But about the spoiling,—I suppose it was a difficult thing to keep clear of. I had been a sickly child, often at home from school; and for years father and mother were in a fright every winter lest they should lose me. At seventeen I was much stronger, and had pretty well outgrown the weakness; but still I did not look strong, and they could not get over the habit of always watching and thinking about me.
It was not my way to be cross-grained and discontented like most spoilt girls. I can remember being pretty nearly always happy. Good spirits are a gift worth having, and I had very good spirits. I liked seeing people, and I liked to know that they counted me pretty and clever. I liked still more to feel that I could make myself loved. People do like that, women more especially, perhaps; and I don't say that the feeling is in itself wrong. Only there is something wrong when a girl gets to be always thinking about herself, and doing everything for the sake of being admired or loved. She may be ever so pleasant, but none the less there's something wrong. One ought to have a better reason for doing.
So I think that on the whole I had more of love and admiration in those days than is wholesome for anybody. The harm did not show itself outwardly, perhaps, but it worked inwardly. Nobody except mother ever crossed me; and she never did it in a sharp or vexing way.
My father's name was James Phrynne. He was an old and trusted servant of the Company; and he had been station-master in Claxton for several years. Mother's name was Jane, and mine was Kate, or Kitty.
I can remember so well one Saturday afternoon in June, that year when I was seventeen years old.
I had been for a walk on the common, which was not fifteen minutes distant from the station. Mother often sent me there "for a blow," if she thought me looking pale. We did get lovely breezes up on the common, that seemed to come straight from the sea, though the sea was miles away. Sometimes I used to fancy I could taste salt on my lips, when the wind blew hard.
I had been all the way across to the other side and back, gathering a great bunch of the wild roses which grew on the hedge surrounding part of the common. Mother was so fond of wild roses.
When I got near home, Rupert came up. He had been to his home for tea, and was on his way back to the station, so he joined me. It was natural he should: he and I were so much together. I had always been fond of Rupert, and he was always good to me. You see, I had no brothers or sisters of my own, and Rupert had only one sickly sister called Mabel,—much too fine a name for such a poor fretful thing!
Not many people cared for Mabel Bowman; and though Rupert was in a way fond of her, he thought much more of me. I think I liked to know this. It was nice to feel that he would do anything in the world for my sake. And yet I should have liked Rupert to be different in many ways from what he was. I used to wish him handsome and clever, instead of plain and awkward and dull. Everybody said he was such a good fellow, and that was true; but I was silly, and cared more for looks.
Still I did not at all mind having him for my humble slave, and being able to order him about.