CHAPTER SEVEN.

A TRIO OF FRIENDS.

One of the hardest things about trying to be good, particularly about trying to be _better_, for that means getting out of bad ways as well as getting into good ones, is the dreadful persistence of bad habits. Even when your heart is quite, _quite_ in earnest, and your mind too, and often at the very time you're planning beautifully about keeping your new resolutions, and quite bubbling over with eagerness about them, you get a sudden shock, just as if you had walked straight into a bath of cold water that you didn't know was there--and oh, dear, you stop to find you have done the exact wrong or foolish thing you had been fixing so to avoid.

How many times this happened to me about the new resolutions I wrote of in the last chapter I should be afraid to say. Sometimes it was almost laughable. One morning I remember I was busy writing down one or two rules I had thought might help me, when I heard mamma's voice calling me.

"Bother," I said to myself in my old way, "I shall never remember about the third rule, if I leave it just now."

And I went on calmly writing, just calling to mamma, "Yes, yes, I'll come directly;" and so absorbed was I, that when, a full quarter of an hour afterwards, I happened to glance out of the window, and saw mamma hot and out of breath from a chase after my new Persian kitten, who had escaped through the conservatory and might _very_ easily have got lost or stolen, or even killed, it never struck me that I might have saved her this trouble. Trouble on my account, too!

"What _is_ the matter, mamma?" I exclaimed as I ran out, half crossly, for I could not bear to see her so tired and breathless. "How you do fuss--why didn't you make the servants fetch Persica in?"

"My dear," said mamma, as gently as if I had any right to find fault with her, "you know she won't come to any one but you or me; and I did call you."

How ashamed I felt! I tore up the rules, and called them nasty things in my own mind, which was exceedingly silly. Afterwards, when I had had more talk with Yvonne, and Mary, I made some others. Not half such grand ones. Only very, very simple ones, which I almost despised on that account; but they were useful to me, by showing me that, simple as they were, it was no easy matter to keep them, even for a few hours at a time.

You see I had been selfish all my life. I had never even _thought_ of its being wrong. Once I did begin to think about it, I was perfectly startled and horrified to find how wide-spreading and deep-rooted my selfishness was. I should often have lost heart altogether had it not been for my new friends. Not that they ever "preached" to me or to anybody, it was just the seeing and _feeling_ how different they were, from what a different point of view they looked at everything, that made me understand better where I was wrong, and take courage to go on trying. And now and then nice things happened to make me feel I was getting on a little; some of these I will tell you about, though I have also to tell you of some rather dreadful things that showed how very naughty and horrid--oh! I get hot still when I think of one of these--I still was.

It was not only selfishness I had to fight against I was exceedingly, absurdly, really _vulgarly_ self-conceited and stuck-up. I don't think Evey and Mary really ever knew the worst of me; for one thing, I began to _try_ almost from the first of knowing them; for another, just as an honest person cannot believe, and never suspects another of dishonesty till he is actually _forced_ to do so, the dear Whytes were too sincere and simple and single-minded to understand or take in my ridiculous vanity and affectations.

But I must tell about my first visit to the Yew Trees--I mean my first visit to its new inhabitants. It was two or three days after the Sunday at Lady Honor's. I was fidgeting dreadfully to see Evey again, and I think one of my first real "tries" at not being selfish was doing my best not to tease mamma about when we should go, and worrying her all day long to fix the exact day and hour.

It was not a very hard "try" certainly, for it was only on Wednesday morning that papa told us at breakfast that he had met Captain Whyte the evening before, and had been told by him that Mrs Whyte and the other children had arrived that morning.

"He said," papa went on, "that Mrs Whyte would be very pleased to see you, Rose; and when you go to call on her, you are to be sure to take Connie."

"When should we go, do you think?" asked mamma.

"Not to-day--they will hardly be settled enough to see us."

"I don't know that," papa replied. "Captain Whyte said _any_ time; the sooner the better. Mrs Whyte may have little things to ask you about; and I fancy they are very methodical, sensible people, who will soon get into order."

"They all help so; they're so useful," I could not help saying with a little sigh.

"Well, dear," said mamma, with an encouraging glance, "other little daughters are useful, too. You should have seen how beautifully Connie dusted and rearranged the bookshelves for me yesterday, Tom," she went on to papa, for which he gave me one of his nicest smiles.

And it was settled that mamma and I should go that very afternoon.

I felt a very little nervous about seeing Mrs Whyte. Somehow the mother of such very well brought up children, and a person, too, whom Lady Honor evidently approved of so thoroughly, must, it seemed to me, be rather alarming; and I am not sure but that dear mamma was a very little nervous too.

"We won't stay long, Connie," she said, as we drew near the Yew Trees. "Very likely they are still busy, though they don't mind us. I have been thinking we might ask Evey and her sister to spend an afternoon with you--to-morrow perhaps, or the day after."

"Yes," I said. "I should like that. If their mother can spare them, and if all their time isn't settled out for lessons, and sewing, and taking care of the little ones, like dreadfully good girls in story-books. I'm afraid they're a _little_ that way, mamma--very, very regular and punctual, and their mother rather severe and particular. I'll tell you what I'm sure she's like, mamma. Very tall, much taller than you,"--and mamma is not little--"and black hair, quite straightly done, and rather small eyes, and a prim way of speaking."

Mamma began to laugh.

"Hush, Connie," she said, "you mustn't upset my gravity. Once I begin laughing,"--poor mamma, it wasn't very often she was really merry, though she tried to seem so for other people's sake--"I can't leave off."

We were close to the house by this time, though the thick-growing shrubs hid the lower part of it from view, and as mamma spoke, sounds of ringing laughter--the most ringing, happy, _pretty_ laughter I ever heard--reached our ears; and then voices.

"Joss, Evey, come to my rescue; catch him, the great, silly boy. No, no, Lancey--" and then as we came right in front, we saw what it was. A lady, a rather little lady, with dark hair--nice, wavy dark-brown hair, like what Evey's would have been if it hadn't been so short--and the brightest, sweetest, dark-eyed, rather gipsy-looking face, was running at full speed across the little lawn before the door, with Lancey, the biggest boy of all, you know, after her. She was waving something white, a roll of paper, above her head, which Lancey was evidently determined to get possession of, and behind him, in every direction it seemed at the first glance, were all the rest of the young Whytes--the three sailor-suits, two girls, Evey and a fair-haired one, and two or three more boys. Such a lot they looked! All rushing about, shouting and laughing at the top of their voices. Suddenly somebody--Evey, I think--caught sight of us. There came an instant hush.

"Oh dear," were the first words the lady uttered, as she hastened up to us. "I am so ashamed. You must think me out of my mind, Mrs Percy--it is Mrs Percy?" with a quick bright glance of questioning. "How good of you to come! We have been hoping you would. And this is Connie? I am so pleased to see you, dear."

How charming she was. Not exactly pretty, but so bright and sweet and irresistible--prettier than Evey and not as grave, but yet quite like enough to be her mother.

"You must think me a terrible tomboy," she said, laughing again, and blushing a very little. "But we are in such spirits. It's so long since we've been all together like this, for the big boys only came from school last week, and--"

"Mother _is_ rather a tomboy," said Lancelot, coolly. "I think Mrs Percy had best understand the truth from the first, and then she will never be shocked at our goings on."

"You impertinent boy," said his mother, laughing up at him. He was a great deal taller than she. "You shouldn't waste your time in writing verses, instead of doing your lessons, should he, Mrs Percy?"

This hint silenced Lancey effectually. And soon all the children dispersed, and Mrs Whyte took mamma away into the house. Only Yvonne and the fair-haired girl, who, I knew, must of course be Mary, stayed with me. I had not yet spoken--I had felt so completely bewildered by the contrast between the real Mrs Whyte and the fancy picture I had been drawing of her just the moment before, that no words came to my lips.

Yvonne thought that I was feeling shy, I suppose, and to put me at my ease she drew forward her sister.

"This is `plain Mary,' Connie," she said. "I see I must introduce you formally. Doesn't she suit her name?" she added, and I could hear in her tone how proud she was of Mary.

No wonder. Mary was _so_ pretty. She was very, very fair--and she seemed even fairer beside her rather gipsy-like mother and sister. But she had dark eyes, much darker than mine; I am not speaking of myself out of conceit, truly, but because I know that fair hair and dark eyes are thought pretty, as mamma has often praised mine, and Mary's hair is fairer and her eyes darker than mine, and she has a very sweet expression, what is called an "appealing" expression, I think. She stood there glancing up at Evey in a little timid way, as if accustomed to be protected and directed by her, that I did think so sweet. I had not one atom of jealousy--I am so glad I hadn't--in my thoughts as I looked at her, even though there was a _sort_ of likeness between her and me that might have made me feel jealous of her being so much prettier. But then, this particular kind of envy has not been my temptation; so it wasn't any goodness in me not to feel it. I just stood looking at Mary with a real nice pleasure in her sweetness. And she looked at me with a shy smile in her eyes, and Yvonne looked at us both for a moment in silence. Then she gave a sort of jump and clapped her hands.

"Connie," she said, "I knew there was something that made me feel sure I'd love you at once. Do you know you and Mary are really rather like each other? I wonder if the others have seen it?"

I felt myself get rosy with pleasure.

"Are we really?" I said. "I am so glad."

And sweet Mary grew red too, when I said that. "I'm very glad you're glad," she said, shyly. "Of course _I_ would like to be like you."

And I think that afternoon sealed our friendship. How happy we were! We explored all the garden together, making plans for all sorts of nice things, out-of-door teas, games of hide-and-seek, gardening and flower-shows (I will tell you about our flower-shows some other time-- they were such fun), when the summer came; then we went into the house and explored it too, spending most of our time in the girls' room, the room with the rose paper, where the two little white beds were standing side by side and everything as neat as could be, though to my eyes, accustomed to much more luxury, it looked rather bare. But Evey was full of her plans for dressing up the toilet-table and adorning the windows with blinds and ribbons to match.

"I've been waiting for you to come to talk about it with us," she said. "Connie has such good taste," she went on to Mary; "you know she chose this paper."

And though I had always fancied and had even, I fear, been rather proud of saying that I hated needlework, I found myself undertaking a share in it all, quite cheerfully.

"You'll join our poor work, won't you, Connie?" said Evey; "unless, of course, you've got a club of your own already."

And when I stared, she went on to explain that, busy as they were, busier still as their mother was, they all gave a certain amount of time regularly every week to sewing for the poor.

"You wouldn't believe how much one can do if one keeps to it," said Evey. "And you know things that are neatly made are so much more good to poor people than what one can buy. Once we had quite a proper club, and twice a year we had a shop--it was such fun. Mother says it is best to let them buy the things when they can, though we always gave away _some_. I wonder if we can have a club here."

"There is a sort of one I think," I said. "Anna Gale and her aunt manage it. But I'm sure it is stupidly done. They are so dull and stupid about everything."

Evey glanced up quickly.

"Mother is so clever about things like that," she said. "Perhaps something might be done about it. I daresay she would talk about it to Miss Gale. There are a good many new ideas about such things now, and perhaps--perhaps it is a little old-fashioned here, and mother might improve it. I think Anna Gale must be a very good girl."

"Oh, yes," I said contemptuously; "she's _good_ enough." Again Evey's quick little glance. I didn't quite like it.

"Evey," I said, "you needn't look at me that way. I know it's wrong to say unkind things of people, but when any one _is_ very dull and stupid, you can't say they're interesting and clever."

"I don't think you needed to say anything. I wasn't asking you about what the Gales were," said Evey, in her rather blunt way. "I don't mean to be rude or laying down the law, Connie, only--"

"Mother says," Mary interrupted in her shy way--"mother says it is always so very easy to find fault and to see the worst of people. It takes much more cleverness trying to see the best of them."

I had begun to feel rather angry, but Mary's words made me think a little.

"Well," I said, "I daresay that's true. But, I don't like Anna Gale, I suppose, and I daresay I've never tried to. Do you think that's wrong? You can't like everybody the same."

"No," said Evey, "not the same. That's just the difference. But there's _something_ to like in nearly everybody. And I think we should try to see that part of them most. But, _of course_, you don't need to like everybody the same; that would do away with friends and friendship. One thing I do like you for, Connie, is that you're frank and honest."

I smiled.

"Well, then, try to think most of that part of me," I said, repeating her own words. "No, I'd like you to see the bad parts of me too, and help me to be better."

Evey opened wide her bright brown eyes, and for once she got a little red.

"My dear Connie," she said, "I'm far too full of bad things myself to be able to make any one else better," and I saw she quite meant it.

A nice little thing happened that afternoon as we were leaving, which was great encouragement to me. It had grown rather chilly, and at the door I was helping mamma on with some extra wraps we had brought.

"You mustn't catch cold, mamma dear," I said.

We thought we were alone, but just then Evey ran out again with some forgotten message to mamma, and as they two were speaking I heard voices just behind the inner door.

"I like to see how gentle and tender Connie Percy is to her mother," one said--it was Mrs Whyte's. "I might have been sure any girl Lady Honor liked would be _that_."

Where were all my unworthy fears that Lady Honor had spoken "against me" to the Whytes?