CHAPTER XI.
MATILDA'S NEWS--OUR GOVERNESS--MAJOR BULLER TURNED TUTOR--ELEANORARKWRIGHT.
The grief I felt at leaving The Vine was greatly forgotten in the warmwelcome which awaited me on my return to Riflebury.
In a household where gossip is a principal amusement, the return of anymember from a visit is a matter for general congratulation till the newbudget is exhausted. Indeed, I plead guilty to a liking to be the firstto skim the news when Eleanor or one of the boys comes back from avisit, 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 youmust tell me all your news, and I'll tell you all mine. And to beginwith--what do you think?--we've got a governess, and you and I are tohave the little room at the head of the stairs all to ourselves."
Matilda's news was lengthy enough and interesting enough to make us latefor tea, and mine kept us awake for a couple of hours after we werefairly in our two little iron bedsteads in the room that was now ourvery own. That is to say, I told what I had to tell after we came tobed, but my news was so tame compared with Matilda's that we soonreturned to the discussion of hers. I tried to describe mygreat-grandfather's sketches, but neither Aunt Theresa in thedrawing-room, nor Matilda when we retired for the night, seemed to feelany interest in the subject; and when Mrs. Buller asked what sort ofpeople called at The Vine, I felt that my reply was, like the rest of mynews, but dull.
Matilda's, on the contrary, was very entertaining. She spokeenthusiastically of Miss Perry, the governess.
"She is so good-natured, Margery, you can't think. When lessons are overshe 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 sheknows she's very romantic. And she's got lots of secrets, and she's toldme several already; for she says she has a feeling that I can keep asecret, and so I can. But telling you's not telling, you know, becauseshe's sure to tell you herself; only you'd better wait till she doesbefore you say anything, for fear she should be vexed."
Of course I promised to do so, and craned my neck out of bed to catchMatilda's interesting but whispered revelations.
Matilda herself was only partially in Miss Perry's confidence, and Ilooked anxiously forward to the time when she would admit me also to hersecrets, though I feared she might consider me too young. My fears weregroundless, as I found Miss Perry was fond of talking about herself, anda suitable audience was quite a secondary consideration with her.
She was a _protegee_ of Mrs. Minchin's, who had persuaded Aunt Theresato take her for our governess. She was quite unfit for the position, anddid no little harm to us in her brief reign. But I do not think that ourinterests had entered in the least into Mrs. Minchin's calculations inthe matter. She had "taken Miss Perry up," and to get Miss Perry acomfortable home was her sole object.
To do our new governess justice, she did her best to impart her ownsuperficial acquirements to us. We plodded regularly through Frenchexercises, which she corrected by a key, and she kept us at work for agiven number of hours during the day; tatting by our sides as wepractised our scales, or roasting her petticoats over the fire, whilstMatilda and I read Mrs. Markham's _England_ or Mrs. Trimmer's _BibleLessons_ aloud by turns to full-stops. But when lessons were over MissPerry was quite as glad as we were, and the subjects of our studies hadas little to do with our holiday hours as a Sunday sermon with the restof the week.
She was a great novel-reader, and I think a good many of the things shetold us of, as having happened to herself, had their real origin in theRiflebury circulating library. For she was one of those strangecharacters who indulge in egotism and exaggeration, till they seempositively 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, andit 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 tooclose to it, or roast herself too thoroughly for her own satisfaction. Isometimes wondered if the bony woman who kept the library evercomplained of the curled condition of the backs of the books Miss Perryheld between her eyes and the hot coals for so many hours.
In this highly heated state our governess was, of course, sensitive tothe smallest inlet of cooler air, and "draughts" were accordingly herabhorrence. How we contrived to distinguish a verb from a noun, orcommitted anything whatever to memory in the fever-heat and "stuffy"atmosphere of the little room which was sacred to our studies, I do notknow. At a certain degree of the thermometer Miss Perry's face risesbefore me and makes my brain spin even now.
This was, no doubt, one cause of the very severe headaches to whichMatilda became subject about this time, though, now I look back, I donot think she had been quite strong since we all had the measles. Theywere apt to end in a fainting condition, from which she recovered bylying 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 overus (especially over poor Matilda, who was very fond of her, and believedin her) that she magnified her own favours at the expense of MajorBuller and my aunt. For some time they had no doubts as to the wisdom ofMrs. 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 anadept. She knew equally well how far she might venture with the Major;and the sleight-of-hand with which she threw needlework over a novelwhen Aunt Theresa came into the school-room was not more skilful thanthe way in which she turned the tail of a bit of scandal into a remarkupon 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 notunobservant.
"I'm sure you see a great deal more than one would think, Edward," AuntTheresa 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 onlythe 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. ButMrs. O'Connor is not likely to think of that," said the Major, ratherseverely.
He was neither blind nor deaf in reference to Miss Perry, and she wasdismissed. Aunt Theresa rather dreaded Mrs. Minchin's indignation in thematter, I believe; but needlessly, for Miss Perry and Mrs. Minchinquarrelled about this time, and Mrs. Minchin had then so muchinformation to Miss Perry's disadvantage at her fingers' ends, that itseemed wonderful that she should ever have recommended her.
For some little time our education progressed in a very desultoryfashion. 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," thoughthe latter so often led (by very interesting channels) to his dearlybeloved insects, that Mrs. Buller accused him of making our lessons anexcuse for getting out his "collection."
With "grammar" we were less successful. Major Buller was so good ateacher that he brought out what intelligence we possessed, and led usconstantly to ask questions about anything we failed to understand. Inarithmetic this led to his helping us over our difficulties; ingeography it led, sooner or later, to the "collection"; but in Englishgrammar it led to stumbling-blocks and confusion, and, finally, to theMajor's throwing the book across the room, and refusing to pursue thatpart of our education any further.
"I never learnt English grammar," said the Major, "and it's quiteevident that I can't teach it."
"If _you_ don't know grammar, Papa, then _we_ needn't," said Matildapromptly, and being neat of disposition
, she picked up the book andproceeded to put it away.
"I never said that I didn't know grammar," said the Major; "I fancy Ican speak and write grammatically, but what I know I got from the Latingrammar. And, upon my soul," added Uncle Buller, pulling at his heavymoustache, "I don't know why you shouldn't do the same."
The idea of learning Latin pleased us greatly, and Major Buller (who hadbeen 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 Latingrammar bore explanation better than the English ones, or because MajorBuller was better able to explain them, we had no further difficulties.
We were very proud of doing lessons in these circumstances, and boastedof our Latin, I remember, to the little St. Quentins, when we met themat 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 Theresathankfully accepted the offer. I think that our short association withthis excellent lady went far to cure us of the silly fancies and tricksof vulgar gossip which we had gleaned from Miss Perry.
So matters went on for some months, much to Matilda's and mysatisfaction, when a letter from my other guardian changed our plansonce more.
Mr. Arkwright's only daughter was going to school. He wrote to ask theBullers 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 ofliving in Central Africa.
Matilda and I looked forward with great interest to Miss Arkwright'sarrival. Her name, we learnt, was Eleanor, and she was nearly a yearolder than Maria.
"She'll be _your_ friend, I suppose," I said, a little enviously, inreference to her age.
"Of course," said Matilda, with dignity. "But you can be with us a gooddeal," she was kind enough to add.
I remember quite well how disappointed I felt that I should have solittle title to share the newcomer's friendship.
"If she had only been ten years old, and so come between us," Ithought, "she would have been as much mine as Matilda's."
I little thought then what manner of friends we were to be in spite ofthe five years' difference in age. Indeed, both Matilda and I weredestined to see more of her than we expected. Aunt Theresa and MajorBuller came to a sudden resolution to send us also to the school whereshe was going, though we did not hear of this at first.
Long afterwards, when we were together, Eleanor asked me if I couldremember my first impression of her. For our affection's sake I wish ithad been a picturesque one; but truth obliges me to confess that, whenour visitor did at last arrive, Matilda and I were chiefly struck by thefact 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 stronglycorded, and addressed in the clearest of handwriting), purse in hand,and paying the cabman with perfect self-possession. An upright, quiteladylike, but rather old-fashioned little figure, somewhat quaint fromthe simplicity of her dress. She had a rather quaint face, too, with anose slightly turned up, a prominent forehead, a charming mouth, andmost beautiful dark eyes. Her hair was rolled under and tied at the topof 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 herhair away from the looking-glass. She stood to do it, and also (on oneleg) to put on her shoes and stockings, which amused us. But she wasalways on her feet, and seemed unhappy if she sat idle. We took her fora walk the morning after her arrival, and walked faster than we had everwalked before to keep pace with our new friend, who strode along in herthick boots and undistended skirts with a step like that of a kiltedHighlander.
When we came into the town, however, she was quite willing to pausebefore the shop-windows, which gave her much entertainment.
"I'm afraid I should always be looking in at the windows if I lived in atown," she said, "there are such pretty things."
Eleanor laughs when I remind her of that walk, and how we stood still byevery chemist's door because she liked the smell. When anythinginterested her, she stopped, but at other times she walked as if shewere on the road to some given place, and determined to be there in goodtime; or perhaps it would be more just to say that she walked as ifwalking were a pleasure to her. It was walking--not strolling. When shewas out alone, I know that she constantly ran when other people wouldhave walked. It is a north-country habit, I think. I have seenmiddle-aged Scotch and Yorkshire ladies run as lightly as children.
It was not the fashionable time of day, so that we could not, duringthat walk, show Eleanor the chief characters of Riflebury. But just aswe 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 cavalryladies. All the cavalry ladies dress grandly."
It was a Mrs. Perowne. She was sailing languidly down the other side ofthe street, in a very large crinoline, and a very long dress of palesilk, which floated after her along the dirty pavement, much, Iremember, to my admiration. Above this was some tight-fitting thing witha good deal of lace about it, which was crowned by a fragile and flowerybonnet, and such a tuft of white lace at the end of a white stick asjust sheltered her nose, which was aquiline, from the sunshine. She wasprettily dressed for an open carriage, a flower-show, or a weddingbreakfast; for walking through the streets of a small, dirty town, tochange her own books at the library, her costume was ludicrously out ofplace, though at the time I thought it enviably grand. The way in whicha rich skirt that would not wash, and would undoubtedly be worn again,trailed through dust and orange-peel, and greengrocers' refuse, andgeneral 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. Perowneout of her dark eyes, "and she is so white in the face."
"Oh, my dear!" said Matilda, laughing, "that's puff--puff, and a whiteveil. It's to make her look young. I heard Mrs. Minchin tell Mamma thatshe knew she was thirty-seven at least. But she dresses splendidly. Ifyou stay over Sunday, you'll see her close, for she sits in front of usin 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 awatch no bigger than a shilling, with a monogram on the back. She tookit out several times in the sermon last Sunday, so I saw it. But isn'ther hair funny?"
"It's a beautiful colour," said Eleanor, "only it looks different infront. 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, itdidn'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 havebeen 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 wasmuch better fun to walk with her than with Miss Perry, who used todawdle so that we were often thoroughly chilled.
In the afternoon we took her to the Esplanade, when Matilda, from herknowledge of the people, took the lead in the conversation. I was proudto walk on the other side of our new friend, with my best doll in myarms. Aunt Theresa came with us, but she soon sat down to chat to afriend, and we three strolled up and down together. I remember a prettybit of trimming on Eleanor's hat being blown by the wind against herface, on which she quietly seized it, and stuffed it securel
y into theband.
"Oh, my dear!" said Matilda, in the emphatic tone in which AuntTheresa's lady visitors were wont to exclaim about nothing inparticular--"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, Eleanorlingered and looked wistfully up the road, which ran over a slight hilltowards 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 Matildarather less, and away we went. But we were little used to running, andhoops 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 notparticularly pretty.
"It's very flat about here," she said. "There are no big hills you canget 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 usdown-stairs.
Her superabundant energy did not seem to find vent in conversation. Wewere confidential enough now to tell each other of our homes, and shehad sat so long demurely silent, that Matilda ventured upon theinquiry--
"Don't you talk much at your home?"
"Oh yes," said Eleanor--"at least, when we've anything to say;" and I amsure 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 chatto us."
"I don't look at my knitting," said Eleanor; but she put it away, andthen sat looking rather red in the face, and somewhat encumbered withher empty hands, which were red too.
I think Uncle Buller noticed this; for he told us to get the bigscrap-book and show it to Miss Arkwright.
Eleanor got cool again over the book; but she said little till, pausingbefore a small, black-looking print in a sheet full of rather coarsecoloured caricatures, cuttings from illustrated papers and old-fashionedbooks, second-rate lithographs, and third-rate original sketches, fittedinto 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, "Ithink 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'tknow, but I think it must be an original; it's so beautifully done, andmy mother has a copy of this one. We know ours is a copy, and I thinkthis must be an original, because all the things are turned the otherway; 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 theone word.
The Major and she forthwith plunged into a discussion of drawing,etching, line-engraving, &c., &c. It appeared that Mrs. Arkwrightetched on copper, and had a good collection of old etchings, with whichEleanor was familiar. It also transpired that she was a naturalist,which led by easy stages to a promise from the Major to show Eleanor hisinsects.
They talked till bedtime, and when Aunt Theresa bade us good-night, shesaid:
"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."