That winter and spring and summer, and the winter that followed them too, were, happy as my life had been in many ways, the happiest I had ever known. I was not, of course, constantly with the Whytes, for we had our lessons separately, and they had a great many other things to do beside lessons, things which it had never entered my head that a little girl could help in, though, once I made a start, I found that this had been quite a mistake.
I have marked down a few special days to write about—for looking back upon your life after a few years you can see what were the really important things that happened, the events which were the first links in a chain that led to lasting effects—little and trifling as these events may have seemed at the time.
Yvonne’s birthday was in November. Not a very nice month for a birthday, one might think. But, as I have said before, November in our part of the world is often very nice. Some days in it are sure to be so, and of course we made up our minds that the day could not but be one of the nicest.
“I have always been sorry my birthday was in November,” said Evey one afternoon, a week or two before the important date, “but Connie has almost made me change my mind.”
“I think it rather suits you,” I said. “You wouldn’t seem in your place on a very hot, lazy, full-summer day, when one can’t be active and energetic and useful: the sort of day when you feel you may be idle and of no use for once,” and I gave a little sigh. They all laughed.
“Poor Connie,” said Mary, “Evey has bullied you out of your nice comfortable lazy ways rather too much, hasn’t she? Well, I’ll tell you what, when your birthday comes you shall stay in bed and we’ll all come and pay you a visit.”
They were paying me a visit that day. We were at tea in my schoolroom: I was making the tea—pouring it out I mean—and mamma, who had come in to see how we were getting on, was sitting knitting in the window, where Evey had just carried her a cup. Two of the boys were with us; Addie, whom they always tried to get any treat for, as he was kept out of so many boys’ pleasures; and Charley, the next in age to him. Lancelot and Jocelyn did not often honour us with their society; they were working very hard now, at their particular studies.
Mamma looked up at this speech of Mary’s, and said quickly:
“I am sure that way of spending her birthday would not be at all to Connie’s taste. She has never been lazy, though of course in a large family there are a great many things to do that it would be absurd to spend time over where there is only one child and plenty of servants.”
I felt a little vexed. Mamma need not have started up in my defence, and I knew that even if I had never been actually lazy, I had, before I began to think about such things, been often very, very idle. I could tell by mamma’s tone that she was annoyed, though she spoke as usual quite gently. I could see, too, that Yvonne and Mary felt it, but then they were so simple and downright that they never took things in a hurt, self sort of way. Mary’s face shadowed over a little—she was just sorry to have vexed mamma, and ready to blame herself.