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Six to Sixteen: A Story for Girls, a novel by Juliana Horatia Ewing |
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Chapter 11. Matilda's News... |
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_ CHAPTER XI. MATILDA'S NEWS--OUR GOVERNESS--MAJOR BULLER TURNED TUTOR--ELEANOR ARKWRIGHT The grief I felt at leaving The Vine was greatly forgotten in the warm welcome which awaited me on my return to Riflebury. In a household where gossip is a principal amusement, the return of any member from a visit is a matter for general congratulation till the new budget is exhausted. Indeed, I plead guilty to a liking to be the first to skim the news when Eleanor or one of the boys comes back from a visit, at the present time. Matilda withdrew me from Aunt Theresa as soon as she could. "I am so glad to get you back, Margery dear," said she. "And now you must tell me all your news, and I'll tell you all mine. And to begin with--what do you think?--we've got a governess, and you and I are to have the little room at the head of the stairs all to ourselves." Matilda's news was lengthy enough and interesting enough to make us late for tea, and mine kept us awake for a couple of hours after we were fairly in our two little iron bedsteads in the room that was now our very own. That is to say, I told what I had to tell after we came to bed, but my news was so tame compared with Matilda's that we soon returned to the discussion of hers. I tried to describe my great-grandfather's sketches, but neither Aunt Theresa in the drawing-room, nor Matilda when we retired for the night, seemed to feel any interest in the subject; and when Mrs. Buller asked what sort of people called at The Vine, I felt that my reply was, like the rest of my news, but dull. Matilda's, on the contrary, was very entertaining. She spoke enthusiastically of Miss Perry, the governess. "She is so good-natured, Margery, you can't think. When lessons are over she takes me walks on the Esplanade, and she calls me her dear Matilda, and I take her arm, and she tells me all about herself. She says she knows she's very romantic. And she's got lots of secrets, and she's told me several already; for she says she has a feeling that I can keep a secret, and so I can. But telling you's not telling, you know, because she's sure to tell you herself; only you'd better wait till she does before you say anything, for fear she should be vexed." Of course I promised to do so, and craned my neck out of bed to catch Matilda's interesting but whispered revelations. Matilda herself was only partially in Miss Perry's confidence, and I looked anxiously forward to the time when she would admit me also to her secrets, though I feared she might consider me too young. My fears were groundless, as I found Miss Perry was fond of talking about herself, and a suitable audience was quite a secondary consideration with her. She was a _protegee_ of Mrs. Minchin's, who had persuaded Aunt Theresa to take her for our governess. She was quite unfit for the position, and did no little harm to us in her brief reign. But I do not think that our interests had entered in the least into Mrs. Minchin's calculations in the matter. She had "taken Miss Perry up," and to get Miss Perry a comfortable home was her sole object. To do our new governess justice, she did her best to impart her own superficial acquirements to us. We plodded regularly through French exercises, which she corrected by a key, and she kept us at work for a given number of hours during the day; tatting by our sides as we practised our scales, or roasting her petticoats over the fire, whilst Matilda and I read Mrs. Markham's _England_ or Mrs. Trimmer's _Bible Lessons_ aloud by turns to full-stops. But when lessons were over Miss Perry was quite as glad as we were, and the subjects of our studies had as little to do with our holiday hours as a Sunday sermon with the rest of the week. She was a great novel-reader, and I think a good many of the things she told us of, as having happened to herself, had their real origin in the Riflebury circulating library. For she was one of those strange characters who indulge in egotism and exaggeration, till they seem positively to lose the sense of what is fact and what is fiction. She filled our poor empty little heads with a great deal of folly, and it was well for us that her reign was not a long one. She was much attached to the school-room fireside. She could not sit too close to it, or roast herself too thoroughly for her own satisfaction. I sometimes wondered if the bony woman who kept the library ever complained of the curled condition of the backs of the books Miss Perry held between her eyes and the hot coals for so many hours. In this highly heated state our governess was, of course, sensitive to the smallest inlet of cooler air, and "draughts" were accordingly her abhorrence. How we contrived to distinguish a verb from a noun, or committed anything whatever to memory in the fever-heat and "stuffy" atmosphere of the little room which was sacred to our studies, I do not know. At a certain degree of the thermometer Miss Perry's face rises before me and makes my brain spin even now. This was, no doubt, one cause of the very severe headaches to which Matilda became subject about this time, though, now I look back, I do not think she had been quite strong since we all had the measles. They were apt to end in a fainting condition, from which she recovered by lying on the floor. Then, if Miss Perry happened to be in good humour, she would excuse Matilda from further lessons, invariably adding, in her "mystery" voice--"But not a word to your mamma!" It was the most unjustifiable use she made of influence she gained over us (especially over poor Matilda, who was very fond of her, and believed in her) that she magnified her own favours at the expense of Major Buller and my aunt. For some time they had no doubts as to the wisdom of Mrs. Minchin's choice. Miss Perry was clever enough not to display her romantic side to Mrs. Buller. She amused her, too, with Riflebury gossip, in which she was an adept. She knew equally well how far she might venture with the Major; and the sleight-of-hand with which she threw needlework over a novel when Aunt Theresa came into the school-room was not more skilful than the way in which she turned the tail of a bit of scandal into a remark upon the weather as Uncle Buller opened the drawing-room door. But Miss Perry was not skilful enough to win the Major's lasting favour. He was always slow to interfere in domestic matters, but he was not unobservant. "I'm sure you see a great deal more than one would think, Edward," Aunt Theresa would say; "although you are so wrapt up in insects and things." "The insects don't get into my eyes, my dear," said Major Buller. "And hear too," Mrs. Buller continued. "Mrs. O'Connor was saying only the other day that you often seem to hear of things before other people, though you do talk so little." "It is, perhaps, because I am not always talking that I do hear. But Mrs. O'Connor is not likely to think of that," said the Major, rather severely. He was neither blind nor deaf in reference to Miss Perry, and she was dismissed. Aunt Theresa rather dreaded Mrs. Minchin's indignation in the matter, I believe; but needlessly, for Miss Perry and Mrs. Minchin quarrelled about this time, and Mrs. Minchin had then so much information to Miss Perry's disadvantage at her fingers' ends, that it seemed wonderful that she should ever have recommended her. For some little time our education progressed in a very desultory fashion. Major Buller became perversely prejudiced against governesses, and for a short time undertook to carry on our English lessons himself. He made sums amusing, and geography lessons "as good as stories," though the latter so often led (by very interesting channels) to his dearly beloved insects, that Mrs. Buller accused him of making our lessons an excuse for getting out his "collection." With "grammar" we were less successful. Major Buller was so good a teacher that he brought out what intelligence we possessed, and led us constantly to ask questions about anything we failed to understand. In arithmetic this led to his helping us over our difficulties; in geography it led, sooner or later, to the "collection"; but in English grammar it led to stumbling-blocks and confusion, and, finally, to the Major's throwing the book across the room, and refusing to pursue that part of our education any further. "I never learnt English grammar," said the Major, "and it's quite evident that I can't teach it." "If _you_ don't know grammar, Papa, then _we_ needn't," said Matilda promptly, and being neat of disposition, she picked up the book and proceeded to put it away. "I never said that I didn't know grammar," said the Major; "I fancy I can speak and write grammatically, but what I know I got from the Latin grammar. And, upon my soul," added Uncle Buller, pulling at his heavy moustache, "I don't know why you shouldn't do the same." The idea of learning Latin pleased us greatly, and Major Buller (who had been at Charterhouse in his boyhood) bought a copy of Dr. Russell's _Grammar_, and we set to work. And either because the rules of the Latin grammar bore explanation better than the English ones, or because Major Buller was better able to explain them, we had no further difficulties. We were very proud of doing lessons in these circumstances, and boasted of our Latin, I remember, to the little St. Quentins, when we met them at the dancing-class. The St. Quentins were slender, ladylike girls, much alike, and rendered more so by an exact similarity of costume. Their governess was a very charming and talented woman, and when Mrs. St. Quentin proposed that Matilda and I should share her daughters' French lessons under Miss Airlie, Major Buller and Aunt Theresa thankfully accepted the offer. I think that our short association with this excellent lady went far to cure us of the silly fancies and tricks of vulgar gossip which we had gleaned from Miss Perry. So matters went on for some months, much to Matilda's and my satisfaction, when a letter from my other guardian changed our plans once more. Mr. Arkwright's only daughter was going to school. He wrote to ask the Bullers to let her break the journey by spending a night at their house. It was a long journey, for she was coming from the north. "They live in Yorkshire," said Major Buller, much as one might speak of living in Central Africa. Matilda and I looked forward with great interest to Miss Arkwright's arrival. Her name, we learnt, was Eleanor, and she was nearly a year older than Maria. "She'll be _your_ friend, I suppose," I said, a little enviously, in reference to her age. "Of course," said Matilda, with dignity. "But you can be with us a good deal," she was kind enough to add. I remember quite well how disappointed I felt that I should have so little title to share the newcomer's friendship. "If she had only been ten years old, and so come between us," I thought, "she would have been as much mine as Matilda's." I little thought then what manner of friends we were to be in spite of the five years' difference in age. Indeed, both Matilda and I were destined to see more of her than we expected. Aunt Theresa and Major Buller came to a sudden resolution to send us also to the school where she was going, though we did not hear of this at first. Long afterwards, when we were together, Eleanor asked me if I could remember my first impression of her. For our affection's sake I wish it had been a picturesque one; but truth obliges me to confess that, when our visitor did at last arrive, Matilda and I were chiefly struck by the fact that she wore thick boots, and did not wear crinoline. And yet, looking back, I have a very clear picture of her in my mind, standing in the passage by her box (a very rough one, very strongly corded, and addressed in the clearest of handwriting), purse in hand, and paying the cabman with perfect self-possession. An upright, quite ladylike, but rather old-fashioned little figure, somewhat quaint from the simplicity of her dress. She had a rather quaint face, too, with a nose slightly turned up, a prominent forehead, a charming mouth, and most beautiful dark eyes. Her hair was rolled under and tied at the top of her head, and it had an odd tendency to go astray about the parting. This was, perhaps, partly from a trick she seemed to have of doing her hair away from the looking-glass. She stood to do it, and also (on one leg) to put on her shoes and stockings, which amused us. But she was always on her feet, and seemed unhappy if she sat idle. We took her for a walk the morning after her arrival, and walked faster than we had ever walked before to keep pace with our new friend, who strode along in her thick boots and undistended skirts with a step like that of a kilted Highlander. When we came into the town, however, she was quite willing to pause before the shop-windows, which gave her much entertainment. "I'm afraid I should always be looking in at the windows if I lived in a town," she said, "there are such pretty things." Eleanor laughs when I remind her of that walk, and how we stood still by every chemist's door because she liked the smell. When anything interested her, she stopped, but at other times she walked as if she were on the road to some given place, and determined to be there in good time; or perhaps it would be more just to say that she walked as if walking were a pleasure to her. It was walking--not strolling. When she was out alone, I know that she constantly ran when other people would have walked. It is a north-country habit, I think. I have seen middle-aged Scotch and Yorkshire ladies run as lightly as children. It was not the fashionable time of day, so that we could not, during that walk, show Eleanor the chief characters of Riflebury. But just as we were leaving High Street she stopped and asked, "Who is that lady?" "The one in the mauve silk?" said Matilda. "That is one of the cavalry ladies. All the cavalry ladies dress grandly." It was a Mrs. Perowne. She was sailing languidly down the other side of the street, in a very large crinoline, and a very long dress of pale silk, which floated after her along the dirty pavement, much, I remember, to my admiration. Above this was some tight-fitting thing with a good deal of lace about it, which was crowned by a fragile and flowery bonnet, and such a tuft of white lace at the end of a white stick as just sheltered her nose, which was aquiline, from the sunshine. She was prettily dressed for an open carriage, a flower-show, or a wedding breakfast; for walking through the streets of a small, dirty town, to change her own books at the library, her costume was ludicrously out of place, though at the time I thought it enviably grand. The way in which a rich skirt that would not wash, and would undoubtedly be worn again, trailed through dust and orange-peel, and greengrocers' refuse, and general shop-sweepings, was offensive to cleanliness alone. "Is she ill?" Eleanor asked. "No," said Matilda; "I don't think so. Why?" "She walks so slowly," said Eleanor, gazing anxiously at Mrs. Perowne out of her dark eyes, "and she is so white in the face." "Oh, my dear!" said Matilda, laughing, "that's puff--puff, and a white veil. It's to make her look young. I heard Mrs. Minchin tell Mamma that she knew she was thirty-seven at least. But she dresses splendidly. If you stay over Sunday, you'll see her close, for she sits in front of us in church. And she has such a splendid big scent-bottle, with gold tops, and such a lovely, tiny little prayer-book, bound in blue velvet, and a watch no bigger than a shilling, with a monogram on the back. She took it out several times in the sermon last Sunday, so I saw it. But isn't her hair funny?" "It's a beautiful colour," said Eleanor, "only it looks different in front. But I suppose that's the veil." "No, it isn't," said Matilda; "that's the new colour for hair, you know. It's done by stuff you put on; but Miss Perry said the worst was, it didn't always come out the same all over. Lots of ladies use it." "How horrid!" said Eleanor. "But what makes her walk so slow?" "Well, I don't know," said Matilda. "Why should she walk quick?" Eleanor seemed struck by this reply, and after a few minutes' pause, said very gently, with a slight blush on her cheeks, "I'm afraid I have been walking too fast for you. I'm used to walking with boys." We earnestly assured her that this was not the case, and that it was much better fun to walk with her than with Miss Perry, who used to dawdle so that we were often thoroughly chilled. In the afternoon we took her to the Esplanade, when Matilda, from her knowledge of the people, took the lead in the conversation. I was proud to walk on the other side of our new friend, with my best doll in my arms. Aunt Theresa came with us, but she soon sat down to chat to a friend, and we three strolled up and down together. I remember a pretty bit of trimming on Eleanor's hat being blown by the wind against her face, on which she quietly seized it, and stuffed it securely into the band. "Oh, my dear!" said Matilda, in the emphatic tone in which Aunt Theresa's lady visitors were wont to exclaim about nothing in particular--"don't do that. It looks so pretty; and you're crushing it _dreadfully_." "It got in my eyes," said Eleanor briefly. "I hate tags." We went home before Aunt Theresa, but as we stood near the door, Eleanor lingered and looked wistfully up the road, which ran over a slight hill towards the open country. "Would you like to stay out a little longer?" we politely asked. "I should rather like to go to the top of the hill," said Eleanor. "Don't you think flat ground tires one? Shall we race up?" she added. We willingly agreed. I had a few yards start of Eleanor, and Matilda rather less, and away we went. But we were little used to running, and hoops and thin boots were not in our favour. Eleanor beat us, of course. She seemed in no way struck by the view from the top. Indeed it was not particularly pretty. "It's very flat about here," she said. "There are no big hills you can get to the top of, I suppose?" We confessed that there were not, and, there being nothing more to do, we ran down again, and went indoors. Eleanor dressed for the evening in her usual peripatetic way, and, armed with a homely-looking piece of grey knitting, followed us down-stairs. Her superabundant energy did not seem to find vent in conversation. We were confidential enough now to tell each other of our homes, and she had sat so long demurely silent, that Matilda ventured upon the inquiry-- "Don't you talk much at your home?" "Oh yes," said Eleanor--"at least, when we've anything to say;" and I am sure no irony was intended in the reply. "What are you knitting, my dear?" said Aunt Theresa. "A pair of socks for my brother Jack," was the answer. "I'm sure you're dreadfully industrious," said Mrs. Buller. A little later she begged Eleanor to put it away. "You'll tire your eyes, my dear, I'm sure; pray rest a little and chat to us." "I don't look at my knitting," said Eleanor; but she put it away, and then sat looking rather red in the face, and somewhat encumbered with her empty hands, which were red too. I think Uncle Buller noticed this; for he told us to get the big scrap-book and show it to Miss Arkwright. Eleanor got cool again over the book; but she said little till, pausing before a small, black-looking print in a sheet full of rather coarse coloured caricatures, cuttings from illustrated papers and old-fashioned books, second-rate lithographs, and third-rate original sketches, fitted into a close patchwork, she gave a sort of half-repressed cry. "My dear! What is it?" cried Matilda effusively. "I think," said Eleanor, looking for information to Aunt Theresa, "I think it's a real Rembrandt, isn't it?" "A real what, my dear?" said Mrs. Buller. "One of Rembrandt's etchings," said Eleanor; "and of course I don't know, but I think it must be an original; it's so beautifully done, and my mother has a copy of this one. We know ours is a copy, and I think this must be an original, because all the things are turned the other way; and it's very old, and it's beautifully done," Eleanor repeated, with her face over the little black print. Major Buller came across the room, and sat down by her. "You are fond of drawing?" he said. "Very," said Eleanor, and she threw a good deal of eloquence into the one word. The Major and she forthwith plunged into a discussion of drawing, etching, line-engraving, &c., &c. It appeared that Mrs. Arkwright etched on copper, and had a good collection of old etchings, with which Eleanor was familiar. It also transpired that she was a naturalist, which led by easy stages to a promise from the Major to show Eleanor his insects. They talked till bedtime, and when Aunt Theresa bade us good-night, she said: "I'm glad you've found your voice, my dear;" and she added, laughing, "But whenever Papa talks to anybody, it always ends in the collection." _ |
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