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.