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—