and then we generally have a few days together of weather that for pleasantness can scarcely be matched. They are soft, quiet, dreamy days; the sunshine is never bright exactly, but gentle and a little melancholy. There is a queer feeling of having been naughty and being forgiven: the wind comes in little whispering sobs, like a tiny child that can’t leave off crying all at once; the whole world seems tired and yet calm and hopeful in a far-off sort of way. Somehow these days make me feel much gooder (“better” doesn’t do so well) than even the brightest and loveliest spring or summer-time. They make me think more of Heaven – and they make me dreadfully sorry for all the naughty selfish thoughts and feelings I have had. Altogether there is something about them I can’t put in words, though once – I will come to that “once” later on – some one said a thing that seemed to explain it almost exactly.
And this day – the day we went to the Yew Trees – it was the first time mamma and I had been there for very long – was one of those days. It was not late in November, so though it had been raining tremendously only the day before, the clearing-up process had been got through much more expeditiously than usual, and the sun had of course rather more strength still with which to help.
“The wind has been pretty busy in the night,” said papa. “He must have sent out all his elves to work. I scarcely remember ever seeing the roads dry up so quickly.”
“But they are rather untidy elves all the same, papa,” I replied – I do like when papa says these funny kinds of things – “just look what a lot of their brushes and dusters they have left about.”
We were driving along Crook’s Lane as I spoke – the road to the Yew Trees goes that way, right through Crook’s Wood, and I pointed to lots of boughs and branches, many of them still with their leaves on, that had been blown off in the night.
“Yes,” said papa, laughing.
We were in the pony-carriage; at least we call it the pony-carriage, though it is much too big for Hoppo to draw, and at that time we drove a rather small horse, a cob, of papa’s in it. I did feel so happy and nice. Papa was driving and I was beautifully wrapped up in the seat behind, which is really quite as comfortable as the front one. It seemed to me I had never scented the air so fresh and sweet before, nor heard the birds’ mild autumn chirpings so touching and tender.
The Yew Trees is only about a mile from us, and over the fields it is still nearer. We were soon there, and old Martha, knowing we were coming, had got the door open and the front steps cleaned. It did not look at all desolate outside, for the garden had been kept tidy in a plain sort of way. The trees which give their name to the house make a short avenue from the gate; some of them are very fine yews, I believe, though I always think them rather gloomy.
Inside, the rooms of course seemed bare and chilly. I had never thoroughly explored it before, and I was surprised to find how large it was. Mamma, of course, knew every chink and cranny, and she took me all over while papa was speaking to a man – a builder, who had come by appointment to meet him. It was found that the partition between the two odd little rooms on the ground floor was a very thin one and could be taken away quite easily, and, to mamma’s great pleasure, papa decided on this.
“It will make such a nice bright schoolroom,” she said, as we went upstairs. “And here,” she went on, “is the room Bessie and I used to have. Isn’t it a nice room, Connie? Long ago, I remember, I used to fancy that if ever my little Evie had a sister, and we came to live here some day, I would have it beautifully done up for my own girls.”
Mamma’s voice faltered a little as she said this. I was not feeling cross or impatient just then, so I answered her more gently than I am afraid I sometimes did when she alluded to my little dead brothers and sister.
“Well, mamma dear,” I said, “if you do it up very prettily now it will be a great pleasure to the one little girl you still have beside you, and also to the two stranger little girls. I am sure, too, that if Eva knew about it, she would be pleased. And perhaps she does.”
“Darling! My own Sweet Content!” said mamma. She thought me so good for what after all was a great deal a fancy, though a harmless one, to please myself.
“It shall be done, Connie dearest, if I can possibly manage it,” said mamma. “I wonder if the man downstairs has anything to do with the papering and painting?”
It turned out that he had – in little country towns you don’t find separate shops for everything, you know. This was the very man in whose window I had seen the lovely rose paper. So it was settled that on our way home we should call in and look at several wall papers. And soon after, we left the Yew Trees and drove off again.
Mr Bickersteth’s house was between the Yew Trees and the town. As we were passing the gate it opened, and Lady Honor came out. She was walking slowly, for she was not strong now, and she was an old lady. In my eyes very old, for I could not remember her anything else. Papa drew up when he saw her, and jumped down.
“We have just been at the Yew Trees,” he said. “My wife and Connie are so interested in getting it made nice for your friends.”
“Ah, yes!” said Lady Honor, looking pleased, “we heard from Frank Whyte this morning that it is settled. Very good of you to go yourself to look over the house, my dear Mrs Percy. And Connie, too! That is an honour – however in this case you will be rewarded. You will find the Whyte girls delightful and most desirable companions for her, Mrs Percy, Evey especially.”
Mamma grew rather white, and gave a little gasp.
“Evie,” she whispered (I spell it “Evie,” because I know that was how mamma thought it), “do you hear, Connie?”
“Yes, of course,” I said rather sharply. No one else noticed mamma, for Lady Honor had turned to papa. I felt half provoked. I wished the little Whyte girl had not been called “Evie.”
“Mamma will always be mixing her up with our Evie, and thinking her a sort of an angel,” I thought to myself, and something very like a touch of ugly jealousy crept into my heart. Just at that moment, unluckily, Lady Honor glanced my way again.
“Are you quite well again, Connie?” she said. “You don’t look very bright, my dear. She needs companionship, doctor – companionship of her own age, as I have always told you. It will do her good in every way, yes, in every way,” and she tapped the umbrella which she was carrying emphatically on the ground, while she nodded her head and looked at me with the greatest satisfaction in her bright old eyes. I am not sure that there was not a little touch of mischief mingled with the satisfaction – a sort of good-natured spitefulness, if there could be such a thing! And perhaps it was not to be wondered at: “bright” I certainly was not looking, and indeed I fear there must have been something very like sulkiness in my face just then. “Sweet Content,” Lady Honor went on, half under her breath, as if speaking to herself, “a very pretty name and a very lovely character. I was telling the Whyte children about it when I was with them the other day.”
Mamma flushed with pleasure, but I felt inwardly furious. I was sure the old lady was mocking at me; afterwards I felt glad that papa had not seen my face just then.
For the rest of the way, after we had said good-bye to Lady Honor, I was quite silent. If it had not been for very shame, I would have asked to be put down at our own house when we passed it instead of going on to Fuller’s shop. And mamma’s gentle coaxing only made me crosser.
“I am sure you are too tired, darling,” she kept saying. “You don’t think you have caught cold? Do say, if you feel at all chilly?”
And when I grunted some short, surly reply, she only grew
