But one day—it was only six months ago—Captain and Mrs Whyte, who had both been at Southerwold for nearly a week, telegraphed to papa, that old Mrs Fetherston had died; it was rather sudden at the last; and in the telegram they asked him to go to the Yew Trees to tell the children. I had seen them only the evening before, when there was no expectation of such a thing.
“Give them my love, papa,” I said, as he was starting, “and tell them I am very sorry.”
“They will be sorry, I suppose,” I added to mamma, when we were sitting alone; “but not very, do you think? She was rather a frightening old lady, though I don’t mean to be unkind.”
“She was very much softened of late,” said mamma, but she spoke rather absently.
“Still, mamma, it can’t make them very miserable—not like if one of themselves had died,” I said. “I may go to see them soon, mayn’t I, and everything be the same?”
Mamma looked at me very tenderly.
“Connie, dear,” she said, “don’t you understand that it must make a great difference? Captain Whyte will be the owner of Southerwold, and one or two other smaller places as well, I believe. He will be a very, very rich man, and they will be very important people. I don’t say it will change their hearts; indeed, I am very, very sure it will not; but they will have many new ties, and responsibilities, and duties, and—they will have to leave us.”
I stared at her. It was very silly of me not to have thought of it before, but I just hadn’t. Then I burst into tears, and hid my face on mamma’s shoulder.
“You must try not to be selfish, darling,” she whispered. “Try to be my own Sweet Content, and trust.”
I did try—I have tried, and I daresay mamma thinks I have succeeded. But in my heart I know I have not, quite. It all happened as mamma had said; as it had to, indeed. But it came so soon: I had not realised that. They were all as kind and dear as they could be to the end. Only they were very busy, and, of course, a little excited by the change. What wonder! Who could have helped it? In their place, I am sure, I should have been just horridly selfish. And before we knew where we were they were gone; the Yew Trees empty and shut up again. I went through it once, just once—but never again, for when I came to Evey and Mary’s room, with the climbing roses paper on the walls, I felt as if my heart would burst. That was six months ago. I have seen none of them since. They write me nice letters, but lately I have not had one—and, after all, letters are only letters. Some of them have been abroad for part of the winter; poor Addie was ill again, and no doubt they have new friends, and lots and lots to do. Perhaps it will be wisest for me to remember this, and not expect ever hardly to see them again; but—there is mamma calling me—what can it be? I must run and see.