a way.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 2nd, Late at night.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I am at home again, and I have had the lovingest welcome from my
+mother. She seems so very glad to have me once more. I could hate
+myself for not being every inch as glad as she is. But all the while,
+I seem to be living through and through last Thursday, remembering
+all that was said and done, and trying to find out exactly what each
+thing meant, and wondering what passed between him and aunt Marian, and
+puzzling over why he did not come to say good-bye at a time when he
+would have been likely to find me indoors.</p>
+
+<p>Nothing drove these thoughts away, not even seeing Clarissa's beautiful
+presents, and her wedding dress. I tried to admire everything, and to
+seem pleased,—and all the time it felt so awfully flat and dull, I
+hardly knew how to bear myself.</p>
+
+<p>This morning before I left, aunt Marian said, "I hope you are going to
+act like a brave girl, Rhoda, and to be your mother's great comfort."</p>
+
+<p>Her words about my face darted up in a moment, and still more the
+feeling that I did not know what she might have said to set Mr.
+Derwentwater against me. And I could not answer as I saw she wished.</p>
+
+<p>"There won't be any need to be brave now. Things will be different,—and
+easier."</p>
+
+<p>"There will be differences. I am not so sure about the ease."</p>
+
+<p>"'I' am sure," I said. "Things can't be the same, with Clarissa and
+Juliet away. There will not be anything to vex me."</p>
+
+<p>I suppose she saw that I was not in the mood to be talked to, and so
+she said no more. And I was glad: because, after what I had overheard
+her say, I did not choose aunt Marian to lecture me about my home
+duties. I don't see the need. I know well enough what they are, and
+what I ought to do. It is not a question of "knowing," at all. The
+difficulty is, when one knows, to do what one ought to do; and nothing
+she can say will make any difference. What will make a difference is
+Clarissa and Juliet being away.</p>
+
+<p>I said good-bye to Millicent yesterday,—rather a cold good-bye, though
+I am sure I do not know why it should be so. I have not done Millicent
+any harm. We spoke of writing, but did not settle who should send
+the first letter. I don't believe I shall feel inclined to write to
+her in a very great hurry. If I thought she would tell me about Mr.
+Derwentwater, that would make all the difference, but of course she
+will not. And I don't care for anything else.</p>
+
+<p>Is Millicent jealous of me, I wonder,—jealous, because Mr. Derwentwater
+liked to be with me, and perhaps even seemed rather to admire my face?</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image026" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image026.jpg" alt="image026">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_12">CHAPTER XII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>A NEW PHASE OF LIFE.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 7th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>ON Wednesday was the wedding, and it went off all right. Clarissa
+really did look rather handsome, and I do not dislike her husband.
+He seemed to me a little dull,—at least, in comparison with "some"
+men; but that is only to be expected. He looks good-natured; and I
+am sure Clarissa would never get on happily with any man who was not
+good-natured. They went off straight to Paris. And aunt Jessie and
+Juliet have been desperately busy, packing up all Clarissa's presents
+and possessions.</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday the two went to Bath together. A small furnished house has
+been taken,—very small, they say,—and we are to move into it next
+week. Juliet will help us to settle in before she goes north with aunt
+Jessie. Nothing will induce her to stay any longer with us, either here
+or in Bath. "Better not" is the most she will say. And if I ask her,
+"Why not?" she makes no answer. I know perfectly well what she means;
+and it is fearfully hard not to be angry. For of course all the while
+she means "me."</p>
+
+<p>Mother is very tired and worn-out, and terribly anxious about my
+father. Nobody knows exactly when he will arrive, but I suppose it
+might be almost any time. His letters have been so strange lately—so
+confused and unlike his usual way of writing, Mother says. She does
+not know what to make of it, but she is afraid that the doctors do not
+think well of him. He has never even told her the name of the ship in
+which he has taken his passage. In one letter he began to tell, and
+left a gap for the name, as if he could not remember it at the moment,
+and the gap had not been filled up. Anybody might very easily forget
+to put in a word, but my father has always been so business-like and
+methodical, that my mother is worried to see anything of the kind. We
+fancy a telegram will come suddenly, and tell us that the ship is in,
+and that we may expect him in a few hours. The worst of it is that he
+does not know our Bath address, and he will telegraph to Alresford.
+If we knew his ship, we could send or telegraph to meet him on its
+arrival. All this worries Mother very much.</p>
+
+<p>I do not think she even notices that I feel downhearted and dull. She
+is so wrapped up in her anxiety about him.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 14th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>We are in the new house,—such a horrid poky little place. It is in
+the ugliest of back streets; and the dining-room is a mere cell, and
+looks upon a hideous blank wall; and the drawing-room is only a tiny
+scrap bigger. And the bedrooms are simply awful. The only decent one
+among them is that which my father and mother must have. The twins are
+in a minute hole at the top of the house; and mine is smaller still
+and opens into theirs. They are to be my charge now, for we have only
+one servant, a maid-of-all-work. Of course she will have very little
+spare time for the children; and I find "I" am expected to wash them,
+and dress them, and look after them, as well as to do no end of things
+besides in the house.</p>
+
+<p>A good many children of their age,—nearly eight—would do lots for
+themselves, but they are so babyish and helpless still, and so
+fearfully spoilt. Juliet has spoilt them, and I shall reap the benefit.</p>
+
+<p>Juliet has gone away from Bath to-day, with aunt Jessie; and last
+night she gave me a long lecture on my duties. She really has worked
+hard, and has been very kind the last few days, so I had to endure it.
+She said I ought to understand clearly how much would be depending on
+me. And then she explained what things the servant would be able to
+undertake, and what would be left for my share. Not only washing and
+dressing the children, and walking out with them, and giving them their
+lessons, and mending their clothes as well as my own, but helping to
+make all the beds, every morning, and dusting the drawing-room, and a
+whole heap of fidgets besides.</p>
+
+<p>She did her best to give me a fright about my mother. She said Mother
+was so delicate that if I were to let her do much, she would soon
+breakdown altogether; and that if I did not undertake these things, my
+mother would have to do them, because now there would be nobody else.
+Juliet need not have said in the tone she did, "Now there will be
+nobody else!" as if she meant, "You have driven me away, and so you may
+take the consequences!" Perhaps she did not really mean that, but it
+certainly sounded like it.</p>
+
+<p>Of course I intend to do my best, and I do not intend to let my mother
+do more than she ought, but all the same, Juliet need not try to
+frighten me for nothing, or to make me unhappy. If she only knew it, I
+am quite unhappy enough already.</p>
+
+<p>And, after all, though I mean to do my duty, there are limits to what
+one can be expected to get through. I cannot possibly undertake the
+whole work of this house. I think we ought to keep a second servant;
+and I believe we should, if Juliet had not put it into Mother's head
+that we might do without. I don't see why it should not be afforded.
+Other people afford it, and why should not we? Of course we are not
+rich, but I don't believe that we are so poor as that would amount to.
+My father must surely have laid by some money in all these years. I
+know he has had losses, and he has not done well in coffee—and being in
+that sort of thing is so different from being in the Civil Service, but
+still I do feel that things might be managed better.</p>
+
+<p>When I used to think how delightful it would be to live with my mother
+and the twins alone, I must say I did not expect this kind of life.
+I begin to realise now what it means, and I do not like the prospect
+at all. The thought of nobody else at hand to do things, if I forget,
+rather frightens me. I do not love work of that sort—teaching, and
+mending, and looking after spoilt children, and dusting, and making
+beds. Who would? I am afraid I detest it all. And though I have not
+always felt inclined for practising, yet I do not like the idea of
+having no time for it at all. I should not like to sink into a mere
+useful drudge.</p>
+
+<p>But the worst of the whole is the feeling of how much will depend upon
+me: the feeling that if I am a little lazy or disinclined, and leave
+something or other undone, there will be only my mother to do it. That
+is horrid. Tiresome as Juliet is in some ways, still she was always
+"there," and she never minded what she did. And now there will be
+nobody.</p>
+
+<p>I begin almost to wish already that Juliet would come back and live
+with us again. But I would not for the world have anybody guess what I
+feel.</p>
+
+<p>The one thought that keeps me up is that aunt Marian means me to pay
+her another visit some day. I know she does, because Mother quoted
+a few words from aunt Marian's letter to her a few days ago. I hope
+Juliet will not go and get herself married too; for I do not see how I
+could ever get away, as things are now, if Juliet wasn't able to come
+and take my place sometimes. I fancy she will not mind doing that now
+and then.</p>
+
+<p>Mother did not show me the letter, as I thought perhaps she would. I
+saw her looking thoughtful over it. Somehow, I felt perfectly sure that
+aunt Marian had told her about Mr. Derwentwater, and it made my face
+burn for hours after.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 18th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>It does not take long to settle into a furnished house; and we have
+fallen already into a certain routine. I have to work awfully hard:
+there is no choice. If I leave a single thing undone, which is supposed
+to fall to my share, Mother says not a word, but just goes and does it
+herself. And that makes me miserable, because she really is not fit to
+do anything, except to take care of herself.</p>
+
+<p>It is no use to remonstrate, and ask why Mary can't for once do an
+extra thing without any fuss. Mother always says, "She has not time, my
+dear." She would have time if she were quicker, and had the least bit
+of method in her work. But she is the slowest of slow mortals, with no
+memory, or plan; and she seems to spend her whole time in a muddle.</p>
+
+<p>I never knew before what it would be to have no one to see to things,
+as Juliet always did, or what a difference it would make.</p>
+
+<p>If only I did not feel so fearfully dull and flat and stupid, as I do!
+I try to get over it, but trying does not seem to do an atom of good.</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes I find my mother watching me, as if she were trying to read
+what is in my mind. And then again I wonder what aunt Marian may have
+said to her.</p>
+
+<p>It seems an age since I left Wayatford. It might be ever so many
+months, instead of only a few days. The days are so long and slow.</p>
+
+<p>Mother has spoken several times about Millicent. She saw her years ago,
+last time she was in England; and she liked Millicent then very much.
+"Nothing would please me more than that you and Millicent should be
+friends," she said, yesterday evening. "Your first letters were very
+full of her, Rhoda."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, yes, I think we are friends. I suppose we are."</p>
+
+<p>"You like her, do you not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, yes, I like her—very much,—only, of course—"</p>
+
+<p>Mother waited, but I did not finish.</p>
+
+<p>"From all I hear, she must be a really good unselfish girl."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, she is good enough," I said; and I heard a sort of fractious sound
+in my own voice. "She is almost too perfect. That is her fault. She
+never does anything wrong. And I don't believe she cares a scrap what
+happens, or what doesn't happen. And she is so queer and silent and
+shut-up,—so unlike other girls."</p>
+
+<p>"That might be very high praise," Mother remarked, smiling a little.
+"Only you do not mean it for praise."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, she is nice enough. Aunt Marian thinks there is nobody in the
+world like Millicent. And perhaps there is not,—though I should
+not like everybody to be exactly like her, I must say." And I felt
+desperately inclined to burst out crying,—it was all I could do to hold
+myself in.</p>
+
+<p>My mother said nothing more, but I thought she saw.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 19th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>We have been wondering how soon news would come of my father. And
+to-day all at once, he appeared with no warning at all, and no telegram
+beforehand. It did startle us.</p>
+
+<p>Mother and I were doing a little work together, some of the twins'
+mending; and the twins were having a game in the next room. It rained
+hard, so I could not take them out for a walk. And all at once, when we
+had sat for some minutes without speaking, my mother said,—</p>
+
+<p>"I think the change to Wayatford has done you good in some ways. You
+seem older, on the whole."</p>
+
+<p>I had just been thinking about Wayatford, dear Wayatford;—so it was
+curious that she should speak just then of the place. But, to be sure,
+I always am thinking about Wayatford.</p>
+
+<p>"I feel years and years older."</p>
+
+<p>"What makes you feel so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I don't know." I felt my colour getting up, because I suppose that
+was not strictly true; and yet what else could one say?—"People must
+grow older in time."</p>
+
+<p>"And you are fond of your aunt Marian?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—I am fond of her,—only she does say such odd things sometimes,
+Mother." And then I came out with what I have been meaning to ask ever
+since I got home:—</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, have I really a 'pussy-cat face'?"</p>
+
+<p>She laughed at first, and then wanted to know what made me fancy any
+such thing.</p>
+
+<p>"I heard aunt Marian say so. She did not know I heard her; and she did
+not mean me to hear."</p>
+
+<p>"What a pity you listened!"</p>
+
+<p>"But I was just coming in at the door behind the screen. Aunt Marian
+did not see me; and of course I could not tell that she was talking
+secrets. I suppose she thought the door was shut. Have I a 'pussy-cat
+face'?"</p>
+
+<p>Mother looked at me, smiling faintly, as if she were studying what I
+was like.</p>
+
+<p>"It is a pretty little face," she said—"very much improved lately, I
+think. Bounded small-featured faces are sometimes to be described in
+that way, when perhaps they have not very much character or expression.
+But—"</p>
+
+<p>"Have I no expression or character?" I cried indignantly.</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, I did not say that. You would not allow me to finish. I was
+going to say that a mother is hardly a fair judge. Your face is very
+dear to me; and it could not be otherwise, even if—"</p>
+
+<p>"Even if it were ugly!"</p>
+
+<p>"I did not mean that. A child's face can hardly be ugly to her mother.
+But as to character and expression, you are not developed yet. I think,
+perhaps—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes!" I said impatiently.</p>
+
+<p>"People's faces strike others so differently, I should not myself have
+described yours as exactly in the pussy-cat style,—but—"</p>
+
+<p>She made another pause.</p>
+
+<p>"But—what? Did you ever hear anybody else say the same thing of me?
+Clarissa or Juliet?"</p>
+
+<p>She was silent, and I knew she would have said "No," if she could.</p>
+
+<p>"Juliet, of course!"</p>
+
+<p>"Not in any unkind sense, my dear. People must be free to form and
+express their own opinions. I think Juliet did once use the word, but
+it was not so much as to your features. It was as to expression."</p>
+
+<p>"And you think that makes it any better!"</p>
+
+<p>Mother looked at me in surprise. "Expression may alter," she said
+gently.</p>
+
+<p>"And you agreed with Juliet!"</p>
+
+<p>"There was no need to agree or disagree. I saw what she had in her
+mind. Sometimes you have a self-satisfied look—rather—when you are bent
+on proving yourself at all hazards to be in the right. And I suppose—"
+with a little laugh—"that no face is ever more entirely self-satisfied
+than a pussy-cat's face. But that is a thing which may be got over."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't see how."</p>
+
+<p>Mother actually said, in her softest tone, "My dear child, leave off
+'thinking' yourself always in the right."</p>
+
+<p>"But I don't. Of course I am in the wrong sometimes."</p>
+
+<p>"Then leave off behaving as if you did think so. When you are in the
+wrong, or when you have made a blunder, allow the fact frankly. It is
+so much more graceful, than always to stand out for whatever you have
+happened to assert, merely because you have asserted it."</p>
+
+<p>I had that horrid feeling again of being so desperately inclined for
+a thorough good cry. For I am quite sure "somebody" never thought me
+conceited and self-satisfied.</p>
+
+<p>Mother certainly can say rather hard things sometimes, even though she
+is so really gentle and loving. I suppose she does it for my good, but
+I wish—I wish—oh, I hardly know what I wish. I only feel very very
+very—as if—as if—</p>
+
+<p>How stupid of me to write like this! And I have ever so much more to
+tell.</p>
+
+<p>Mother had just said that, and I was going to answer her as soon as I
+could manage my voice, when a cab drove up to the door, and she gave
+such a start. She turned as white as paper.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhoda,—see!" she gasped. "I do believe it is he!"</p>
+
+<p>And the odd thing is that for one moment I did not understand. I could
+not think what she meant. When she said "he," she, of course, had my
+father in her mind. But the idea which flashed into my mind was not of
+my father, but of Mr. Derwentwater.</p>
+
+<p>It is perfectly extraordinary how fast one can think. For, in that
+single moment, I had time to remember that my mother was not supposed
+to know anything particular about him, and to wonder whether most
+likely, after all, she "did" know, and to wonder how much she knew. I
+felt myself turn as red as she had turned white, and I sat and stared
+at her, not able to make up my mind what I ought to say.</p>
+
+<p>"Quick! Come! It is your father."</p>
+
+<p>And then I understood. And oh, it was such a dead blank.</p>
+
+<p>But I jumped up, and ran out after her. And I found her in the arms
+of a tall grey-haired man with a thin drawn stern face, at least, not
+exactly stern, but so unhappy. Not in the very smallest degree like the
+father I have always pictured to myself.</p>
+
+<p>Are things ever like what one has pictured them beforehand?</p>
+
+<p>The twins raced out together, on hearing the stir; and then they turned
+shy, and would not kiss him. He had given me one hasty kiss, just
+saying carelessly, "Is this Rhoda?" And then he dragged himself into
+the drawing-room, leaning on Mother's shoulder, and dropped into the
+biggest easy-chair.</p>
+
+<p>Mother told me to take away the twins, and to pay the cabman. And when
+I came back again—though I felt very much inclined to stay out of the
+room altogether—she was seated by him, with her hand in his; and I
+heard her say softly, "Poor dear! So altered. How ill you must have
+been!"</p>
+
+<p>"Who is that?" he asked sharply, in a loud voice, when I walked in. It
+sounded as if he were quite angry.</p>
+
+<p>"Only Rhoda, dear. I want you to have a good look at Rhoda, and see if
+she has grown like what you have been expecting. Rather different from
+the small child you saw last, is she not?"</p>
+
+<p>Mother tried to smile, but her voice shook, and I could see that she
+was trembling all over.</p>
+
+<p>My father only gave a kind of uneasy groan, and dropped his head on his
+hands.</p>
+
+<p>"He is so tired," Mother said, turning to me, "so very tired with his
+long journey. He never thought of telegraphing, and he went all the way
+to Alresford; and then he had to come on all the way here. You see, he
+had quite forgotten that he did not give us the name of his steamer."</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, it is rubbish! I 'did!'" came in a growl.</p>
+
+<p>"If you did, how very stupid I must have been," my mother began, but I
+burst out indignantly,—</p>
+
+<p>"Mother! Of course we never had the name."</p>
+
+<p>"You thought you had sent it, did you not, dear?" she went on, turning
+again to him. "And you felt so sure. But I have been feeling quite at
+a loss what to do. We sent directions to Alresford that if a telegram
+arrived, it was to be at once forwarded here. Only, you were so busy,
+you forgot to telegraph, did you not?"</p>
+
+<p>It was almost as if she were talking to a child. She went on so for
+some minutes, and my father seemed to be listening.</p>
+
+<p>"You have got into a very uncomfortable sort of hole here," he said
+suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I think we shall do very well," Mother answered. "And Bath is a
+pretty place. I am sure you will like it, dear."</p>
+
+<p>He leant his head on his hand, and said nothing. And I felt quite
+provoked: it was so unkind to Mother, and she looked so upset.</p>
+
+<p>"We shall do all we possibly can to make everything nice and
+comfortable for you," she said, her voice quavering. "And in a little
+while, when you are better—"</p>
+
+<p>"I shall never be any better!"</p>
+
+<p>Mother's face was all in a quiver, as well as her voice, yet she kept
+on smiling.</p>
+
+<p>"In a little while, I think you will. When you have had plenty of rest,
+and have seen a good doctor. I am sure the change will do you good."</p>
+
+<p>"Where are you going?" he asked sharply, as she stood up.</p>
+
+<p>"Only just—for a minute or two—something that I must see to," she said.
+And I was certain from her face that she "had" to go, because she could
+not keep up a moment longer. "Just for a minute, and Rhoda will talk to
+you till I come back."</p>
+
+<p>She beckoned me to her seat. "Not for long," she whispered.</p>
+
+<p>And I felt so scared, I could not help whispering back, "'Please,' not
+long."</p>
+
+<p>Mother vanished, and I sat by his side, feeling desperately
+uncomfortable, without a notion what to talk about.</p>
+
+<p>"Where is your mother gone?"</p>
+
+<p>"She is coming back directly, in a minute, father." And then in
+despair, "Do you think the twins are much altered?"</p>
+
+<p>"The twins? Where are they?"—as if it were quite a new idea.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother thought you would be tired, and so I took them away. And they
+are rather shy, too. They will soon remember you again, I dare say."</p>
+
+<p>"Remember!" And he looked at me in an odd fixed way, as if he were
+trying hard to understand. I wished my mother would come back.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think they quite forget," I said, trying not to let my voice
+shake too, though he did not seem to notice anything of the kind in
+either of us. "It isn't very long since you saw them?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well; no," he said slowly. "I suppose not." And then he got up.</p>
+
+<p>"Won't you wait till Mother comes back?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where is your mother? I am going after her."</p>
+
+<p>I thought he would find her crying, and I said, "Oh, do wait please. I
+fancy she is busy."</p>
+
+<p>But he went straight off into the passage, without paying the least
+attention to what I said, and stood looking about him.</p>
+
+<p>And Mother came running downstairs quite lightly, with tears actually
+on her cheeks, and yet with a smile.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you want me, dear? I thought I heard you moving."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; I wanted you," he said. "I wanted you."</p>
+
+<p>Mother put her hand on his arm, and led him back into the room. He sat
+down with a satisfied air, and rested his head against her. And the
+next thing we knew was that he had dropped sound asleep.</p>
+
+<p>Then I came away up here, for I did not see that I could do much good
+downstairs. The twins promised me to be good and quiet with their dolls
+in the dining-room. And I am writing in my journal, because I do not
+know how to settle down to anything else.</p>
+
+<p>Was my father like this when he was at home last? I have no very clear
+recollections, but I have always fancied him as kind and merry and full
+of fun. It seems extraordinary. Has he had any great trouble lately?
+But how could he, without my mother knowing about it?</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps he is only tired, and vexed to have gone all the way to
+Alresford for nothing. At any rate, I hope—</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image027" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image027.jpg" alt="image027">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image028" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image028.jpg" alt="image028">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>UNDER THE YOKE.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>Same Evening, later.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>OH, I wish Juliet were here! If only Juliet were here! How "shall" we
+manage?</p>
+
+<p>I was called off from my writing by Addie. The child seemed scared, and
+she said I must go to Mother. And I ran downstairs, and found Mother
+looking like a ghost, begging and imploring my father not to go out for
+a walk in the dark and wet. It was just dark, and pouring with rain
+still, and very cold. He seemed as if he could not keep quiet or settle
+down to anything. He was not unkind to Mother, only persistent.</p>
+
+<p>But when I tried to help her, and said: "O no, father; of course you
+must not go out. You must stay and tell us all about your voyage."—He
+"did" speak to me in such a tone! I have never been spoken to in such a
+way before.</p>
+
+<p>I felt myself turn perfectly scarlet. And Mother put her hand on his
+arm, and said,—"O don't, dear!"</p>
+
+<p>And then he ordered me off again,—exactly as he might have ordered a
+dog out of his way.</p>
+
+<p>Of course I could not stand that. I gave Mother a look, and just walked
+straight out of the room into the next. My being there was no good.
+And after a minute, I heard the front door bang, and Mother came into
+the room where I was, and sat down, and burst into such an agony of
+crying,—as if her heart were almost broken. I never saw anything like
+it before!</p>
+
+<p>And I did not know what to do, or what to say. I was angry at the way
+he had treated me; and I could not tell how to comfort her. If Juliet
+had been here, she would have known what to do; for somehow Juliet is
+never at a loss. I have never wanted Juliet so much in all my life
+before!</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, what does it mean?" I asked at length. "Is he always like
+this? What makes him so angry?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, no, no!" she gasped. "Oh, never! My poor dear! Never like this
+before!"</p>
+
+<p>"But what does it mean? If he is going to say such things to me—"</p>
+
+<p>Mother tried hard to smother her tears.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhoda—listen—" she said in a very low voice, as if she could hardly
+get out the words, "listen! He cannot help it. It is not his fault. He
+does not know. It is illness. And we have to bear patiently, very very
+patiently! He isn't the least aware. Like this!—Oh, never—always the
+kindest and sweetest temper. But he is ill—he cannot help it!"</p>
+
+<p>"Will he always be so?" I felt awfully dismayed.</p>
+
+<p>"I hope not; I trust not." And she sobbed again. "Poor dear! So
+changed; so unlike himself."</p>
+
+<p>"But what are we to do? How are we to manage?"</p>
+
+<p>Mother sat up with such a brave smile.</p>
+
+<p>"We shall manage," she said. "Things will be better in a day or two,
+when he is more at home, and when he has got over the fatigue of his
+journey. It seems so to have upset him, to get to Alverton, and to find
+none of us there. I must give up all my time to him now, until he is
+stronger. The great matter is to keep him quiet and soothed, to avoid
+whatever might excite him, or irritate him. So the doctors said out
+there."</p>
+
+<p>"I really don't see that anything I said ought to have irritated him."</p>
+
+<p>"Not if he were in good health!"</p>
+
+<p>"But people are not always like that, Mother, when they are out of
+health."</p>
+
+<p>Mother looked anxiously at me. "No," she said. "It depends on the kind
+of ill-health. It is not a question of ordinary ill-health. I do not
+think you quite understand yet."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I do!" I said, shortly enough.</p>
+
+<p>Mother got up and shut the door, as if she were afraid of being
+overheard. Then she began to explain. She said she had been fearing
+something of this kind; only things seem to be even worse than she had
+feared. She would not say anything to me earlier, because she so hoped
+that he might arrive a great deal better for the voyage. He has been
+very unlike himself for a long while; and she has noticed a difference
+in his letters, as well as hearing from friends about him. He has been
+for months so restless and nervous and irritable.</p>
+
+<p>That would be nothing, Mother said, in a fidgety bad-tempered person,
+because it would be only natural. But in any one so sweet-tempered and
+placid as my father has always been, it is not natural; and everybody
+who knows him well has felt uneasy.</p>
+
+<p>The doctors believe that he must have had something of a sunstroke,
+when he was travelling alone, just after my mother left him to come
+home. He was ill, and he only saw a very second-rate "up-country"
+doctor, and he had nobody to take care of him. And he has never been
+really well since, though for a long while Mother had not the least
+idea of how things were.</p>
+
+<p>Mother says sunstroke often does leave mischief behind, especially in a
+case like this, when proper care has not been taken, and hard work has
+been begun again too soon. Whether it really is just the effect of a
+neglected sunstroke, or whether it is a breakdown from long overwork,
+nobody is quite sure. Only he is ordered to have perfect rest, and no
+worries, and no over-fatigue, and nothing to excite or irritate him.
+Mother repeated this two or three times, as if she thought I might be
+the one to excite him. But I am sure I do not know why I should. Of
+course, now I know that it is a matter of illness, that makes all the
+difference; and I intend to bear with his ways patiently.</p>
+
+<p>Still, whatever is the cause, it does seem rather dreadful. I thought
+there would be a little peace at last; and this looks like anything but
+peace.</p>
+
+<p>If Juliet were with us, I should not have such a horrid feeling of
+nobody to turn to, when things go wrong. I mean if mother wants help.</p>
+
+<p>My father did not come home for a good two hours. Then he was much less
+excited, and soaked through, and awfully tired. And Mother has been in
+such a state of anxiety, looking out for him. If this sort of thing
+goes on, she will soon breakdown herself; and then what "shall" I do?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 23rd, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>In a kind of way, my father has settled down and is more quiet than
+he was on the first evening. But he is still fearfully restless and
+excitable. The least thing makes him angry; and he never can be happy
+for one single minute when he is indoors, unless Mother is by his side.
+He does not care to have me; it is always Mother that he wants. He goes
+out for long long walks alone, and will not have anybody with him;—at
+least, I suppose he would have Mother, if she could walk any distance,
+which she cannot. But since he cannot have her, he goes alone.</p>
+
+<p>Mother does as she said she meant to do; she just devotes herself to
+him. How she stands it, I cannot imagine, for she has not a moment's
+respite, except when he is out walking, and hardly even then; for if
+he is out of sight she seems to live in terror, lest something should
+happen to him before he gets back.</p>
+
+<p>I have enough to do in looking after the twins, and the house; for my
+father is desperately particular, and he spies out in a moment if a
+single thing is forgotten, and is down upon me, ten times as sharply as
+ever the girls were. And if I say one word in self-defence, he is so
+angry that the whole household hears of it.</p>
+
+<p>As for helping my mother with him, even if I had time, which I have
+not, I could not do it. He positively frightens me; and besides, I do
+not think he takes to me at all. It seems an odd thing to say of one's
+father, but he positively sometimes seems to have a dislike to me. It
+is not "my" fault. I have really done my best to take things patiently.
+He never shows the least sign of affection, and is so awfully vexed
+with every single thing that I do or don't do. Often I do not know how
+to bear it: and if it were not for Mother, I could not bear it much
+longer. But if I do anything to make him angry, Mother is the one to
+suffer: and I live in fear of her breaking down under all she has to
+do. And so I try, as hard as I can, not to vex him.</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes he will play with the twins for a short time and look almost
+happy, but it never lasts. The restlessness is sure to come on again,
+in a few minutes; and only Mother can manage him then,—not always even
+she!</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday I asked her if Juliet knew how things were. She said, "No,
+not entirely. Your father does not like his health to be discussed."</p>
+
+<p>"If she knew, perhaps she would come!" I could not resist saying.</p>
+
+<p>"To pay us a visit! Not so soon."</p>
+
+<p>"To live with us, Mother."</p>
+
+<p>Mother looked surprised at the idea. "O, no, never again! That is an
+understood thing. The girls always said that if once they left me after
+my return, and began a home with aunt Jessie, it would be a permanent
+arrangement. Juliet could not possibly throw her over now, merely for
+our convenience. All that is at an end."</p>
+
+<p>"But Juliet is so fond of you. And if she knew that you wanted
+her—really—"</p>
+
+<p>"She would not come. It is out of the question."</p>
+
+<p>"Not even for a few weeks?"</p>
+
+<p>"Some day, perhaps. Not now, certainly. And even if I would ask it, and
+if she were willing, your father would not consent."</p>
+
+<p>"I thought he was so fond of Clarissa and Juliet."</p>
+
+<p>"Very fond of them as nieces. If he had come home, and had found Juliet
+in the house, he would have looked upon her as one of us; and I dare
+say she could have done a good deal with him. But now he looks upon her
+as an outsider, and he shrinks from outsiders. Do you not see it for
+yourself?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't see why he should."</p>
+
+<p>"There may be no particular reason why, but he does. I suppose he is
+conscious of not being fully himself—" Mother caught herself up in a
+kind of frightened way; "I mean—conscious of not being in his usual
+condition. He cannot control his moods, and he feels ill, and he does
+not like to be watched. If I wished ever so much to send now for
+Juliet, he would not let me."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you wish it?"</p>
+
+<p>"For my own sake, yes. It would be the greatest possible comfort. But
+for other reasons, no."</p>
+
+<p>"For what reasons?"</p>
+
+<p>"After all that has passed, I could not." And she blushed faintly.
+"Could 'you,' Rhoda?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. I don't see how we are to manage."</p>
+
+<p>"We must manage, and you must be very brave and patient, and help me."</p>
+
+<p>There was not one word of blame to me, though all the time it is my
+fault that she has not Juliet with her now. It is all my fault, and she
+has to bear the punishment as well as I. That seems so unfair. I wanted
+to tell her how sorry I was, and how I would give anything to undo the
+past. But somehow I could not say the words. I seemed to be tongue-tied.</p>
+
+<p>How long can things go on like this?</p>
+
+<p>All through these worries I keep thinking about those happy peaceful
+weeks at Wayatford. Such a contrast! And oh, how I long to hear
+something from somebody about them all, about especially—oh, I suppose
+I ought not to write what I was going to say!</p>
+
+<p>That happy happy wonderful Thursday! Shall I ever spend such a day
+again in all my life?</p>
+
+<p>Shall I ever see him, or hear of him again? And does he ever think of
+me, ever so much as remember that I exist? Oh, I think—I do think—</p>
+
+<p>Well, I must not go on like this. What is the use?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>September 25th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have written a long letter to Millicent. I did not know how to
+wait any longer, feeling so cut off from them all. Will she write in
+answer? I have begged her to do so, and to tell me everything about
+"everybody!" But will she?</p>
+
+<p>Now that I am away from Millicent, I know how really and truly fond of
+her I have grown. It seems so silly that I should ever have doubted it:
+or that I should have been so often vexed with her about such utterly
+foolish things. As if she were obliged to talk to me in just exactly
+the way that I wanted, and to tell me what she thought and felt! It was
+too absurd of me. I wish I could live those few weeks over again. Dear
+Millicent! If only "I" could go instead of my letter!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>October 8th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>A letter at last from Millicent! I do think she might have written
+sooner. I have been looking out for it, oh, so anxiously! And now
+it has come, it tells me nothing; that is to say, nothing that I
+particularly want to know. She goes on chit-chatting through four pages
+all about themselves, and uncle and aunt, and the Parish,—in fact,
+every single thing that I do not care to know, and not one word about
+what I long to hear. But I might have expected this beforehand.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>October 16th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>It seems as if I had been years and years in Bath, and it feels as if
+we had been living this sort of life for months and months.</p>
+
+<p>I get utterly out of heart with it often. It is such endless work and
+worry, and yet nothing is ever right. Whatever I do, my father is never
+by any chance pleased. Mother says that is a part of his illness;
+yet he does not seem precisely "ill," only so fidgety and restless.
+Besides he is not the same with Mother. He may and does speak sharply
+sometimes, even to her; but he is so affectionate, and never quite
+happy unless she is by his side, while to me he is not affectionate. It
+seems as if the very sight of my face worried him.</p>
+
+<p>If it were not for my mother,—but she is getting so thin and pale; yet
+she never gives in, never complains. She just slaves for him. And he
+never sees if she is not well. He is perfectly absorbed in himself; at
+least, he seems to be so.</p>
+
+<p>I suppose he is just a little better in health lately in some ways, not
+so easily tired as when he first came home. But Mother does not think
+him better, and certainly he is quite as irritable. Things are all but
+unbearable on some days.</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday I told Mother so, when he had flown out at me about nothing
+at all. And she said,—</p>
+
+<p>"But, dear Rhoda, things have to be borne."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm pretty well at the end of my patience," I said. "It is perfectly
+miserable."</p>
+
+<p>Mother sighed. "Yet you have your wish. The girls are not here."</p>
+
+<p>"But if I had known 'this' was coming—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; you would have acted differently. Only we never do know. You and
+I do not know now. The only thing is to do just that which God gives us
+to do,—not that which we ourselves would like best. And then there will
+not be self-reproaches, whatever may come."</p>
+
+<p>Then my mother has seen that I do reproach myself.</p>
+
+<p>"Of course one ought always to do one's duty," I said. "Everybody is
+always telling one that. I do not see that it makes things any easier.
+It is just the duty part which is so hard."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, if there is not love!" A curious soft look came into her
+eyes,—such tired eyes lately.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose I love him, of course, because he is my father. Only it is
+not as if I had always really known him."</p>
+
+<p>"I did not mean love to him. I was thinking about that word duty? One
+has to remember one's duty, and to do it. But I think when the love to
+our dear Lord takes its right place, one does not dwell so much upon
+mere dry duty, as duty. It 'is' duty; but it looks so different—so much
+more beautiful and attractive—when it is just the doing whatever He
+wishes us to do. That cannot be so very hard when one really loves Him."</p>
+
+<p>I did not know what to say, for I am quite sure I have not the sort of
+love she meant—not the sort of love which makes hard things easy. I
+want to do right, and I am sorry when I have done wrong, but it is in a
+different sort of way from that. I wish I cared more, and felt more, as
+Mother does. But I cannot make myself do it. How can I?</p>
+
+<p>It seems to me now as if the only thing I really care for is to hear
+something more from Wayatford. Not about Millicent, or about my uncle
+and aunt, but about—</p>
+
+<p>Shall I ever hear anything again?</p>
+
+<p>And of course I care also about saving my mother trouble. I am so
+terribly afraid of her breaking down, afraid for her sake, and also for
+the sake of everybody. What should we do?</p>
+
+<p>Life seems awfully hard to live just now. Aunt Marian was right enough.
+Things are not easier than they were. They are infinitely harder. When
+I look back to those months, and to getting so vexed with the girls, it
+does look to me now as if I had made a very great fuss about nothing.
+If I had guessed what was coming, I would—oh, I would have borne or
+done anything, to have kept Juliet with us. If she were here, she would
+be able to manage my father, and to have everything different.</p>
+
+<p>I can do nothing with him. He will often hardly let me say a word.
+Mother says my manner is irritating, because I am always ready to
+argue. But how can I help it? One must defend oneself sometimes! He is
+so fearfully unjust to me,—often I do not know how to endure it.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image029" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image029.jpg" alt="image029">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image030" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image030.jpg" alt="image030">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>EXCEEDINGLY HORRID.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>October 24th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>TO-DAY, for once, my mother and I have had a quiet talk,—and if I could
+have guessed what Mother would say, I would have gone anywhere to have
+escaped it.</p>
+
+<p>But it is all aunt Marian's fault. I shall never never forgive aunt
+Marian.</p>
+
+<p>An old Indian friend of my father's turned up, and took him off for a
+long ramble over the hills. And I made Mother lie down on the sofa, to
+get a little rest. The twins were playing in the tiny back garden, so
+we could be quiet. I did not mean to talk at all, but she seemed so
+disinclined to sleep that it was of no use for her to try. A few things
+were said, nothing particular, and then we were silent again.</p>
+
+<p>And all at once Mother asked—"How did you like this Mr. Derwentwater,
+of whom I hear so much?"</p>
+
+<p>My face flushed up scarlet, and I would have given anything to run
+away. But Mother was lying between me and the door, and I should have
+had to push past her.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh,—I liked him." I tried hard to speak indifferently.</p>
+
+<p>"I do not think you have mentioned his name to me; except, perhaps, in
+a passing way."</p>
+
+<p>"I dare say not."</p>
+
+<p>"Your aunt speaks of him. In her last letter."</p>
+
+<p>"What does she say?" I asked, rather fiercely.</p>
+
+<p>"She says he was a good deal in and out, while you were at Wayatford,
+the last fortnight particularly. And she supposes you will have told me
+all about it—and him."</p>
+
+<p>I did not know what to reply.</p>
+
+<p>"And she mentions that it was he who drove you to and from the ruin,
+in that excursion, just before you came home . . . Of course you would
+have told me, only your letter after the picnic was so hurried." Mother
+spoke as if she were apologising for me.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. Oh, I didn't seem to have any time." I wished my face would not
+burn so furiously. "And I was coming home so soon—it didn't seem worth
+while to write a long letter. And then—when I got home—it was such a
+bustle—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes!" Mother spoke quietly, and did not seem to mind, though all the
+time I had a feeling that she understood perfectly well. "And you found
+him pleasant?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes—very—" and I went on working as fast as I possibly could.</p>
+
+<p>"Is he not intimate with the Farrars family? Your aunt used to think
+that he and Millicent—"</p>
+
+<p>Then my mother knew more than I had supposed.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think 'that' will ever come to pass," I said hastily.</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. I don't believe it will." I was getting redder and
+redder. "He didn't even think her pretty." After a little break, I
+could not resist murmuring half to myself,—"'He' did not think I had a
+pussy-cat face."</p>
+
+<p>"How do you know?"</p>
+
+<p>"I know! One can tell that sort of thing pretty well!"</p>
+
+<p>She drew me on with more questions, letting her hand lie on mine, so
+that I could not go on working, and I had to attend.</p>
+
+<p>After all, I found it rather a relief to speak out, and to tell her
+how nice and kind he was, and how lunch I had enjoyed those drives
+on Thursday, and what fun we had had. And I told her about Millicent
+watching us, and not seeming in the least to care, and about Mr.
+Derwentwater meaning to see me again to say good-bye. "Only, it was so
+tiresome,—he happened to call just when I was out. I should so have
+liked to see him just once more. He was so nice! Everybody likes him."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes,—he is popular."</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt Marian thinks any amount of him. And aunt Marian is as particular
+as you are."</p>
+
+<p>"She likes to have young people about her; and she always makes them
+fond of her. Yes,—and I believe she is fond of him. Whether she has a
+very high opinion of his character—"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I know she has! I am perfectly sure she has."</p>
+
+<p>Mother's next words took me utterly by surprise. "And I suppose,
+dear,—I suppose it never so much as came into your head that he might
+be playing you off against Millicent, for a purpose,—that he might be
+trying to rouse her jealousy by paying attentions to you!"</p>
+
+<p>"Mother!!"</p>
+
+<p>But she repeated,—"I suppose you have never thought of such a thing as
+a possibility."</p>
+
+<p>"No, I haven't, and I don't!" I declared stormily. "It is not possible,
+and nothing shall ever make me think it possible. I don't believe it,
+and I never will believe it. Aunt Marian has been telling you a lot of
+untruths. I wonder you can listen to her!"</p>
+
+<p>Then I flung my work down, and rushed upstairs to my own room, and
+locked the door, and cried for a whole hour. Nobody came near me, and I
+left the rest of the world to take care of itself.</p>
+
+<p>After that, I had to go down; and I did not care in the least how red
+my eyes were. I thought Mother would see and be sorry. But she was too
+busy with my father to have any time for me; and the whole evening she
+has not been free for a single moment. I fancied that perhaps she would
+come to my room the last thing; but she could not be spared. My father
+was in one of his most depressed states, tired out, I suppose, with
+walking too far. She only gave me a kiss, and said nothing. I do not
+even know how much she has noticed, or how much she knows or guesses.</p>
+
+<p>Now it is past twelve o'clock, and I do not feel as if sleep were a
+thing possible. I have been writing all this, to pass the time, and to
+see how it looked.</p>
+
+<p>I don't know what to think or what to believe. The very idea is too
+dreadful. I cannot and I will not believe such a thing to be true.
+Nothing shall ever make me believe it.</p>
+
+<p>And yet—what if it were true?</p>
+
+<p>But it is not. I don't believe it. He is not like that.</p>
+
+<p>Mother is not to blame. I am not going to be vexed with her. She only
+spoke because she was anxious about my happiness. It is all aunt
+Marian's fault; and I do not mean ever to forgive aunt Marian,—ever to
+like her again.</p>
+
+<p>Mother spoke of aunt Marian's "last letter." Has she heard again
+lately? I know she had one letter, soon after I came home. Was that the
+one, I wonder?</p>
+
+<p>Things seem very horrid, altogether!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>October 25th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I did not mean ever to speak again about Mr. Derwentwater to my mother,
+or to anybody. But nearly all night I was awake, thinking of what she
+had said; and all the morning I felt so wretched, I did not know how to
+bear myself. I am afraid I made other people wretched too, though of
+course I did not mean to do so.</p>
+
+<p>By the end of the afternoon, I could stand it no longer. My father went
+out to the post; and I was alone with my mother for a few minutes; so I
+burst out:—</p>
+
+<p>"What made you say that yesterday, Mother?"</p>
+
+<p>"I had reasons."</p>
+
+<p>"What reasons?"</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps my best plan will be to let you see this letter," and she put
+one into my hand. It was in aunt Marian's writing. "Read it quietly up
+in your own room, not down here. I have been debating with myself, ever
+since it came, whether to show it to you or not."</p>
+
+<p>"Aunt Marian's meddling, I suppose!"</p>
+
+<p>Mother was just going to move away, and she stopped and looked at me.</p>
+
+<p>"No, not meddling! If you take things in that spirit, Rhoda, I shall
+regret having allowed you to see it. I thought I might treat you as a
+reasonable woman. You must remember that your aunt was responsible for
+you while you were there, and also answerable to me. Her reason for
+writing as she does is simply kind thought for your happiness. She has
+hesitated long, as you will see, but it did not seem to her right to
+say nothing under the circumstances. Whatever you may feel, I shall
+always feel that she was right to speak. Of course I am showing this
+to you in confidence. Aunt Marian does not forbid my doing so, but you
+must reckon it all to be confidential."</p>
+
+<p>Then she moved away, and I rushed upstairs—here; and I bolted the door
+before I would look at the letter.</p>
+
+<p>It is not the one which came directly after I returned home. The date
+is only four days old.</p>
+
+<p>In the beginning of it there is a good deal about me that is very kind,
+and even affectionate, hoping that I will go again some day for another
+visit, and saying how much I am missed, and so on. All that I skimmed,
+and then I came to the really important part; and I am going to copy it
+out word for word, so as never to forget. For I mean never in all my
+life to trust anybody again—never again!</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Rhoda will, of course, have told you about that Thursday excursion
+just before her return home, and about Ernest Derwentwater driving
+her in the dog-cart to and from the old ruin. She seemed a good deal
+excited and flattered—poor little woman!—and I have blamed myself since
+for want of caution in letting her be quite so much thrown with him.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"You see, I have always looked upon him as pretty well apportioned
+already, knowing as I do what he feels for Millicent. And Rhoda seems
+such a child still, one hardly thought of possible danger. The last
+day or two made me fear that she might be just a trifle touched by his
+pleasant ways. I am afraid the naughty fellow had a reason for making
+himself especially agreeable to her on that particular Thursday; and
+much as I like Ernest, I blame him exceedingly. There is no sort of
+excuse for him. To play off one girl for the sake of arousing feeling
+in another is unjustifiable.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I do not accuse him of this without reason—that would be unjustifiable
+on my part. When he came to say good-bye, two or three days later, he
+spoke most despondingly about Millicent's coldness. And I said, 'But
+you have been comforting yourself with somebody else meantime.'<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"He gave a start, and then laughed.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'Rhoda is pretty, is she not?' I said.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'Well, yes—perhaps—if she had not such an inordinately good opinion
+of herself,' he answered.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'What made you drive her to the ruin instead of Millicent?' I asked.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"He said, 'Millicent would not show whether she cared a straw which
+way she went, or who was her companion.'<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'And so you thought you would stir up a spice of jealousy on her part.
+You might know Millicent better than to try such a plan. Have you
+gained any thing by it?'<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"He shook his head.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'No better than you deserve,' I said. 'You had no business to behave
+in such a way. Just imagine if you had done execution in another
+direction!'<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"'What! That infant!'—and he went off into a peal of laughter.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"I really thought it best to say no more for Rhoda's sake, but to
+treat the matter as a joke. Otherwise, I would have told him much more
+plainly what I thought of his conduct.<br>
+<br>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Only, poor little woman, it may not be altogether a joke to her; for
+I am afraid she 'might' have once or twice thought him a little in
+earnest. You see, she looks younger than she is! After long cogitation
+and much hesitating, I have determined to tell you all this quite
+frankly, neither omitting nor softening, and to leave the matter
+entirely in your hands. If Rhoda seems happy and heart-whole, the less
+said the better. She will soon forget any tiny fancy she may have felt
+for that foolish boy. But if you should see her to be dwelling on the
+recollection of him, and of his smooth speeches, then you will know
+what is best to be done. Girls are so different. One has to be treated
+in one way, and another in another way. Make any use or no use of what
+I have told you—precisely as you think best."<br>
+<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I hardly know what I really felt on first reading this. It was like a
+kind of white-heat of fury. I was angry with Mr. Derwentwater, angry
+with Millicent, angry with aunt Marian—almost angry with my mother for
+showing me the letter—and yet I would not on any account "not" have
+seen it. I could not have wished to go on in a sort of fool's paradise.
+It was the horribly mortified feeling that was the worst of all.</p>
+
+<p>For about an hour, I did not know how to bear that. To think that
+he was all the time just playing with me, just using me for his own
+convenience, just looking upon me as a silly child—a vain silly
+stuck-up child! And to dare to say that I had an "inordinately good
+opinion" of myself!</p>
+
+<p>At first, I stormed about my room like a crazy thing; and I fumed and
+knocked things over. And then I cried; and then I fumed again. And then
+I began to think what to do. I wondered what my mother had said in
+answer to aunt Marian, and as I wondered, she came to the door, and I
+let her in.</p>
+
+<p>"Would you not like a turn in the garden, Rhoda?" I knew from her face
+how she had been all the while thinking about me, and longing to come.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, there's nobody like you in all the world!" I cried, and I
+clung to her. "And I never mean to love anybody except you! And I never
+will trust anybody else again—never! Never!"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, there is no hurry, darling. What an untidy room!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I'll put it straight. Mother, what did you say to aunt Marian? You
+didn't let her think—"</p>
+
+<p>"I did not say much. There was no need. I thanked her for writing
+openly; and I said that I thought Mr. Derwentwater had behaved very
+wrongly, but I was glad to be able to say that you had shown no
+particular interest in him since you came home."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, that was—splendid!"</p>
+
+<p>"And now—" Mother stopped.</p>
+
+<p>"I think he is perfectly disgusting, and I am never going to like him
+again. To tell aunt Marian that I am conceited, and have too good an
+opinion of myself! I am much obliged to him!"</p>
+
+<p>Mother's face broke into a smile of relief.</p>
+
+<p>"That matters very little. People must be free to form their own
+opinions about others. And if 'that' is all you care for—"</p>
+
+<p>I almost exclaimed, "But it isn't!" And I stopped myself just in time.</p>
+
+<p>"Only, it was so horrid of him to go and make that sort of fuss with
+me, and to pretend that he liked me so much, when all the time, he just
+wanted Millicent!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, it was horrid of him—but never mind. The thing is over now."</p>
+
+<p>I let her say so, and did not contradict her. She did not ask for the
+letter, and I kept it, because I wanted to copy out part. I am so
+afraid I may forget, and may even begin to fancy again that perhaps he
+really did mean something. And if I just read the words once more when
+such a feeling comes, they will settle the matter.</p>
+
+<p>But the thing is not "over" yet, as Mother thought. Will it ever be
+over? I am very angry, very very angry, with Mr. Derwentwater—so
+angry that I should dearly love to do something to punish him, if
+only I could. Is that a wrong feeling? And yet—now and then, in the
+very middle of my anger, his face comes back to me, with that kind
+pleasant smile, and it seems, oh, it does seem, as if I would give
+up "anything," just to be in Millicent's place—just to know that he
+really cared for me, and wanted me to be with him—to be his. But it is
+nonsense writing all this. I suppose I ought not to let myself even
+think about him now. I ought to forget his very existence.</p>
+
+<p>Can one do that? Can one make oneself forget?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>October 28th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Life looks so awfully flat, so horribly dull! It seems as if nothing
+were worth doing—nothing worth thinking about. There is nothing to
+expect—nothing to look forward to! Will it always go on like this? Will
+nothing ever be bright again?</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes I feel desperately angry still with him, and those are the
+easiest times to get through. Sometimes I could sit down and cry for
+hours; and then I have not any spirit to be angry.</p>
+
+<p>Mother is so good and sweet! I know she sees everything, but she does
+not bother me with questions, or even with seeming to see. I am afraid
+I have been awfully cross to her and the twins, the last two or three
+days. It is desperately difficult not to be cross, when everything
+looks so hopeless. But of course that is no real reason, and no excuse
+at all. And Mother has enough to bear without that. My father gets
+worse and worse. I cannot think what we are coming to.</p>
+
+<p>Shall I ever feel again as I used to feel? But, anyhow, nobody must
+see. Nobody must guess,—except, of course, my mother. I do not think
+anything would blind her eyes. Nobody else must know!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>November 1st, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have come to a resolution! I will stop journalising. When I come to
+my room, and get out my journal, and begin to write, then things always
+seem worse, and life looks darker. I am going to be so busy as to leave
+no time for thinking; and I am not going to open my journal once for at
+least six months. After that—perhaps—but I shall see! As matters are
+now, I am sure this will be the wisest. Perhaps in six months, I shall
+have got a little over this horrible dreary sense of emptiness. Perhaps
+life will have begun to look a little brighter again. People say that
+one does in time get over that sort of trouble. I do not know. I cannot
+"feel" like getting over it!</p>
+
+<p>If only he had not spoken in such a way of me—I do not think I should
+mind anything else so much, but somehow I cannot get over that. And all
+the time I cannot help, in a sort of way, liking him still.</p>
+
+<p>And now I am going to stop.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+(<em>For six years no further entries.</em>)<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image031" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image031.jpg" alt="image031">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image032" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image032.jpg" alt="image032">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_15">CHAPTER XV.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>AFTER SIX WHOLE YEARS.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+No. 7, HIGH STREET, WAYATFORD<br>
+<em>November 1st, 18—</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>EXACTLY six years to-day since last I wrote in this little old journal
+of mine. I had forgotten the thing utterly. It had gone out of my
+mind—pushed out, I suppose, as lesser interests are so often pushed
+out by greater ones. Odd that I should have come across it now,
+unexpectedly, just when we have settled into this new home, where
+everything seems still so strange, and yet so familiar.</p>
+
+<p>During the last six years, I have never once been to Wayatford, never
+once paid the second visit which was talked of, and which then I so
+longed for.</p>
+
+<p>Six years are a long while,—very long between the ages of eighteen and
+twenty-four. I seem to myself to be a century older than I was then.
+Six years between forty and fifty may not be very much, but between
+fifteen and twenty-five they are almost a short lifetime.</p>
+
+<p>One changes so utterly in one's ideas, in one's wishes, in one's
+tastes, in one's estimate of other people, in one's manner of judging
+and of looking upon things. What I admired six years ago, I often do
+not admire at all now; and what I despised six years ago, I can often
+now admire immensely—or, at all events, I can see its worth as I could
+not then.</p>
+
+<p>I have been reading my old journal, having stumbled upon it
+accidentally. There was a great pile of books to be looked through:
+lesson-books, copy-books, exercise-books. All this ought to have been
+done before we left Bath, but the move at the last was hurried, and
+some of the piles of books were thrown into a big box, not examined.
+Mother said she thought we ought to get rid of the more useless ones,
+so as not to be needlessly encumbered; and I chose the first wet day to
+overhaul them at leisure.</p>
+
+<p>And there, tied in a huge packet, with exercise-books on each side of
+it, was my poor old journal!</p>
+
+<p>After that, I could not make any further advance with the examining of
+other books. It was impossible. Mother had gone across to aunt Marian
+for the afternoon, and Juliet was writing letters downstairs, and the
+twins were at school. So I had the top room to myself; and I just sat
+down and read the whole thing through, from beginning to end.</p>
+
+<p>How glad I was that "I" had found it, and not somebody else; not
+Juliet, for instance, and above all, not mischievous Addie! And what a
+crazy thing of me to do, to leave it lying about among piles of books,
+for anybody to read that might feel inclined!</p>
+
+<p>Well, I have it safe now; and I shall either burn it, or put it in a
+very secure corner indeed. Perhaps I will keep it, for reading the
+old entries has started me off afresh. I almost think I will begin
+journalising again.</p>
+
+<p>Only, I hope not quite in the old style. What a conceited egoistical
+creature I was in those days! No wonder friends found me almost
+unbearable. No wonder people in general did not take to me. No wonder
+I drove the girls half crazy. No wonder Mr. Derwentwater said I had an
+inordinately good opinion of myself. The only wonder is that my mother
+did not find me unendurable too. But do mothers—ever? Mother-love can
+bear what no other love can bear.</p>
+
+<p>How little I dreamt, when I wrote those last words, of all that lay
+before us, the terrible pressure of the next two years especially. My
+small trouble seemed so great to me then, though now I can see how
+much more there was in it of wounded self-conceit than of any deeper
+feeling. I little dreamt how soon it was to be dwarfed, and even
+crushed out of existence.</p>
+
+<p>The one thing I wanted then was an easy comfortable life, a life in
+which I could please myself, and have my own way unhindered. And that
+was the very last thing which I was to be allowed to have.</p>
+
+<p>I think I can see the reason now—partly, at least. Looking back on
+what I was then, and seeing what my faults were, I do feel that
+just the kind of life which I wanted would have been the very worst
+thing in all the world that could have come to me. It would have fed
+the selfishness, and fostered the egoism, and made me more and more
+unendurable.</p>
+
+<p>There are many many things that I have not learnt yet, many things that
+I do not grasp at all clearly. I can feel that there is an enormous
+difference between my mother and me, and I wish I were more like her.
+Perhaps in time, I may grow so. But I have at least learnt one thing;
+and that is, that our life here is a training for the future, and that
+everything has an object and a meaning, even when one cannot possibly
+make out what the particular object and meaning are. And I think I have
+learnt too—or, at least, I have begun to learn—how little I really
+know, and how unutterably silly it is to be for ever giving one's
+opinion on every conceivable question, as if one's opinion were of the
+very smallest importance. I "used" to feel as if I knew something about
+everything.</p>
+
+<p>One of the sharpest and best lessons that ever came to me was seeing
+that letter of aunt Marian's about Mr. Derwentwater. I do not defend
+him; he was wrong, and he had no business to "play off" one girl
+against another. I do not respect him for doing it; and I never could
+respect any man who should be capable of such a thing. But all the same
+it was about the most wholesome thing that ever happened to me, and I
+am grateful to him, even while I dislike what he did. But for that, I
+might have gone on for years and years, never realising in the least
+what other people thought of me, or what a stuck-up conceited little
+affair I was. It gave my pride at the time a very sharp sting, and made
+me utterly miserable. But in the end, it did me, I am sure, a great
+deal more good than harm.</p>
+
+<p>How we lived through those two years following is a mystery to me. My
+father grew steadily worse, as the months went on. He consulted more
+than one first-rate doctor, ill as we could afford it; and the verdict
+was always a kind of reserved opinion: general failure of health, brain
+affected by long overstrain, and probably by a neglected sunstroke;
+nothing much to be done for him, beyond perfect rest and quiet, and
+absence of all worry and excitement. He was not to exert himself; he
+was not to be contradicted; he was to be kept as placid and happy as
+possible.</p>
+
+<p>No easy order to carry out, for me especially, an impulsive girl with
+very limited powers of self-control, long addicted to self-pleasing.
+Yet I "had" to learn. Self-defence, contradiction, argument,
+impatience, those things which were most of all characteristic of me,
+brought so heavy a penalty on my gentle Mother that I "had" to control
+myself for her sake. I had to bear injustice, to crush back the bitter
+words, to clench my hands and endure in silence. And I found that I
+could. One can bear much for the sake of those whom one loves with a
+real heart-love. It is when love is faint that bearing becomes so hard.</p>
+
+<p>I am not blaming my poor father. It was not "himself" all those months
+that was so irritable and unjust. He was not really himself. The
+state of intense brain-irritation made self-control to some extent
+an impossible matter, so the doctors said. He suffered sadly, not
+so much from actual pain as from a perfect misery of depression and
+restlessness and nervous excitement, and even of delusions.</p>
+
+<p>Juliet did not know how things were. My father utterly refused to have
+her, or anybody except ourselves in the house, even for a week. And
+Mother never wavered in her resolution not to make a convenient use
+of Juliet, after all that had passed. Since we had not made her happy
+among us in happier days,—since "I" had not, my mother ought to have
+said,—we could not appeal to her in need.</p>
+
+<p>I do not think Mother ever quite realised how sharp a rebuke to me
+those words carried. If she had, she would not have repeated them. It
+always seemed as if, in her gentle humble way, she somehow identified
+herself with me in the past failure.</p>
+
+<p>Once or twice Juliet proposed to pay us a visit, but my father was
+terribly upset and excited by the bare idea. And Mother always had to
+say that he was so "nervous," he could at present stand no visitors in
+the house. Juliet was puzzled, and I think rather hurt; and for a whole
+year, she scarcely wrote at all, or Clarissa either.</p>
+
+<p>And we went down lower, lower, into the shadows.</p>
+
+<p>How my mother bore the strain, I do not know. She seemed to have an
+unnatural strength given to her, at least for a time.</p>
+
+<p>We were short enough as to money. The girls knew that it must be so;
+and towards the end of the first year, they wrote offering to pay
+entirely for the twins' schooling. Mother did not refuse. She was
+most thankful, for this made us able to put them both into a boarding
+school. The house was hardly fit for children, in my father's state of
+irritation and depression; and Emmie was falling into a weakly nervous
+condition, which made us anxious.</p>
+
+<p>Getting them out of the house was better for them, and was worse for
+us. Johnnie, of course, was away too—only at home in the holidays; and
+there were no gleams of brightness to help us on.</p>
+
+<p>I suppose hardly anything could have so changed my very self as that
+second year did: the long long slow months creeping on, with nothing
+to lighten them, and my father getting always worse, and the perpetual
+fear of the strain being too much for my mother, and the kind of
+helpless feeling of having no one to turn to, no one to call in! It
+seemed to crush out every bit of childishness that remained in me, and
+to kill all the nonsense, and to make life so awfully real and earnest!</p>
+
+<p>Then at last, the thing I had dreaded most came upon other troubles. My
+mother suddenly broke down, and became very very ill.</p>
+
+<p>At first, I did not even think of Juliet. We had grown so into the way
+of going on alone, and of being unable to have friends in and out,
+because of my father's state, that it seemed as if I just had to go
+on still in the same way. A week passed somehow, I hardly know how. I
+had to nurse my mother with the help of our one good-natured and very
+stupid girl; and I had to look after my father and try to keep him
+from being utterly miserable. It was just a little comfort to find him
+turning to me when he could not turn to her. But he was ordered not to
+go into her room, and I found it impossible to keep him out, and the
+excitement made her worse. Then she was in danger; and in despair, I
+thought all at once of Juliet, and wrote off a hurried letter, telling
+her how things were.</p>
+
+<p>She came off by the very first train, arriving sooner than I could have
+thought possible. And oh, the comfort I never shall forget seeing her
+walk in, with her kind capable face, and her "Why, Rhoda, how is it
+that I was never told?" I just threw myself into her arms, with one
+great sob, and she held me, and kissed me, and whispered,—</p>
+
+<p>"You poor child. But things will be better now. Why did you not
+telegraph for me sooner?"</p>
+
+<p>The difference after she came! No words could describe it. The whole
+household seemed changed, and everything began to go rightly. She sent
+at once for a trained nurse for my mother; and she undertook my father
+chiefly herself, and managed him splendidly. He had always stood out
+against having any one in the house: yet he took to Juliet the very
+first moment, and never even showed a sign of vexation at seeing her,
+though I had expected a terrible storm, because I had written without
+his leave. Juliet had such a quiet cheerful "strong" way of never
+seeming to contradict, and yet of somehow making him do exactly what
+was best for him.</p>
+
+<p>Mother was ill for a long time. She had fought so hard against the
+breakdown that when at last it came, it went on for months. And Juliet
+would not leave us. She said her duty was plain, and aunt Jessie must
+do without her for a while. Juliet did not mind what she did, or how
+much she spent for my mother. Every kind of comfort was provided, and
+the best advice was procured, and the nurse was kept on month after
+month, I do not know what it did not cost; yet Juliet never allowed
+us to feel burdened. I cannot tell how she managed; only it was all
+done cheerfully and naturally, and she was delighted to be with Mother
+again. I felt then more than ever how selfish I had been to drive her
+away from the home she loved best: and I knew at last that she "had"
+loved it best, and that my mother was far more to her and Clarissa than
+ever aunt Jessie could be. No wonder. But why did I not understand
+sooner?</p>
+
+<p>When she came to us in our trouble, she put aside all the past, and
+never showed any signs of thinking about it. There was nothing in her
+manner to remind me of the way in which I had behaved to her. I told
+her one day how sorry I was. And she answered brightly:</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, well, that is all right now, and we know one another at last;
+don't we?"</p>
+
+<p>As the months went on, my father grew still worse, but in a different
+way. The irritation and restlessness were not so bad; and a kind of
+powerlessness crept over him, almost as if he had had a slight stroke,
+though I believe it was not that really, but only the brain disease
+going on. He grew more and more shaky, and he could not walk much, and
+then he took to sleeping a great deal, and he was less and less able
+to enter into anything like conversation. He could not collect his
+thoughts, or remember things, or follow out any fixed idea.</p>
+
+<p>By that time, we knew that there was no hope of any improvement, and
+that he would go steadily down until the end. Only it was a great
+comfort that he became more placid, not so terribly excited. He quite
+lost his dislike to me—if dislike is not too strong a word—and would
+let me sit with him as much as I wished; and gradually he became quiet
+and affectionate, almost like a child in his ways. And from that he
+passed slowly into a state when he did not know any of us, and could
+not say the simplest thing clearly, and had to be taken care of as if
+he had been a baby.</p>
+
+<p>When he began to grow helpless, Juliet insisted on engaging a capable
+man-servant to look after him. She said it would kill my mother to
+attempt again what she had done, and this was true enough. Juliet gave
+us no choice, so we had to submit. When Mother was really a great
+deal better, Juliet went back to aunt Jessie for a time, but she soon
+returned to us, and stayed long. And the house was always like a
+different place when she passed through the front door.</p>
+
+<p>Those foolish days, when I thought Juliet was against me, and when I
+wanted to get rid of her at almost any cost! Oh, what a little goose I
+was!</p>
+
+<p>Well, I am making a long story of the six years. But indeed they have
+seemed long, though no part of them has been such a terrible drag as
+the first two years.</p>
+
+<p>My father became slowly worse until about a year ago, when he passed
+quietly away. None of us could wish to keep him. For months before the
+end, he had ceased to know any one, and we all felt what a joy to him
+the release must be,—Mother most of all, because she loved him most.</p>
+
+<p>The Bath house was on our hands still for nearly another year; and
+my mother was too worn and shattered to be able at first to think of
+any change. All she wanted was to keep quiet. She and I passed months
+together, seeing almost nobody, except when Juliet came to stay with us.</p>
+
+<p>Then Clarissa paid us a week's visit and she tried to rouse us up. She
+declared that the life was bad for us both, and that we ought to go
+elsewhere, and start afresh. She frightened me by saying how thin my
+mother was, and how, if I didn't look-out, she would slip away out of
+our hands altogether.</p>
+
+<p>"Your mother is three-quarters an angel already, Rhoda," she said; "but
+we don't want her to become one entirely just yet!"</p>
+
+<p>I do not believe that we "do" become angels when we die. Angels are
+surely quite different from human beings. But people often say that
+sort of thing; and I have given up arguing with Clarissa. What is the
+use?</p>
+
+<p>About that time, aunt Marian wrote, much to the same purpose. She
+asked if we had ever thought of such a thing as living in Wayatford.
+A pretty little house in High Street, almost exactly across the road,
+was vacant, and the rent was low; and there was a good day-school near,
+which would do for the twins.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa and Juliet both took up the idea; and I did not at all dislike
+it. I thought it would be nice to be near aunt Marian, and perhaps to
+see Millicent again, though I had heard nothing of her for a long time,
+and somehow our correspondence died a natural death years ago.</p>
+
+<p>So the plan came about, and everything was settled. Then the oddest
+thing happened. Aunt Jessie gave out that she was going to be married.</p>
+
+<p>Fancy—at her age!</p>
+
+<p>It was to be to a nice old widower, whom she had known many years. And
+Juliet was so curious about it. She laughed at first; and then she
+actually began to cry, and said she had no home.</p>
+
+<p>Mother said, "My dear!—" and stopped.</p>
+
+<p>And Juliet crept into Mother's arms, and whispered,—</p>
+
+<p>"Will you have me? Can we live together again? Could Rhoda put up with
+me?"</p>
+
+<p>"O Juliet! If you can put up with me!" I cried.</p>
+
+<p>And that too was arranged in less than half-an-hour. Juliet was staying
+with us when the news first came of aunt Jessie's engagement.</p>
+
+<p>We did not give up this little house, because it is so pretty and
+quaint, and it stands in such a nice garden, and the rooms are of a
+very good size. But Juliet has insisted on no end of improvements, and
+has even built an extra wing of two rooms.</p>
+
+<p>Then at last, we came, and here we have been now for nearly a fortnight.</p>
+
+<p>I have put all this into one entry, though I have not written it all in
+one day, because it is a sort of history of the last six years.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image033" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image033.jpg" alt="image033">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>ABOUT THE PAST.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>November 7th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>MR. FARRARS is still the rector of Wayatford, and Millicent is still at
+home, still unmarried. He looks about the same as when I saw him last,
+only a good deal more grey and a little more inclined to stoop. But she
+looks—oh, so much older! Some girls at twenty-seven are quite young and
+girlish, but Millicent was hardly girlish even at twenty; and now she
+is so calm and grave and middle-aged, she might be taken for almost any
+age.</p>
+
+<p>There is a look in her face as if she had gone through a great deal,
+in one way or another. I wonder if she has. I wonder if she has gone
+through one half or one quarter so much as I have. I wonder if there is
+a look of that sort in "my" face, and if not, I wonder why not.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater's name has not once been mentioned by a single person
+since I came here; and somehow I have not cared to ask about him. I
+am always such a hand at blushing just when I ought not, and a stupid
+little self-conscious feeling might make me blush, if I asked; and then
+people might imagine that I had not quite forgotten the old stupid
+fancy. I would not have anybody think that for anything.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps he is married by this time. It is very likely. If he found that
+he really had no hope of getting Millicent, it is not in the least
+likely that he would wait. I remember thinking that he might so easily
+put off for a few years, and wait till she should be free, till Amy
+should be old enough to manage the household. But men are not so fond
+of waiting; and now I begin to see what an amount of patience would be
+needed for such waiting,—now that these six long years have gone by. I
+seem to have lived through half a lifetime; and Millicent is losing all
+her girlishness, and is getting to look thin and plain and middle-aged;
+yet still Amy is only fourteen years old, a mere child, in short
+frocks, frisky and heedless.</p>
+
+<p>So I dare say I was a little hard upon him, thinking he might so very
+easily wait without minding it. Of course it would depend on the kind
+of love that he had for Millicent. I mean there is a kind of love which
+can wait, and which would choose to wait, any number of years, rather
+than lose her. But very few men love like that. Somehow I do not think
+Mr. Derwentwater is one of the few.</p>
+
+<p>Did he ever speak to Millicent, I wonder? Did he ask her to have him,
+and did she refuse? Or did he know that it was hopeless from her
+manner, and never say a word?</p>
+
+<p>Well, I suppose some day something about him will slip out, only not
+from Millicent. Nothing ever slips from Millicent; and she seems to
+me quite as reserved now as in her girlish days. Not that I have seen
+much of her yet. We are both a little shy, the one with the other, not
+exactly knowing whether to behave like friends or not. I do not think
+we have even said each other's names yet,—I mean in speaking one to the
+other.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian is precisely the same that she was, not changed in the
+least, not worse in health, and not looking a day older. She is so
+delighted to have us all here, especially my mother. It is like a new
+life to her, she says; and I am sure it is doing Mother no end of good.</p>
+
+<p>We have the twins at home again now; and they go to a day-school. At
+seven years old, they were very much alike. But now at thirteen, they
+are becoming complete opposites. Addie is the dark one, her hair has
+changed so quickly, while Emmie's is still quite fair.</p>
+
+<p>Addie is thin and sprightly, and full of fun and mischief; while Emmie
+is shy and gentle, and rather plump, and much the prettiest. They and
+Amy Farrars have struck up a friendship at once.</p>
+
+<p>But Millicent and I are only on the footing of pleasant acquaintances.
+We meet sometimes, and we are polite and agreeable, not in the least
+confidential.</p>
+
+<p>Why, indeed, should we be?</p>
+
+<p>Wayatford does not feel dull to me now, or particularly slumbrous.
+Nothing, I suppose, could be especially dull after the life we have
+lived in Bath, where we really made no friends, because of my father's
+state. If we had had old friends, we should not have given them up, but
+to make new ones was a different matter.</p>
+
+<p>Several very nice people have called this week already, and to have
+uncle Basil and aunt Marian almost opposite our front gate is a
+perpetual interest.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>November 28th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Millicent and I are drawing slowly together, finding it pleasant to
+exchange ideas. I think we begin to like one another more genuinely
+than ever in old days.</p>
+
+<p>I am often now struck with her quiet force of character, and her calm
+sensible way of looking upon things, and still more with her powers of
+mind. It is extraordinary how much she has managed to read in her busy
+life. But, after all, reading or not reading is very much a matter of
+will.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent says that from the age of fifteen she has always resolved not
+to let herself glide into the vacant state of many girls, who never
+from one year's end to another, look into any book except a novel.
+Reading has been her rest and delight; and even in her most crowded
+times, she has very very seldom allowed a whole day to pass without at
+least one quarter of an hour of it. All this of course mounts up in the
+course of years.</p>
+
+<p>Now and then, when she is talking of a favourite book, and her face
+brightens, and a little colour comes, the worn look of middle-age
+vanishes. And then I catch myself wondering whether, if Mr.
+Derwentwater were to see her at such a moment, he would not be just as
+much in love as ever.</p>
+
+<p>Has he forgotten her by this time? And where is he now? Since I came to
+Wayatford, not a human being has mentioned his name.</p>
+
+<p>His uncle, Mr. Collins, of the Park, died two years ago, and the
+property passed to a distant relative—not a person whom people here can
+like. So, in any case, I suppose Mr. Derwentwater's visits to the Park
+would cease.</p>
+
+<p>Still, if he really wished to come to Wayatford, he might of course
+manage it. There would surely be nothing to hinder him.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>December 4th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have heard something at last, and from Millicent herself!</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday afternoon we were together. I had gone in to have tea with
+her, and she was alone. We sat over the fire, without a lamp, enjoying
+blind man's holiday. At such times, one can talk more freely than in
+full light. The fire was low, and one's face could not be seen; and
+something made me speak about my visit to Wayatford more than six
+years ago. I told Millicent that I often thought now what a horridly
+disagreeable girl she must have found me.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent paused, and answered slowly: "No, not horridly disagreeable.
+That is too strong. Sometimes, in certain moods, you could be taking.
+Only, you were so very sure of yourself—"</p>
+
+<p>"So conceited!"</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose it was a form of girlish conceit."</p>
+
+<p>"And—so desperately wrapped up in myself."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, rather. It was a case of self dominant—the whole world for self,
+and self for nobody else."</p>
+
+<p>"But I didn't know it, Millicent."</p>
+
+<p>"No, of course not. Girls do not know it; or if they do, they don't see
+the unloveliness of it."</p>
+
+<p>Then, without any particular intention, I found myself saying quite
+naturally, "I always have thought it was such a 'thing' to do, that day
+of the excursion, to choose the best seat in the dog-cart, and to leave
+the other for you."</p>
+
+<p>"Why should it have been the best seat?" she asked. "And why should you
+not take it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, of course it was the best! Any one would have said so. And you
+had every right to it, and I had none. I was a mere interloper."</p>
+
+<p>"But suppose I did not wish to go in the dog-cart?"</p>
+
+<p>I looked at her dubiously.</p>
+
+<p>"The choice had been offered, and I would not take it. You were
+perfectly free to act as you pleased."</p>
+
+<p>"Perfectly free to be as selfish as I liked."</p>
+
+<p>Millicent sat gazing into the fire, and presently she stirred it, so
+that a bright flame sprang up. I could not understand her face.</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder—may I ask one thing? Don't answer if you would rather not. It
+has always been such a puzzle to me, thinking about that day. Did you
+really mind, or did you not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Did I really mind—what?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not driving in the dog-cart with Mr. Derwentwater, and all the rest?"</p>
+
+<p>There was another and a longer break.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know why I should not tell you," Millicent said at length.
+"It is not as if you were a child now. And perhaps—yes, I did mind. I
+minded that, and all of it, very much indeed. It was part of the whole
+struggle, part of the pain. One has to live through such times, but
+they are not easy. And I was so young, and I had no one to help me."</p>
+
+<p>"I was no help."</p>
+
+<p>"No," and she looked at me sadly. "Just at first, I think I had a fancy
+that you might be, but that was soon at an end. If you had been then
+like what you are now, Rhoda—!"</p>
+
+<p>"Instead of being just utterly wrapped up in myself, as I was!"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, that is all over," she responded.</p>
+
+<p>"But, Millicent, you had aunt Marian."</p>
+
+<p>"I could not speak out to her. She knew him too well."</p>
+
+<p>"And there was no way—why could he not wait?"</p>
+
+<p>"I would never have consented."</p>
+
+<p>"And I made things worse for you!"</p>
+
+<p>"For the moment, perhaps." Tears were on Millicent's eyelashes. "If it
+had been earlier or later! But the fight just then was so hard, harder
+than any one knew. I was waking up when you came to what he really
+meant, and to what I really wished, and to what I had to do. I knew I
+could not be spared from home for years and years. And though I told
+myself that the thing was impossible, still it was hard to see him
+taken by you; and I thought you were trying to win him from me. Even
+though I knew I had to give him up, I did not quite know how to stand
+that. And yet for his sake, I ought to have been glad, if he could have
+cared for anybody else."</p>
+
+<p>I was startled at the flutter which those quiet words of Millicent
+sent through me. Then it had not been all fancy on my part! She too
+had thought that he was really "taken." And I—I have felt so sure that
+I had utterly left off caring; and yet those words made me thrill all
+over. How absurd! As if it mattered now!</p>
+
+<p>"But he never did care a straw for any one but you."</p>
+
+<p>She laughed faintly.</p>
+
+<p>"I think that was for years the ruling affection, but Ernest is of
+a susceptible nature. He is always easily caught by a pretty face.
+Perhaps I ought to say 'was.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Where is he now?"</p>
+
+<p>"Abroad. When he found that things were hopeless, he said he could
+stand England no longer. They were very good to him at the Bank,—old
+friends of his family; and they found him a post on the Continent for
+three years. I suppose the three years may be extended indefinitely."</p>
+
+<p>"When did he go?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nearly four years ago. I have heard nothing of him for a long while."</p>
+
+<p>"Then he did speak out to you! Am I wrong to ask?"</p>
+
+<p>"No; I don't mind telling you now. He spoke out, and even offered to
+wait indefinitely. Of course I would not consent. I left him perfectly
+free; and in a year, he was engaged."</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent!" I could have shrieked the word.</p>
+
+<p>"Why not? He had no hope of me. And, as I say, he was susceptible."</p>
+
+<p>"And he was married!"</p>
+
+<p>"No. She died of fever, three weeks before the wedding day. Poor
+fellow!"</p>
+
+<p>"He hasn't managed to find somebody else since?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. I have heard nothing of him lately."</p>
+
+<p>"And, Millicent, you don't care!" I said wonderingly. "You don't really
+care!"</p>
+
+<p>She turned her face towards me, and spoke slowly. "There are different
+ways of caring. My line of life has always been so clear. But there are
+some losses which can never cease to be losses, and some troubles which
+can never be as if they had not existed. Don't you understand? I think
+it has killed my girlhood early. Still, I have work and happiness left.
+And if the other thing were not God's will for me, it is not my will
+for myself. I am perfectly content. Now I don't think we need say any
+more about it."</p>
+
+<p>"Suppose he came again!"</p>
+
+<p>"Suppose the stars fell!" she answered, smiling. "He is a young man
+still; and I am middle-aged, more like thirty-seven than twenty-seven!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, no!" slipped from me involuntarily; yet I have said the same thing
+to myself.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent would let me go no farther. She began to talk of other
+things, and his name was dropped. I know I shall not be allowed to
+bring it up again at present, and I must do what she wishes. But I do
+wonder—has he quite forgotten Millicent?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image034" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image034.jpg" alt="image034">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image035" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image035.jpg" alt="image035">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>WISE WORDS AND UNWISE DEEDS.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 10th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>A BITTERLY cold winter, and Emmie is so delicate as to be a perpetual
+anxiety, while Addie is the very picture of health. But for Emmie, we
+should have just now almost no cares. Of course, there is much to look
+back upon that is sad, but our little home is very happy, and we are
+making pleasant friends. My mother has not looked so well for years.
+The single anxiety is Emmie; and she is just the one about whom we
+can be most anxious of all. She is so lovable and sweet, and such an
+unselfish little darling. Every one clings to Emmie.</p>
+
+<p>Must there be always something; always a shadow in one direction or
+another; always a weight of some kind; never perfect freedom? I asked
+this question of Millicent,—perhaps impatiently, for I had been feeling
+impatient.</p>
+
+<p>"Perfect 'here'? No. Things are not meant to be perfect here."</p>
+
+<p>"One would like a little rest sometimes."</p>
+
+<p>"But this is not our rest," she answered softly. "Rest by-and-by, not
+here, not now. This is the fighting-time, the preparation-time."</p>
+
+<p>That is how she feels, and Mother, and aunt Marian. But though I have
+learnt much in the last few years, somehow I cannot yet feel myself to
+be a mere bird of passage. Perhaps I love this life too well. It is
+so much to me that I am always wanting it to be more, always craving
+for perfection. I know well enough that perfection cannot be found in
+this world, that it would not be good for me, because then I should no
+longer look up and forward and beyond. And yet I crave for it.</p>
+
+<p>The teaching comes slowly, step by step. By-and-by, I shall learn more.
+Perhaps I shall learn to feel as Mother feels. One cannot force oneself
+into a different frame of mind; one can only be willing to be taught.</p>
+
+<p>And I suppose the teaching often has to come through sorrow. I suppose
+that is the "must be." There are things that one could not possibly
+learn in any other way; only through trouble and strain and loss.</p>
+
+<p>For our characters have to be formed, that I know. And it has to be
+through pressure, just as a potter presses the clay into shape with his
+hands. If there were no pressure, there would be no beautiful shapes.
+I suppose we are all being shaped, slowly, by means of a touch here, a
+weight there, sometimes a sudden sharp blow. All through our lifetime
+on earth, we are being gradually shaped and made fit for the life of
+by-and-by.</p>
+
+<p>Yes, I see it now. And I see, too, the need for self-discipline, the
+need to gain power over self, the need sometimes to say "No" to self
+even when it is not necessary, so that one may have strength to say
+"No" effectually when it "is" necessary. And I see how, if we will
+not do this, if we will not steadily fight to gain the mastery over
+ourselves, we have to be taken in hand and dealt with sharply, for
+the curing of those faults which we might have cured ourselves by
+self-discipline.</p>
+
+<p>I see all this in myself. I have seen the faults, through being yielded
+to, grow too tough for me to conquer. And then I have felt the sharp
+discipline; and I have understood the need, and yet often I have not
+been willing. Sometimes now I am not willing.</p>
+
+<p>It is one thing to understand that one is in need of disagreeable
+medicine, and quite another thing to be willing to take it, still more
+to accept it joyfully.</p>
+
+<p>As years go on, I suppose that too becomes easier.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>February 16th, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Another thought has come to me about life's troubles and tangles.</p>
+
+<p>Things often seem so upside-down, so confused, so exactly as one would
+not choose them to be. And then the temptation arises to wonder why
+they are so, why God does not interfere and arrange differently, and
+make all straight and smooth for us. If He loved us, surely He might,
+surely He "would," when it must be so easy to Him.</p>
+
+<p>And yet all the while, it may be just because He so loves us that
+He does not put things straight. It may be just because their
+being crooked is needful, perhaps as a test, perhaps to draw out
+something in our characters which could not be drawn out in any other
+way,—absolutely "could not!"</p>
+
+<p>I often think of a little talk I had once, years and years ago, with
+Millicent. She told me that one could not possibly be patient unless
+there were something which might make one impatient. She said that if
+all one's life were smooth, and everything were just as one liked, one
+might be comfortable and contented and good-tempered, but not patient.
+For patience meant endurance, and endurance meant something which had
+to be endured.</p>
+
+<p>I did not fully see it then, but I see it now. Patience is an active
+virtue, not a passive one. It means bearing up against a strain; it
+means very often hard fighting below.</p>
+
+<p>And I suppose the same thing is true in other directions also. One
+cannot be truly good-tempered, unless there is something to be overcome
+which would naturally make one ill-tempered; one cannot be truly
+brave, unless there is something to be overcome which might naturally
+render one cowardly; one cannot be truly self-denying, unless there is
+something to be given up which would please self; one cannot in any way
+be truly victor, except through some kind of battling.</p>
+
+<p>Something in Mr. Farrars' sermon to-day has set me thinking in this
+way. He spoke of our Lord's life upon earth; and of how the trials
+and temptations and sorrows which beset Him were, if one may so say,
+partly for the perfecting of His human Character. He was made perfect
+through suffering. These things drew out or developed into active life
+those perfections which were "in" Him, but which could not have been
+manifested in any other way.</p>
+
+<p>And Mr. Farrars said that in any of us there might be the "germs" of
+patience, of self-conquest, of self-sacrifice, implanted there by God;
+but that it was only through action, through having to fight against
+the opposite tendency, that the germs could be developed into active
+life, and could be seen by all around.</p>
+
+<p>It is a wonderful thought to me that every trial, and every opposition,
+and every temptation, which may come, is really meant for a help
+heavenward. That every pull in the wrong direction is actually an
+opportunity for a step in the right direction.</p>
+
+<p>If only I could keep it always before my eyes! I think I do see now
+what Mr. Farrars meant, but one's impressions fade so fast. To-day I
+feel that it might be the worst thing in the world for me to have my
+life made smooth and placid and easy; to-morrow, as likely as not,
+the impulse will come again to fret and be discontented because life
+"cannot" be easy and smooth.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 16th, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have been reading through the last entry, and thinking seriously
+about it. On Sundays, if possible, I always try to get a quiet hour, or
+at least half-an-hour, to read and think all alone.</p>
+
+<p>What I wrote that day was true enough.</p>
+
+<p>This life only the threshold of the great Life beyond. Yes, indeed.
+It is only the schoolroom preparation-time, the testing-time, the
+training-time. And it does not truly matter in the very least whether
+or no we have what we want, but only whether we are doing exactly what
+we are meant to do, whether we are carrying out God's will and letting
+Him work His will in us unhindered.</p>
+
+<p>That is the main point,—whether we do not "hinder" Him in what He would
+do in us, and with us, and through us.</p>
+
+<p>Some people care so very much about whether they are "comfortable."
+One often hears it said as an excuse, "Oh, I don't like to be
+uncomfortable!" But isn't that childish? What does it signify whether
+we are comfortable or uncomfortable, so long as we are doing rightly,
+and not merely pleasing ourselves?</p>
+
+<p>That is how one ought to feel, and I think it is how I do feel about
+the question as a whole, in the abstract. But when the abstract comes
+down to the particular, when it isn't a matter of the general question,
+but of doing or not doing one particular thing, then I am apt to fail,
+just like other people.</p>
+
+<p>For pleasing God must mean self-denial, self-forgetfulness,
+self-effacement! And these things are hardest of all.</p>
+
+<p>The word "self-effacement" seems so perfectly to describe my mother
+and Millicent. Mother has always been ready to "efface" herself to
+any amount for the sake of others, for the sake of her husband and
+children especially. And in quite another way, Millicent lives a life
+of practical self-effacement. Both are beautiful.</p>
+
+<p>This afternoon, I have taken a resolution to make that my rule of
+life: to live for the happiness of others; to be careless whether I am
+comfortable or not, so that only I am doing God's will; to strive after
+a spirit of self-effacement, so far as the pleasing of self goes; to
+take happiness, when it comes, straight from the Hand of God, willing
+any moment to let it go; to take sorrow, when it comes, in the same
+way, straight from His hand, willing to keep it so long as He wills.</p>
+
+<p>The very thought of such a life is like having a little glimpse into
+the Beyond.</p>
+
+<p>I do not at present see any "great" way in which I shall be able to
+sacrifice myself for others. But I must try to find little ways. And
+perhaps they will be a rehearsal for something greater by-and-by.</p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 18th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>It isn't easy! I thought it would be so much easier. How one's
+resolutions do fail! But I mean to fight on.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>March 19th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa wants me soon to spend a month with her in Town. She is not
+very well; and Mr. Griffith—somehow I never can call him "John," though
+he is my cousin—has to go abroad. Clarissa does not like to leave the
+children, besides feeling unequal to travelling. So she asks me to be
+her companion, and I am delighted. I am to go just before Easter.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 21st, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have been here now for nearly a fortnight.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa is perfectly charming as a hostess. I never knew before how
+nice she could be. All these years, I have only stayed with her twice
+for three or four days, and it is two years since the last time. She
+and I fit in together so much better now.</p>
+
+<p>She is so handsome that I am quite proud of her; and she thinks of
+everything, and just lays herself out to give people pleasure.</p>
+
+<p>She is not very strong, and gets easily tired, but she has found
+friends to take me about. The last few days have been quite a rush of
+sight-seeing. I do not half like leaving her so much, as I am here to
+be her companion. She gives me no choice, however.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 22nd, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Such an unexpected thing has happened to-day!</p>
+
+<p>I was alone in the drawing-room after lunch. Clarissa had gone to lie
+down, and the children were off for their walk, and I had been out the
+whole morning so I meant to have part of the afternoon indoors. And all
+at once, when I was comfortably tucked into a corner of the sofa, with
+book and work, the door opened, and Richards announced—</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Derwentwater!"</p>
+
+<p>I don't think I blushed. I don't think I felt anything very particular
+at the first moment, beyond a sort of bewildered surprise. I stood up,
+and Mr. Derwentwater came in, bowing.</p>
+
+<p>And Richards said, glancing towards me,—</p>
+
+<p>"I will tell Mrs. Griffith, sir. She is upstairs, I believe."</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs. Griffith has gone to lie down," I said, stupidly enough; for
+Clarissa hates nothing so much as any manner of fuss about her health.</p>
+
+<p>I was noting how much he is altered—grown older and thinner, browner
+and graver. Also, he had no beard in those days, and now he has one.
+If I had not heard the name, I should hardly at the first glance have
+recognised him. And I suppose I am still more altered. People often
+tell me how much I have changed.</p>
+
+<p>"Pray do not disturb Mrs. Griffith on any account. I will leave my
+card, and call again," Mr. Derwentwater said earnestly.</p>
+
+<p>But Richards knew better than to listen to any such proposal.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image036" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image036.jpg" alt="image036">
+</figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>The door opened, and</b><br>
+<b>Richards announced—"Mr. Derwentwater!"</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p>We were left alone together, and he gave me a very puzzled look, as if
+vaguely aware that he ought to be able to claim acquaintance. I did not
+exactly help him. I sat down, asked him to do the same, and remarked in
+a careless way, "It is a long while since we met last. What a cold wind
+there is to-day."</p>
+
+<p>"Very cold. Yes—I beg your pardon—I was sure I must have seen you here
+before."</p>
+
+<p>"Here! No, I think not."</p>
+
+<p>"Then—elsewhere."</p>
+
+<p>"A long while ago, when I was a child. You would not remember me, of
+course. And I should not have known you but for the sound of your name."</p>
+
+<p>"Then we must have met at—"</p>
+
+<p>He made a pause, quite in the dark still, hoping that I would supply a
+name.</p>
+
+<p>Instead of which I only said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>This was too much for his gravity, and his face broke into a smile—just
+the old pleasant smile which captivated my childish heart all those
+years ago.</p>
+
+<p>"And you have been abroad for some time, have you not—some years?" I
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Several years; only running home for a few weeks now and then."</p>
+
+<p>"India or China?"—though I knew it was neither.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing more interesting than the Continent."</p>
+
+<p>"How tame! One would at least like to get into a fresh quarter of the
+world."</p>
+
+<p>Then Clarissa appeared. She greeted him kindly as an acquaintance, and
+would have introduced him to me but for my remark that he and I had met
+before. This stopped her; rather to his disappointment, I fancy.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa, it is plain, had no recollection of a certain small episode
+in my life. Perhaps she never even heard a whisper of it.</p>
+
+<p>I took up my work, and listened while he and she talked. And it came
+out that Mr. Griffith has some kind of connection with the Bank to
+which Mr. Derwentwater belongs. I have not known that until now.</p>
+
+<p>Evidently Clarissa has seen him from time to time when he has come
+home, but not often or much. They chatted about surface matters; and
+Mr. Derwentwater was sorry to find that he could not see Mr. Griffith;
+and Clarissa asked if he would come to dinner on Friday.</p>
+
+<p>Presently she turned to me, making some remark and saying my name.
+Almost in the same breath, she turned again to him, with an allusion to
+"my cousin, Miss Frith," having been sight-seeing all the week. I fancy
+she had detected his perplexity, and was more willing to help him out
+of it than I had been.</p>
+
+<p>A little flash of intelligence came to his face, and then I knew that
+he was examining me in a series of glances.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa went off presently to look for a letter of her husband's which
+contained information needed by Mr. Derwentwater. As the door closed
+behind her, he said, as if involuntarily,—</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I remember now. It was at Wayatford." I looked up inquiringly.
+"Had I not the pleasure of meeting you many years ago at Wayatford?"</p>
+
+<p>"When I was a child, there 'was' a Mr. Derwentwater there."</p>
+
+<p>"And there undoubtedly 'was' a Miss Rhoda Frith, unless my memory is
+very much at fault."</p>
+
+<p>Neither of us could help laughing. I have long since lost sight of
+the anger which I once felt towards him. The self which was so deeply
+injured then seems quite a different person from this present self; and
+I have not over much sympathy with her. To be sure, "his" action was
+not particularly beautiful, but he was young; and certainly I deserved
+it all.</p>
+
+<p>"My home now is in Wayatford."</p>
+
+<p>"It is—really!" His face lighted up again.</p>
+
+<p>"We have gone there to be near my aunt, Mrs. Ramsay."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah! She was a great friend of mine in those days. I am afraid our
+correspondence has languished of late. And she is as usual? It would be
+a pleasure to see her again."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why not go to Wayatford? My ties with the place are broken. The Park
+is in the hands of strangers."</p>
+
+<p>"Old ties ought not to break, if they are worth anything."</p>
+
+<p>"No; I believe you are right. Sometimes the force of circumstances
+proves too strong to be resisted."</p>
+
+<p>A rather sad look came to his face, a look I had never seen there in
+old days.</p>
+
+<p>Should I speak of Millicent? No, I thought, not unless he brought her
+name forward. He could do so if he wished. But a history, begun and
+ended, lay between the past and the present. I knew well that I, in
+Millicent's place, would hardly have been able to forgive any one who
+should mistakenly have forced my name upon him. If anybody mentioned
+her, it ought to be none other than himself.</p>
+
+<p>"Are you staying here—in this house, I mean—for any length of time?" he
+asked.</p>
+
+<p>The question was abrupt, curiously so for him, I thought. He was not
+abrupt in past days.</p>
+
+<p>"I came for a month, and I have been here a fortnight. I don't know how
+much longer my visit will really last."</p>
+
+<p>"Then I shall see you again. And you will tell me, perhaps, all about
+old friends."</p>
+
+<p>Did he mean Millicent? He said the words hurriedly, for the door
+opened, and it seemed as if he did not wish Clarissa to overhear. When
+she came in, he stood up, and nothing would induce him to sit down
+again. Clarissa read aloud the sentence in her husband's letter which
+contained the information wanted; and then he disappeared.</p>
+
+<p>I fancy the unexpected encounter had given him a little shake, rousing
+old memories. True, there has been the other girl between, and the
+sorrow of losing her; and for a while, he must have quite forgotten
+Millicent. But it is just possible that he may be inclined now to turn
+again to the thoughts of her. Why not? It would surely be happier for
+him.</p>
+
+<p>Well, he will be here to dinner on Friday; and I shall see something
+of him. Clarissa means him to take me in, for she has said so. He will
+have plenty of time to ask about old friends, Millicent included, if he
+wishes.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 23rd, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa is asking other friends to dinner on Friday, just three more,
+so as to make a nice sociable half-dozen.</p>
+
+<p>This morning we went into a shop; and she ordered for me a new evening
+dress, at her own expense, a kind of very soft white crêpe, to be made
+prettily, with black ribbons. It is to be sent home in time for Friday
+evening.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa says I shall look my best in that dress; and she has made me
+alter the way of doing my hair. She says I am so improved altogether.</p>
+
+<p>And of course that is pleasant to hear. One likes to be able to look
+nice. I asked her whether she had ever thought mine "a pussy-cat face."</p>
+
+<p>"Very decidedly so, in old days. It does not strike me now in that
+light," she answered.</p>
+
+<p>At all events, I should like to look my best on Friday.</p>
+
+<p>Not that it matters—really! I have to think of Millicent, not of myself.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 25th, Friday Afternoon.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>The dress has come home, and it is perfectly lovely. I have never had
+anything so beautiful in all my life. It is only white and black, and
+not too fussy for a quiet little dinner party, but it is so gracefully
+made, and so perfect in fit.</p>
+
+<p>Of course I put it on directly, to make sure that all was right.
+Clarissa walked round me and smiled, and said, "Yes; that will do. That
+will do very well indeed, very well indeed."</p>
+
+<p>"It 'is' pretty," I said.</p>
+
+<p>"And you are pretty in it; yes, really pretty. I am not flattering you,
+my dear. Some people look well in anything, and you are not one of
+those people. But certainly you repay one for a little trouble in the
+dressing-line."</p>
+
+<p>I was delighted to hear her say so. Yet why should I care? Does it
+really matter?—I mean in this instance particularly.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image037" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image037.jpg" alt="image037">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>OUT OF THE QUESTION!</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 26th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>YESTERDAY evening was one of the very happiest that I have ever spent
+in all my life.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa asked her husband's cousins, Mr. and Mrs. James Jervis, and
+also an old General Monk. That made the six. Mr. Jervis had of course
+to take her in, and General Monk was paired with Mrs. Jervis, and Mr.
+Derwentwater fell naturally to my share.</p>
+
+<p>I don't think it was "naturally." I believe that Clarissa arranged
+things so on purpose. But anyhow it was very nice.</p>
+
+<p>She seems so pleased that I should have met an old acquaintance in her
+house; and she says he is a very nice man and a thorough gentleman,
+with good connections and good prospects. I am half afraid she may have
+some sort of notion in her head of his perhaps taking a fancy to "me;"
+and that of course is utterly out of the question.</p>
+
+<p>Quite! Completely! Absolutely! Out of the question! For, though I
+cannot exactly say this to Clarissa, it seems to me that he almost
+belongs to Millicent. I do not really mean that he belongs to her, but
+only that, so far as I am concerned, she has a sort of first right.
+He may or may not wish still to marry Millicent. I only know that up
+to now things may not be entirely hopeless; and I know that she cares
+for him. And for me to step in between—here, out of her sight, and out
+of her reach—if such a thing were possible, which it is not; and if
+I wanted it, which I do not,—for me to step in between, and to make
+things perfectly hopeless for her!—oh, it would be too horridly base,
+too awfully mean and contemptible.</p>
+
+<p>What do I know of him? I—why, I have just seen him a few times, years
+ago, when I was almost a child. And Millicent has known him almost all
+her life.</p>
+
+<p>One could not do such a thing. It would be impossible.</p>
+
+<p>No difficulty in saying all this; matters being as they are. He and I
+are the merest chance acquaintances. He does not care a single atom
+for me, with any real caring, I mean. And I have entirely got over my
+childish feeling. He likes to see me, because I am connected with those
+old days and with Millicent. And I like to see him because—oh, because
+he belongs to my childish days too, and because he is so pleasant;
+and one always likes to meet pleasant people. Nothing more than that,
+however. Nothing more "could" be.</p>
+
+<p>I mean, in one sense it could not. Perhaps, if I chose to take the
+trouble, I might in time make him like me a little better than as a
+mere acquaintance. I cannot be sure. It is only a "perhaps." But I have
+an odd sort of feeling, when with him, that if I chose, I could make
+him care for me. Very likely it is only a fancy; perhaps even like my
+silly fancy in those old days, when all the while he was laughing at
+me, and calling me an absurd conceited child.</p>
+
+<p>And yet it was not quite only that either. For Millicent thought he was
+a little touched; and Millicent ought to have known if any one did. And
+aunt Marian thought the same; and aunt Marian is not often mistaken.</p>
+
+<p>Anyhow I do not mean to take the trouble. Why should I? What would be
+the use? If I didn't succeed, I should feel so small; and if I did
+succeed, it would be so unfair to Millicent. Besides, I don't want to
+succeed. It would be wrong. All these years she has been brave, and
+patient, and good. I feel almost as if I were here for the express
+purpose of guarding her interests.</p>
+
+<p>What if I could manage to turn his thoughts again in her direction,
+supposing that he has forgotten her?</p>
+
+<p>Why not? Of course I must be careful how I do it; but why not? I have
+made a little beginning already; and I mean to follow it up.</p>
+
+<p>Before they came yesterday evening, I was pretty well resolved not to
+mention Millicent at all, unless Mr. Derwentwater should bring forward
+her name. Somehow I did not keep to my resolution. Was it wise or
+unwise? Circumstances do sometimes alter cases,—I mean circumstances
+change, and then cases are altered. Besides, I broke through my
+resolution without meaning to do so.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater arrived early, before any of the others. And I saw
+a look of surprise in his face when I came forward, almost as if for
+a moment, he hardly knew again who it was. I could not help being
+pleased, because it "did" mean something like admiration. How silly to
+be pleased; when after all it was my clothes, not myself. And while he
+was talking to Clarissa, his eyes came wondering again and again in my
+direction; and then I was pleased again, though I knew exactly how much
+it was all worth. I had on a very pretty dress, which suited me; and he
+has a weakness for pretty things. That was the beginning and the ending
+of his admiration; yet still I was glad.</p>
+
+<p>Next to arrive was the General; and then Mr. and Mrs. Jervis appeared;
+and dinner was announced, and we all went in.</p>
+
+<p>General Monk is rather deaf, and he expected all the attention that
+Mrs. Jervis had to give. If she turned to speak to anybody else across
+the table, he could not hear what she said, and he kept repeating, "Eh?
+What? I beg your pardon. Who was it? What was that?" Till she grew
+tired of answering. So she kept her attention fixed upon him, and we
+fell into three duets of talk.</p>
+
+<p>And then, when all attempt at a general conversation was given up, Mr.
+Derwentwater observed: "I hardly wonder at myself for not recognising
+you the other day." And I knew in a moment that he had old times in his
+mind.</p>
+
+<p>"Why?" I asked. And as he did not answer, I went on, "Oh, of course
+girls alter so much, coming out of childhood."</p>
+
+<p>"Some more; some less. In excuse for my own stupidity, may I say that
+yours is a case of 'more'?"</p>
+
+<p>I felt desperately inclined to say, "Is mine a pussy-cat face still?"
+But that would not have done at all.</p>
+
+<p>"Now tell me, please, about all the old friends."</p>
+
+<p>And I gave him a whole string of particulars. First as to my uncle and
+aunt, and then as to lots of other individuals, all of whom I knew he
+had known. He didn't care a rap for a single one of them, except aunt
+Marian; and I knew this, too. But he listened politely, and tried to
+put on an appearance of interest.</p>
+
+<p>"Anybody else?" I said.</p>
+
+<p>He helped himself to a passing entrée, and suggested, "You have not
+mentioned Mr. Farrars yet."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you keep up a correspondence with him?"</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid I have been remiss. It is a long while since a letter
+passed between us."</p>
+
+<p>I told him all I could think of about Mr. Farrars. And then beginning
+with the youngest boy, I took them in turn upward, describing each more
+or less particularly, and telling what each was doing, and what were
+Mr. Farrars' plans for each. I only left out Amy and stopped short at
+Jack.</p>
+
+<p>"Thanks for the masculine side of the question," he said with a
+twinkle. "And—"</p>
+
+<p>"Amy is growing up. She is a child still, but she will soon be a woman.
+Not good-looking—oh, no, she never will be. None of them are; and none
+of them ever were, except Millicent."</p>
+
+<p>Her name slipped out unintentionally; and then the business was done.
+And in a moment, I seemed to see myself, a girl with a pussy-cat
+self-satisfied face, asking him whether he thought Millicent pretty.
+And I seemed to hear again his little laugh at the idea.</p>
+
+<p>But he did not laugh now. He gazed steadily at the table-cloth. When I
+said no more, he repeated slowly,—"Except Millicent,—yes."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't mean that she ever was exactly handsome. It was more an
+interesting face." And I was angry with myself for saying "was," not
+"is." The word seemed to strike him. He looked up at me with startled
+eyes, and said, "But she—"</p>
+
+<p>His face wore a singular expression; a kind of frightened paleness had
+come into it.</p>
+
+<p>"One may often find a face interesting that is not really handsome. And
+I am sure Millicent's is that."</p>
+
+<p>The look vanished at once; and then it flashed across me what he had
+imagined to be meant by my "was."</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent and I have begun to see a good deal of one another,—like old
+days."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, indeed!" was the only answer.</p>
+
+<p>"And I believe I am coming again to the same opinion that I came to
+then. I am beginning to think there is nobody else in the world exactly
+like Millicent."</p>
+
+<p>He said either "Oh, indeed!" or, "No, indeed!" under his moustache. I
+really could not make out which it was.</p>
+
+<p>I felt provoked with him. And yet what else could he say? He had given
+her up, and had all but been married since. Why should he be supposed
+to feel any special interest in her, or she in him? In fact, it would
+be a great impertinence on his part, if he "did" expect her to feel for
+him what she used to feel. But, I who know how things really are, I do
+want to see signs in him of not having forgotten her.</p>
+
+<p>No more passed between us about Millicent. Her name did not come up
+again; and I could not force it on him. We had a long talk on all sorts
+of subjects. And when the gentlemen came into the drawing-room later,
+he found his way to me again, and carried on the talk.</p>
+
+<p>He certainly can make himself very pleasant. I am not so much
+astonished now as sometimes I have been at the kind of fascination
+which he had for me all those years ago. Not that he fascinates me
+"now!" I am older, and I have seen more of life. But still he is
+certainly agreeable; and I enjoyed my evening immensely.</p>
+
+<p>What a pity poor Millicent could not be here. I wonder how he and she
+would suit one another now.</p>
+
+<p>Well, I shall do what I can for her when I see him again. Now that her
+name has been spoken between us, it will be easy to bring it in again.
+I shall tell him about the sort of home-life hers has been. He ought to
+be able to appreciate that.</p>
+
+<p>It was a perfectly delicious evening, and I could hardly get to sleep
+at night, thinking it all over. I cannot at all feel sure whether his
+old love for Millicent is hopelessly dead, or whether it still just
+lives and might some day wake up anew. I do not believe he could answer
+this question himself. Certainly, he wanted very much to hear about
+her; and when for one moment he almost thought I meant that she was
+dead, he was terrified,—as one would be at the thought of any one dying
+whom one loved very much.</p>
+
+<p>That surely means that he cares for her still. People do not feel so
+about the death of a mere acquaintance or even of an everyday friend.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>April 29th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Monday is Clarissa's "At Home" day; and a little before tea-time in
+came Mr. Derwentwater. I did not know that she had told him of the day,
+but it seems she did, and asked him to come if he felt inclined.</p>
+
+<p>I suppose he did feel inclined; at all events, he appeared, and stayed
+more than an hour, and was as friendly as possible. Somehow, I did not
+manage to bring up Millicent's name.</p>
+
+<p>I thought he had only a very few days in London, but that must be a
+mistake. Clarissa has asked him to lunch on Thursday, and to go with us
+to Kew afterwards; and he has made no difficulty.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 2nd, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday morning Clarissa was not well, but she would not hear of
+giving up the expedition to Kew. She sent for a little Miss Splice, a
+former governess of hers and Juliet's who lives near, a kind little
+trotting elderly person with very few words at command, and always
+ready to extinguish herself for Clarissa's sake. And she went with Mr.
+Derwentwater and me to Kew.</p>
+
+<p>I ought to have been sorry that Clarissa could not have the pleasure,
+but somehow I was not sorry at all. If Clarissa had been there, Mr.
+Derwentwater must have attended to her a good deal. Miss Splice did
+not seem to wish for any attention. She had nothing to say, and she
+evidently liked much best to be left to herself, free to enjoy the
+river and the views. We were always leaving her behind, or losing
+sight of her; and she never seemed to mind, but always turned up again
+placidly at the right time.</p>
+
+<p>It was such a beautiful day! I had no idea before what a perfectly
+delightful place Kew is.</p>
+
+<p>Not that I learned very much about all the different kinds of foreign
+plants. There did not seem to be time; we found so much to talk about.</p>
+
+<p>Somehow, one can talk to certain people as one cannot possibly talk
+to others. And Mr. Derwentwater is one of those people. He is so
+attentive, and polite, and kind, and he shows such an interest in
+everything that one says. In those old days he was nice, but now he is
+very much nicer.</p>
+
+<p>And I talked to him about Millicent—ever so long. I was determined
+that I would. We found a seat under a tree; and Miss Splice nodded
+comfortably off to sleep; and I thought that was a good opportunity.
+I brought in Millicent's name somehow,—I do not know how,—and I began
+talking about her almost recklessly. I was determined that I "would." I
+told him how very very good and devoted she was; and how she had lived
+for her father and sister and brothers; and how much they would all owe
+to her always; and how hard she had worked; and how brave and cheerful
+she had always been; and how everybody in the place looked up to her;
+and how she had read and studied even in her busy life and had kept
+herself up to the mark; and a great deal more than this. I just poured
+it all out, not waiting for him to speak; and I felt my face grow warm
+with excitement.</p>
+
+<p>I was not looking up at him, but away among the trees, seeing a picture
+of Millicent and her self-denying life. And all at once it came across
+me that he had not said a single word for ever so long. I had been
+talking so hard that I had not even noticed his silence.</p>
+
+<p>And I stopped short, and turned towards him suddenly, to see if he were
+listening. And he was looking at me—</p>
+
+<p>I don't know what he meant,—in the very least! I only know that nobody
+has ever looked at me in exactly the same way before. He took his eyes
+away quietly, as soon as they met mine; and I could not say another
+word. My heart started off beating at such a pace that I was hardly
+able to breathe.</p>
+
+<p>It must have been that he agreed with me, and liked to think of that
+brave self-forgetting life of hers. Yes, it must have been that, of
+course. He looked so earnest and intent, so interested. But why did he
+not say what he felt? Why did he not tell me how much he liked to hear
+about her?</p>
+
+<p>There was a long pause, a kind of dead pause everywhere and in
+everything. It felt as if the whole world had come to a stand-still.
+Even the very birds seemed to stop singing, and the leaves to stop
+rustling. I never knew anything like it before. I could hear my own
+heart beating, like a big drum; and I was afraid he would hear it too.
+Then the leaves began to rustle again, and a chaffinch overhead started
+his short little song. And then I laughed and tried not to seem to know
+how my cheeks were burning; and I said,—</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid you will think it a case of girlish raptures."</p>
+
+<p>"Not at all," he answered gravely. "It does you credit, as much
+as Millicent." Then another pause. "But you know I am pretty well
+acquainted with her character. She always had a very strong sense of
+duty."</p>
+
+<p>And that was all he had to say.</p>
+
+<p>I ought to have been vexed, angry with him for Millicent's sake. But
+I could not be. I was not angry at all. I could not make myself so. I
+could only remember that look of his which I had met so unexpectedly;
+and the very thought of it made me flutter all over. For it was a look
+which somehow seemed to belong to "me," not to Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>What nonsense! I am not going to let myself be taken in a second time.
+I am not going to allow myself to fall into any absurd notions.</p>
+
+<p>He belongs to Millicent, or if he does not, he ought. I am only
+the merest acquaintance, and I have no right to come between. No
+right whatever. Nothing more than the merest acquaintance,—while
+Millicent—but of course he cares for her. He could not help it, knowing
+her as he does. If he is left to himself, he will turn to her soon,
+quite naturally.</p>
+
+<p>And I have to leave him alone; not to do anything which might perhaps
+for a little while turn his thoughts away from her.</p>
+
+<p>I believe he fancies, as a good many men do, that one woman cannot
+possibly praise another. And so he was astonished to hear me praise
+Millicent heartily.</p>
+
+<p>That was what it all meant. Well, he shall be astonished again. I will
+certainly bring up her name as often as I have a chance.</p>
+
+<p>But oh, it "was" a lovely day, a perfect day all through. Like June for
+warmth, and like—I don't know what—for pleasantness.</p>
+
+<p>I could not help thinking of that long-past excursion, and the delights
+of it. But I hope I am not so silly now as I was then, fancying all
+sorts of things to be meant that are not really meant.</p>
+
+<p>This time I cannot be taken unawares. I have my eyes wide open, and I
+know what I am about. I know what I have to do, too, which is more.
+I have to think of Millicent, not of myself. I have to care for her
+interests, not for my own.</p>
+
+<p>And if I keep clearly in mind all the time exactly what I have to do, I
+do not see how I can be taken by surprise.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image038" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image038.jpg" alt="image038">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_19">CHAPTER XIX.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>AND YET!—</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 5th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>CLARISSA was pouring out tea this afternoon, when a front door bell
+rang, and she said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Derwentwater, I suppose."</p>
+
+<p>I was angry with myself, for I knew my colour went up, and I knew she
+saw it.</p>
+
+<p>Instead of Mr. Derwentwater, it proved to be only a note; nothing in
+particular.</p>
+
+<p>"So I was wrong for once," she observed, smiling. "A natural mistake.
+He has not been to-day."</p>
+
+<p>"Clarissa! As if he came every day!"</p>
+
+<p>"Not quite every day," she answered tranquilly. "Only about five times
+in seven days."</p>
+
+<p>"There has always been something—"</p>
+
+<p>"My dear, if a man wishes to do a thing, does he ever fail to find
+'something' by way of a reason?"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course he thinks yours a pleasant house to come to."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course he does—when somebody is here. He never did before."</p>
+
+<p>This would not do at all. I was getting much too red to be comfortable,
+but I put down my work, and faced Clarissa.</p>
+
+<p>"It is quite a blunder of yours," I said; "altogether a blunder. It is
+not in the very least as you think. Please don't say such things."</p>
+
+<p>She laughed quietly, with a sound full of meaning in her laugh.</p>
+
+<p>"Please don't. You really are mistaken! I know what I am saying. I know
+a great deal more about him than you do. And I know why he likes to
+come."</p>
+
+<p>"So do I, my dear! An old fancy revived, isn't it?"</p>
+
+<p>The words took me by surprise. I had no idea that she knew so much.</p>
+
+<p>"Sisters hear everything of course." She read my face in a moment. "And
+we are like sisters. Don't be vexed. It is only natural. Of course I
+know; and of course I understand."</p>
+
+<p>"But you don't! You don't know or understand in the very least. It
+is not 'me.' It never was 'me.' It is somebody else. You don't know
+anything about that; and I do. I can't tell you particulars. But I
+assure you it is only because I know somebody else, and because he
+likes to come and talk over old days."</p>
+
+<p>"If so, more shame for him!" Then another laugh. "My dear child, you
+have an extraordinary and romantic belief in masculine constancy. That
+is clear."</p>
+
+<p>Did I really, down in my heart, believe what I said?</p>
+
+<p>"I can't tell you more. I can't explain. But if you knew—"</p>
+
+<p>"I know all about that old affair. Millicent Farrars you mean, of
+course. He was a good deal in love with her, off and on, I believe,
+years ago; on, when they were together; and off, when he happened to
+come across a prettier face elsewhere. A thing he might easily do,
+since at her best, she never was pretty. You need not flame up so
+fiercely. I am not blaming him particularly. He is a man; and in those
+days, he was a very young man. He isn't young now—to the same extent.
+And he is exceedingly agreeable. But as for Millicent Farrars, you had
+better give up that notion once and for all."</p>
+
+<p>"What notion?"</p>
+
+<p>"That Mr. Derwentwater is in love with her. It is an error. He was
+once, perhaps—or at all events, he thought himself so, which comes to
+much the same thing for the time. Since then he has been engaged, and
+he would have been married, but for the girl's death."</p>
+
+<p>"People sometimes go back to an early love."</p>
+
+<p>"Very occasionally, perhaps. Mr. Derwentwater will not go back to his
+early love for Millicent Farrars."</p>
+
+<p>She spoke in a meaning voice, and it seemed to bring back that look of
+his on Thursday, which at the time I did not understand, and which I
+do not now understand. And my heart began thumping again, and a sound
+like singing wine into my ears. But I would not be beaten. I said
+resolutely,—</p>
+
+<p>"I believe he 'will!'"</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa looked me all over.</p>
+
+<p>"The child is actually trembling." And she came and sat down by
+my side. "You dear little goose! As if you or I could control Mr.
+Derwentwater's likings."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course nobody can. But I do hate to have silly ideas put into my
+head. And if you knew Millicent as I do—how good and brave she has
+been, and how she refused him, just for the sake of her father and
+brothers—"</p>
+
+<p>"And how much she cares for Mr. Derwentwater still, do you mean,
+Rhoda?" I would not answer. "Well, take care! If 'I' were Millicent,
+I should not like to have my name thrust forward where it might be
+unwelcome, or even where it might be received with indifference. Nor
+should I like to have the suggestion made that perhaps I cared for
+him still, when he had left off caring for me. One woman ought to be
+the guardian of another woman's secret in such a case. You should be
+careful. To my mind, it is very clear whom Mr. Derwentwater is disposed
+to like at this present moment! . . . Any number of girls may refuse
+him if they choose,—supposing that he asks them. But fifty refusals
+would not drive him to seek Millicent, if he cares for her no longer."</p>
+
+<p>"He could not be so fickle—"</p>
+
+<p>"Fickle! The man asked her to marry him, and she declined. She was free
+from that hour, and so was he. My dear, you can't change nature. There
+'are' men, no doubt, who would have waited for her through any number
+of years, and who would have taken her in the end, no matter how much
+she might have gone off. Don't be angry; she 'is' gone off, and there
+is no denying it. And Mr. Derwentwater would be the first to perceive
+the fact. And he is not one of those men who can wait interminably. It
+is not his nature."</p>
+
+<p>"A nice look-out for his wife, if he ever gets one,—unless he finds
+somebody who never can become 'passée.'"</p>
+
+<p>"That is a different matter altogether. When once she is his wife, she
+becomes useful and necessary, and he learns to value her for something
+more than a pretty complexion or a dainty nose. Romance passes then
+into prosaic everyday life."</p>
+
+<p>"You are enough to keep one from ever marrying!" I exclaimed.</p>
+
+<p>Whereat she kissed me, and replied, "Don't be a little goose, my dear.
+And don't distress yourself because I have talked nonsense."</p>
+
+<p>Did she mean it or any of it as nonsense? I made my escape, and had a
+cry upstairs—what about I could not have told, and I am sure I cannot
+tell now.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 7th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>My visit has lengthened out so much that Mother wants me at home again.
+Juliet goes to aunt Jessie next week, and then I shall be really
+needed. But Clarissa will not hear of my leaving before the 15th.</p>
+
+<p>Ought I to insist? I cannot see ahead; but it seems to me that I am
+in a strong current which is carrying me on. Ought I to get out of it
+and refuse to be carried any farther? Can I resist if I stay here? Is
+Clarissa right, and is there no need to resist?</p>
+
+<p>I begin to know now at least "what I wish." But there is the thought of
+Millicent. Ought I to let myself be drawn on?</p>
+
+<p>And what if it all means really nothing? How can I be sure? I seem to
+be sure of nothing. It is all bewilderment.</p>
+
+<p>He came yesterday to dinner, and again to-day to tea. Either Clarissa
+asks him, or he makes some excuse. And—I cannot help enjoying the
+intercourse. I cannot "help" believing in him.</p>
+
+<p>It seems as if he liked me to talk about Millicent; yet is it for her
+sake? That is the question which I cannot answer. It may be, or it may
+not be. How can I tell?</p>
+
+<p>If only I were at home—not here—with Millicent at hand. I should not
+then feel as if I were wronging her so fearfully. It would all be open,
+and in her sight. Nobody would be deceived or taken in. Now it is all
+going on, away from her, out of her sight; and she not knowing, not
+dreaming.</p>
+
+<p>If only I had never made her tell me that she cared for him! Things
+would be so different then.</p>
+
+<p>Why should I not decide to go home this week—at once? My mother would
+be delighted, and Clarissa could not prevent me. She could not prevent
+it, if my mind were made up.</p>
+
+<p>There is no reason why I should not—except that I cannot. My mind is
+not made up, and I cannot make it up. I seem to have no power to "will"
+it.</p>
+
+<p>If I went, that would put things right. If he cared truly for me, he
+could come after me. There would be nothing to hinder him. But does
+he care?—That is the question. I cannot tell; I do not know. My going
+might make all the difference. I mean, if he is not quite sure, it
+might help him to forget, and be the ending of all. That is what I
+ought to wish, for Millicent's sake, but, oh, I do not wish it! I
+cannot wish it. I dread any such ending. I only do not wish to have
+seemed to do anything underhand towards poor Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>Somehow I cannot resolve to take the one step which might put things
+straight! It might not; yet I wish I could resolve to take it: and I am
+not able.</p>
+
+<p>I do not let myself think—hope—expect; but all the while I know I am
+doing it. I cannot hide any longer from myself what he is to me. If he
+is in the room, I see everything he does; I seem to feel even what he
+is thinking. When he is away, all looks blank. Is my whole life to be
+blank for the want of him?</p>
+
+<p>For Millicent's sake!</p>
+
+<p>Oh, if only I did not know!!</p>
+
+<p>Lately I was wishing so much to live a life of self-sacrifice. It
+seemed then all easy and beautiful. But now I see the difficulty. It
+would be like rending myself in half to give him up! Give him up! How
+can I tell whether he really wants me? I only know that if I had the
+choice, I could not do as Millicent once did. I could not. I could not.</p>
+
+<p>Am I then utterly weak and selfish?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 10th, Saturday Evening.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Still here, and still drifting on! Every hour fighting feebly, but
+feeling myself powerless. Yesterday I actually wrote a note, telling my
+mother I would come home to-day. I addressed and stamped it, and left
+it in my room. Then Mr. Derwentwater came in; and when he was gone, I
+threw my letter on the fire, stamp and all. I "could not" send it off.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa is so pleased and satisfied. And I am neither. At times
+there is a great joy in my heart; and at other times when I think of
+Millicent, I am wretched.</p>
+
+<p>It is not that I think Mr. Derwentwater is not free, perfectly free.
+How could he be anything else? It is only a feeling, which I cannot put
+aside, cannot get over, that I am wronging Millicent. Knowing all I do
+know, it seems to me as if this state of things ought to have been an
+impossibility. And it has not been. I am angry with myself, while yet I
+cannot for a moment wish anything to be different. If only I could have
+let Millicent know but how can I? It is only feeling, not certainty.
+I have nothing yet really to build upon. Only I think—I do think—I
+believe he likes me. Is "like" the word? But what will Millicent say,
+when she hears,—if it ever comes to anything, and she does hear?</p>
+
+<p>At present, they know nothing at home. Even my mother does not guess. I
+have said nothing, and I know Clarissa has not. She is much too anxious
+not to "spoil" what she calls "the march of events."</p>
+
+<p>I think I know why I am unhappy. It is because, looking back, I feel
+that I have not been perfectly true to Millicent. Not perfectly true, I
+mean, to her cause. I have not done my very best, as I said to myself
+that I would do, to win him back to her. I have tried hard to make
+myself winning and pleasant; and the more I saw he liked me, the more
+I have tried. And when I have talked about her, it has only been as a
+sort of salve to conscience, done in such a way as to make him think of
+me, not of her.</p>
+
+<p>Yes, I see it all now. I would not let myself see it before. And I
+despise and hate myself for it; yet still I go on. There seems to be no
+way of drawing back.</p>
+
+<p>It may be too late. If the mischief is done, I cannot expect to undo
+it. Drawing back then would only make him unhappy, and would not make
+Millicent happy.</p>
+
+<p>But if not, if it is not too late, if he is still wavering—and how can
+I tell that he is not?—ought I not to act? Ought I not to go home at
+once, and so give Millicent a chance? That at least would leave him
+time to think. He might find then that this is only a little passing
+fancy, and that his real love all the time is for Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>O no, no, how can I wish it? How can I bear to think of such a thing?</p>
+
+<p>But if it is right; if I ought—for Millicent's sake?</p>
+
+<p>Well, I almost think I will do that. Yes, I will go home on Monday
+instead of Thursday. I will write, and tell my mother to expect me; and
+then I will tell Clarissa that it is all settled, and that she need not
+say one word, because it has to be.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 12th, Monday Evening.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have not gone home. I did post the letter; and then I told Clarissa,
+feeling very wretched, and she laughed at the idea, and I gave in quite
+tamely, without a struggle. And a second letter was posted, telling my
+mother that I would keep to the original plan.</p>
+
+<p>So my resolution has failed, and I know that I have been beaten in the
+light. For though it may not be exactly wrong to stay, yet I do think
+that it would have been better and braver to go home.</p>
+
+<p>It is a terrible thing that one should have this power of choosing for
+oneself; that one should be perfectly free to go or not to go, when so
+much of other people's happiness may hang on what one decides, and yet
+that one's will should be paralysed.</p>
+
+<p>Is it really paralysed? If I prayed to be able to act—but I do not
+"want" to go home. I do not "want" to be able to decide just in the
+face of my own wishes. I only want not to have an uneasy conscience
+about Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>He has not been in to-day, and that makes me glad that I am not going
+yet,—for it might have meant not seeing him again.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 14th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I am not to go home! The matter is taken out of my hands. Addie has
+sickened with scarlatina; and I am told to stay here.</p>
+
+<p>If I had gone earlier, as I thought of doing, I should be there, on the
+spot, able to help my mother. Now she is alone, for Juliet had left
+just before Addie fell ill. And Mother will not hear of any one going
+now, because of the infection. What if Emmie takes it too? She is so
+delicate.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater is coming in this evening, to say good-bye, because he
+expects me to be off to-morrow; and he said yesterday that he should be
+off himself on Friday. I do not know where he is going. Will he keep to
+the plan?</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa is glad that I am not off so soon. But I have no gladness. I
+am anxious about mother and the twins, and I cannot think happily of
+Millicent, and I feel like a soldier who has turned his back on the
+enemy. Is it not something like that? How differently I should feel, if
+I were at home, if I had followed that voice in my heart, which told me
+I "ought" to decide and to go. If only I had done so!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image039" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image039.jpg" alt="image039">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image040" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image040.jpg" alt="image040">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_20">CHAPTER XX.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>INEXPLICABLE.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 15th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>SUCH a strange thing has happened! Mr. Derwentwater never came in at
+all yesterday evening. There was rain, certainly, but he does not mind
+rain.</p>
+
+<p>When he first spoke of calling, Clarissa asked him to dinner. He said
+he had promised to dine with an old aunt of his, but he would be free
+by half-past eight, and he would walk on here. Clarissa remarked, "Then
+we are sure to see you!" And he replied, "Quite sure!"</p>
+
+<p>And after all, he never appeared, though he expected me to be leaving
+to-day. He could not have heard of my change of plans. Nobody knew it
+who might have told him. Something may have happened to keep him away.
+But no message has arrived, no note, no explanation.</p>
+
+<p>One never can tell beforehand how people will behave. I felt so certain
+of him. It did not so much as come into my mind that he could fail. My
+last evening—or, at least, he believed it to be my last. And Clarissa
+had no more doubt than I had. She said after dinner, "When somebody
+turns up, I shall find an excuse for absenting myself." I told her not
+to talk nonsense, and she said, "Is it nonsense? My dear, I know what I
+am saying. People do not care for witnesses to good-bye scenes."</p>
+
+<p>And he never came. Clarissa began to look surprised: and then she
+remarked on his being late, and wondered if the old aunt were keeping
+him. And I said nothing: but a kind of cold dread crept over me. And
+half-hour after half-hour went by, and still there were no signs of
+him, and at last it was hopelessly late.</p>
+
+<p>"Something has prevented him, evidently." Clarissa tried to speak
+lightly, but I could see that she was worried. "We shall have an excuse
+by the morning post."</p>
+
+<p>I, too, hoped for that. But none came. Not a word has reached either of
+us through the whole day.</p>
+
+<p>It is very, very strange. Does he really care so little? And have I
+cared too much? It comes over me with a sharp terror. Have I allowed
+myself to feel too much? Have I fancied that he meant more than he does
+mean?</p>
+
+<p>I thought myself so safe. I felt so certain that I could never repeat
+that mistake. I thought I had learnt so severe a lesson in the past.
+Has it all been thrown away, and have I made the same blunder over
+again? Only this time it would be much worse.</p>
+
+<p>A post-card has come to say that Addie is better, and going on nicely.
+It is not at all a bad attack. So I am not anxious about her: and I
+cannot get out of my head the strange thought that after all—after all
+that has passed, after all that has been said—he should have stayed
+away just because of a little rain, or for no reason whatever, from
+what he believed to be a farewell call.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 16th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Derwentwater has not been; not even to ask whether I have
+really gone, or if any one has heard from me since. One would have
+expected—but what is the use of expecting anything? It only means
+disappointment.</p>
+
+<p>And to-day he will be off himself—at least, I suppose so. He talked
+of going. I shall not see him again—till when! I shall not even hear
+from him. If he has not cared to write or to send a message these first
+days, why should he do so later? I am feeling more and more how utterly
+I may have been mistaken in fancying that he cared particularly about
+me. Has it really been all along, as I used to declare without truly
+meaning it, that he only liked to be with me because I was Millicent's
+friend? If it were so—my heart seems to go down like a lump of lead at
+the very idea! For if he does not care, I do—oh, so terribly! My whole
+life's happiness seems to be just wrapped up in him. I hate and despise
+myself that it should be so—if he has not given me reason—and yet I
+cannot help it. I can think only of him; nothing but him all day long
+and nearly all night long; only of him! And if he is not thinking of
+me—. But I do not intend to let myself be sure yet.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa says nothing much. At first, she remarked on his
+non-appearance, and I tried to pass off her words, as if it were of
+no consequence. But I know she saw and understood. And now she does
+not allude to him, which is not her way, because she is as a rule
+outspoken. She is only particularly kind to me, and I wish she would
+not be. It makes me more afraid, because I think she sees, and is
+afraid. I wish she would behave exactly the same as usual; I wish
+everything would go on as if nothing had happened.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 17th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Only three days since first I heard of Addie's illness; since I was
+so happy! I can hardly believe it. It feels like an age—almost like
+a lifetime. The hours will not pass, do what I may. I cannot tell
+how to get through them, or what to do with myself. Not that it was
+unmixed happiness, even then. But I did think that he cared for me, and
+now my hope is broken down; it is all gone. Now I believe him to be
+indifferent; and everything else is tiny by comparison. All my worries
+about Millicent—what would they matter, if only I could be sure of him?</p>
+
+<p>And yet I know they "do" matter! I know nothing matters more in the
+long run than whether one is doing rightly or no.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 18th, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>If I had but gone home when it looked to me like the right thing to
+be done! Was it that guidance was sent, and that I would not listen
+or obey? For days I had such a strong clear sense in my mind that I
+ought to decide on returning to Wayatford. If only I had gone when I
+could! Then at least I should not be here now, waiting in vain, hearing
+nothing of him.</p>
+
+<p>I wonder if that sort of very clear "ought" in one's mind should be
+always invariably followed. It might be a mistaken idea; or, on the
+other hand, it might mean direct guidance. How can one tell which it
+may be? But something within me says that it can never be rightly
+resisted. Better, surely, to obey even a mistaken conscience than to go
+against it. I see that plainly enough now. And the worst of the matter
+is that I saw it before, if only I would have acknowledged the fact to
+myself. Besides, why should my conscience have been mistaken?</p>
+
+<p>It seemed to me at the time as if I could not yield—could not resolve
+to do what I believed was the right thing to be done. But I might have
+resolved, if I had prayed to be able; and if I was not willing, I might
+have prayed to be made willing.</p>
+
+<p>I keep wandering round and round in the same lines, going over and over
+the same thoughts.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 19th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Addie is much better, and is getting on nicely. There is, of course,
+still the fear that somebody else may take it, and quarantine has to be
+kept up, but that is all.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>Same day, evening.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Another strange thing happened this afternoon. I had been to a shop
+just round the corner to get something for Clarissa. She is perpetually
+trying now to send me on little errands, and of course I know why, and
+it does no good. An omnibus went by, overtaking me, and I happened to
+look up. And there on the top, seated with his back towards me, was Mr.
+Derwentwater.</p>
+
+<p>I am not mistaken. It was himself. I could not make a mistake, even
+though I did not see his face. There was no possibility of a mistake.
+He did not see me—at least, not while I was looking. He might have seen
+me from behind, and then have turned away on purpose. That thought has
+come to worry me since.</p>
+
+<p>So he has not left Town, after all. He has been here all the while. I
+wonder if Clarissa knows this. Somehow I cannot help fancying that she
+does. I thought I would ask her; but when I got indoors, I had no power
+to do so. I dared not trust myself. I have to keep up—I must try to
+seem indifferent. But oh, it is hard! Nobody knows how hard.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 20th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Another strange thing! I have had a letter this morning from my mother;
+and she actually speaks of Millicent being up in Town last week!</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa insisted on the letter being burnt, as soon as I had read it
+through. She is so afraid of infection for the children. I had just to
+run my eyes hurriedly once to the end, and then to put it on the fire.
+And I was so vexed afterwards not to be able to read it more carefully
+a second time.</p>
+
+<p>The idea of Millicent being in London takes me utterly by surprise.
+There is no reason why she should not be; only Millicent does not go
+about paying many visits like other people. And of course there is no
+reason why I should have heard of her coming any sooner than this,
+because Millicent and I do not keep up a close correspondence. Indeed,
+we have not written to each other for some weeks. But the news came
+upon me strangely. I felt bewildered, and I did not quite take in all
+that Mother said about it. Clarissa was talking as I read, wanting to
+know how Addie was, and telling me to make haste. And then she hurried
+and fussed, and would give me no peace till the sheet was burnt.</p>
+
+<p>And as I watched it shrivelling up, the thought darted into my
+mind—what if Millicent and Mr. Derwentwater met last week? What if that
+was the reason for his never coming to say good-bye? And I would have
+given anything—anything—to go through the letter a second time, just to
+make sure that I had not missed over some little word which might have
+told me more.</p>
+
+<p>I stood by the fireplace in a dream, trying to remember exactly what
+my mother had said. Millicent had been to stay—where? Some name was
+mentioned, but it would not come back to me, and it will not now. The
+Farrars have relatives in London, I believe, though I know very little
+about them. But Mr. Derwentwater may know. And what could have brought
+her up to Town so suddenly? And is she still here? I "think" Mother
+spoke only in the past tense—of a visit last week, not this week—but I
+do not feel sure.</p>
+
+<p>And suppose he has seen her! And suppose the old feelings have been
+wakened up again! The very idea turned me sick as I stood looking into
+the fire. There was a time when I could have been glad to think this;
+but not now. Oh, not now.</p>
+
+<p>"What is the matter with you?" Clarissa asked.</p>
+
+<p>I went back to my seat at the table, trying to look as usual. "I am all
+right," I said. "Only I think you might let me read Mother's letters in
+quiet."</p>
+
+<p>"So I would, if it were not for the children." To herself, I heard the
+faintest possible murmur, "That would not turn you so white." But I
+paid no attention.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 21st, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Another letter, this time from aunt Marian. No allusion in it to
+Millicent's London visit, only she speaks of seeing her yesterday
+morning; so at all events Millicent is at home again now. But she has
+been in Town. That seems certain.</p>
+
+<p>Aunt Marian sends a message from my mother. I am to stay here longer,
+if I particularly wish it; otherwise, I am to go back, and to sleep
+at aunt Marian's for a few days until our house is counted safe. It
+can be whichever I prefer, and whichever may be the most convenient to
+Clarissa.</p>
+
+<p>Has Clarissa said anything in writing home which may have suggested
+this?</p>
+
+<p>What shall I do? For some reasons I long to get away, and yet there
+is the uncertainty. Suppose that he was prevented that evening by
+something he really could not help; and suppose that he has not the
+least idea of my being still here. It may be so—even now. He may not
+have caught sight of me, when he passed on the top of the omnibus. He
+may be intending to call one day very soon, and to ask about me. Or—he
+"may" mean to run down to Wayatford. In that case, it would be better
+if I were there. And yet he is so likely to call here first, and I
+might be just gone.</p>
+
+<p>If he has seen Millicent, and if the past is coming up again, my
+going or staying can make no sort of difference. But still—still—I do
+not know—nobody knows. It is all a mystery. And how to go home, not
+knowing—that is the difficulty. It almost seems to me that I cannot do
+it, cannot bear it. While I am still here, I feel that perhaps all is
+not quite hopelessly at an end. Once back in Wayatford, I shall feel
+the whole thing to be over.</p>
+
+<p>I fancied Clarissa would settle the matter by insisting that I must
+stay. But when I showed her the letter, she did not; and that has made
+me more hopeless than anything else. For she is generally so confident;
+and she has been all through so ready to encourage my remaining.</p>
+
+<p>It looks almost as if she knew more than I know. And yet I cannot,
+dare not, ask. I cannot trust myself. I am often on the verge of a
+breakdown—hardly able to hold myself in.</p>
+
+<p>"What would you like, Rhoda?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think it matters much either way," though I felt that it did
+matter.</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad to keep you; no need to tell you so. But for yourself—the
+question is, what may be best?"</p>
+
+<p>I found myself saying, almost without intention,—"Perhaps I had better
+go."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I think so really," she answered, to my surprise. "My dear child,
+don't be hurt. I mean for your sake,—not for mine. The longer you stay,
+the better, so far as I am concerned. But for some reasons,—it might be
+the more dignified plan."</p>
+
+<p>My face blazed; and then all the colour went, and everything seemed
+hazy.</p>
+
+<p>"Why—Rhoda!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I dare say,—I don't know,—yes, I'll go," was all I could utter.</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa spoke out suddenly, dropping all pretence at reserve, and
+taking it for granted that we both had the same thought in our minds.</p>
+
+<p>"And don't make up your mind too soon. It is best not. He may seem to
+us to be behaving disgracefully,—and I am very much afraid that he is
+'not' what I have thought him. But all the same, we don't absolutely
+know."</p>
+
+<p>One little sentence in her speech seemed to take precedence of all the
+rest. I struggled to get out a "Why?"</p>
+
+<p>She repeated the word questioningly.</p>
+
+<p>"Why—afraid?" I had no voice to say more.</p>
+
+<p>"He 'might' have been prevented from calling that evening; one cannot
+be sure yet." But I knew that she had something more in her mind.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think he has left Town?" I asked.</p>
+
+<p>"He meant to do so."</p>
+
+<p>"He has not, and you know it!" I spoke passionately. "Why have you not
+told me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why should I? That of itself proves nothing. My dear, you can only
+wait and have patience. It may be a mere passing tangle. Only, perhaps,
+on the whole, it is better for you to wait at Wayatford than here. Do
+you not think so?"</p>
+
+<p>I could only murmur a "Yes." My voice was all but past control.</p>
+
+<p>"Suppose you take a turn in the Square garden. The air will do you
+good, and by-and-by we can discuss plans."</p>
+
+<p>I was glad to rush away and come up here. And I had a hard fight to
+keep down the tempest of tears that wanted to have way. But I did
+manage to conquer; and I even wrote a line to Mother, saying I would
+come home at once. And then I took out my journal and wrote all this.
+It seems a relief to write things down. And now I am going out into the
+garden, with a book, to try to forget.</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image041" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image041.jpg" alt="image041">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_21">CHAPTER XXI.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>TANGLED STILL.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 22nd, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>THINGS are all so changed. Everything is quite, quite different. And I
+do not feel like the same Rhoda.</p>
+
+<p>It is another earth, another sky, another London! The very sunshine is
+altered. And all because "I" am so different.</p>
+
+<p>One little hour did it all.</p>
+
+<p>I left my letter to Mother lying on my table,—it was just a scrawl,
+saying I would go to aunt Marian's to-morrow—and I went downstairs.
+Perhaps the writing in my journal had been a relief—an outlet to my
+feelings, instead of tears,—and yet I am sure that I did not feel the
+worse for it. Clarissa was standing in the hall as I passed. She said,
+"Not gone out yet?" And then she looked in my face, and murmured, "You
+poor little thing!"</p>
+
+<p>That finished me off. There are times when one can just keep going, and
+when the least tiny touch of sympathy turns the scale the wrong way.</p>
+
+<p>I did not say a word in answer, simply because I could not. All the
+struggle upstairs went for nothing.</p>
+
+<p>I hurried out into the front garden, and slipped away into my favourite
+corner, a seat amidst clumps of bushes, hidden from everybody. I knew I
+was pretty certain to find it deserted at that time of the day.</p>
+
+<p>The garden itself was nearly empty, and nobody came near me. I could
+hardly have been more alone, deep in the country.</p>
+
+<p>I did open my book and try to read, but it was useless. And I tried not
+to think, but that was no use either, because nothing could stop me
+from "feeling." If only Clarissa had not said anything!—But that one
+touch of pity had settled the matter. Tears would not be held back any
+longer. They came streaming in a kind of slow torrent. I have never
+cried so before. It was like being held in the grasp of something
+outside myself; and I had no power to overcome. I could only just hold
+down the fierce sobs which kept fighting their way up, and I know I
+did not make a sound; but the tears had their own way. It seemed as if
+nothing would ever stop them,—as if I must go on crying, crying, until
+I died.</p>
+
+<p>I do not know in the least how long this had lasted. But suddenly I
+heard a movement, and though I could see nothing plainly, I had a
+glimpse of a tall dark figure. And it came and sat down beside me; and
+a voice that I knew in a moment said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Is something very much the matter?"</p>
+
+<p>I had just been telling myself that perhaps I might never hear that
+voice again; and hearing it all at once made me worse instead of
+better. I ought to have stopped crying, and have sat up, and have
+answered him quietly as if nothing were wrong. I suppose there are
+people who could have done so; but for me at the moment it was
+impossible. I could only turn my face away, and the tears came
+streaming in a faster rush than before, and I was shaking with the sobs
+that all my strength could hardly hold under.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhoda, what is it?" he asked, in a tone of real distress. I could hear
+that, though I might have heard nothing else. And he had never called
+me "Rhoda" before.</p>
+
+<p>But to save my life I could not have spoken a word. I could only manage
+to strangle down those dreadful sobs.</p>
+
+<p>He was quite silent for some minutes,—I do not know how long. Somehow I
+got back a little self-control, slowly, as he waited. If he had spoken
+too soon, he would have set me off again, but he did not, and presently
+I sat up, and began to feel ashamed.</p>
+
+<p>"Your cousin said something that made me fear all was not quite right.
+But I did not guess it to be anything so serious as this."</p>
+
+<p>"It—it isn't—" I strove to say. "I'm only—"</p>
+
+<p>My voice broke down again. I knew he was looking at me earnestly.</p>
+
+<p>"But people do not cry for nothing," he said in his gentlest tone.
+"I mean, they do not cry as you were crying when I first saw you.
+Something must have happened."</p>
+
+<p>I shook my head.</p>
+
+<p>"No bad news from home?"</p>
+
+<p>I shook my head a second time.</p>
+
+<p>"And nothing wrong in the house here?"</p>
+
+<p>A third time the same reply. I cannot think how I could be so utterly
+idiotic. It was as good as telling him outright what "was" the matter.
+If I had had my wits about me, I should have made up some sort of
+excuse or reason. But between the pain, and the relief, and the
+bewilderment, and the uncertainty, I had pretty well parted company
+with my wits.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing but a fit of depression! Is that all?" Then he asked, "Did you
+think me very unkind and forgetful not to call and say good-bye, when I
+had said that I would?"</p>
+
+<p>I had not expected this question. It took me by surprise. I ought to
+have answered lightly, ought to have told him that of course it was
+faithless, but quite to be expected, or something of the sort. But the
+words brought back in a rush the pain with which I had been struggling;
+and in a moment the passionate crying, only half checked, had me again
+in its grip. I hid my face anew.</p>
+
+<p>And the next thing I can remember was his arm round me, and his voice
+calling me "Rhoda!" and his "poor little darling!" And he said,—oh, I
+cannot repeat his words. I hardly know what he did say, only he blamed
+himself for having put me to pain. And I know that the whole world was
+changed for me in a moment, though I could not help sobbing on for very
+happiness.</p>
+
+<p>Nobody came near us, and we were quite hidden,—at least, I am sure
+we were, though Clarissa tries to tease me by declaring that the top
+windows of the Square overlook every corner of the garden. We were
+alone for one happy happy half-hour. And then he pulled my veil over my
+face, and led me indoors; and Clarissa found us in the library; and he
+told her I that had promised to be his.</p>
+
+<p>The only blot on my great happiness to-night is the recollection of
+Millicent. I am trying not to think of her. Why should I? What is the
+use of bothering myself? If he loves me, I could not possibly make him
+love her. All that is over and buried long ago.</p>
+
+<p>Only I do wish that I had never never made her confess to me that
+she cared for him. If I had not done that, things would now be quite
+different.</p>
+
+<p>No use thinking about what is past. He loves me, and I love him; and
+I am perfectly perfectly happy. Life looks so changed—so wonderfully
+bright!</p>
+
+<p>My letter to my mother did not go off. Another had to be written
+instead. I shall make no plans till her answer arrives. Anyhow,
+Clarissa says that of course I must not go back immediately.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 23rd, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>A very loving letter from Mother to-day; just what I should have
+expected her to write, only she seems a good deal taken by surprise. So
+I suppose Clarissa has not said much in writing home, as I sometimes
+fancied she might do.</p>
+
+<p>Mother is pleased—at least, I think so. I am not sure. She writes in
+such a tender anxious way, as if she could not make up her mind—as if
+she were puzzled. She seems distressed to be shut off from me at such a
+time. And so am I—only, when I think of going back, there is always the
+recollection of Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>Was Millicent really in London that week? I mean the week before last?
+It seems such an immense time ago. Was she truly there, and did she
+or did she not see Ernest? He tells me to call him Ernest. I have
+tried just a little to find out, without seeming to do so; but nobody
+takes the trouble to answer my questions. And I cannot speak of her—of
+Millicent—to Ernest himself.</p>
+
+<p>I do not yet understand how it was that he did not come in to say
+good-bye to me that evening, when he thought I was going away the next
+day. He says he was prevented; and he does not explain what it was
+that prevented him. I said once that I supposed he was not able to get
+away in time from the old aunt with whom he was dining, and he made no
+particular answer. He did not seem interested enough to go on with the
+subject, and something in his manner kept me from saying any more.</p>
+
+<p>I suppose it was some business affair which he does not care to talk
+about. Even this happy week I see a look now and then on his face as
+if something were not quite right—as if something were pressing on his
+mind. And of course it has to do with business, or he would tell me
+all about it. A great many men are reserved about business affairs, I
+believe. I should not have thought Ernest was one of them; but perhaps
+he is.</p>
+
+<p>If it was business that kept him away, he could not help himself. I do
+not see why he should not have written to explain; but I suppose he
+felt sure that I was gone, and so he put off coming, and most likely
+his idea was to run down soon to Wayatford. But he says very little
+about what he had meant to do.</p>
+
+<p>It seems as if one never could have anything quite perfect in
+this life; and I do feel just a little scrap fretted. I cannot
+understand how things have been, and I do not like the feeling of not
+understanding. There is a touch of mystery about it all which teases
+me. If only he explained frankly why he could not come, and said that
+he did not write because he meant to go down to Wayatford instead, it
+would all be clear, and I should be satisfied. But he says nothing of
+the kind. The only time he has brought the matter forward at all was in
+the garden, when he asked if I had thought him unkind. Since then, if I
+bring it up, he just makes some little jest, or turns it off. And that
+looks as if there were something behind which he does not wish me to
+know.</p>
+
+<p>Am I fanciful? Ought to be able to trust him. But I do like to have
+things clear as daylight.</p>
+
+<p>I should have expected him to say how sorry he was not to have been
+able to call that evening. And he does not. He has said nothing of the
+sort. The most he did say was to ask if "I" had thought him unkind. He
+did not say that "he" had minded it.</p>
+
+<p>I am vexed with myself for having shown him so plainly what I felt.
+I cannot think how I could. It makes my face burn like fire when the
+recollection comes up. If only I had pretended that I was crying about
+Addie, or about leaving Clarissa to go home! Anything rather than have
+let him so easily guess the truth! It was so undignified! I would not
+have believed it of myself beforehand. I do wish I had more control
+over my moods. Of course I do not want to have said anything untrue;
+but there are times when a girl must somehow manage to hide something
+of what she feels, if she has any self-respect.</p>
+
+<p>All these thoughts are worrying me very much. Not when I am with him,
+but when I am alone. When we are together, I can hardly think of
+anything except my happiness. When he is gone, I go over all that has
+been said, and all that has not been said, and make myself miserable.</p>
+
+<p>But still, he loves me. Nothing else matters, in comparison with
+that. He loves me, and I belong to him; and nothing can separate us
+now—nothing but death. Not even Millicent! I am so sorry for Millicent.
+But how could I help it, if he liked me best? And surely he was free to
+choose!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 24th, Saturday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I have been trying to find out from Clarissa exactly what passed
+between her and Ernest, when he first arrived that day, before he came
+to me in the garden. She tried to turn it off with a laugh, but that
+made me want to know the more.</p>
+
+<p>"Did he explain to you why he had not been to say good-bye? And was he
+surprised to hear that I was here still? And was he glad?"</p>
+
+<p>Clarissa put up her eyebrows. "My dear, you hear everything now from
+the fountain-head. What is the use of coming to me?"</p>
+
+<p>I was ashamed to confess that I did not know more. "One likes to have
+different versions sometimes."</p>
+
+<p>"Not from me, thanks! I never interfere with the versions of people who
+are engaged."</p>
+
+<p>"But you can tell me what you said to him. It was something that made
+him expect to find me—"</p>
+
+<p>There I came to a pause. I would not for anything have Clarissa know
+how he really did find me.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, yes," she answered carelessly. "I told him you had gone out,
+looking rather miserable. He asked if anything were wrong. I said,
+'Nothing much! You had better go and ask her yourself.' And he went."</p>
+
+<p>Was that all that had passed? Clarissa's account sounded innocent, told
+as she told it. But everything depends upon tone and manner, and she
+had such an expressive face.</p>
+
+<p>I suppose I looked worried still, for she added, "If I were you, I
+would not wear myself to a thread-paper about nothing. Men have their
+own fashion of doing things, and you cannot make them run in your own
+particular grooves. Take him as he is, and be content, my dear!"</p>
+
+<p>Good advice, no doubt. But what if one cannot? I had a long cry in bed
+last night, thinking how little I really knew and understood.</p>
+
+<p>And yet he is so good, so kind to me. How foolish I am!</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 26th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>No letter from Mother for days. Addie was practically well when I heard
+last, and disinfection of the house was going on. Why does not Mother
+write?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 27th, Tuesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Ernest has just been in—the first time for three days. He was out of
+Town all Sunday, and when he appeared to-day, he seemed rather hurried,
+and he said he only had half-an-hour. I dare say it was reasonable
+enough, but I thought he might have managed differently. I suppose it
+always seems easier to other people. And I couldn't at once get up my
+spirits. I had been bothering myself terribly with the thought that
+perhaps, after all, he had not really quite made up his mind to ask me
+to marry him, until he found me crying in the garden.</p>
+
+<p>It would be too dreadful to think such a thing seriously, for that
+would mean that he had been drawn on to speak out of pity! If I really
+thought it, I do not know what I should do. But even while the notion
+haunts me, I know quite well that it is all nonsense. And yet, somehow,
+I cannot entirely get rid of it.</p>
+
+<p>Generally when Ernest is with me such thoughts vanish, and I am
+perfectly happy. But to-day for once I did not feel so. He had not
+been for three days, and I suppose the worries had had time to get
+into fuller swing; and his visit was so short, that I had not dine to
+get out of the swing. That must have been the reason. I did try to be
+bright and merry, but I could not feel so. And I saw him glancing at me
+now and then, as if he were puzzled.</p>
+
+<p>Then some stupid little remark of his made the tears spring to my eyes.
+There was no real reason, only the tears were all ready, and the least
+thing was enough to start them. I hoped he would not see, but he did;
+and he said, "Did I pain you? Really I had no intention." And then he
+added, with a laugh, "You must not cultivate tear-bags quite so near to
+your eyes, little woman."</p>
+
+<p>Before I knew what was in my mind, I had flashed out an indignant,
+"Do you suppose tears are always close to my eyes, because you once
+happened to find me crying for nothing, like a baby?"</p>
+
+<p>"Was it for nothing?" I suppose the question came involuntarily, but it
+made me angry—more angry than he has ever seen me, and he looked rather
+astonished. "Why, Rhoda, what is the matter? What is all this about?"</p>
+
+<p>"If you can laugh at me for crying that day—" I said, almost choked.</p>
+
+<p>"I do not know what can have put such an idea into your head. Nothing
+was farther from my thoughts. We were not speaking of that day, or of
+any particular day, were we?"</p>
+
+<p>And I was so vexed with my own stupidity, that I could have burst out
+sobbing, there and then.</p>
+
+<p>"Come, that is not like my sensible Rhoda," he said, and he stood up.
+"Hardly worth while, is it, to make much of so little? I am obliged to
+be off now, but I shall look in again to-morrow, and you will be all
+right then."</p>
+
+<p>He actually kissed me and was gone, before I could resolve what to say.
+And I have been dreadfully vexed with myself since. It was so silly.
+I suppose he hates women to cry, like most men, even though he did
+actually ask me to marry him while I was crying. But to-day he must
+have thought me out of temper. I must be careful, and not worry him
+again.</p>
+
+<p>Heigho! I wish I could forget all the little doubts and fidgets, and
+just be happy. Why can I not?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>May 28th, Wednesday Evening.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>I am at home, suddenly. A telegram came the first thing this morning,
+before breakfast, telling me of my mother's illness and danger. I was
+to go home at once, it said,—at once. And of course I came off by the
+very first train. Nothing else mattered—nothing, compared with the
+terrible dread that I might be too late. Clarissa spoke of Ernest, and
+I said, "Oh, tell him anything you like. I can't think of him just
+now." Clarissa told me I was unnatural; but what did I care.</p>
+
+<p>All through the weary journey I saw nothing but Mother's dear face!</p>
+
+<p>She was not worse when I arrived—only as ill as she could well be. They
+said the first sound of my voice roused her more than anything else had
+done; but she might not speak. She might only smile, and let her hand
+lie in mine.</p>
+
+<p>It is not the fever; it is exhaustion and a chill—congestion of the
+lungs and complete prostration.</p>
+
+<p>I never shall forget the first going into her room. For some seconds I
+saw nothing but the dear changed face, and then—then I looked up, and I
+met Millicent's eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Ever since she was first taken ill, Millicent has been with her, has
+done everything for her. Until Juliet arrived yesterday, Millicent
+would not leave her, night or day. So much illness is about just
+now, that good nurses are hard to find, and Mother seems so to like
+Millicent's nursing that the doctor does not want a change just yet,
+till matters are better. Oh, how I do hope and pray that matters soon
+"will" be better. It frightens me to think how ready Mother is to go.
+And yet it is "not" always those who are most ready that are first
+called away, so far as we are able to judge.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent was standing by the bed when first my eyes met hers, pale
+and quiet and grave, exactly her usual self. But there was a kind of
+reproach in her eyes, or else I fancied it. Was that only my fancy? It
+brought back to me the look in her face all those years and years ago,
+on the day when we went to the ruin, when I thought her eyes reproached
+me, and when I tried to think there was no reason.</p>
+
+<p>Was there no reason? And is there no reason now?</p>
+
+<p>Did she mean to reproach me, or was it quite unconscious? Does she know
+anything yet about Ernest and me? Yes, of course; she must have heard
+of our engagement. Would she reproach me for that? Has she seen him
+lately?</p>
+
+<p>Strange that these questions should come again to torment me to-night,
+when my mother is lying between life and death, and when I know down in
+my heart that nothing, no, nothing, can come nearer to my heart than
+her great danger. But perhaps I can hardly trust myself to think of her
+danger, and so these other thoughts come whirling around me. I suppose
+it was that look on Millicent's face which started them.</p>
+
+<p>I know my eyes dropped before hers, as if I were guilty; and there was
+a rush of blood to my face, and then I turned cold and queer. Millicent
+led me from the room, holding my wrist in a firm grasp, and she said,
+"You must keep up before 'her,' Rhoda. The least agitation might be
+fatal."</p>
+
+<p>"And you have nursed her!"</p>
+
+<p>"There was no one else at hand. I loved to do it."</p>
+
+<p>Then I was told to lie down, and get some sleep. I did the first; I
+could not do the second. I think now that I understand the meaning of
+"coals of fire."</p>
+
+<p>They will let me be in my mother's room if only I promise to be brave.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 5th, Thursday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Each day has been one long battle between life and death. But
+improvement has begun. The doctor speaks of more than hope.</p>
+
+<p>I thought I knew before how I loved her,—but this has brought home to
+me more than ever before what she really is. If she were taken, the
+world would indeed be emptiness! I have wondered, watching beside her,
+how other things can have seemed so important to me.</p>
+
+<p>And yet, now that she is better, now that day by day anxiety is
+lessening, I find the importance of other things once more coming to
+the fore; and the very worries, which I almost fancied could never
+touch me again, are regaining their old power.</p>
+
+<p>Juliet has taken the day-nursing, mainly, and Millicent the night
+nursing. Millicent is very good at night-work, and does not knock up
+easily, they say. I would so thankfully have taken Millicent's place,
+but they all told me I had not enough experience. And what could I say?
+I know little of nursing,—and the very best has been needed to bring my
+mother through.</p>
+
+<p>I shall always now feel that my mother has been given back to me,—first
+of all, in answer to prayer;—and certainly through the doctor's skill
+and attention, but also and largely through Millicent's devoted
+nursing. What a thing for me to know, side by side with what I have
+been doing to her.</p>
+
+<p>For I feel now that I "have" done it. I have drawn Ernest's heart away
+from her, when he was still free, and might still have thought again of
+his early love. I have made that impossible, and have made him care for
+me instead. And I have done it deliberately,—with my eyes open, even
+when I thought they were shut,—even while I was telling myself that I
+would on no account stoop to any such thing.</p>
+
+<p>If I could but undo the past! But how can I? How could I? I am promised
+to Ernest now, and he is promised to me. Even if I could bear to think
+of giving him up, for Millicent's sake, I have no right to do so; for
+his happiness is involved as well as mine, and I have no right to make
+him miserable. My giving him up would not make him turn to Millicent.
+It would only break my heart and his; and Millicent would be none the
+better.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps I am fancying about her. Perhaps she does not really care. She
+is so quiet and calm. At all events, I feel that I can do nothing now;
+it is too late. Awhile ago, I could have taken action—not now!</p>
+
+<p>Mother often looks at me tenderly, lovingly, anxiously, as if she
+wanted to say something, and hardly knew how. Is she afraid to speak
+out what is in her mind? Is it anything that would distress me? I have
+an instinct that she is thinking about Ernest.</p>
+
+<p>But much talking is still forbidden; and exciting subjects are tabooed;
+and also I am never alone with her for one single instant. Is this
+managed purposely, I wonder? Years ago I should have rebelled and
+fought, if I had been treated so; but now I cannot trust myself to do
+wisely, so is it any wonder if others cannot trust me either.</p>
+
+<p>Now that I am away from Ernest, I realize more than ever all that he is
+to me. How could I be so foolish those last few days, fancying so many
+things and even showing temper to him? And how kind he was!</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image042" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image042.jpg" alt="image042">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_22">CHAPTER XXII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>WAS IT HAPPINESS?</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 11th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>THE tide has at last thoroughly turned, and Mother is better—still very
+weak, but improving steadily.</p>
+
+<p>I write to Ernest constantly, and he to me; at least, he writes almost
+every day, which is as often as I do. His letters are all just exactly
+what they should be. Yet sometimes I seem to miss something in them—I
+cannot tell what. I read them over and over, looking for the something
+which I miss, and trying to discover what it is. And I look and try in
+vain.</p>
+
+<p>Of Millicent I see very little. She is still all night with Mother,
+and still has to rest in the day. When we are together, it always
+happens that some one else is also present. Strangely enough, since I
+came home, I have never once been alone with Mother, never once alone
+with Millicent. And scarcely a word has as yet been spoken about my
+engagement. At first I thought nothing of this. Whilst Mother was
+so ill, nobody could think or talk of anything else—I least of all,
+perhaps. But now that she is so much better, out of danger, and only
+needing great care, I seem to want a little interest and sympathy in
+what concerns me so very closely.</p>
+
+<p>Is this selfishness? I hope not. Isn't it natural? And does nobody care
+that I am going to be so happy? Yes, in spite of any small doubts or
+misgivings, so very very happy!</p>
+
+<p>Mother cares. I see it in her dear face every time she looks at me.
+By-and-by she will say something.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent has not once asked after Ernest. She has not congratulated
+me. She has not alluded in any way to the engagement. Is this
+intentional silence on her part? Is she simply preoccupied and not
+interested? But that would not be like Millicent. I hardly know what to
+think.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 20th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>To-day, for the first time, I have been alone with Mother. Millicent
+seems to be over done. She turned faint yesterday evening and had to go
+to bed, and she is not up yet. Juliet was with Mother all night, lying
+down, but not sleeping much. This afternoon Juliet went to her room to
+rest, and I was left in charge alone.</p>
+
+<p>"Mind," Juliet said, "nothing to excite or worry the Mother, dear!" She
+spoke kindly, but very decidedly.</p>
+
+<p>I felt terribly afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing. I knew how I
+should be blamed if anything went wrong—worse still, how I should blame
+myself.</p>
+
+<p>It did not seem that there was much to do. Mother had been allowed to
+sit up for a short time in the morning; and she was drowsy and tired.
+I sat watching the dear face, feeling so unutterably thankful to know
+that she was given back to us again. And presently her hand stole into
+mine, her eyes opening slowly.</p>
+
+<p>"Rhoda,—and nobody else here!"</p>
+
+<p>I bent over to kiss her.</p>
+
+<p>"I have been wanting to speak to you," she said, "about—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Mother."</p>
+
+<p>"If things are all right, and for your happiness, I am glad—if all is
+as it should be."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not, Mother dear?"</p>
+
+<p>"Somehow, I did not quite expect—" and her eyes looked wistfully into
+mine. "I have not seen you alone—not once yet. They said I must keep
+quiet—not talk of things; and I have tried. But now perhaps I have
+waited long enough."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, you are glad for me?" I whispered. "You know Ernest a little;
+I mean, you know about him. And you will like him very very much. I
+know you will."</p>
+
+<p>"He is nice, I believe, in many ways. I have heard so. But—," and a
+pause, "it troubles me to think—"</p>
+
+<p>I asked what it was that troubled her. She said, after another break,
+"Millicent!"</p>
+
+<p>"Did you think he cared for her?" My heart was beating fast; but I had
+to keep calm for her sake.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," was her instant answer. "He used to care."</p>
+
+<p>"So long ago!" was all I could say. Am I never to have any peace
+because of Millicent?</p>
+
+<p>Mother looked earnestly at me; and there was a slight negative movement
+of her head.</p>
+
+<p>"So very long ago!" I repeated. "And he loves me now."</p>
+
+<p>"You are sure!"</p>
+
+<p>"Mother! How can I doubt it?"</p>
+
+<p>"You are sure that it is all right?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, it can't be anything else! How can it be? He has asked me to
+marry him. He has told me himself that he loves me. What more can one
+want? Why should he ever have said a single word to me, if he cared for
+Millicent?"</p>
+
+<p>I spoke fast and warmly, forgetting in my excitement the need to be
+quiet. She did not yet look satisfied, and I went on with increasing
+energy:—"It isn't as if I had not seen a great deal of him, a great
+deal! All these weeks he has been in and out. He knows me, and I know
+him. He has not seen Millicent for years and years." But as I spoke the
+words a cold doubt swept across me, and my mother said,—</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. He saw her in London the other day."</p>
+
+<p>Every pulse in me gave a throb. "Where?"</p>
+
+<p>"She was staying there for three or four days, just before I was taken
+ill. She came and told me about it."</p>
+
+<p>"Did she think he cared for her still?" My whole face was burning.</p>
+
+<p>Mother did not at once answer. She lay thinking, with a troubled look
+in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"I cannot fully remember what passed. I have had so many fancies
+since—in my illness. But the impression comes back to me of her face
+that evening, so young and bright, like the Millicent of childish days,
+unlike what she has been for years. And she said—"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes." I hardly knew how to wait. "Tell me all. I have a right to know."</p>
+
+<p>"Not if it were merely a matter of Millicent's own feelings."</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me!" I urged.</p>
+
+<p>"It may be a fancy of mine. I cannot be sure. I have had so much
+confusion. Looking back, I cannot always distinguish between dreams and
+realities. But I thought—certainly I thought she told me something. If
+I could only recall exactly what it was! She said that she had seen him
+more than once, and that he was not changed. Yes, she said he was not
+changed. I remember her smile when she said those words. And she told
+me he was the same towards her that he had always been—always in the
+past she meant. The same towards her, Rhoda dear! And then the next
+thing was to hear of your engagement."</p>
+
+<p>"Mother, you must be mistaken," I said, as quietly as I could. "It
+could not have been as you think. If she had said that, you would have
+told me when you wrote." But even as I spoke, the doubting tone of her
+first letter came back to me, and my heart sank.</p>
+
+<p>"Hardly in writing, darling—should I? I hoped to see you very soon, you
+know. And I was feeling ill even then, though nobody knew. But it made
+me very unhappy."</p>
+
+<p>"Only, if it is all a mistake! You are not sure of what Millicent did
+really say."</p>
+
+<p>"Not quite. The impression is strong, but I cannot be sure whether she
+actually said the words to me, or whether I saw them in her face. I do
+not think it can be altogether a mistake."</p>
+
+<p>I knew I ought to stop this talk. It was bad for my mother. But how
+could I wait?</p>
+
+<p>"It does not seem to me kind even to suppose that Millicent cares for
+him still, now he is engaged to me."</p>
+
+<p>"It is not so much that, Rhoda—not so much whether she cares for
+him, but whether he cares for her—whether, as she said, he is still
+unchanged towards her."</p>
+
+<p>"She could not have said it. It is not true. That must have been a
+dream of yours," I urged, out of a sore and doubting heart. "How
+could he have told her that he cared for her, just before he came and
+proposed to me? The thing isn't possible. It is out of the question."</p>
+
+<p>I was trying to persuade myself, at least as much as to persuade my
+mother. She sighed and closed her eyes. "I think I am tired," she said
+faintly. "Never mind; things will come right in time—by-and-by."</p>
+
+<p>Would they? I dared not say another word, she looked so worn-out. But
+a tumult raged within, which is not yet quieted. Was the thing so
+impossible? Is it so impossible? Do I really and truly know Ernest?
+There is one little mystery. What if the clue lies here?</p>
+
+<p>Mother seemed to drop asleep, and I sat motionless. But presently, she
+opened her eyes, and gazed full at me.</p>
+
+<p>"It was—'not' a dream," she said distinctly.</p>
+
+<p>Before I could resolve what to answer, she was sleeping again, and I
+could not disturb her. As it is, she is the worse for our talk, more
+feverish than for a long while, and Juliet seems anxious. Yet how could
+I have managed differently, except by refusing to go into the subject
+at all? And that did seem to me impossible. Ought it to have been?</p>
+
+<p>The pain of this uncertainty, this not knowing what it all means, and
+whom I may trust. When will things become clear?</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 22nd, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Millicent went home yesterday. She has done too much, and the doctor
+orders rest. Amy has managed well at the Vicarage while Millicent has
+been with us. Things are very different now from what they were a few
+years ago.</p>
+
+<p>I begged Juliet to let me take Millicent's place in the nursing; and
+she has given way, on condition that I will strictly avoid all subjects
+that could excite or distress my mother.</p>
+
+<p>"Not a word about Mr. Derwentwater at present!" she said. It is almost
+the first time that she has alluded to him beyond a rather formal
+remark when I first came home.</p>
+
+<p>I have promised to be very careful, and Mother shows no inclination to
+bring the matter up again. Either she has said all that she wishes to
+say, or else it was a passing fancy, which has since faded.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 23rd, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>To-day it came to me as something of a shock, that Millicent actually
+knows nothing of our engagement. Addie told me. She says nobody has
+heard of it, except just ourselves and aunt Marian. None of the Farrars
+family.</p>
+
+<p>Then my notion that Millicent looked at me reproachfully, when first I
+came home, was pure imagination. She did not know. She does not know.</p>
+
+<p>It seems strange that the fact should not have leaked out before this.
+But we have all been so busy nursing, and so busy thinking about
+Mother's state, as to have seen few outside people. There has been
+no time for talk, and no inclination. I have wondered sometimes in a
+passing way that nobody has said anything more to me about Ernest, but
+I have had no wish to bring the matter forward myself. My dread has
+been of the time when I should have to speak to Millicent. And now I
+know the reason,—I mean the reason why so little has been said. Even
+uncle Basil has not heard that I am engaged. If he had, he would not
+have been so long without speaking.</p>
+
+<p>"Mother told me, because she and I were alone when the news came,"
+Addie observed. "And I could not think what made her cry. She told me,
+and she said I must not let it out to anybody, because she did not know
+yet whether it could ever come to anything. I did not even say one word
+to Emmie, till mother said I might—I mean when we came together again.
+And I know that when Mother told aunt Marian it was only on condition
+that uncle should not hear, because he never can keep things long to
+himself. Will it ever come to anything, Rhoda? What made Mother say
+that? And was she really sorry? What made her cry?"</p>
+
+<p>I hardly know what I said in answer. I silenced Addie as soon as I
+could. "Of course it will—of course!" I remember saying to myself.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 25th, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>To-day I had to go to the Vicarage. A question had to be asked of
+Millicent, something about my mother's state at night, which could not
+well be explained in writing, and there was nobody except me to do it.
+Juliet could not be spared. So I had no choice in the matter.</p>
+
+<p>I was shown into the dining-room, where Millicent sat in an easy-chair,
+working. She looked thin and rather worn; but her smile was the same
+as usual—not a particularly bright smile, only quiet and kind and
+contented. There is never anything brilliant about Millicent, but she
+is always the same. One never needs to feel doubtful what her next mood
+may be.</p>
+
+<p>I asked the question which had to be put, and Millicent explained
+exactly what Juliet wanted to know. Then we both were still for two or
+three seconds. I did not like to get up and go away immediately, and
+a vague idea was taking shape in my mind. Should I tell her there and
+then how things were, and see for myself how she would take the news?
+I had been dreading all along having to speak to her about Ernest,
+because of my own uneasy feelings, yet now it seemed to me that nothing
+could well be worse than the state of uncertainty in which I had been
+so long. To speak out to Millicent might clear away mysteries. I was
+half resolved to try the plan.</p>
+
+<p>"It is vexatious that I cannot go on with the nursing," Millicent
+observed, breaking the silence.</p>
+
+<p>"You have done so much already. It has knocked you up."</p>
+
+<p>"Juliet warned me that I was keeping on too long with the night-work;
+and if I had been sensible, I should have changed about with her for
+a time. But I liked it; and she could not persuade me. So I am just
+paying for my own imprudence. That is all, and I shall be all right in
+a few days."</p>
+
+<p>"They tell me you were in Town lately."</p>
+
+<p>"For part of the inside of a week."</p>
+
+<p>"And you enjoyed it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Very much."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose you saw a great many old friends?" I was feeling my way, not
+sure yet of my own intentions.</p>
+
+<p>"A few; not a great many." Then a pause, and I felt her eyes studying
+me. "I saw something of one very old friend—Ernest Derwentwater."</p>
+
+<p>I tried to meet her look, but my gaze went down before hers. In a
+moment, the past came before me with a flash: how I had meant to use
+my time in London for Millicent, how I had purposed to recall her to
+Ernest's mind, and how I had failed.</p>
+
+<p>Yet, if I had not failed, Ernest's love would not now be mine. That
+thought came next, and with it a wonder,—could I truly feel regret for
+what had ended so happily?</p>
+
+<p>If it is happily! Who can tell?</p>
+
+<p>Besides, one may not judge by consequences. Whatever the results
+may be, I was wrong, I did wrongly. Why, beforehand in my journal I
+condemned in plain words the very line of action which I have since
+followed. Nothing can undo or excuse that.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent spoke the words quite quietly, quite naturally, with no
+change of colour. But my whole face became crimson, and she saw it. She
+could not help doing so.</p>
+
+<p>"He told me he had been seeing something of you at your cousin's
+house," she observed, and she said it as if it were the most simple
+thing in the world—as if it meant just nothing at all.</p>
+
+<p>"Something of me!" The words burst out in scorn. At the moment, I could
+not have told whether it were scorn of Ernest or scorn of myself.</p>
+
+<p>"That was what he said." She spoke in a curiously deliberate thoughtful
+way, as if weighing some question in her own mind, and only half
+attending to me. Her eyes had a far-away look in them.</p>
+
+<p>"And you saw 'something' of him too, I suppose?"</p>
+
+<p>"In those two or three days, yes."</p>
+
+<p>"And you found him—" I meant to end with "the same as ever," but the
+words refused to be spoken. Strange to say, Millicent's answer was as
+if she had heard them.</p>
+
+<p>"I found him very much the same as he always was, much more so than I
+should have expected, after so many years of absence—the old smile and
+manner, hardly altered. As I told your mother the evening after I came
+back, he was just his old self towards me." I noticed, or thought I
+noticed, the least possible break or falter in her voice, but almost
+immediately she went on in the same placid tone as before:—"He was
+quite one of us, you know, in the old days; and I could feel at once
+that he is one of us still, like an elder brother. It was pleasant to
+find no alteration."</p>
+
+<p>A sense of dizzy bewilderment crept over me. Was this all? Had I been
+verily making a mountain of so utter a molehill? Then came a buck-wave
+of passionate distrust—distrust of myself, of Ernest, of Millicent. Was
+she trying to hoodwink me?</p>
+
+<p>"And I suppose—" the words broke from me almost without intention on my
+part—"I suppose he never took the trouble to tell you that he was just
+on the verge of asking me to marry him!"</p>
+
+<p>Millicent did not speak at once. I saw still no change of colour, no
+sign of distress. She wore only a very serious and a very thoughtful
+expression. She seemed to be trying to read my face, perhaps also to
+be making up her mind to some course of action. That at least was my
+after-idea. At the moment, I was not composed enough to have any clear
+impressions.</p>
+
+<p>"No, he did not tell me so."</p>
+
+<p>"He 'might' have done so! He asked me the very next time we met—the
+next time he came to the house. But perhaps he wasn't sure; perhaps
+he had not made up his mind. If he only said to you that he had seen
+'something' of me!"</p>
+
+<p>She was silent again; thinking earnestly, it seemed to me. I did not
+know how to stand her quiet manner, in its contrast with my own inner
+tumult.</p>
+
+<p>"At all events, whatever he meant or did not mean, he did speak, and he
+and I are engaged."</p>
+
+<p>There was one quick glance up. "Are you, really?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why not? Is it so impossible? Why should nobody ever care for me?" I
+demanded, speaking vehemently.</p>
+
+<p>"I did not mean that, dear. Oh, no. Only, I did not quite expect—I
+did not fancy it was already settled." She said the words softly and
+clearly, with a smile; not a forced smile, but a free affectionate
+lighting up of her whole face. "And you have been all this time at home
+and have never once thought of telling me! Was that kind? If it is for
+his happiness—and for yours—don't you 'know' how glad I shall be? More
+than glad. Happy and thankful. Could you not be sure, Rhoda?"</p>
+
+<p>I do not know what it was in her look that stirred me. I had never seen
+her wear so sweet a look before,—a kind of almost heavenly sweetness.
+When I look back now, I see it as the look of a victor in the fight.
+But at the moment, I could not grasp or measure its meaning; I only
+felt vaguely the contrast between her and myself. Perhaps it was partly
+reaction from what I had gone through; but all at once my heart was
+beating to suffocation, and tears were blinding my eyes, and I had no
+power to say a word. I saw dimly her kind concerned face; and then I
+started up to hurry away.</p>
+
+<p>But she would not let me go; and the touch of her hands, and the sound
+of her soft "Poor Rhoda!" broke me down completely. I cried, oh, how I
+cried, with her arms round me, and her face against mine. And I could
+not have told her half the reasons why, if indeed I knew them myself.
+It was such a jumble of bewilderment and pain, of remorse for the past
+and of fear for the future.</p>
+
+<p>As she held me, and as I sobbed, one gleam came of what had to be done;
+and I heard my own voice gasping out, "Forgive me."</p>
+
+<p>"What, for, my dear?"</p>
+
+<p>I could not attempt to explain. I could only repeat, "Forgive me."</p>
+
+<p>"If there is anything at all to forgive, I do forgive—entirely. So now
+you will feel happy, will you not?"</p>
+
+<p>The goodness and sweetness that she showed! I never could have imagined
+anything like it.</p>
+
+<p>"And now you will feel better altogether," she went on. "A good cry
+clears the air sometimes. You have been under a great strain of anxiety
+lately; and that tells upon one. Don't you think you will be wanted
+perhaps at home by this time? It will not do for me to keep you too
+long. But another day you must come again, and tell me all about it.
+All about Ernest and yourself, I mean—" and she smiled, and spoke
+without the least falter. "I shall feel such an interest in the story.
+You must tell me the whole, from beginning to end."</p>
+
+<p>I wanted to say more then, but she would not let me. "Not to-day," she
+said decisively. "Another day, dear. I have things to attend to now,
+and you have your home duties. But I want to hear it all soon. I shall
+feel such an interest in everything to do with you both."</p>
+
+<p>Did she ever really care for him? And was she afraid to let me stay,
+for fear I should say something that I might be sorry for afterwards.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image043" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image043.jpg" alt="image043">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image044" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image044.jpg" alt="image044">
+</figure>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<h2><a id="Chapter_23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></h2>
+
+<p class="t3">
+<b><em>HOW THINGS WERE AND MIGHT HAVE BEEN.</em></b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 27th, Friday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>THIS morning I went to the Vicarage, hoping for another talk with
+Millicent. There are things which I do so want to understand. I cannot
+sleep at night, going over and over different perplexities. And it
+seemed to me that perhaps another little chat might clear matters up,
+even if I did not actually ask questions. Millicent is so calm and
+strong; and I am so easily tempest-tossed. I wish I were more like her.
+But when I reached the Vicarage, I found—to my dismay—that she was away
+from home. A friend had written in trouble, begging her to go; and
+Millicent had started at once. The girl could not tell me her address,
+or how long she would be away. Perhaps only three or four days, perhaps
+a week. Mr. Farrars had said that a change would do her good, and he
+hoped she would not hurry back.</p>
+
+<p>I came home, wondering how to get through another week.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 29th, Sunday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>This afternoon I have been reading some earlier entries in my
+journal,—particularly those in last February and March. I seem to have
+lived through a lifetime since. Some of the words which I wrote read
+now like a satire upon my life.</p>
+
+<p>The resolution that I made to live for others, to think only of the
+happiness of others, to sacrifice my own wishes whenever opportunity
+occurred,—how grievously I have failed in the carrying out of all this.
+Everything has gone down at once, gone down hopelessly, before the very
+first temptation to self-pleasing; and I have sacrificed Millicent for
+myself, not myself for Millicent.</p>
+
+<p>True, I do not know what her thoughts and wishes are; I cannot tell
+whether under any circumstances she might have been still willing to
+marry him—Ernest—but at least I did then believe that I knew her to be
+willing. And in the face of that belief, in the very teeth of my own
+deliberate resolution to act only in her interests and on her behalf, I
+set myself to win his love. And I succeeded.</p>
+
+<p>If I did truly succeed! That doubt is the worst pain.</p>
+
+<p>He writes so kindly, so affectionately. But if he could act so as to
+make her think him still unchanged towards herself,—if he really did
+act so, as Mother believes,—what kind of a love for me can his be?</p>
+
+<p>The feeling of uncertainty makes it difficult to write to him
+naturally, and as he would expect. Does he see the difference, and is
+he pained? I am not able to control my style.</p>
+
+<p>As for Millicent, the wrong that I have done to her I see no means of
+repairing. There was a time when I could have held back, when I could
+have effaced myself for her sake. And I knew it, and I knew I ought
+to do it, and I did not. Now it is too late. Now there is nothing
+that I can do. I must not even seem to think that she cares. Perhaps
+she does not; but perhaps she does. She has so much self-command; her
+composure tells nothing either way. Other people might not be able to
+behave so, but Millicent is perfectly able. I try to imagine that she
+does not care; but in my heart I know well that there is no proof of
+her indifference, none whatever. And yet I can do nothing. If I have
+won his love, I have no right to cast him off for Millicent's sake. It
+would do her no good; it would only make sorrow for him?</p>
+
+<p>If! But have I? Would he really care? Would it mean sorrow for him?</p>
+
+<p>I am not strong, like Millicent. If I found it to be all a mistake, if
+I found that Ernest did not truly love me, I think I should be crushed;
+I do not know how I could ever bear it.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>June 30th, Monday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Millicent writes word that she will come home to-morrow, and she asks
+me to go and see her in the afternoon. I will go; but shall I venture,
+when it comes to the point, to ask her in plain words what I want to
+know? If she cannot help me, it almost seems as if nobody could.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 2nd, Wednesday.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>Yesterday afternoon I went to the Vicarage, in a tremor of doubt and
+unhappiness, ready to imagine all sorts of things. But somehow, as soon
+as I found myself sitting beside Millicent, with her cool fingers on
+mine, a quietness crept over me, and the fears seemed to drop away.</p>
+
+<p>"Now tell me all about it, from the very beginning. Give me the whole
+story, Rhoda. When did it begin, and how did it come on?"</p>
+
+<p>I could not do fully what she wished. I could not tell the tale of what
+I had meant to do for "her," and of how I had failed. But the rest I
+told at length,—how constantly Ernest had been in and out all those
+weeks, and how many delightful talks we had had, and how much everybody
+had liked him.</p>
+
+<p>"Including Rhoda!" she put in softly.</p>
+
+<p>Then I told her about the evening when he was to have come to say
+good-bye, and how he never came, and how wretched I was, and how he had
+not written to explain or apologise.</p>
+
+<p>"But what was the reason?" she asked.</p>
+
+<p>I could only hang my head, and say that I did not know. Ernest had
+never told me. "It must have been just when he went to see you," I
+murmured. "And I thought—perhaps—"</p>
+
+<p>She smiled. "No, you thought wrongly. He must have been out of Town
+that day. So like Ernest never to take the trouble to explain. Men
+don't realize what such a small matter may mean to a woman. He might
+have lost a good deal by it, foolish fellow!"</p>
+
+<p>The very tone in which she spoke helped to clear away some of my fogs.
+I was able to smile too; and she said, "Now go on."</p>
+
+<p>Then I described shamefacedly how he had found me crying in the garden;
+and how he had asked me there and then to marry him; and how I had
+since been terribly afraid that perhaps he only asked me out of pity
+because he thought me unhappy, and not because he really had meant to
+do so.</p>
+
+<p>"I could not stand that, could you?" I asked. "Think how horrid it
+would be! I can't forgive myself for having let him see so easily what
+I felt. And if he had not meant to ask me—"</p>
+
+<p>"Rhoda, I think you have a gift in the self-worrying line. And 'not'
+much confidence in Ernest."</p>
+
+<p>"But such a thing might be. And if it were, could you stand it?" I felt
+what an absurd question I was putting. Millicent most certainly would
+never, under any conceivable circumstances, have allowed herself to
+be found weeping in a garden, over any human being's non-appearance,
+still less would she have allowed it to be known why she cried. I had
+not seen this till the moment when I again asked Millicent, "Could you
+stand it?" And the contrast between her and me suddenly becoming clear,
+made my face burn as if it were on fire.</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps not!" she said, with just the least lifting of eyebrows.
+"Well, dear, what do you propose to do? Of course you cannot go on
+without doing something."</p>
+
+<p>I was very much at a loss. The idea of actually doing anything had not
+occurred to me—I mean as to Ernest. It is one thing, I suppose, to talk
+over one's fancies with a friend, and quite another thing to act upon
+them.</p>
+
+<p>"You had better have it out with Ernest himself."</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent!"</p>
+
+<p>"And ask him frankly whether he really does want you, or no. Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent!"</p>
+
+<p>"My dear Rhoda, I mean what I say. I am not jesting. If you truly and
+soberly have doubts of him and of his love, you had far better speak
+out plainly at once. Anything rather than go on in doubt until you are
+his wife. If there is any reality at all in these fancies of yours, you
+must delve to the bottom of them without delay. If there is not, then
+put them utterly aside, and never give them another thought."</p>
+
+<p>"It isn't so easy."</p>
+
+<p>"It has to be done, one way or the other," she said resolutely.</p>
+
+<p>"But when he comes,—when I am with him,—I don't feel afraid of anything
+then."</p>
+
+<p>Millicent kissed me, and actually laughed.</p>
+
+<p>"In that case, they can hardly be worth much. The sooner he comes, and
+the sooner you can stamp them out of existence, the better." After
+a pause she added. "I am afraid you are preparing unhappiness for
+yourself and for him, too, by these imaginations. You do not really,
+in your heart of hearts, believe that he asked you to become his wife,
+without wishing or intending it?"</p>
+
+<p>Expressed in those terms, the thing did sound improbable. I was able to
+agree with her. And yet—</p>
+
+<p>"Ernest is impulsive," she observed thoughtfully, "and very
+warm-hearted. But I can hardly think he would ever be so far out of his
+senses as to do what you have been supposing. Whether he had entirely
+made up his mind to speak so soon, is another question. Not a very
+important one. Half the proposals of marriage that are made come about,
+I fancy, more or less suddenly at the last. Some little event brings a
+man to the point, and he speaks out what has been long simmering in his
+mind. It is not impossible that your distress that day may have brought
+Ernest to the point, and that otherwise he might have gone on a little
+longer without saying anything. But what if it were so? You must try to
+take healthier views of things."</p>
+
+<p>"If only I had not let him see!"</p>
+
+<p>"I agree with you in the abstract. Still, when a thing is over and
+done, it is waste of time to keep on fretting about it. You cannot undo
+what has been once done. All you can do is to make yourself and Ernest
+unhappy."</p>
+
+<p>"Not Ernest!"</p>
+
+<p>"Ernest as much as yourself. When once you are married, both must be
+happy or both unhappy. You don't mind my speaking plainly, do you? I
+do so want you both to be happy!" She had again that singularly sweet
+look. "And much must depend upon yourself. If you get into a habit of
+giving the rein to such fancies as these, you cannot hide from him that
+you are troubled. Either he will find out what is wrong, or he will see
+that something is wrong, and will not know what it is; and both ways,
+he must be unhappy. Dear Rhoda, if you only had an idea how that sort
+of jarring deadens love, especially with some characters."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't mean especially with Ernest?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I think I do. I know him so well. And he is very easily made
+happy or the reverse."</p>
+
+<p>"You shall teach me," I began. And then, without warning, the
+exclamation broke from me, "Would he have been happier with you, if you
+had married him?"</p>
+
+<p>"Rather a difficult question to answer," she said drily, not in the
+least discomposed. "You see, I did not marry him; and one cannot very
+well settle the upshot of an event which never took place. I dare say I
+should have succeeded, at the cost of some distress to myself—succeeded
+in making him happy, I mean!"</p>
+
+<p>"Millicent!"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't misunderstand me. If there had been no hindrances in the way, I
+should certainly have accepted him in those far-back days; and no doubt
+we should have shaken down together. But—"</p>
+
+<p>"But you would not have had him 'now!'" The words seemed to slip out,
+in spite of myself, and I was vexed at having asked the question; yet I
+listened eagerly for her answer.</p>
+
+<p>"One cannot always say what one might do, until the opportunity is
+given," she said, with deliberation. "Ernest is a very dear fellow: and
+I have always been fond of him. But I am quite sure that it is far best
+for me 'not' to marry. I am too middle-aged and used-up; and perhaps
+I am too much accustomed to managing as I like. Besides, very few men
+would be able to make me happy. And I doubt if Ernest now is one of
+those few."</p>
+
+<p>"Why?" I asked in surprise.</p>
+
+<p>"He has not developed enough. I am so much older than I was a few years
+ago, and he is hardly older at all."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh!"</p>
+
+<p>"Older with respect to you, but not with respect to me."</p>
+
+<p>I did not feel that I understood what she meant exactly.</p>
+
+<p>"Besides," she went on, "I think I should do better with a rather
+stronger husband,—supposing that I ever had one at all. I think I
+should prefer one who always knew his own mind."</p>
+
+<p>Was she laughing at me? I could not make out. There was a curious
+sparkle in her eyes. I broke into an indignant defence of Ernest. The
+idea of any one calling him weak!</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think I called him weak. Only perhaps he has not quite
+backbone enough for me. It would not prevent his being strong enough
+for you."</p>
+
+<p>As if that were any improvement! But she looked so sweet, one could not
+be angry. There was nothing for it but to smile and give in.</p>
+
+<p>Then I knew I should be wanted at home, and I said good-bye, Millicent
+pressing me to call again soon. And I walked back, feeling altogether
+better; braced up and comforted. And when I came in doors, the first
+sight that met my eyes was Ernest's face.</p>
+
+<p>I do not know what became of all the doubts and worries. The moment his
+arms were round me, they seemed to melt away, and I just clung to him,
+and felt that I had all I wanted. Will those feelings ever come again?
+I am so happy this evening; and Mother is satisfied; and it really does
+not look as if I had done the wrong to Millicent that I feared. So I
+mean now to make the best of things, and to have no more gloomy fancies.</p>
+
+<p>And I shall drop journalising. It encourages morbid fancies, if one is
+in the mood for them. Some people might do it safely enough, I dare
+say; but I hardly think I can. I shall lock the volume away, in the
+bottom of a box, far out of sight. And I will not even look at it again
+for at least two or three years.</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t3">
+(<em>No further entry for fifteen years.</em>)<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br></p>
+
+<p class="t5">
+<em>July 3rd, 18—.</em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>
+</p>
+
+<p>My poor old journal! I have come across it unexpectedly, as I did once
+before, long ago. And as then, so now, I have not been able to resist
+reading it through. Now I am going to add a few last words.</p>
+
+<p>Those were curious days. The little tangles of girlhood seemed at the
+time so terrible and hopeless. Looking back upon them from middle life,
+I know how easy the way out often was. If only one had been willing! If
+only the main desire had been, not to have one's own way, but at any
+and every cost to do simply the thing which was right!</p>
+
+<p>"Poor little Rhoda! Poor silly little Rhoda!" I have been saying these
+words to myself over and over again as I read. There was so much
+needless fretting, such a waste of fervour and energy over trifles,
+such a pitiful amount of preoccupation with self.</p>
+
+<p>The folly of the child! I can look back upon her now as upon another
+person. To take her choice, as she did, in the face of those inward
+spirit-warnings, which surely are meant to lead us in the right way,
+was the height of folly. I wonder at her as I read. Yet it is so
+common, so human. When those gentle warnings come, we are so often just
+bent upon having our own way. And then, sometimes, we are allowed to
+take it; we are not even permitted to turn back from the path which
+we have chosen; and in the path of our choice we have to endure the
+consequences.</p>
+
+<p>I have had to bear consequences in the path of my choice. How should
+it be otherwise? I do not wish to say much of this, even in my private
+journal. But the everyday discipline of life, these past years, has
+been harder, far harder, to endure, because I have known all through
+that it "was" of my own choosing, of my own bringing.</p>
+
+<p>Some of the perplexities which so fretted my girlish mind in those days
+have been explained since. I know—and I can now know it calmly—that
+Ernest had not entirely made up his mind to ask me to be his wife, when
+he found me so bitterly crying in the garden. Had he not found me thus,
+he would not then have spoken. Perhaps he might never have spoken. When
+he had failed on a certain momentous evening to appear, it was because
+he could not arrive at any decision. He wanted to wait, to consider.
+He had unexpectedly seen Millicent, and, although he was no longer in
+love with her, she had always a curious power over him. If I had not
+just then been in the way, he would almost certainly have turned to her
+again. And if she had been one whit less pure and high in principle
+than she was, less entirely self-forgetting, I do not think she would
+have found it difficult to detach his affection from me, and to win him
+to herself.</p>
+
+<p>These things and others also came to my knowledge within a year of our
+marriage; and the passionate pain and distress that I went through can
+hardly be put into words.</p>
+
+<p>He was fond of me, honestly fond of me. Still, it might have been
+better if he had waited, if he had not spoken so hastily. And oh, how
+much better if I had gone home before Addie fell ill.</p>
+
+<p>A calmer, quieter wife, less eager, less impulsive, less engrossed
+with herself, less disposed to imagine and to magnify, would have made
+him happier. I know and see it now. We learnt gradually to put up with
+one another's faults; and the last three or four years were all that
+they should have been. But the first few years—the first three or four
+especially—I never can forget what we both went through. Neither of
+us had learnt to forbear, and each of us expected in all things to be
+given way to; and there was utter incompatibility of tastes, of habits,
+of inclinations. But for Millicent's angelic sweetness, but for her
+power over both of us, but for the unfailing wisdom with which she
+used that power, our married life would have been one long stretch of
+misery. She saved us from that; and a great change took place at last,
+but it "was" at last.</p>
+
+<p>Two years ago he was taken from me, and I have the comfort of
+remembering a placid time preceding that, a time free in the main from
+jarrings and misunderstandings. Had it not been for this, I do not know
+how I should endure to look back at all.</p>
+
+<p>My home is once more in Wayatford. When I was left a widow, I came back
+here with my little girl, to live with my dear Mother, and to brighten,
+so far as might be, her later years. Addie and Emmie are both married.</p>
+
+<p>Millicent still keeps her father's house, still follows her monotonous
+round of Parish duties. Hers has been such an uneventful life,—"awfully
+dull," as somebody the other day described it. But I can only say
+that there is no one in the world with whom I would sooner exchange
+than Millicent. Not because of her surroundings, not because of her
+circumstances, but because of what she is in herself, because of her
+perfect content.</p>
+
+<p>For she is always happy. Hers has been a far happier life than mine
+thus far. For this I blame myself, my own ill-governed temper, and my
+own want of self-control. If by any possibility my past experience can
+save dear little Millie from falling into the same tangles, she shall
+indeed escape them. At least, I can tell her the story of my girlhood:
+first the little rehearsal of temptation and failure in earlier
+days; and then the stronger repetition of the same, the temptation
+intensified, the failure repeated on a more marked scale. Does the
+experience of one ever serve entirely for another? If it might but be
+so in this case!</p>
+
+<p><br><br></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter" id="image045" style="max-width: 25.3125em;">
+  <img class="w100" src="images/image045.jpg" alt="image045">
+</figure>
+<p class="t4">
+<b>FINIS.</b><br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+
+<p class="t4">
+LONDON:<br>
+JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.<br>
+</p>
+
+<p><br><br><br></p>
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78624 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
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+This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78624
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78624)