Book: Rosy

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ROSY

BY

MRS. MOLESWORTH

AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'TELL ME A STORY.'


ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER CRANE

[Illustration: MANCHON]



CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. ROSY, COLIN, AND FELIX

CHAPTER II. BEATA

CHAPTER III. TEARS

CHAPTER IV. UPS AND DOWNS

CHAPTER V. ROSY THINKS THINGS OVER

CHAPTER VI. A STRIKE IN THE SCHOOLROOM

CHAPTER VII. MR. FURNITURE'S PRESENT

CHAPTER VIII. HARD TO BEAR

CHAPTER IX. THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR

CHAPTER X. STINGS FOR BEE

CHAPTER XI. A PARCEL AND A FRIGHT

CHAPTER XII. GOOD OUT OF EVIL




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

MANCHON

"BEATA, DEAR, THIS IS MY ROSY," SHE SAID

ROSY AND MANCHON

"WHAT IS ZE MATTER WIF YOU, BEE?" HE SAID

"DID YOU EVER SEE ANYTHING SO PRETTY, BEE?" ROSY REPEATED

"WHAT IS THERE DOWN THERE, DOES YOU FINK?" SAID FIXIE

BY STRETCHING A GOOD DEAL SHE THOUGHT SHE COULD REACH THEM

"IT'S A ROSE FROM ROSY"




CHAPTER I.

ROSY, COLIN, AND FELIX.


"The highest not more
Than the height of a counsellor's bag."
--WORDSWORTH.

Rosy stood at the window. She drummed on the panes with her little fat
fingers in a fidgety cross way; she pouted out her nice little mouth
till it looked quite unlike itself; she frowned down with her eyebrows
over her two bright eyes, making them seem like two small windows in a
house with very overhanging roofs; and last of all, she stamped on the
floor with first her right foot and then with her left. But it was all
to no purpose, and this made Rosy still more vexed.

"Mamma," she said at last, for really it was too bad--wasn't it?--when
she had given herself such a lot of trouble to show how vexed she was,
that no one should take any notice. "_Mamma_" she repeated.

But still no one answered, and obliged at last to turn round, for her
patience was at an end, Rosy saw that there was no one in the room.
Mamma had gone away! That was a great shame--really a _great_
shame. Rosy was offended, and she wanted mamma to see how offended she
was, and mamma chose just that moment to leave the room. Rosy looked
round--there was no good going on pouting and frowning and drumming
and stamping to make mamma notice her if mamma wasn't there, and all
that sort of going on caused Rosy a good deal of trouble. So she left
off. But she wanted to quarrel with somebody. In fact, she felt that
she _must_ quarrel with somebody. She looked round again. The
only "somebody" to be seen was mamma's big, _big_ Persian cat,
whose name was "Manchon" (_why_, Rosy did not know; she thought
it a very stupid name), of whom, to tell the truth, Rosy was rather
afraid. For Manchon could look very grand and terrible when he reared
up his back, and swept about his magnificent tail; and though he had
never been known to hurt anybody, and mamma said he was the gentlest
of animals, Rosy felt sure that he could do all sorts of things to
punish his enemies if he chose. And knowing in her heart that she did
not like him, that she was indeed sometimes rather jealous of him,
Rosy always had a feeling that she must not take liberties with him,
as she could not help thinking he knew what she felt.

[Illustration: ROSY AND MANCHON]

No, Manchon would not do to quarrel with. She stood beside his cushion
looking at him, but she did not venture to pull his tail or pinch his
ears, as she would rather have liked to do. And Manchon looked up at
her sleepily, blinking his eyes as much as to say, "What a silly
little girl you are," in a way that made Rosy more angry still.

"I don't like you, you ugly old cat," she said, "and you know I don't.
And I shan't like _her_. You needn't make faces at me," as
Manchon, disturbed in his afternoon nap, blinked again and gave a sort
of discontented mew. "I don't care for your faces, and I don't care
what mamma says, and I don't care for all the peoples in the world, I
_won't_ like her;" and then, without considering that there was
no one near to see or to hear except Manchon, Rosy stamped her little
feet hard, and repeated in a louder voice, "No, I won't, I
_won't_ like her."

But some one had heard her after all. A little figure, smaller than
Rosy even, was standing in the doorway, looking at her with a troubled
face, but not seeming very surprised.

"Losy," it said, "tea's seady. Fix is comed for you."

"Then Fix may go away again. Rosy doesn't want any tea. Rosy's too
bovvered and vexed. Go away, Fix."

But "Fix," as she called him, and as he called himself, didn't move.
Only the trouble in his delicate little face grew greater.

"_Is_ you bovvered, Losy?" he said. "Fix is welly solly," and he
came farther into the room. "Losy," he said again, still more gently
than before, "_do_ come to tea. Fix doesn't like having his tea
when Losy isn't there, and Fix is tired to-day."

Rosy looked at him a moment. Then a sudden change came over her. She
stooped down and threw her arms round the little boy's neck and hugged
him.

"Poor Fixie, dear Fixie," she said. "Rosy will come if _you_ want
her. Fixie never bovvers Rosy. Fixie loves Rosy, doesn't he?"

"Ses," said the child, kissing her in return, "but please don't skeese
Fix _kite_ so tight," and he wriggled a little to get out of her
grasp. Instantly the frown came back to Rosy's changeable face.

"You cross little thing," she said, half flinging her little brother
away from her, "you don't love Rosy. If you did, you wouldn't call her
cuddling you _skeesing_."

Fix's face puckered up, and he looked as if he were going to cry. But
just then steps were heard coming, and a boy's voice called out, "Fix,
Fix, what a time you are! If Rosy isn't there, never mind her. Come
along. There's something good for tea."

"There's Colin," said Fix, turning as if to run off to his brother.
Again Rosy's mood changed.

"Don't run away from Rosy, Fix," she said. "Rosy's not cross, she's
only troubled about somefing Fix is too little to understand. Take
Rosy's hand, dear, and we'll go up to tea togever. Never mind
Colin--he's such a big rough boy;" and when Colin, in his turn,
appeared at the door, Rosy and Fix were already coming towards it,
hand-in-hand, Rosy the picture of a model little elder sister.

Colin just glanced at them and ran off.

"Be quick," he said, "or I'll eat it all before you come. There's
fluff for tea--strawberry fluff! At least I've been smelling it all
the afternoon, and I saw a little pot going upstairs, and Martha said
cook said it was for the children!"

Colin, however, was doomed to be disappointed.

There was no appearance of anything "better" than bread and butter on
the nursery table, and in answer to the boy's questions, Martha said
there was nothing else.

"But the little pot, Martha, the little pot," insisted Colin. "I heard
you yourself say to cook, 'Then this is for the children?'"

"Well, yes, Master Colin, and so I did, and so it is for you. But I
didn't say it was for to-day--it's for to-morrow, Sunday."

"Whoever heard of such a thing," said Colin. "Fluff won't keep. It
should be eaten at once."

"But it's jam, Master Colin. It's regular jam in the little pot. I
don't know anything about the fluff, as you call it. I suppose they've
eaten it in the kitchen."

"Well, then, it's a shame," said Colin. "It's all the new cook. I've
always been accustomed, always, to have the fluff sent up to the
nursery," and he thumped impressively on the table.

"In all your places, Master Colin, it was always so, wasn't it?" said
Martha, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes.

"You're very impettnent, Martha," said Rosy, looking up suddenly, and
speaking for the first time since she had come into the room.

"Nonsense, Rosy," said Colin. "_I_ don't mind. Martha was only
joking."

Rosy relapsed into silence, to Martha's relief.

"If Miss Rosy is going to begin!" she had said to herself with fear
and trembling. She seldom or never ventured to joke with Rosy--few
people who knew her did--but Colin was the most good-natured of
children. She looked at Rosy rather curiously, taking care, however,
that the little girl should not notice it.

"There's something the matter with her," thought Martha, for Rosy
looked really buried in gloom; "perhaps her mamma's been telling her
what she told me this morning. I was sure Miss Rosy wouldn't like it,
and perhaps it's natural, so spoilt as she's been, having everything
her own way for so long. One would be sorry for her if she'd only let
one," and her voice was kind and gentle as she asked the little girl
if she wouldn't like some more tea.

Rosy shook her head.

"I don't want nothing," she said.

"What's the matter, Rosy?" said Colin.

"Losy's bovvered," said Fixie.

Colin gave a whistle.

"Oh!" he said, meaningly, "I expect I know what it's all about. I
know, too, Rosy. You're afraid your nose is going to be put out of
joint, I expect."

"Master Colin, don't," said Martha, warningly, but it was too late.
Rosy dashed off her seat, and running round to Colin's side of the
table, doubled up her little fist, and hit her brother hard with all
her baby force, then, without waiting to see if she had hurt him or
not, she rushed from the room without speaking, made straight for her
own little bedroom, and, throwing herself down on the floor with her
head on a chair, burst into a storm of miserable, angry crying.

"I wish I was back with auntie--oh, I do, I do," she said, among her
sobs. "Mamma doesn't love me like Colin and Pixie. If she did, she
wouldn't go and bring a nasty, horrible little girl to live with us. I
hate her, and I shall always hate her--_nasty_ little thing!"

The nursery was quiet after Rosy left it--quiet but sad.

"Dear, dear," said Martha, "if people would but think what they're
doing when they spoil children! Poor Miss Rosy, but she is naughty!
Has it hurt you, Master Colin?"

"No," said Colin, _one_ of whose eyes nevertheless was crying
from Rosy's blow, "not much. But it's so _horrid_, going on like
this."

"Of course it is, and _why_ you can go on teasing your sister,
knowing her as you do, I can't conceive," said Martha. "If it was only
for peace sake, I'd let her alone, I would, if I was you, Master
Colin."

Martha had rather a peevish and provoking way of finding fault or
giving advice. Just now her voice sounded almost as if she was going
to cry. But Colin was a sensible boy. He knew what she said was true,
so he swallowed down his vexation, and answered good-naturedly,

"Well, I'll try and not tease. But Rosy isn't like anybody else. She
flies into a rage for just nothing, and it's always those people
somehow that make one _want_ to tease them. But, I say, Martha, I
really do _wonder_ how we'll get on when--"

A warning glance stopped him, and he remembered that little Felix knew
nothing of what he was going to speak about, and that his mother did
not wish anything more said of it just yet. So Colin said no more--he
just whistled, as he always did if he was at a loss about anything,
but his whistle sometimes seemed to say a good deal.

How was it that Colin was so good-tempered and reasonable, Felix so
gentle and obedient, and Rosy, poor Rosy, so very different? For they
were her very own brothers, she was their very own sister. There must
have been some difference, I suppose, naturally. Rosy had always been
a fiery little person, but the great pity was that she had been sadly
spoilt. For some years she had been away from her father and mother,
who had been abroad in a warm climate, where delicate little Felix was
born. They had not dared to take Colin and Rosy with them, but Colin,
who was already six years old when they left England, had had the good
fortune to be sent to a very nice school, while Rosy had stayed
altogether with her aunt, who had loved her dearly, but in wishing to
make her perfectly happy had made the mistake of letting her have her
own way in everything. And when she was eight years old, and her
parents came home, full of delight to have their children all together
again, the disappointment was great of finding Rosy so unlike what
they had hoped. And as months passed, and all her mother's care and
advice and gentle firmness seemed to have no effect, Rosy's true
friends began to ask themselves what should be done. The little girl
was growing a misery to herself, and a constant trouble to other
people. And then happened what her mother had told her about, and what
Rosy, in her selfishness and silliness, made a new trouble of, instead
of a pleasure the more, in what should have been her happy life. I
will soon tell you what it was.

Rosy lay on the floor crying for a good long while. Her fits of temper
tired her out, though she was a very strong little girl. There is
_nothing_ more tiring than bad temper, and it is such a stupid
kind of tiredness; nothing but a waste of time and strength. Not like
the rather _nice_ tiredness one feels when one has been working
hard either at one's own business, or, _still_ nicer, at helping
other people--the sort of pleasant fatigue with which one lays one's
head on the pillow, feeling that all the lessons are learnt, and well
learnt, for to-morrow morning, or that the bit of garden is quite,
quite clear of weeds, and father or mother will be so pleased to see
it! But to fall half asleep on the floor, or on your bed, with
wearied, swollen eyes, and panting breath and aching head, feeling or
fancying that no one loves you--that the world is all wrong, and there
is nothing sweet or bright or pretty in it, no place for you, and no
use in being alive--all these _miserable_ feelings that are the
natural and the right punishment of yielding to evil tempers,
forgetting selfishly all the pain and trouble you cause--what
_can_ be more wretched? Indeed, I often think no punishment that
can be given can be half so bad as the punishment that comes of
itself--that is joined to the sin by ties that can never be undone.
And the shame of it all! Rosy was not quite what she had been when she
first came home to her mother--she was beginning to feel ashamed when
she had yielded to her temper--and even this, though a small
improvement, was always something--one little step in the right way,
one little sign of better things.

She was not asleep--scarcely half asleep, only stupid and dazed with
crying--when the door opened softly, and some one peeped in. It was
Fixie. He came creeping in very quietly--when was Fixie anything but
quiet?--and with a very distressed look on his tiny, white face.
Something came over Rosy--a mixture of shame and sorrow, and also some
curiosity to see what her little brother would do; and these feelings
mixed together made her shut her eyes tighter and pretend to be
asleep.

Fixie came close up to her, peeped almost into her face, so that if
she had been really asleep I rather think it would have awakened her,
except that all he did was so _very_ gentle and like a little
mouse; and then, quite satisfied that she was fast asleep, he slowly
settled himself down on the floor by her side.

"Poor Losy," he said softly. "Fixie are so solly for you. Poor
Losy--why can't her be good? Why doesn't God make Losy good all in a
minute? Fixie always akses God to make her good"--he stopped in his
whispered talk, suddenly--he had fancied for a moment that Rosy was
waking, and it was true that she had moved. She had given a sort of
wriggle, for, sweet and gentle as Fixie was, she did not at all like
being spoken of as _not_ good. She didn't see why he need pray to
God to make _her_ good, more than other people, she said to
herself, and for half a second she was inclined to jump up and tell
Pix to go away; it wasn't his business whether she was good or
naughty, and she wouldn't have him in her room. But she did _not_
do so,--she lay still again, and she was glad she had, for poor Fixie
stopped in his talking to pat her softly.

"Don't wake, poor Losy," he said. "Go on sleeping, Losy, if you are so
tired, and Fix will watch aside you and take care of you."

He seemed to have forgotten all about her being naughty--he sat beside
her, patting her softly, and murmuring a sort of cooing "Hush, hush,
Losy," as if she were a baby, that was very touching, like the murmur
of a sad little dove. And by and by, with going on repeating it so
often, his own head began to feel confused and drowsy--it dropped
lower and lower, and at last found a resting-place on Rosy's knees.
Rosy, who had really been getting sleepy, half woke up when she felt
the weight of her little brother's head and shoulder upon her--she
moved him a little so that he should lie more comfortably, and put one
arm round him.

"Dear Fixie," she said to herself, "I do love him, and I'm sure he
loves me," and her face grew soft and gentle--and when Rosy's face
looked like that it was very pretty and sweet. But it quickly grew
dark and gloomy again as another thought struck her. "If Fixie loves
that nasty little girl better than me or as much--if he loves her
_at all_, I'll--I don't know what I'll do. I'd almost hate him,
and I'm sure I'll hate her, any way. Mamma says she's such a dear good
little girl--that means that everybody'll say _I'm_ naughtier
than ever."

But just then Fixie moved a little and whispered something in his
sleep.

"What is it, Fix?" said Rosy, stooping down to listen. His ears caught
the sound of her voice.

"Poor Losy," he murmured, and Rosy's face softened again.

And half an hour later Martha found them lying there together.




CHAPTER II.

BEATA.


"How will she be--fair-haired or dark,
Eyes bright and piercing, or rather soft and sweet?
--All that I care not for, so she be no phraser."
--OLD PLAY.

"What was it all about?" said Rosy's mother the next morning to Colin,
She had heard of another nursery disturbance the evening before, and
Martha had begged her to ask Colin to tell her all about it. "And
what's the matter with your eye, my boy?" she went on to say, as she
caught sight of the bluish bruise, which showed more by daylight.

"Oh, that's nothing," said Colin. "It doesn't hurt a bit, mother, it
doesn't indeed. I've had far worse lumps than that at school hundreds
of times. It's nothing, only--" and Colin gave a sort of wriggle.

"Only what?" said his mother.

"I do so wish Rosy wouldn't be like that. It spoils everything. Just
this Easter holiday time too, when I thought we'd be so happy."

His mother's face grew still graver.

"Do you mean that it was _Rosy_ that struck you--that hit you in
the eye?" she said.

Colin looked vexed. "I thought Martha had told you," he said. "And I
teased her, mother. I told her she was afraid of having her nose put
out of joint when Be--I can't say her name--when the little girl
comes."

"O Colin, how could you?" said his mother sadly. "When I had explained
to you about Beata coming, and that I hoped it might do Rosy good! I
thought you would have tried to help me, Colin."

Colin felt very vexed with himself.

"I won't do it any more, mother, I won't indeed," he said. "I wish I
could leave off teasing; but at school, you know, one gets into the
way, and one has to learn not to mind it."

"Yes," said his mother, "I know, and it is a very good thing to learn
not to mind it. But I don't think teasing will do Rosy any good just
now, especially not about little Beata."

"Mother," said Colin.

"Well, my boy," said his mother.

"I wish she hadn't such a stupid name. It's so hard to say."

"I think they sometimes have called her Bee," said his mother; "I
daresay you can call her so."

"Yes, that would be much better," said Colin, in a more contented
tone.

"Only," said his mother again, and she couldn't help smiling a little
when she said it, "if you call her 'Bee,' don't make it the beginning
of any new teasing by calling Rosy 'Wasp.'"

"Mother!" said Colin. "I daresay I would never have thought of it. But
I promise you I won't."

This was what had upset Rosy so terribly--the coming of little Beata.
She--Beata--was the child of friends of Rosy's parents. They had been
much together in India, and had returned to England at the same time.
So Beata was already well known to Rosy's mother, and Fixie, too, had
learnt to look upon her almost as a sister. Beata's father and mother
were obliged to go back to India, and it had been settled that their
little girl was to be left at home with her grandmother. But just a
short time before they were to leave, her grandmother had a bad
illness, and it was found she would not be well enough to take charge
of the child. And in the puzzle about what they should do with her, it
had struck her father and mother that perhaps their friends, Rosy's
parents, might be able to help them, and they had written to ask them;
and so it had come about that little Beata was to come to live with
them. It had all seemed so natural and nice. Rosy's mother was so
pleased about it, for she thought it would be just what Rosy needed to
make her a pleasanter and more reasonable little girl.

"Beata is such a nice child," she said to Rosy's father when they were
talking about it, "and not one bit spoilt. I think it is _sure_
to do Rosy good," and, full of pleasure in the idea, she told Rosy
about it.

But--one man may bring a horse to the water, but twenty can't make him
drink, says the old proverb--Rosy made up her mind on the spot, at the
very first instant, that she wouldn't like Beata, and that her coming
was on purpose to vex _her_, Rosy, as it seemed to her that most
things which she had to do with in the world were. And this was what
had put her in such a temper the first time we saw her--when she would
have liked to put out her vexation on Manchon even, if she had dared!

Rosy's mother felt very disappointed, but she saw it was better to say
no more. She had told Colin about Beata coming, but not Felix, for as
he knew and loved the little girl already, she was afraid that his
delight might rouse Rosy's jealous feelings. For the prettiest thing
in Rosy was her love for her little brother, only it was often spoilt
by her _exactingness_. Fixie must love her as much or better than
anybody--he must be all hers, or else she would not love him at all.
That was how she sometimes talked to him, and it puzzled and
frightened him--he was such a very little fellow, you see. And
_mother_ had never told him that loving other people too made his
love for her less, as Rosy did! I think Rosy's first dislike to Beata
had begun one day when Fixie, wanting to please her, and yet afraid to
say what was not true, had spoken of Beata as one of the people Rosy
must let him love, and it had vexed Rosy so that ever since he had
been afraid to mention his little friend's name to her.

Rosy's mother thought over what Colin had told her, and settled in her
own mind that it was better to take no notice of it in speaking to
Rosy.

"If it had been a quarrel about anything else," she said to herself,
"it would have been different. But about Beata I want to say nothing
more to vex Rosy, or wake her unkind feelings."

But Rosy's mother did not yet quite know her little girl. There was
one thing about her which was _not_ spoilt, and that was her
honesty.

When the children came down that morning to see their mother, as they
always did, a little after breakfast, Rosy's face wore a queer look.

"Good morning, little people," said their mother. "I was rather late
this morning, do you know? That was why I didn't come to see you in
the nursery. I am going to write to your aunt to-day. Would you like
to put in a little letter, Rosy?"

"No, thank you," said Rosy.

"Then shall I just send your love? and Fixie's too?" said her mother.
She went on speaking because she noticed the look in Rosy's face, but
she wanted not to seem to do so, thinking Rosy would then gradually
forget about it all.

"I don't want to send my love," said Rosy. "If you say I _must_,
I suppose I must, but I don't _want_ to send it."

"Do you think your love is not worth having, my poor little girl?"
said her mother, smiling a little sadly, as she drew Rosy to her.
"Don't you believe we all love you, Rosy, and want you to love us?"

"I don't know," said Rosy, gloomily. "I don't think anybody can love
me, for Martha's always saying if I do naughty things _you_ won't
love me and father won't love me, and nobody."

"Then why don't you leave off doing naughty things, Rosy?" said her
mother.

"Oh, I can't," Rosy replied, coolly. "I suppose I was spoilt at
auntie's, and now I'm too old to change. I don't care. It isn't my
fault: it's auntie's."

"Rosy," said her mother, gravely, "who ever said so to you? Where did
you ever hear such a thing?"

"Lots of times," Rosy replied. "Martha's said so, and Colin says so
when he's vexed with me. He's always said so," she added, as if she
didn't quite like owning it, but felt that she must. "He said I was
spoilt before you came home, but auntie wouldn't let him. _She_
thought I was quite good," and Rosy reared up her head as if she
thought so too.

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