Sweet Content

by Mrs. Molesworth

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  Sweet ContentBy Mrs MolesworthIllustrations by W. RaineyPublished by E.P. Dutton and Co, 31 West 23rd Street, New York.This edition dated 1891.

  Sweet Content, by Mrs Molesworth.

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  ________________________________________________________________________SWEET CONTENT, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  AN "ONLY" BABY.

  "Sweet Content." That was my name when I was a very tiny child. It maysound rather conceited to tell this of myself, but when I have told allthe story I am now beginning, I don't _think_, at least I _hope_, you,whoever you are that read it, won't say I am conceited. Indeed, if Ithought any one I knew, or rather that knew me, would be likely to readit and to know that the "I" of it was _me_, I am not by any means surethat I would write it. But, of course, it is not at all certain that itever will be printed or seen by any one (except, perhaps, by mychildren, if, when I am grown up, I am married and have any) who everheard of me. The world seems to me a very big place; there are suchlots and lots of people in it, old ones and children, and middling ones;and they are all busy and taken up about their own affairs.

  Some other children might like to read my story, just _as_ a story, forI do think some parts of it are rather _extra_ interesting; but it isnot probable that any of them would recognise _me_, or the other"characters" (I think that is the right word) in it. Except--exceptsome of the other characters themselves! They don't know I am writingit, perhaps they never will know about it; but if they did--yes, even ifthey read every word of it--I don't think I'd mind. They are so truly--no, I mustn't begin telling about them like that; you will understand,all in good time, why, least of any people in the world, perhaps, Ishould mind their reading the exactly how it was of everything I have totell. This shows how perfectly I can trust them.

  And in saying even that, though I really couldn't help it, I'm afraid Ihave already got rather out of the proper orderly way of telling astory.

  I will start clearly now. What I have written already is a sort ofpreface or introduction. And it has a much better chance of being readthan if I had put it separately.

  As I began about my baby name, and as I am going to use it for a title--for several reasons, as you will see--I will first explain about it.

  I have been an only child ever since I can remember. But I was notalways an only child. When I was a baby of a very few months old, aterrible trouble came to our house: scarlet fever broke out very badlyin the little town or big village, whichever you like to call it, wherewe lived then, and where we still live. And among the first deaths fromit were those of my brothers and sister, the doctor's own children!Fancy--_three_ dear little children all dying together--in two days atleast, I think it was. No one was to blame for their catching theinfection; the fever broke out so suddenly that there was no time tosend them away, and though papa, as the doctor, had of course to beconstantly attending the fever cases, his own children must have caughtit before there could possibly have been time for him to bring it tothem. Even if he _could_ have done so, which was doubtful, as for thetwo or three days before they got ill he never came into the house atall, and did not even see mamma, but eat his meals and slept in a roomover the stables. I have always been glad for papa to know it could nothave come through him, for even though it would have been in the way ofduty--and papa is a perfect _hero_ about duty--he might have blamedhimself for some carelessness or forgetfulness. And once--though theyseldom speak of that awful time--mamma said something of the kind to me.

  I was the baby, as I have told you. A tiny, rather delicate littlething. And, strange to say, I did not catch the fever. They did notsend me away; it seemed no use after all the risks I had already run. Icould almost think that poor mamma must have felt as if it would not sovery much matter whether I got it or not; _my_ dying then could not havemade things much worse for her to bear! For, after all, a very littlebaby, even though it is nice and funny and even sweet in its way, can'tbe anything like as interesting or as much a part of your life astalking, understanding, loving children. So it seems to me, thoughmamma doesn't quite agree with me. She loves me so very much that Ithink she couldn't bear to think there ever was a time when I was lessto her. I fancy the truth is that she does not very clearly rememberwhat she felt during those dreadful days; I hope she does not, for evento think of them makes me shiver. They were such dear children; sobright and healthy and happy. Mamma seemed like a person in a dream ora trance, our old Prudence has often told me, after the last, Kenneth,the eldest, it was, died. Fancy the empty nurseries, fancy all the toysand books, and, worst of all, the little hats, and jackets, and _shoes_lying about just as usual! For they were only ill four days--oh, Ithink it must have been _awful_. And yet so beautiful too.

  And the little, stupid, crying baby lived, and throve, and grew well andstrong. When papa, weeks after, ventured at last to look at me, hecould not believe I was the same! I _hope_ he felt it was a little tinybit of a reward to him for his goodness to others. To think of himgoing about as usual, no, not as usual, for he worked like _ten_, I havebeen told, to save others, though his own poor heart was breaking. Andhe did save many--that, too, must have been a real reward.

  He kissed me gravely--Prudence told me this, too--but just then Ismiled, a slow-coming baby smile, I think it must have been; you knowhow a baby stares first before it makes up its mind to smile--and hestopped; he had been turning away, and took me in his arms.

  "My poor little darling," he said, "I feel almost afraid to love you.But no, that would be faithless."

  And he carried me downstairs to mamma in the drawing-room. I can fancyhow she must have been sitting there alone, looking out on to the prettyold-fashioned garden behind the house, and watching the spring flowersblossoming out, for it was in spring that all this happened, andthinking of _her_ spring flowers. I have so often fancied it, and seenher there in her deep black dress, in my mind, that it has come to belike a real picture to me. But of course I don't know what actuallyhappened, for Prudence wasn't there to see. Only I _think_ that fromthat day they took me into their hearts in a quite wonderful way, for,ever since I can remember, they have been, oh, so _very_ good to me--toogood, I am afraid. I fear they spoilt me. And I for long, long, wasnot a good and grateful little daughter to them.

  It is difficult to blame them for spoiling me; is it not? And perhapsthere is just a _little_ excuse for me in its having been so. I don'twant to make excuses for myself, but looking back I do see that I didn'tknow in the least how selfish, and self-seeking, and vain and proud andstuck-up, and everything horrid like that, I was. Jealous, too; butthat, you see, I had no reason to find out for a long while. What agood thing it was for me that a day came when I was really tested!

  I was a fat, healthy, perfectly happy baby, and I grew into a fat,healthy, perfectly happy little girl. Nothing seemed to come wrong tome. I never got ill, and by nature I think I must have had a very even,comfortable temper. I was always smiling and satisfied. Now you seehow I came by my name of "Sweet Content." Mamma kept it for a sort ofprivate pet name, but it did very well with my real name, which isConstantia. And this was naturally shortened into "Connie." I rememberpapa and mamma laughing very much one day at a new servant, who must, Isuppose, have overheard my private name, and wishing to be veryrespectful, spoke of me as "Miss _Content_."

  "Never let it get into `Discontent,' Connie," said papa.

  "That she never will," said mamma fondly. "I am sure all the goodfairies, and none of the spiteful ones, were at my Sweet Content'schristening."

  I was quite used to hearing pretty things like that said to me or of me,an
d I took them as a matter of course, never doubting that I deservedthem. And as no one contradicted me, and I had everything I wanted, andas I was not naturally a cross-grained or ill-tempered child, thespoiling did not show as quickly, or quite in the same ways, that itusually does, though I cannot help thinking that some people must havenoticed it and thought me a selfish little goose. If they did, however,they were too kind to mamma, remembering her sad story, ever to say so.Besides, mamma was gentle and sweet to everybody, and she had too muchgood taste and feeling to go on fussing about me before people, in theway some _very_ foolish parents do.

  So altogether, up to the time I was ten or eleven years old, my fool'sparadise was a very perfect one. I was quite satisfied that I was amodel of every virtue, as well as _exceedingly_ clever, and I am afraidpapa and mamma thought so too; as to my looks, I have no doubt they