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."

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.