Chapter VII: Derwentwater

_June 15th, Saturday._

THERE was no time to finish yesterday my account of tea at the Vicarage, or to tell about the name of "Ernest Derwentwater" coming up. That interested me.

I had not heard the name before, but I noticed it directly, because of Millicent's face. One of the children said something about him, and I saw her in a moment flush up, such a soft little flush, it made her almost pretty for the moment; and I saw the anxious way in which she tried to turn to something else.

But that provoking small scarecrow, the second youngest boy, would persist in saying, "Ernest Derwentwater! Ernest Derwentwater! Yes, Ernest Derwentwater! Wasn't it Ernest Derwentwater? I'm sure it was Ernest Derwentwater! Sissie, it was Ernest Derwentwater!" Till I could have shaken the little wretch, for Millicent looked quite distressed. It seemed as if the boy were bent on teasing her.

And then the Rector heard, and he turned round with his forehead all puckered, and asked,—

"Has Derwentwater been here, my dear?"

"No, father."

"You are sure?" Mr. Farrars spoke in a curious grave manner, not as if he were displeased, but more as if he were puzzled.

"No, father," she said again. And then, after thinking for a moment,—"But I did hear that he talked of running down for a few days."

"When?"

"I don't know. I don't think anything was settled."

"Oh,—but I meant, when did you hear, it, my dear?"

"I don't know exactly," and there was a little shake in her voice. "Mr. Collins told me, and I forget exactly which day I saw Mr. Collins last."

"And you did not think of mentioning it to me?"

I knew from her face that she "had" thought of it. She had not forgotten.

"I think he will stay at the Park. But nothing was settled."

"What were you saying just now about Derwentwater? I did not quite hear."

"Only Phil's nonsense,—something about a little picture. Nothing of the least consequence."

"It was Ernest Derwentwater, his very own self. And I 'know' it was,—I know it quite well. He gave it to Sissie," persisted Phil. "And I know he did, 'cause I saw him. And he didn't mean nobody to see. I know he didn't."

"Well, well, well," Mr. Farrars murmured, in a resigned sort of tone, as if something or other were very melancholy, but could not possibly be helped. And then he sighed, and Millicent went across in her quiet way,—she always moves so quietly, without the least noise or bustle,—and stood looking down upon him. And after a minute, she stooped and gave him a kiss on his forehead, as if she were trying to smooth away the wrinkles. That brought a smile, though the worried look did not go quite away. Mr. Farrars has a nice smile, and Millicent seems very fond of him.

Nothing more was said just then, and Millicent managed to get rid of Phil and his notions, by sending him off for a game of play. Later on, Mr. Farrars went away too, and I was looking through some photographs with her, when we came across a cabinet likeness of a young man. I do not know what made me stop to look at it so very particularly, unless it was that I saw a sort of tiny movement of Millicent's hand, as if she wanted to slip that photo away, out of sight.

Then I think in a moment I suspected who it was. Perhaps it would have been kinder to let her do as she liked, but how could I, when I was brimful of curiosity? So I kept my hand on the card, and didn't seem to see what she wished: and I examined the face well,—such a handsome face, with a good expression.

I said, "Who is this?"

And in a moment, there was another little tinge of colour.

"That! Oh, only Mr. Derwentwater."

"I suppose he is a particular friend of yours?"

"A particular friend to all of us,—especially to the boys." I wondered whether Mr. Derwentwater would have agreed to that "especially." But she went on,—"We have known him more or less all our lives. His father was my father's greatest College friend."

"He doesn't live here?"

"No,—in London. He has a very good appointment in a Bank. He has rooms in London."

"And he often comes here."

"Not very often. Sometimes. Mr. Collins is his uncle. But of course, he goes oftenest to see his father and mother."

"It is a very nice face."

"He is thought rather good-looking." She spoke carelessly.

"You think him so,—now don't you, Millicent?" I asked, laughing, and wanting to make her laugh.

But she never seemed to dream of laughing. She only looked at me straight, with those quiet eyes of hers, and said, "Perhaps I do. I don't think it matters. One doesn't think about people being handsome, when one knows them very well."

"Doesn't one? I do. If a face is handsome at all, the more one knows it, the more handsome it seems to grow."

"One of the most beautiful faces I ever saw is your aunt Marian's face." Of course, I saw that she wanted to get me off to some other subject, and of course, I tried to prevent it. But Millicent is not easy to manage. She has such a quiet sort of determination. Do what I might, I could not bring her back to Mr. Derwentwater.

But she could not prevent me from thinking, from wondering what it all means, and whether it means anything. Is Millicent in love with Mr. Derwentwater?—And is he in love with Millicent? And are there any difficulties in the way? I should like Millicent to marry, and to have a happy home of her own. At least, I should like it by-and-by, when we have seen a good deal of one another, and have become thorough friends. I do not want her just now to have her head so full of him that she cannot give a single thought to me. But by-and-by.

Only I do not quite see how they are to get on without her at the Rectory. That may be the difficulty.

Mr. Farrars is so very kind and good, and uncle calls him "a most able preacher," and they say he is perfectly worshipped by the poor. But he does seem a little helpless about household arrangements and the management of all those boys.

Still, if that is all, why should there not be an engagement, and Mr. Derwentwater might wait. Amy is eight years old now, and she will be growing older in time. It would only be a few years,—seven or eight years, perhaps. In eight years, Amy will be sixteen. If I were in love with a girl like Millicent, I would wait for her gladly any number of years. It would not matter how many, if only I might get her in the end. But, I suppose men are more impatient than women.

And perhaps he does not really care for her. Of course, I do not know yet about that. How interesting it will be, when he comes down, to see whether anything of that kind is really going on! Like a scrap of real life in a story,—or like a bit of story in real life,—I do not know which to call it. I have never come across anything of the sort before. And though I think I am too sensible a girl to have my head full of nonsensical ideas as to love affairs, still one cannot help being interested if one's own friend is perhaps going to have a love affair.

Of course I must say nothing to anybody. I must only use my eyes, and that at all events I am free to do. Millicent is very reserved, I fancy, but she does not know me well yet. When she does, perhaps she will speak out, and tell me how things really are.

She did not look very happy when his name was mentioned. A kind of worried expression came, and that puzzles me.

Is there something about him not quite nice,—not quite as it should be? Does Mr. Farrars not quite like him? He has such a frank open face in the photograph,—not the sort of face which, I should think, could possibly mean anything really wrong. Perhaps she was only a little shy, and did not want me to suspect anything, only it did not look like shyness. Well, she will soon know me better, and will not mind what I see or know about her.

I have been wondering whether I might not offer to help her with some of the mending of the boys' things. She has such a lot of it to do; and then perhaps she might get to bed a little before twelve o'clock.

I don't mean, just to help her only once, but to promise it regularly—once or twice a week while I am here, so that she would be able to depend on me. She could not possibly mind, and I should feel myself then of real use.

What an amount I have written to-day!

_June 17th, Monday._

Perhaps it was rather stupid of me to speak so soon, but I have spoken and been refused.

I had to go to the Rectory after breakfast with a message from aunt Marian, and the temptation was too strong. Millicent was darning a sock at the moment when I went in. And when I had given my message, I said,—

"Oh, I have been thinking I should 'so' like to help you with your mending, Millicent. Will you not let me? I want to come in regularly while I am at Wayatford—twice a week, perhaps, and sit and work with you. Do let me."

Yesterday, I asked her to call me "Rhoda," and she said I might call her "Millicent." Though from her manner, I fancied she thought it rather soon.

She looked up in a sort of surprised way at me, and said,—

"Help me! O no, thank you."

"But I mean it. I really do mean it. I should like nothing better. I do want to be useful to somebody."

"Thanks, you are very kind," she said coldly, and not as if she were in the very least grateful. "But please do not speak of such a thing again."

"But why? Don't you know me well enough yet? Do let me, Millicent."

She got up, with a little flush on her face, and put away in a drawer the sock she had been darning, and only said,—

"Would you like to come into the garden with me?"

"You know I have not come here to hinder you. If I must not be a help, I will go away at once."

"I could not think of it," was the only answer she made. And then she turned the subject altogether in her determined way, and not another word could I get in about my wish.

I was so disappointed and hurt, that when I got back, I told aunt Marian all about what had passed.

She listened with a queer little laugh in her eyes.

"So you are very fond of needlework!"

"Not fond of needlework in itself; no, not at all. But if it is to help somebody that I am fond of—"

"And you care enough already for Millicent!"

"Oh, I like her very much, very much indeed. And she works so hard, I should like to be able to help her."

"The wish is right enough. But suppose you started helping her, and then grew tired of it."

"I don't think I should."

"If you are fond enough of Millicent! That is the question, of course. However, I think you were in rather too much of a hurry. How much does Millicent know of you?"

"As much as I know of her."

"Perhaps not. I have told you a good deal about Millicent that is admirable."

And of course she has not told Millicent anything about me that is admirable. I saw what aunt Marian meant.

She would not seem to know whether I understood, and only said,—

"Perhaps we may bring it about yet; only you must have patience."

"Is Millicent very proud?"

"I imagine not. Why? Because she does not plunge into the first offer of help from a stranger?"

"Aunt Marian! A stranger!"

"Well, what else? How often have you two met?"

"But for me just to sit and work with her?"

"Quite simple, of course. Still, we must have patience. Perhaps Millicent was not anxious to expose to your criticism the state of the family stockings. Perhaps she thought her father would object. Perhaps she fancied it would be no kindness to you."

"But it would be kindness. I should like nothing better."

"If so, when Millicent knows you better, she may not be unwilling," was all aunt Marian would say.

_June 20th, Thursday._

Millicent and I had a ramble in the field to-day. She doubted about sparing the time, but I gave her no peace, and at last she went.

She was even graver and paler than usual, I thought, yet I could find no particular reason. It almost seemed as if she had none.

I had made up my mind that I really would for once get Millicent to talk about herself, a thorough long talk. I meant to find out ever so many things that I have never yet been able to find out. Though I like Millicent so much, it is wonderful how little I know about her, and I don't see why, and I don't like it. If we are friends, she ought to treat me with confidence. I tell her all sorts of things quite openly, and why should she not do the same to me?

Some people love nothing so dearly as to talk about themselves, and they are always and for ever twisting round the conversation to the one thing they care for—either themselves and their aches and pains, or themselves and their feelings, or themselves and their worries—but Millicent is altogether the other way. If one can edge her into speaking for one minute about anything connected with herself, she is off again in a trice to some other subject.

Of course one likes and admires that in her, and the people who do love to discuss themselves are awfully wearisome. "I" should not like to do that sort of thing. I should hate to be always thinking and talking about myself. But still, the very fact that Millicent is not one of those people makes me want to know more of herself and her inner life. It does not seem natural that a girl should be so shut-up, and have nothing whatever to say about her own troubles. For Millicent has troubles enough of her own; one can see that in her face. Only it is difficult to make out exactly what the troubles are.

And to-day all my trying was in vain. I did my best, and I could not succeed. She got me off somehow upon "my" home troubles; at least, I am sure she did. Because I had not the very least intention when we began talking to say a single word about myself, and yet somehow I found myself doing it. I don't remember her asking any questions, and I don't think Millicent does ask questions, but she has a way of setting one off. I have not a notion how she does it. Before I knew what I was about, I was telling her all about Clarissa and Juliet, though I had quite made up my mind never to let slip about them to anybody in Wayatford.

Talking seemed to bring up the old feelings, and I suppose I got a little excited, and let out what I really felt. For, after all, though they were kinder just at the last, they were "not" kind before, and it is their doing really that I am banished from home and from my mother all these months. But for them, I should be with her now.

Millicent never tried to stop me. She waited and listened, while I went on as long as I liked. I am afraid I forgot all about making Millicent tell me "her" troubles, and I only told her "mine." And at the end, when I came to a stop, she said in her very quietest voice,—

"I would not have things so in the future, if I were you."

"Why, what can I do? How could you help it? How could anybody help it? If people will be so provoking—"

"Almost everybody has something provoking to put up with. How could one learn to be patient without?"

"I don't pretend to be so very particularly patient. But I am sure Juliet is not either."

"Only you have not to do with that."

I thought I had a great deal to do with it, and I said so.

"I mean—you have no responsibility there. You have not to answer for her, but only for yourself."

"Well, I know one thing," I said—and I am afraid I spoke rather snappishly, for it seemed to me that Millicent was taking Juliet's part, and if she were my friend, I thought she ought to take "my" part,—"I know one thing, and that is that when I am away from those two, I can be perfectly good and patient. I always have said that I was sure I could, and now I find I can. It is they who put me out, and make everything go wrong. It is not 'me.' I have been quite good and patient ever since I came to Wayatford."

"Patient about what?"

I did not understand, and I told her so.

"I mean, what have you to bear at Mrs. Ramsay's, that is so particularly trying?"

"Why, nothing. That is the very thing. They don't worry and plague me here. It all goes smoothly."

"But where is the particular virtue of keeping straight, when there is nothing to make you go crooked?" she asked in a dry sort of tone.

It was a new idea to me, and I stared at her.

"Don't you see, Rhoda? How can one be patient, unless something in one's life might make one impatient? One may be in a good temper, merely because everything is exactly as one wishes, but that is not patience. Patience means bearing—enduring—when it is not easy to bear or endure. If there is nothing to be borne, how can there be any patience? One may be comfortable, but being comfortable is not being patient. Don't you understand?"

"I don't know. I have not thought much about it."

"Have you not?" And she seemed surprised. "I had to think it all out for myself so long ago. One is not put into the world just to enjoy oneself, and to get along smoothly. Life means so much more than that."

"Everybody doesn't have to live with a Clarissa and a Juliet."

"Not all their lives, perhaps. You have not lived with them always, and I don't suppose you will have to live with them always. But if they go, some other trouble will come—perhaps a worse one!"

"Nothing could be worse!" I declared.

She spoke very low, so low that I could hardly hear,—"Don't say that, while your mother is still left to you!"

I had no answer to make. If my mother were taken, as Connie was taken—it came over me with a kind of stab. What would anything else matter by comparison?

"You see," Millicent went on, "people who are truly patient have always had a good deal to make them so, one way and another. Either bad health, or want of money, or very hard work, or tiresome people to live with. It doesn't much matter what, so long as there is something that rouses one's impatience, because then the opportunity for patience comes in. Of course one might have all those troubles, and yet never learn patience. But I don't see how one could possibly learn patience 'without' some such troubles."

"Millicent, you ought to be a female lecturer. I didn't know you could talk half so well."

"I have to explain things to the children, and so I am in practice," she said, not in the least abashed.

"But you don't mean that one 'must' have bothers and worries, all one's whole life through?"

She waited a minute before speaking.

"I think it depends—It is part of the preparation. Each of us has to learn certain lessons, and the teaching goes on and on until we do learn. Some people learn patience very quickly; and others are very slow, and need long teaching, perhaps all their lives through. One gets a breathing-space now and then, like what you are having now, but it does not last, of course. Either you will be at home again and have little rubs there, or you will stay long enough to find little rubs here. Everything can't be kept perfectly smooth for very long together."

She spoke so like an old person, as if she had learnt it all from experience; not like a mere girl, repeating what others might have told her.

"Well, I only know that things in 'my' home are much harder to bear than in most people's homes."

And she asked, "What if it is your own fault, Rhoda?"

I was so angry that I did not say a word. It took me by surprise. I had not gone to Millicent for her to find fault with me. If one has a friend, one expects one's friend to be sympathising. That was why I had talked to Millicent. It seems so hard that I should be banished from my home, just because of Clarissa and Juliet, and I thought she would feel for me. And instead of that, to tell me it was all my own fault—or, at least, to ask a question, which meant that it was. For a little while, I was so vexed that I almost thought I should never like Millicent again. And I was quite glad she had not agreed to let me work for her. There was no need for me to see her often.

Millicent did not say a word for a good while, and then she spoke on some different subject.

She must have seen that I was angry, but I do not fancy she minded very much. At all events, she did not say a word about being sorry.

She is an odd girl. I don't feel as if I altogether knew her yet.

We did not say any more about my home troubles, but I mean to have it out with her another day. I mean to know what she really thinks. Even if she is unjust, I will make her say plainly what she has in her mind. It will show me what my uncle and aunt have said to her, and what the girls said to uncle about me.

Of course I know that I was in the wrong at home, and I do not deny that some part of the fusses and difficulties were in some measure my own fault. I'm not trying to make myself out to be immaculate. I have my faults, like other people. But I do think Juliet was much more to blame; and I "don't" see that it is Millicent's business to set me to rights, and to settle how much I was to blame.

I suppose a person cannot be too truthful, but certainly I do think people can be too downright. Millicent is so very downright—not in a rough rude positive way, because she is always gentle, but she does not seem to mind what she says.