CHAPTER XII.
POOR MATILDA--THE AWKWARD AGE--MRS. BULLER TAKES COUNSEL WITH HERFRIENDS--THE "MILLINER AND MANTUAMAKER"--MEDICAL ADVICE--THE MAJORDECIDES.
It was not because Major Buller's high opinion of Miss Airlie was in anyway lowered that he decided to send us to school. In fact it was onlyunder long and heavy pressure, from circumstances as well as from AuntTheresa, that he gave his consent to a plan which never quite met withhis approval.
Several things at this time seemed to conspire to effect it. The St.Quentins were going on long leave, and Miss Airlie would go with them.This was a heavy blow. Then we heard of this school after Miss Airliehad left Riflebury, a fact so opportune as to be (so Aunt Theresa said)"quite providential." If we were to go to school, sending us to this onewould save the trouble of making personal inquiries, and perhaps a lesswise selection, for Major Buller had confidence in Mr. Arkwright's goodjudgment. The ladies to whose care his daughter was confided wereprobably fit to teach us.
"It would save a great deal of trouble," my guardian confessed, and itmust also be confessed that Major Buller was glad to avoid trouble whenhe could conscientiously do so.
I think it was his warm approval of Eleanor which finally clinched thequestion. He thought that she would be a good companion for poorMatilda.
Why I speak of her as "poor Matilda" demands some explanation.
Before I attempt to give it I must say that there is one respect inwhich our biographies must always be less satisfactory than a story thatone might invent. When you are putting down true things about yourselfand your friends, you cannot divide people neatly into the good and thebad, the injurers and the injured, as you can if you are writing a taleout of your head. The story seems more complete when you are ableeither to lay the blame of the melancholy events on the shoulders ofsome unworthy character, or to show that they were the naturalpunishment of the sufferer's own misconduct. But in thinking of Matildaand Aunt Theresa and Major Buller, or even of the Doctor and Mrs.Buller's lady friends, this is not possible.
The morbid condition--of body and mind--into which Matilda fell for sometime was no light misfortune either as regards her sufferings or thediscomfort it produced in the household, and I am afraid she was bothmismanaged and in fault herself.
It is safe, at any rate, to take the blame for one's own share, and Ihave often thought, with bitterness of spirit, that, child as I was, Imight have been both forbearing and helpful to Matilda at a time whenher temper was very much tried by ill-health and untoward circumstances.We had a good many squabbles about this period. I piqued myself upongenerally being in the right, and I did not think then, as I do now,that it is possible to be most in the right in a quarrel, and at thesame time not least to blame for it.
Matilda certainly did by degrees become very irritable, moody, andperverse, and her perversity developed itself in ways which puzzled poorAunt Theresa.
She became silent and unsociable. She displayed a particular dislike tothe privileges of being in the drawing-room with grown-up "company," andof accompanying Aunt Theresa when she paid her afternoon calls. Shelooked very ill, and stoutly denied that she was so. She highly resentedsolicitude on the subject of her health, fought obstinately over everybottle of medicine, and was positively rude to the doctors.
For her unsociability, I think, Miss Perry's evil influence was partlyto blame. Poor Matilda clung to her belief in our late governess whenshe was no more to us than a text upon which Aunt Theresa and herfriends preached to each other against governesses in general, and thegovernesses each had suffered from in particular. Our lessons with MajorBuller, and the influence of Miss Airlie's good breeding andstraightforward kindness, gave a healthier turn to our tastes; but whenMiss Airlie went away and Major Buller proclaimed a three weeks' holidayfrom the Latin grammar, and we were left to ourselves, Matilda felt thewant of the flattery, the patronage, and the small excitements andmysteries about nothing, to which Miss Perry had accustomed her. I blushto think that my companionship was less comfort to her than it ought tohave been. As to Aunt Theresa, she was always too busy to give fullattention to anything; and this does not invite confidence.
Another reason, I am sure, for Matilda's dislike to appearing in companywas a painful sense of her personal appearance; and as she had heardAunt Theresa and her friends discuss, approve, and condemn their friendsby the standard of appearances alone, ever since she was old enough tooverhear company conversation, I hardly think she was much to blame onthis point.
Matilda was emphatically at what is called "an awkward age"; an age moreawkward with some girls than with others. I wish grown-up ladies, whomean to be kind to their friends' daughters, would try to remember theawkwardness of it, and not increase a naturally uncomfortableself-consciousness by personal remarks which might disturb the composureof older, prettier, and better-dressed people. It is bad enough to bequite well aware that the size of one's hands and feet prematurelyforeshadow the future growth of one's figure; that these are the moreprominent because the simple dresses of the unintroduced young lady seemto be perpetually receding from one's bony-wrists above, and shrinkingtowards the calves of one's legs below, from those thin ankles on whichone is impelled to stand by turns (like a sleeping stork) through somemysterious instinct of relieving the weak and overgrown spine.
This, I say, is mortifying enough, and if modesty and good breedingcarry us cheerfully through a not unfelt contrast with the assuredmanners and flowing draperies of Mamma's lady friends in thedrawing-room, they might spare us the announcement of what it hardlyneeds gold eyeglasses to discover--that we really grow every day.Blushes come heavily enough to hands and cheeks when to the shyness ofyouth are added the glows and chills of imperfect circulation: it doesnot need the stare of strangers, nor the apologies of Mamma, to stainour doubtful complexions with a deeper red.
All girls are not awkward at the awkward age. I speak mostdisinterestedly on Matilda's behalf, for I never went through this phasemyself. It is perhaps because I am small that I can never remember myhands, or any other part of me, feeling in my way; and my clothes--ofwhatever length, breadth, or fashion--always had a happy knack ofbecoming one with me in such wise that I could comfortably forget them.
The St. Quentin girls were nearer to Matilda's age than I, but they toowere very happy and looked very nice in the hobble-de-hoy stage ofgirlhood. I am sure that they much preferred the company of their youngbrothers to the company of the drawing-room; but they did what they weretold to do, and seemed happy in doing it. They had, however, severaladvantages over Matilda. By judicious care (for they were not naturallyrobust) they were kept in good health. They kept a great many pets, andthey always seemed to have plenty to do, which perhaps kept them fromworrying about themselves. Adelaide, for instance, did all the flowersfor the drawing-room and dinner-table. Mrs. St. Quentin said she couldnot do them so well herself. They had a very small garden to pick from,but Adelaide used lots of wild-flowers and grass and ferns. She oftenlet me help her to fill the china jars, and she was the only person whoever seemed to like hearing about Grandpapa's paintings. They all didsomething in the house. But I believe that their greatest advantage overpoor Matilda was that they had not been accustomed to hear dress andappearance talked about as matters of the first importance, so thatwhatever defects they felt conscious of in either did not weigh tooheavily on their minds.
On poor Matilda's they weighed heavily indeed. And she was not onlytroubled by that consciousness of being plain, by which I think quite asmany girls are affected as by the vanity of being pretty (and which hasreceived far less attention from moralists); she was also tormented bycertain purely nervous fancies of her face being swollen, her eyessquinting, and her throat choking, when people looked at her, which weredue to ill-health.
Unhappily, the ill-health which was a good excuse for Matilda'sunwillingness to "play pretty" in the drawing-room was the subject onwhich she was more perverse than any other. It was a great pity that shewas not frank and confiding with her mo
ther. The detestable trick ofsmall concealments which Miss Perry had taught us was partly answerablefor this; but the fault was not entirely Matilda's.
Aunt Theresa had not time to attend to her. What attention she did give,however, made her so anxious on the subject that she took counsel withevery lady of her acquaintance, and the more she talked about poorMatilda's condition the less leisure she had to think about it.
"It may be more mind than body, I'm afraid," said Aunt Theresa oneafternoon, on our return from some visiting in which Matilda had refusedto share. "Mrs. Minchin says she knew a girl who went out of her senseswhen she was only two years older than Matilda, and it began with herrefusing to go anywhere or see any one."
Major Buller turned round on his chair with an anxious face, and abeetle transfixed by a needle in his hand.
"It was a very shocking thing," continued Aunt Theresa, taking off herbonnet; "for she had a great-uncle in Hanwell, and her grandfather cuthis throat. I suppose it was in the family."
Major Buller turned back again, and pinned the beetle by its properlabel.
"I suppose it was," said he dryly; "but as there is no insanity in myfamily or in yours that I'm aware of, Mrs. Minchin's case is not much tothe point."
"Mrs. O'Connor won't believe she's ill," sighed Aunt Theresa; "_she_thinks it's all temper. She says her own temper was unbearable till shehad it knocked out of her at school."
"Matilda's temper was good enough till lately," growled the Major.
"She says Dr. O'Connor's brother, who is the medical officer of alunatic asylum somewhere in Tipperary," continued Aunt Theresa,"declares all mad women go out of their minds through ill-temper. He'swritten a book about it."
"Heaven defend me, mind and body, from the theories of that astutepractitioner!" said Uncle Buller piously.
"It's all very well making fun of it, but everybody tells one that girlsare more trouble than any number of boys. I'm sure I don't remembergiving my mother any particular trouble when I was Matilda's age, butthe stories I've heard to-day are enough to make one's hair stand onend. Mrs. Minchin knew another girl, who lost all her appetite just likeMatilda, and she had a very sulky temper too, and at last they found outshe used to eat black-beetles. She was a Creole, or something of thatsort, I believe, but they couldn't stop her. The Minchins knew her whenthey were in the West Indies, when he was in the 209th; or, at least, itwas there they heard about her. The houses swarmed with black-beetles."
"A most useful young lady," said Uncle Buller. "Does Matilda dine on ournative beetles, my dear? She hasn't touched my humble collection."
"Oh, if you make fun of everything----" Aunt Theresa began; but at thismoment Mrs. St. John was announced.
After the customary civilities, Aunt Theresa soon began to talk of poorMatilda, and Mrs. St. John entered warmly into the subject.
To do the ladies of the regiment justice, they sympathized freely witheach other's domestic troubles; and indeed it was not for lack of takingcounsel that any of them had any domestic troubles at all.
"Girls are a good deal more difficult to manage than boys, I'm afraid,"sighed Aunt Theresa, repeating Mrs. O'Connor's _dictum_.
"Women are _dreadful_ creatures at any age," said Mrs. St. John to theMajor, opening her brown eyes in the way she always does when she istalking to a gentleman. "I always _longed_ to have been a man."
[Eleanor says she hates to hear girls say they wish they were boys. Ifthey do wish it, I do not myself see why they should not say so. But onething has always struck me as very odd. If you meet a woman who isincomparably silly, who does not know an art or a trade by which shecould keep herself from starvation, who could not manage theaccount-books of a village shop, who is unpunctual, unreasoning, and inevery respect uneducated--a woman, in short, who has, one would think,daily reason to be thankful that her necessities are supplied by otherpeople, she is pretty sure to be always regretting that she is not aman.
Another, trick that some silly ladies have _riles_ me (as we say inYorkshire) far more than this odd ambition for responsibilities one isquite incompetent to assume. Mrs. St. John had it, and as it wasgenerally displayed for the benefit of gentlemen, who seem as a rule tobe very susceptible to flattery, I suppose it is more a kind ofdrawing-room "pretty talk" than the expression of deliberate opinions.It consists of contrasting girls with boys and women with men, to thedisparagement of the former, especially in matters over whichcircumstances and natural disposition are commonly supposed to give themsome advantage.
I remember hearing a fat, good-natured girl at one of Aunt Theresa'sgarden-parties say, with all the impressiveness of full conviction,"Girls are far more cruel than boys, really. You know, women are _much_more cruel than men--oh, I'm _sure_ they are!" and the idea filled menot less with amazement than with horror. This very young lady had beenmost good-natured to us. She had the reputation of being an unselfishand much-beloved elder sister. I do not think she would have hurt a fly.Why she said this I cannot imagine, unless it was to please the younggentleman she was talking to. I think he did look rather gratified. Formy own part, the idea worried my little head for a long time--childrengive much more heed to general propositions of this kind than iscommonly supposed.]
There was one disadvantage in the very fulness of the sympathy theladies gave each other over their little affairs. The main point was aptto be neglected for branches of the subject. If Mrs. Minchin consultedMrs. Buller about a cook, that particular cook might be discussed forfive minutes, but the rest of a two hours' visit would probably bedevoted to recollections of Aunt Theresa's cooks past and present, Mrs.Minchin's "coloured cooks" in Jamaica, and the cooks engaged by themothers and grandmothers of both ladies.
Thus when Aunt Theresa took counsel with her friends about poor Matilda,they hardly kept to Matilda's case long enough even to master the facts,and on this particular occasion Mrs. St. John plunged at once into aseries of illustrative anecdotes of the most terrible kind, for shealways talked, as she dressed, in extremes. The moral of every story wasthat Matilda should be sent to school.
"And I'll send you over last year's numbers of the _Milliner andMantua-maker_, dear Mrs. Buller. There are always lots of interestingletters about people's husbands and children, and education, and thatsort of thing, in the column next to the pastry and cooling drinksreceipts. There was a wonderfully clever letter from a 'M.R.C.S.' aboutthe difficulty of managing young girls, and recommending a strict schoolwhere he had sent his daughter. And next month there were long lettersfrom five 'British Mothers' and 'A Countess' who had not been able tomanage their daughters, and had sent them to this school, and were inevery way satisfied. Mr. St. John declared that all the letters werewritten by one person to advertise the school, but he always does saythose sort of things about anything I'm interested in."
"You're very kind," said Mrs. Buller.
"There was a most extraordinary correspondence, too, after thatshoemaker's daughter in Lambeth was tried for poisoning her littlebrother," continued Mrs. St. John. "The _Saturday Review_ had an articleon it, I believe, only Mr. St. John can't bring papers home from themess, so I didn't see it. The letters were all about all the dreadfulthings done by girls in their teens. There were letters from twelve'Materfamiliases,' I know, because the editor had to put numbers tothem, and four 'Paterfamiliases,' and 'An Anxious Widower,' and 'AMinister,' and three 'M.D.'s.' But the most awful letter was from 'AStudent of Human Nature,' and it ended up that every girl of fifteen wasa murderess at heart. If I can only lay my hand on that number---- butI've lent it to so many people, and there was a capital paper pattern init too, of the _jupon a l'Imperatrice_, ready pricked."
At this point Uncle Buller literally exploded from the room. AuntTheresa said something about draughts, but I think even Mrs. St. Johnmust have been aware that it was the Major who banged the door.
I was sitting on the footstool by the fire-place making a night-dressfor my doll. My work had been suspended by horror at Mrs. St. John'srevelations, and Major Buller's exit g
ave an additional shock in which Ilost my favourite needle, a dear little stumpy one, with a very finepoint and a very big eye, easy to thread, and delightful to use.
When Mrs. St. John went away Major Buller came back.
"I am sorry I banged the door, my dear," said he kindly, "but whateverthe tempers of girls may be made of at fifteen, mine is by no meansperfect, I regret to say, at fifty; and I _cannot_ stand that woman. Mydear Theresa, let me implore you to put all this trash out of your headand get proper medical advice for the child at once. And--I don't liketo seem unreasonable, my dear, but--if you must read those delectablearticles to which Mrs. St. John refers, I wish you'd read them at herhouse, and not bring them into ours. I'd rather the coarsest novel thatever was written were picked up by the children, if the broad lines ofgood and evil were clearly marked in it, than this morbid muddle ofdisease and crime, and unprincipled parents and practitioners."
Uncle Buller seldom interfered so warmly; indeed, he seldom interferedat all. I think Aunt Theresa would have been glad if he would haveadvised her oftener.
"Indeed, Edward," said she, "I'll do anything you think right. And I'msure I wouldn't read anything improper myself, much less let thechildren. And as to the _Milliner and Mantuamaker_ you need not beafraid of that coming into the house unless I send for it. Mrs. St. Johnis always promising to lend me the fashion-book, but she never remembersit."
"And you'll have proper advice for Matilda at once?"
"Certainly, my dear."
Mrs. Buller was in the habit of asking the regimental Surgeon's advicein small matters, and of employing a civilian doctor (whose fees madehim feel better worth having) in serious illness. She estimated theseriousness of a case by danger rather than delicacy. So the Surgeoncame to see Matilda, and having heard her cough, promised to send a"little something," and she was ordered to keep indoors and out ofdraughts, and take a tablespoonful three times a day.
Matilda had not gone graciously through the ordeal of facing theprincipal Surgeon in his uniform, and putting out her tongue for hisinspection; and his prescriptions did not tend to reconcile her to being"doctored." Fresh air was the only thing that hitherto had seemed tohave any effect on her aches and pains, or to soothe her hystericalirritability, and of this she was now deprived. When Aunt Theresacalled in an elderly civilian practitioner, she was so sulky anduncommunicative, and so resolutely refused to acknowledge to anyailments, that (his other prescriptions having failed to cure herlassitude, and his pompous manner and professional visits ratherprovoking her feverish perversity) the old doctor also recommended thatshe should be sent to school.
Medical advice is very authoritative, and yet Uncle Buller hesitated.
"It's like packing a troublesome son off to the Colonies, my dear," saidhe. "And though Dr. Brown may be justified in transferring hisresponsibilities elsewhere, I don't think that parents should get rid oftheirs in this easy fashion."
But when Eleanor came, the Major's views underwent a change. If I wentwith Matilda, and we had Eleanor Arkwright for a friend, he allowed thathe would consent.
"That is if the girl is willing to go. I will send no child of mine outof my house against her will."
Major Buller asked her himself. Asked with so much kindness, andexpressed such cheery hopes that change of air, regular occupation, andthe society of other young people would make her feel "stronger andhappier" than she had seemed to be of late, that to say that Matildawould have gone anywhere and done anything her father wished is to givea feeble idea of the gush of gratitude which his sensible andsympathetic words awoke in her. Unfortunately she could not keep herselffrom crying just when she most wanted to speak, and Uncle Buller, havinga horror of "scenes," cut short the one interview in which Matilda feltdisposed to confide in her parents.
But she confided to me, when she came to bed that night (_I_ didn't mindher crying between the sentences), that she was very, very sorry to havebeen "so cross and stupid," and that if we were not going to school shemeant to try and be very different. I begged her to let me ask UncleBuller to keep us at home a little longer, but Matilda would not hear ofit.
"No, no," she sobbed, "not now. I should like to do something he andMamma want, and they want us to go to school."
For my own part I was quite willing to go, especially after I had seenEleanor Arkwright. So we were sent--to Bush House.