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."

"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.