Life-Tangles:

OR,

THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH.

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF

"IDA'S SECRET," "FLOSS SILVERTHORN," "LIFE IN A NUTSHELL," ETC.

LONDON:

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

THE RETURN FROM INDIA

CHAPTER II.

RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES

CHAPTER III.

UPS AND DOWNS

CHAPTER IV.

I AND MYSELF

CHAPTER V.

BANISHMENT DECREED

CHAPTER VI.

AT WAYATFORD

CHAPTER VII.

DERWENTWATER

CHAPTER VIII.

PEOPLE'S RIGHTS

CHAPTER IX.

SUPPOSITIONS

CHAPTER X.

THE CHOICE GIVEN AND TAKEN

CHAPTER XI.

A DAY OF DELIGHTS

CHAPTER XII.

A NEW PHASE OF LIFE

CHAPTER XIII.

UNDER THE YOKE

CHAPTER XIV.

EXCEEDINGLY HORRID

CHAPTER XV.

AFTER SIX WHOLE YEARS

CHAPTER XVI.

ABOUT THE PAST

CHAPTER XVII.

WISE WORDS AND UNWISE DEEDS

CHAPTER XVIII.

OUT OF THE QUESTION!

CHAPTER XIX.

AND YET!—

CHAPTER XX.

INEXPLICABLE

CHAPTER XXI.

TANGLED STILL

CHAPTER XXII.

WAS IT HAPPINESS?

CHAPTER XXIII.

HOW THINGS WERE AND MIGHT HAVE BEEN

LIFE-TANGLES:

OR,

THE JOURNAL OF RHODA FRITH.

CHAPTER I.

THE RETURN FROM INDIA.

December 12th.

THE day after to-morrow will be a great day in my life, for my mother is coming home with the dear little twins, and they are expected to arrive early in the afternoon. What joy!

It is nearly seven years since my father and mother went out last to India; and the twins were only one year old when I saw them. How changed they will be.

Seven long years! But my mother's face is as clear as daylight in my mind, so young and pretty, with its soft colour and gentle smile. I do not remember my father's face quite so clearly; he was a good deal more away from us children. But I could paint every line of hers from memory if I were able to take likenesses. I should know her, oh! anywhere in the world. I can recollect telling her one day that she looked younger than Clarissa, who was only twenty-one then. Mother said, "Hush! Hush!" And Clarissa tilted her head in the offended manner she often has, but I don't think I cared.

Then the last day before they left us, how pale Mother was, and how she and Connie clung together! We little thought then that she would never see Connie again—I mean, of course, in this life.

If it were not for the thought of Connie, and of my father being still away, I think I should be too happy to-night. No more of aunt Jessie; no more schooling; no more spending of holidays where I am not wanted. It is too delightful!

To be sure, Clarissa and Juliet will be living with us, and that is a great disappointment to me. I have always fancied that they would stay with aunt Jessie when my mother should come home alone, but they do not seem to have an idea of any such thing. Somehow they always do and always did make me naughty when, but for them, I know I should be perfectly good. They have such a way of upsetting me. It isn't my fault, I am sure.

But I shall have my mother now, and that will make up for everything. Aunt Jessie has been their aunt, not mine. Mother will be mine—not theirs—my very own! That will make all the difference in the world. I shall have the first right to her love, and the first right to take care of her. I mean to be such a help to her in every possible way, and to do exactly what Connie would have done. Connie was always her comfort, I know, even though she was so young, because she was so unselfish, everyone says. Well, and I mean to be unselfish, like Connie, and so to be my mother's greatest comfort. I have to take Connie's place, and Mother will be lonely away from my father, and will need comfort. Clarissa and Juliet are always saying how useless I am, but they shall see the difference now. When I have a mother to do things for, I shall never mind how hard I work. It is so stupid being ordered about by them. I never feel inclined to do anything then.

Before Christmas we are to move to the new little house in the country—Woodbine Cottage. Aunt Jessie and Clarissa and Juliet have settled everything. It seems to me that they ought to have waited till my mother should arrive, to see what she would like; but such an idea never enters their heads. I cannot make out that she has sent any directions; and if I ask, I get no answer, or else I am told that it is not my business. If it is not my business, I don't see whose it is, for I am my mother's eldest daughter, and I do think I have a right to know things, now I am seventeen years old, and have done with school.

It puzzles me why they should have fixed upon that place to live in. We know nobody there, and I can see no particular reason for going. It is just a whim of Clarissa's, I suppose; and yet she is not fond, in a general way, of living in the country.

December 13th. Thursday Morning.

While I was writing in my journal yesterday evening, aunt Jessie rapped at my door and walked in without waiting for an answer. She was vexed to find me still dressed, and said,—

"Not in bed yet? Do you know it is half-past ten?"

I said I had not hurried because I was not sleepy. And I shut-up my journal and slipped it into a drawer, lest she should see what I had written.

"That is no excuse," aunt Jessie replied. "I sent you to bed early, because I knew that to-morrow would be a fatiguing day; and you are wrong to disobey me—this last evening especially."

I think I could have kept my temper if Clarissa had not come gliding in after aunt Jessie.

"You had much better take Rhoda's pen and ink away," she said. "There is no dependence to be placed on her. I do not know what her mother will say to such ways."

That made me fire up before I knew what I was about.

"It will be Mother's business, not yours!" I said.

Clarissa's lip curled as it always does when she is put out. People say she is very handsome, but I never can see it; I cannot think her good-looking. Then aunt Jessie told me that I was extremely naughty—she always says "naughty" still, just as if I were only six years old. I am afraid I pouted, and she said I was to be in bed in ten minutes. So I was, but I had no time to say my prayers. I didn't feel like saying them, even if I had had time.

Aunt Jessie came back exactly at the ten minutes' end, and she put out my light and left me without saying, "Good night."

Then I knew that I could not go comfortably to sleep without at least trying to say my prayers; and I crept out of bed and had a good cry on my knees, for everybody seemed unkind. That sort of thing always makes me miserable, though people think I don't care; and I do not see how one can say one's prayers properly when one feels so. I know I could not. I did try, but I was only able to think about Clarissa; so at last I got up and crept back into bed.

After breakfast this morning aunt Jessie gave me a regular lecture about my faults. She began with a present of a gold pencil-case, and that was uncomfortable. I have wanted one for a long time, and this is a beauty. But I wish people would choose some other time than before a lecture for giving one presents. If we had been alone when she lectured, I should not have minded so much—at least I think not! But aunt Jessie never thinks of waiting till we are alone.

Clarissa was arranged in one of her attitudes, doing crewel work; and Juliet was mending the dress that I tore yesterday. I cobbled up the hole in a hurry, but Juliet spied it out, and she has undone my cobble and has darned it most beautifully. Of course I ought to be grateful, but I do not think I am. It is so difficult to feel grateful to people when one does not love them; and I certainly do not love Juliet. Not what I call really loving, I mean.

While aunt Jessie talked, I was wondering whether Mother would admire those two as much as other people do. I was too young, when she went out, to know anything about her tastes. They are often called "the handsome Miss Friths" by strangers. Clarissa is tall with a good figure, and Juliet is shorter and rather plump, with pretty features and a very quick manner. I am not at all pretty, and I know it very well. Connie was lovely, but my face is not like hers. I am said to be like nobody in the family. Well, my mother will not love me less for my want of prettiness, and other people do not matter.

I was thinking this, yet I heard aunt Jessie. She said that if I did not take care, I should be a great trouble to my mother. She told me that I was forgetful, untidy, impatient, ill-tempered, wilful,—such a string of hard words. She complained especially of my want of gentleness, and of "my unpleasant manner to the girls." Aunt Jessie always calls them "the girls" still, and counts me a mere child in comparison, though I do not feel like a child any longer. I did not know that my manner was unpleasant, except perhaps when they vex me, and then how can one help it? Aunt Jessie said it was un-Christian, and she wished I would pray for a better spirit. Very likely some of what she said was true, because, of course, I am not perfect, and I do not pretend to be, but then I am sure other people are anything but perfect also. And there are different ways of being told that one is in the wrong; and her way never does me good, it only makes me feel cross. Besides, as for meekness—and she talked ever so much about meekness—I

suppose I am not particularly meek, but most certainly Clarissa and Juliet are not! Why doesn't she lecture them?

I bore it all pretty well, I do think, till she began to say that my mother would be disappointed in me. Then I could not help bursting into tears, and I ran away up to my own room, where I have been ever since.

Why must people say such things?

December 15th.

We went to the station yesterday afternoon to meet my mother and the twins. On the way, I was picturing to myself the meeting—how I would be the first to catch sight of Mother's face, and how she would hold me in her arms, and would have no eyes for anybody else, and how the twins would cling to me—their only sister. I almost forgot that aunt Jessie and the girls would be there, only perhaps I was glad down below to know that they would see for once the difference between them and me. I mean the difference as to my mother. The girls may talk of being her adopted children, and I am sure she has been the best of mothers to them ever since they were quite tiny, as much as she possibly could. Having to be away in India, has kept her from them, just as it has kept her from me. But still, all the time she is "not" their mother, but only their aunt; and they are "not" her children, but only her nieces; and nothing can make her the same to them that she is to me. And for once I thought they would feel it.

Then when the train steamed in, and we were on the tip-toe of expectation, Mother was not there at all! They had not come by that train. I don't know when in my whole life I have been so dreadfully disappointed. It made everything seem unreal. I almost felt as if the coming home from India were all a mistake, and as if I should never see my mother again. The others took it much more philosophically, even though they have talked as if they cared any amount about having her back. Juliet laughed at me for looking glum, and aunt Jessie said how wrong it was to be sulky. I wonder why people think one sulky when one is only unhappy!

Clarissa was sure my mother had only missed her train. Indian ladies never were punctual, she said, with a disagreeable little laugh. And I felt like saying almost anything, for I knew it was not Mother's fault, whatever the reason might be.

When we got indoors, a telegram was awaiting us. Mother had found at the very last moment that she would be hindered in Bristol by business, and she could not say what hour she might arrive. I wanted to look-out the trains from Bristol, and to meet each one, but aunt Jessie objected. She and the girls were tired, she said, and she could not let me hang about in the station alone. The telegram said, "Do not meet us;" and that quite satisfied aunt Jessie, but it was not enough for me.

The next few hours were the longest and dreariest I have ever passed. I could not read or work or settle down to anything. But at last they came, just when nobody happened to be on the look-out, my mother and the twins, all alone. The ayah who was to have travelled with them had made a sudden engagement to go back to India, and Mother had let her off, leaving her behind in London.

The meeting was not in the very least like what I had pictured.

Mother was tired out with the journey, and with having to manage for herself and the children all day. She has grown thin and pale, almost sallow, and has lost all her pretty young looks. I could hardly believe, at the first moment, that it was really herself; she is so changed. She walked in slowly and languidly, and seemed as if she had not strength or spirit to be glad about anything. When I rushed into her arms, she just gave me a quiet kiss, and said nothing. Then she put me aside, and kissed Clarissa and Juliet in exactly the same manner. I did not see one grain of difference. And yet I am her own, and they are not. And those two took possession of her, making her sit down, while Clarissa untied her bonnet strings, and Juliet loosened her cloak. Mother smiled at them in a worn-out way, and let them do as they liked.

I wanted to kiss Addie and Emmie, but they clung to Mother, and would not so much as look at me. When I took hold of Emmie, she shrieked, and Addie struck at me with her little fist. Mother said, "Don't, Addie!" Yet the moment I came near, she did it again.

They are such an odd little pair, exactly alike, with tiny white faces, and big black eyes, and fluffy fair hair. Not nearly so pretty as I expected, for they are said to be like Connie.

It seemed as if I had no chance of reaching my mother, while those two clutched her in front, and the elder girls sat one on each side. Aunt Jessie kept talking about the voyage, and asking questions about my father. Mother answered in a patient tired out voice, almost as if she did not know what she was saying.

Presently Juliet coaxed the children off to look at the kitten. They would go to her, though I might not touch them.

Then Mother spoke my name, and I came close. She took my hand, and gazed at me, as if she were trying to understand something. I felt so hurt about the little ones, and so flat and chilled altogether that I could not look pleased or bright. It was impossible. Nobody could have done so in my place. Mother said, "How altered!" I knew she was dreadfully disappointed, and a lump in my throat half-choked me.

"Rhoda has changed a good deal the last half-year." Aunt Jessie seemed to think she had to apologise for the fact. "But she does not grow fast. She will never be tall."

Mother said, "Perhaps not," keeping her eyes on me still.

"I am almost as tall as Juliet," I said, and I know my voice sounded curt.

"Within two inches," Juliet remarked; but the difference is less than one inch.

"She will be tall enough," Mother replied; and that was my first scrap of comfort. If "she" is satisfied, I don't care about other people.

When the twins' bedtime came, she insisted on taking them upstairs herself. I wanted to help, and the moment I came near, they began to shriek. Juliet ordered me off, and took my place, and they were good directly. I cannot understand it. I did feel so sore and miserable at not being able to do anything. And it has been just the same since.

December 19th.

We go to our new little country home the day after to-morrow.

Everything is ready for us, settled by Clarissa and Juliet. Mother just submits. She doesn't seem to have any will of her own. I have hardly heard her ask a single question about the house or the place, or why we are to be there at all.

Though she has lost her old colour and prettiness, there is still something about her unlike other people, and I am proud of her. But I am afraid she is not proud of me. Clarissa and Juliet are always trying to show me off in the worst lights before her.

As for my being the eldest daughter of the house, nobody could guess it. Mother behaves exactly as if I were only her third daughter. She puts Clarissa and Juliet first in every single thing. Of course it is all right that she should be kind to her nieces, especially as they are orphans, and have no real home of their own. But then they are not poor, and I have my rights as well as they; and I must say I did not expect things to be like this. I did think that with my mother I should find a difference, however other people might treat me. I do long to know that I have the "first" place in her heart. If once I could be sure of that, nothing else would matter so much.

Johnnie has come, and I can see how dearly she loves him. He is her only boy, and he always is so good-humoured and pleasant. Nobody counts him handsome or clever, but he does his lessons fairly, and he is good at games, and he is a thorough gentleman,—much more so than most boys of fourteen,—and everybody likes him. Of course, I do too; only somehow he and I don't quite fit in together, as Connie and I did. He has such a provoking admiration for Clarissa. It is absurd.

Yesterday evening Mother came to my room late, for the first time. She has been too tired on other nights. I thought she wanted to speak about Connie, and I wanted it too; but a shy fit seized me, and I talked so fast about all sorts of stupid things that she had not a chance.

After she was gone, I did wish I had not been so foolish. I know she has already spoken of Connie to others, for I heard Clarissa say so.

CHAPTER II.

RHODA'S DIFFICULTIES.

December 20th.

WE start early to-morrow. I have only time for a few words to-night.

My mother and I were out alone together this afternoon, for once. As we were passing through the shrubbery, I suddenly found myself saying:

"You haven't spoken one word to me about Connie since you came!"

She turned her face away.

"I have not been able," she said. "Another time—"

"If only you could!"

I saw her throat working. She said after a little pause,—

"You remind me of her incessantly."

It was a great surprise to me.

"Why, Mother! I am not like Connie."

"Sometimes. More than you used to be."

"But Connie was so pretty."

Mother looked at me in a curious steady way.

"It is not a question of prettiness," she said, "nor of features at all. The look comes and goes. And you are pretty enough for my eyes. A mother sees differently, you know, from other people. Perhaps others would not see the likeness, but I do."

I am very glad. If "she" thinks so, it matters very little what anybody else thinks.

I mean to devote my life to her, and not to care for any single thing except her comfort and happiness. Then, perhaps, in time, she will love me as I want to be loved, and as I love her, not merely as she loves Clarissa and Juliet, or because of my likeness to Connie.

January 2nd, Wednesday.

After a busy Christmas, we are pretty well settled in our new home. On the whole, I do not dislike the little place; and the house is comfortable, only small. The garden will be nice in summer. I have a room opening into my mother's, and the elder girls, as usual, sleep together.

We have no friends yet in the place, but there are a few neighbours whom we expect in time to know. Nobody that I shall care for, most likely. Clarissa will monopolise everybody, and give me no chance. But if I can have Mother sometimes to myself, I care very little about other friends.

We have had a very dull Christmas—more dull than I could have thought possible, so soon after their coming home—but at Christmas it does seem natural to have a little excitement of some sort. And we have had none whatever. I do not seem to have anything particular to write about.

February 3rd.

I have been thinking lately how terribly difficult a thing it is to keep straight, and how hopeless to manage to please everybody, and what a puzzle life is altogether.

Only a few weeks ago, I was looking forward in a perfect rapture of delight to my mother's coming home.