“Yes she will,” I said, kicking the pebbles on the road; “she’ll quite spoil it. And then she’ll go telling everybody—all Miss Parker’s girls that she’s such friends with—about having been at the Yew Trees for Evey’s birthday. It’ll make it seem so common.”
“You can any way go early,” said mamma, “and be there with your friends before she comes. Then you can give your present by yourself. I don’t suppose Anna will have a present, so it is better on all accounts for you to give yours alone.”
This smoothed me down a little. Then the interest of the present itself was very great—it was a very pretty little silver brooch, made of the letters “C” and “Y” twisted together, and in those days monogram brooches were not yet common. It had been made to order of course, and though it looked simple, it had really cost a good deal. Still there was nothing about it to make the Whytes feel as if it were too handsome. By Tuesday morning, especially when the day proved clear and fine—one of our very sweetest November days—I had pretty well recovered my good temper, and was prepared to make myself agreeable. But I had not really struggled against my selfishness—I had just got tired of being cross, and let my ill-humour drop off—so I was not at all in a firm state of mind for resisting any new trial.
And the trial came.
It came that very morning about twelve o’clock, and it was brought by the “boy” from the Vicarage, in the shape of a note to mamma, from Miss Gale, senior—that is Anna’s aunt—asking if her niece might call for me on her way to the Yew Trees that afternoon, and walk there with me, as it was not convenient to send a maid with her. There was no question of its being much of a favour on my side. Old Miss Gale, as I called her, seemed quite comfortably assured that it would be a pleasant arrangement for all parties. I was with mamma when the note came; I saw there was something wrong, and I insisted upon her telling me what it was. I listened in silence. Then I broke out: “I won’t go with her; I say I won’t” I exclaimed loudly. “You may just write and say so, mamma.”
But at that moment papa put his head in at the door. I had not known that he was in the house.
“What is all this?” he said, and his face and his voice were as I had never seen them before. Mamma explained, as gently as she could, of course, and so as to throw the least possible blame on me.
“It is rather trying for Connie, you see, Tom,” she finished up.
“And does Connie expect never to be tried?” he answered, sternly. “Why are you to be exempt from the common lot?” he went on, turning to me. “Where is your principle, your boasted superiority—yes, child, you may not exactly say so in words, but you do think yourself superior to others,” he went on, seeing that I was about to interrupt him—“if at the very first little contradiction you are to lose your temper, and forget yourself so shamefully? You have no right to feel it a contradiction even—it is only proper and natural that Anna should sometimes share your pleasures.”