Rosy | Page 9

there.
"Thank you," said Beata, and then they quietly followed the big people. Rosy's father was not at home, but he would be back soon, her mother was telling the gray-haired gentleman, and then she went on to ask him how "they" had got off, if it had been comfortably, and so on.
"Oh yes," he replied, "it was all quite right. Poor Maud!--"
"That's my mamma," said Beata in a low voice, and Rosy, turning towards her, saw that her eyes were full of tears.
"What a queer little girl she is!" thought Rosy, but she did not say so.
"--Poor Maud," continued the gentleman. "It is a great comfort to her to leave the child in such good hands."
"I hope she will be happy," said Rosy's mother. "I will do my best to make her so."
"I am very sure of that," said Beata's uncle. "It is a great disappointment to her grandmother not to have her with her. She is a dear child. Last week at the parting she behaved like a brick."
Both little girls heard this, and Beata suddenly began speaking rather fast, and Rosy saw that her cheeks had got very red.
"Do you think your mamma would mind if I went upstairs to take off my hat? I think my face must be dirty with the train," said Beata.
"Don't you like staying here?" said Rosy, rather crossly. "I think you should stay till mother tells is to go," for she wanted to hear what more her mother and the gentleman said to each other, the very thing that made Beata uncomfortable.
Beata looked a little frightened.
"I didn't mean to be rude," she said. Then suddenly catching sight of Manchon, she exclaimed, "Oh, what a beautiful cat! May I go and stroke him?"
"If you like," said Rosy, "but he isn't really a nice cat." And then, seeing that Beata looked at her with curiosity, she forgot about listening to the big people, and, getting up, led Beata to Manchon's cushion.
"Everybody says he's pretty," she went on, "but I don't think so, because I think he's a kind of bad fairy. You don't know how he froos sometimes, in a most horrible way, as if he was mocking you. He knows I don't like him, for whenever I'm vexed he looks pleased."
"Does he really?" said Beata. "Then I don't like him. I shouldn't look pleased if you were vexed, Rosy."
"Wouldn't you?" said Rosy, doubtfully.
"No, I'm sure I wouldn't. I wonder your mamma likes Manchon if he has such an unkind dis--I can't remember the word, it means feelings, you know."
"Never mind," said Rosy, patronisingly, "I know what you mean. Oh, its only me Manchon's nasty to, and that doesn't matter. _I'm_ not the favourite. I was at my aunty's though, that I was--but it has all come true what Nelson told me," and she shook her head dolefully.
"Who is Nelson?" asked Beata.
"Aunty's maid. She cried when I came away, and she said it was because she was so sorry for me. It wouldn't be the same as _there_, she said. I shouldn't be thought as much of with two brothers, and Nelson knew that my mamma was dreadfully strict. I daresay she'd be still more sorry for me if she knew--" Rosy stopped short.
"Why don't you go on?" said Beata.
"Oh, I was going to say something I don't want to say. Perhaps it would vex you," said Rosy.
Beata considered a little.
"I'm not very easily vexed," she said at last. "I think I'd like you to go on saying it if you don't mind--unless its anything naughty."
"Oh no," said Rosy, "it isn't anything naughty. I was going to say Nelson would be still more sorry for me if she knew you had come."
"_Me!_" said Beata, opening her eyes. "Why? She can't know anything about me--I mean she couldn't know anything to make her think I would be unkind to you."
"Oh no, it isn't that. Only you see some little girls would think that if another little girl came to live with them it wouldn't be so nice--that perhaps their mammas and brothers and everybody would pet the other little girl more than them."
"And do you think that?" said Beata, anxiously. A feeling like a cold chill seemed to have touched her heart. She had never before thought of such things--loving somebody else "better," not being "the favourite," and so on. Could it all be true, and could it, worst of all, be true that her coming might be the cause of trouble and vexation to other people--at least to Rosy? She had come so full of love and gratitude, so ready to like everybody; she had said so many times to her mother, "I'm sure I'll be happy. I'll write and tell you how happy I am," swallowing bravely the grief of leaving her mother,