Chapter XI: A Day of Delights

_August 30th, Friday._

I HAVE a good deal to write down; and I want to write it at once, while things are fresh in my mind.

It has been a wonderful day to me—such a day as does not come often in one's life. This evening I feel half-dazed, and it is no use to think of sleeping, so I may just as well journalize.

Uncle was called for first by Lady Wills; and then up came Mr. Derwentwater in the dog-cart with nobody beside him, and May Collins and Jack Farrars in the back seat. A sort of little twinge came over me, whether Millicent "ought" not to be there. But I had quite made up my mind; and even if I had not, it would have been too late to change, because the landau had already started. So in another moment, I was up, and he was tucking in the rug round me; and then we were off, bowling along at such a rate, and the air was delicious, and the sun was bright, and I felt as if I had never enjoyed anything so much in all my life.

The first part of the way, Mr. Derwentwater was rather silent, and he seemed to have to attend a good deal to his horse. Then he began to brighten up, and to make little jokes; and May and Jack kept turning round to laugh. When we saw the landau ahead, I wondered whether perhaps Mr. Derwentwater would be sorry that he had not Millicent with him. But instead of seeming sorry, he grew merrier than before, and laughed quite loud, and leant over to tuck in the rug round me afresh, though it was all right;—and that was just at the moment when we were passing the landau. He took off his cap and bowed, but in a way as if he were almost too much occupied and interested in what we were saying to be able to attend to anything else. I could not help noticing all this; and I could not help feeling rather proud, because I knew quite well that I was looking and talking my best, and I liked them all to see it.

Millicent was not looking "her" best, and she was not talking at all. She just moved her head a little, in a sort of indifferent "How do you do?" to us both. Perhaps, after all, she liked being in the landau, I thought, quite as well as she would have liked being in the dog-cart. Millicent is so odd and old in her ways, not like other girls of twenty-one. From her face at that moment, I really could believe—or almost believe—that she wanted nothing different. To be sure, she looked rather pale and dull, but that is her way.

For a little distance, we kept in front of the landau, not going nearly so fast as before. And presently we dropped behind it again; I did not know why, and I was rather sorry. I said to Mr. Derwentwater,—"Wouldn't it be nice to get ahead?"—But I don't think he can have heard me, because he made no answer. He had been rather absent and silent while we were in front. But after we dropped behind, he brightened up again, and seemed full of fun. He and I talked any amount. And I could see Millicent watching us quietly, from her seat in the landau, with her back to the horses, not an atom as if she cared.

We all reached the castle at very much the same time. The horses and carriages went off to the village, to be put up; and Mr. Derwentwater drove the dog-cart there, and most of the other gentlemen disappeared too, in the same direction. When they were all gone, May Collins and I rambled about the ruin, which is not much of a place after all, only it is pretty.

And presently I came across Millicent, unpacking the baskets of provisions. She always seems to do that sort of thing, as a matter of course, though really there was no need; for it was the Collins' picnic, not the Farrars'.

May Collins had just left me.

And I said to Millicent,—"Why don't you leave all that, and come for a stroll?"

She looked up at me very slowly, in such a curious way,—I didn't understand, and I don't understand, what she meant. It was not anger,—not exactly,—but more as if I had done her a wrong, and she were trying hard to forgive me. That was the sort of feeling that came;—but what nonsense! Of course there is no "wrong" in the question,—how can there be? She would not take the choice, when it was offered her; and why should not I?

"Come, I wouldn't bother with those stupid baskets. Somebody else can unpack them."

"If everybody said so, they might have to wait long enough. You will not think them stupid when tea-time has arrived."

"But it is Mrs. Collins' picnic, not yours. Come, and take a look at the moat."

No, she would not. She had seen it a hundred times, she said: and of course that was true, while it was all new to me. I think I would have stayed to help her, if she had not had that manner,—as if I had done her some injury. It made me feel uncomfortable, and I was glad to get away. Now I am sorry that I did not stay. It might have been kinder.

The picnic tea itself was rather dull; for I was put down between two of the Rectory boys; and I did not care for them or they for me. They are such uninteresting boys,—at least, I think them so, though uncle Basil does call them "nice intelligent fellows,"—I mean, the elder ones, who are at home now for the holidays. I am sure the eldest, Jack, is about one of the plainest boys I have ever seen. He is very fond of Millicent, and that is his one good point.

Mr. Derwentwater did almost nothing except wait on all the old ladies; and Millicent hardly said one single word from beginning to end of the meal. It lasted long enough. To be sure, her two neighbours were talking to their other two neighbours. But if I had been in Millicent's place, I would have found some way to remind them that I was there. I would not have sat like a dummy the whole time. However, nobody seemed to expect her to be any livelier; so perhaps that is her way at a picnic.

When everybody had had enough, a discussion was started us to who should walk to the waterfall and who should not. Millicent was standing rather apart from us all; and I saw Mr. Derwentwater go and speak to her in a low tone. I could not hear what he said, but I saw that she shook her head; and then he spoke again, and she shook her head more decidedly. And he turned off quite sharply, as if he were rather disgusted, and came close to where I was standing.

At the moment, I fancied that she must have told him she would not go to the waterfall. But it could not have been that, because when we all came together to start, Millicent was of our number. So they must have spoken about something else.

At first, Millicent and I walked together, and she had very little to say. Things were not particularly cheerful. Then Mr. Collins joined us, and that was an improvement. And when he dropped off, I found Mr. Derwentwater in his place. He talked a great deal to me, and hardly at all to Millicent; and of course I could not help noticing this—who would not?

In a little while, Millicent actually slipped away, leaving Mr. Derwentwater and me together. If she had really cared, she could not possibly have done such a thing. I had a glimpse of her walking with her brother Jack. After that, she vanished entirely, getting behind and Mr. Derwentwater was so interesting and amusing that I am afraid I forgot all about Millicent till we reached the waterfall, and then I heard somebody say,—

"Millicent Farrars has gone back to the castle. She seems to be tired."

Mr. Derwentwater gave a kind of little start, as if the words took him by surprise, though I don't know why they should. Anybody may be tired now and then. But I suppose he had fancied all the time that she was following behind us, as I had fancied. He went off into a dream, and said very little to anybody, till we got nearly back to the castle. And then he joined me again, and began to talk and laugh as merrily as ever. And Millicent was sitting on the bank, outside the ruin, and of course she saw us. But she didn't seem to mind, any more than he did.

I forgot to say that the waterfall was nothing much in itself, a tiny trickle of water, with pretty rocks and trees around. I did not think it worth much; only the going and the coming were worth a great deal to me.

When the time came near for starting on our way home, I began to wonder whether Mr. Derwentwater would propose that Millicent and I should change places, and I did dread the thought. I wanted—oh, so much—to drive back in the same way, up on the front seat of the dog-cart, beside Mr. Derwentwater, instead of in that stupid big open carriage, with no one worth talking to. It seemed "such" a difference. And Mr. Derwentwater said nothing at all. So I began to wonder whether, perhaps, I ought to propose it; and I didn't really see that I needed to do that. Why should I? It was the very last chance I should have of anything half so delightful. So I said nothing at all, but just left things to settle themselves.

Then, only a few minutes before the start was to be made, Jack Farrars came to me. He is a big awkward fellow, about sixteen or seventeen years old, without a scrap of good looks, just like all the Farrars boys. And he said,—

"I say, do you know if Millie is to go home in the dog-cart?"

"I have not heard anything about it."

"Don't tell Millicent that I am asking,—" and he dropped his voice—"but I do wish she could. Driving backwards always makes her awfully seedy, you know; and she wasn't good for much at starting, to begin with. I thought perhaps—if you knew—"

"'I' haven't got to arrange things," I said; and I felt cross.

"Only perhaps you might offer—" Jack suggested, as if he were asking me to give up nothing at all.

"Millicent had the chance first, and she wouldn't take it."

"The chance! What chance?"

"Why, to go in the dog-cart. I know she had, and she would not choose."

"Millie always thinks of other people before herself; she's so awfully unselfish," said Jack; though I am pretty sure that was not the real reason. "But if you could just manage it for her, you know—"

"I'm quite sure Millicent wouldn't like me to interfere. She hates to be interfered with."

Jack opened his eyes rather wide. "I don't see what interference has to do with it," he said in a puzzled voice. "I'm only asking you to do her a kindness."

"She mightn't think it a kindness."

"Oh, but she would! I can tell you that," Jack answered readily enough. "She would like it of all things. Of course she would."

"Well, I'll see what I can do. I'll say something." It seemed the only way to get rid of Jack. "I'll ask Mr. Derwentwater."

And then I walked off, and I was angry with myself for having promised, because I did not see why I must do such a thing only just to please Jack, when I was so looking forward to the drive. But I had promised, and so of course I had to speak. I put it off till the very last moment. And then, when Mr. Derwentwater came to call me to take my seat, I said,—

"Wouldn't Millicent like to go in the dog-cart for a change?"

A little flash passed over his face. I wondered if it meant that he was pleased with me for proposing such a thing.

"Has Millicent said that she would like it?"

"O no. Not Millicent. She hasn't said anything at all. It was not Millicent,—only Jack. It was Jack's notion; and so I said I would ask you."

"If Millicent wished it herself—" And then he broke off, and walked to the dog-cart, as if everything were settled.

Millicent was getting into the other carriage at that very moment; and I did not see that I could do any more,—or at all events, I did not feel inclined. Jack stood close to the dog-cart, and I saw his face fall, when I came up with Mr. Derwentwater. He was looking earnestly at me, but I did not look at him, though of course I could not help seeing. I suppose I might have said rather more; perhaps I might even have insisted. But why should I? If Millicent did not care, and if Mr. Derwentwater liked to have me with him—

Did he really like it? I keep asking myself that question, and I cannot find any certain answer. Am I very silly to think that perhaps he did? He was so very kind and nice and pleasant all the way home. It was a delightful drive. I have never enjoyed anything like it in all my life before. Shall I ever have anything like it again?

We did not go fast most of the way, but kept behind the landau, not far off; and he and I had any amount of fun. Only, I rather wished he would not keep just there, because I could see Millicent's face, and she looked so white. Every time I caught a glimpse of her, I thought of what Jack had said, and wondered whether I ought to try again to bring about a change. But it would have made such a fuss; and how could I be sure that Millicent would like it? And the drive was so perfectly delightful,—the simple fact is, I could not do anything of the sort. It was out of the question. So I would not think; and I tried all I could not to see Millicent's face; and I talked and laughed as much as possible, so as to forget about her. Mr. Derwentwater seemed very much amused with some of the things I said.

Jack was sitting with his back to us, talking to May Collins; and of course he could not see Millicent as I could. He did not say anything more to me about her. I wonder what he thought! But I don't see that it matters. And at all events, I kept my promise, and spoke to Mr. Derwentwater. I was not bound to do any more than that.

When we reached the garden-gate and Mr. Derwentwater was helping me down, he said,—"I must look in to say good-bye to you, before you go." And he gave me such a kind squeeze of the hand.

I saw Millicent looking at us both from in front,—straight at us, not as if she cared in the very least. But Jack turned half round, and stared at Mr. Derwentwater and me, as if we were wild beasts.

Well,—what does it matter?

I wonder if he will come in to-morrow.

_August 31st, Evening._

Mr. Derwentwater has not been all day. Will he come at all?

He meant to come, I know, because he said so.

It does seem strange to me that I should be thinking of him all the time, when I am going home,—and even longing not to have to go just yet. I was so miserable at having to leave home; and now I would give anything to stay here a little longer.

Mr. Derwentwater will be at the Park for three or four more days. If only something would put off my journey for those three or four days! But I am afraid there is no chance, not the very least in the world. Unless I were to tumble down and sprain my ankle, or something of that sort,—but such things never happen when one would really like them to happen. And everything is settled, and of course I must not even seem to want to put off going.

_September 1st, Evening._

Mr. Derwentwater looked in this afternoon for five minutes, just when he might have known that I should be away at the Sunday-school. I told him I had a class there, and he seemed quite interested. Aunt Marian supposes that he did not recollect, but it seems odd. She says he "left a polite message," asking her to say good-bye to me, and hoping that some day I should find my way again to Wayatford.

It did not sound much, said in aunt Marian's quiet voice, with no particular expression. And I was so dreadfully disappointed to have missed him that all in a moment my face flushed up, and before I knew what was coming, my eyes were quite full of tears,—so full that it was all I could do to hold them back from falling.

Aunt Marian gave me one look, and then looked away, and that showed me that she saw. But I don't think I cared. I didn't seem to care much about anything, except that I had missed seeing him.

"If only I had not been to the school to-day!" I heard the choke in my own voice, so she must have heard it too.

"My dear, what reason had you for not going?"

"No reason at all,—only—if I had stayed at home, I should have seen Mr. Derwentwater."

"Would not that have been neglecting a plain duty for the sake of a very unimportant little pleasure?"

It did not look unimportant to me; but how could I expect her to understand?

"I should have liked to say good-bye—of course—"

And then I slipped away, and up in my room I had a good cry. I knew I should make my eyes red, and everybody would notice it. But nothing seemed to matter, except that I was going away, and that I had missed my last chance of seeing Mr. Derwentwater once more, and that it might be years and years before I should ever see him again. I felt perfectly miserable.

Perhaps by the time we do meet again, he will have forgotten all about me. But I shall never forget him—Never! Never! Never! And to-morrow I go home. I do mean to be good and patient, when little worries come, and to be a comfort to my mother, but somehow since Thursday, the "spring" seems to have gone out of the thought of home-life. I cannot think why it should.

One happy day ought not to make everything else seem dull and stupid, but that is just what Thursday has done. I feel as if I would give anything in the world to have those lovely drives over again, the going and the coming home. And I am quite perfectly sure that if I had the choice of going, or of letting Millicent go, I should do exactly the same over again. I could not and I would not give up,—no, not for anything.

I wonder if this is wrong.

Well, I cannot help it. I cannot feel differently.

Only one thing I must be careful about. I must not let my mother see that I feel dull about getting home, and seeing her again. She would be so pained. So I must seem to be delighted, whatever I feel. Perhaps, when I am among them all, I shall feel just as I ought.

I cannot help being thankful that the girls will not be there, to spy out everything that I feel, and to imagine all sorts of things that are not true. If once they guessed, I should have no more peace in life.

Aunt Marian must have seen that I had been crying, because my eyes always show it for such a long while after, and bathing only makes them worse. People in stories can weep for an hour, and then just wash their eyes and come downstairs, and nobody ever guesses that anything has gone wrong. But when I cry for ten minutes, I am an object for the next three hours.

If only I could know exactly what Mr. Derwentwater said to her, and what she said to him, this afternoon! Did she tell him about any of my home troubles, and why I had come here? She might do so, if she wants him to care for Millicent so very much as I know she does care. She might think it her duty to tell him,—for his own sake, of course, she would say. If only I knew! And did she say to him that I have a "pussy-cat face?" And would he agree with her? I don't believe he would. I am quite sure he does not feel about me as she does.

And yet aunt Marian is very kind, and she seems sorry to be saying good-bye. If I had not overheard that one little bit of talk, I could think she was really fond of me. But if she were, she could not possibly have spoken in such a way.

_September 2nd, Late at night._

I am at home again, and I have had the lovingest welcome from my mother. She seems so very glad to have me once more. I could hate myself for not being every inch as glad as she is. But all the while, I seem to be living through and through last Thursday, remembering all that was said and done, and trying to find out exactly what each thing meant, and wondering what passed between him and aunt Marian, and puzzling over why he did not come to say good-bye at a time when he would have been likely to find me indoors.

Nothing drove these thoughts away, not even seeing Clarissa's beautiful presents, and her wedding dress. I tried to admire everything, and to seem pleased,—and all the time it felt so awfully flat and dull, I hardly knew how to bear myself.

This morning before I left, aunt Marian said, "I hope you are going to act like a brave girl, Rhoda, and to be your mother's great comfort."

Her words about my face darted up in a moment, and still more the feeling that I did not know what she might have said to set Mr. Derwentwater against me. And I could not answer as I saw she wished.

"There won't be any need to be brave now. Things will be different,—and easier."

"There will be differences. I am not so sure about the ease."

"'I' am sure," I said. "Things can't be the same, with Clarissa and Juliet away. There will not be anything to vex me."

I suppose she saw that I was not in the mood to be talked to, and so she said no more. And I was glad: because, after what I had overheard her say, I did not choose aunt Marian to lecture me about my home duties. I don't see the need. I know well enough what they are, and what I ought to do. It is not a question of "knowing," at all. The difficulty is, when one knows, to do what one ought to do; and nothing she can say will make any difference. What will make a difference is Clarissa and Juliet being away.

I said good-bye to Millicent yesterday,—rather a cold good-bye, though I am sure I do not know why it should be so. I have not done Millicent any harm. We spoke of writing, but did not settle who should send the first letter. I don't believe I shall feel inclined to write to her in a very great hurry. If I thought she would tell me about Mr. Derwentwater, that would make all the difference, but of course she will not. And I don't care for anything else.

Is Millicent jealous of me, I wonder,—jealous, because Mr. Derwentwater liked to be with me, and perhaps even seemed rather to admire my face?