CHAPTER I.
MY PRETTY MOTHER--AYAH--COMPANY.
My name is Margaret Vandaleur. My father was a captain in her Majesty's202nd Regiment of Foot. The regiment was in India for six years, justafter I was born; indeed, I was not many months old when I made my firstvoyage, which I fancy Eleanor is thinking of when she says that I havehad some adventures.
Military ladies are said to be unlucky as to the times when they have tochange stations; the move often chancing at an inconvenient moment. Mymother had to make her first voyage with the cares of a young baby onher hands; nominally, at any rate, but I think the chief care of me fellupon our Ayah. My mother hired her in England. The Ayah wished to returnto her country, and was glad to do so as my nurse. I think that at firstshe only intended to be with us for the voyage, but she stayed on, andbecame fond of me, and so remained my nurse as long as I was in India.
I have heard that my mother was the prettiest woman on board the vesselshe went out in, and the prettiest woman at the station when she gotthere. Some people have told me that she was the prettiest woman theyever saw. She was just eighteen years old when my father married her,and she was not six-and-twenty when she died.
[I got so far in writing my life, seated at the round, three-leggedpinewood table, with Eleanor scribbling away opposite to me. But I couldget no further just then. I put my hands before my eyes as if to shadethem from the light; but Eleanor is very quick, and she found out that Iwas crying. She jumped up and threw herself at my feet.
"Margery, dear Margery! what _is_ the matter?"
I could only sob, "My mother, O my mother!" and add, almost bitterly,"It is very well for you to write about your childhood, who have had amother--and such a mother!--all your life; but for me----"
Eleanor knelt straight up, with her teeth set, and her hands claspedbefore her.
"I do think," she said slowly, "that I am, without exception, the mostselfish, inconsiderate, dense, unfeeling brute that ever lived." Shelooked so quaintly, vehemently in earnest as she knelt in the firelight,that I laughed in spite of my tears.
"My dear old thing," I said, "it is I who am selfish, not you. But I amgoing on now, and I promise to disturb you no more." And in this I wasresolute, though Eleanor would have burned our papers then and there,if I had not prevented her.
Indeed she knew as well as I did that it was not merely because I was anorphan that I wept, as I thought of my early childhood. We could notspeak of it, but she knew enough to guess at what was passing through mymind. I was only six years old when my mother died, but I can rememberher. I can remember her brief appearances in the room where I played, inmuch dirt and contentment, at my Ayah's feet--rustling in silks andsatins, glittering with costly ornaments, beautiful and scented, like afairy dream. I would forego all these visions for one--only one--memoryof her praying by my bedside, or teaching me at her knee. But she was soyoung, and so pretty! And yet, O Mother, Mother! better than all thetriumphs of your loveliness in its too short prime would it have been tohave left a memory of your beautiful face with some devout or earnestlook upon it--"as it had been the face of an angel"--to your only child.
As I sit thinking thus, I find Eleanor's dark eyes gazing at me from herplace, to which she has gone back; and she says softly, "Margery, dearMargery, do let us give it up." But I would not give it up now, foranything whatever.]
The first six years of my life were spent chiefly with my Ayah. I lovedher very dearly. I kissed and fondled her dark cheeks as gladly as ifthey had been fair and ruddy, and oftener than I touched my mother's,which were like the petals of a china rose. My most intimate friendswere of the Ayah's complexion. We had more than one "bearer" duringthose years, to whom I was greatly attached. I spoke more Hindostaneethan English. The other day I saw a group of Lascar sailors at theSouthampton Station; they had just come off a ship, and were talkingrapidly and softly together. I have forgotten the language of my earlychildhood, but its tones had a familiar sound; those dark bright faceswere like the faces of old friends, and my heart beat for a minute, asone is moved by some remembrance of an old home.
When my mother went out for her early ride at daybreak, before the heatof the day came on, Ayah would hold me up at the window to see herstart. Sometimes my father would have me brought out, and take me beforehim on his horse for a few minutes. But my nurse never allowed this if aready excuse could prevent it. Her care of me was maternal in itstenderness, but she did not keep me tidy enough for me to be presentableoff-hand to company.
There was always "company" wherever my mother went--gentleman companyespecially. The gentlemen, in different places, and at different times,were not the same, but they had a common likeness. I used to count themwhen they rode home with my father and mother, or assembled for any ofthe many reasons for which "company" hung about our homes. I rememberthat it was an amusement to me to discover, "there are six to-day," or"five to-day," and to tell my Ayah. I was even more minute. I dividedthem into three classes: "the little ones, the middle ones, and the oldones." The "little ones" were the very young men--smooth-cheekedensigns, etc.; the "old ones" were usually colonels, generals, orelderly civilians. From the youngest to the oldest, officers andcivilians, they were all very good-natured to me, and I approved of themaccordingly.
When callers came, I was often sent into the drawing-room. Great was mydear Ayah's pride when I was dressed in pink silk, my hair beingarranged in ringlets round my head, to be shown off to the company. Iwas proud of myself, and was wont rather to strut than walk into theroom upon my best kid shoes. They were pink, to match my frock, and Iwas not a little vain of them. There were usually some ladies in theroom, dressed in rustling finery like my mother, but not like her inthe face--never so pretty. There were always plenty of gentlemen of thethree degrees, and they used to be very polite to me, and to call me"little Rosebud," and give me sweetmeats. I liked sweetmeats, and Iliked flattery, but I had an affection stronger than my fancy foreither. I used to look sharply over the assembled men for the face Iwanted, and when I had found it I flew to the arms that were stretchedout for me. They were my father's.
I remember my mother, but I remember my father better still. I did notsee very much of him, but when we were together I think we were boththoroughly happy. I can recall pretty clearly one very happy holiday wespent together. My father got some leave, and took us for a short timeto the hills. My clearest memory of his face is as it smiled on me, fromunder a broad hat, as we made nosegays for Mamma's vases in ourbeautiful garden, where the fuchsias and geraniums were "hardy," and thesweet-scented verbenas and heliotropes were great bushes, loading theair with perfume.
I have one remembrance of it almost as distinct--the last.