CHAPTER VI.
DRESS AND MANNER--I EXAMINE MYSELF--MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER.
When we began our biographies we resolved that neither of us should readthe other's till both were finished. This was partly because we thoughtit would be more satisfactory to be able to go straight through them,partly as a check on a propensity for beginning things and not finishingthem, to which we are liable, and partly from the childish habit of"saving up the treat for the last," as we used--in "old times"--to pickthe raisins out of the puddings and lay them by for a _bonne bouche_when we should have done our duty by the more solid portion.
But our resolve has given way. We began by very much wishing to breakit, and we have ended by finding excellent reasons for doing so.
We both wish to read the biographies--why should we tease ourselves bysticking obstinately to our first opinion?
No doubt it would be nice to read them "straight through." But we arerather apt to devour books at a pace unfavourable to book-digestion, soperhaps it will be better still to read them by bits, as one reads athing that "comes out in numbers."
And in short, at this point Eleanor took mine, and has read it, and Ihave read hers. She lays down mine, saying, "But, my dear, you don'tremember all this?"
Which is true. What I have recorded of my first English home is morewhat I know of it from other sources than what I positively remember.And yet I have positive memories of my own about it, too.
I have hinted that my poor young mother did not look after me much. Alsothat the Ayah, who had a mother's love and care for me, paid very littleattention to my being tidy in person or dress, except when I wasexhibited to "company."
But my mother was dead. Ayah (after a terrible parting) was left behindin India. And from the time that I passed into Aunt Theresa's charge,matters were quite changed.
I do remember the dresses I had then, and the keen interest I took inthe subject of dress at a very early age. A very keen interest was takenin it by Aunt Theresa herself, by Aunt Theresa's daughters, and by theladies of Aunt Theresa's acquaintance. I think I may say that it formed(at least one of) the principal subjects of conversation during allthose working hours of the day which the ladies so freely sacrificed toeach other. Mrs. Buller was truly kind, and I am sure that if I haddepended in every way upon her, she would have given to my costume asmuch care as she bestowed upon that of her own daughters. But my parentshad not been poor; there was no lack of money for my maintenance, andthus "no reason," as Aunt Theresa said, why my clothes should not be"decent," and "decent" with Aunt Theresa and her friends was a synonymfor "fashionable."
Thus my first black frock was such an improvement (in fashion) upon thepink silk one, as to deprive my deep mourning of much of its gloom. Mrs.(Colonel) St. Quentin could not refuse to lend one of her youngestlittle girl's frocks as a copy, for "the poor little orphan"; and a bevyof ladies sat in consultation over it, for all Mrs. St. Quentin's thingswere well worth copying.
"Keep a paper pattern, dear," said Mrs. Minchin; "it will come in forthe girls. Her things are always good."
And Mrs. Buller kept a paper pattern.
I remember the dress quite clearly. It is fixed in my mind by anincident connected with it. It had six crape tucks, of which fact I wasvery proud, having heard a good deal said about it. The first time Mr.George came to our bungalow, after I had begun to wear it, I strutted upto him holding my skirt out, and my head up.
"Look at my black frock, Mr. George," said I; "it has got six crapetucks."
Matilda was most precocious in--at least--one way: she could repeatgrown-up observations of wonderful length.
"It's the best crape," she said; "it won't spot. Cut on the bias.They're not real tucks though, Margery. They're laid on; Mrs. Minchinsaid so."
"They are real tucks," I stoutly asserted.
"No, they're not. They're cut on the bias, and laid on to imitatetucks," Matilda repeated. I think she was not sorry there should be someweak point in the fashionable mourning in which she did not share.
I turned to Mr. George, as usual.
"Aren't they real tucks, Mr. George?"
But Mr. George had a strange look on his face which puzzled anddisconcerted me. He only said, "Good heavens!" And all my after effortswere vain to find out what he meant, and why he looked in that strangemanner.
Little things that puzzle one in childhood remain long in one's memory.For years I puzzled over that look of Mr. George's, and the remembrancenever was a pleasant one. It chilled my enthusiasm for my new dress atthe time, and made me feel inclined to cry. I think I have lived tounderstand it.
But I was not insensible of my great loss, though I took pride in myfashionable mourning. I do not think I much connected the two in mymind. I did not talk about my father to any one but Mr. George, but atnight I often lay awake and cried about him. This habit certainlyaffected my health, and I had become a very thin, weak child when thehome voyage came to restore my strength.
By the time we reached Riflebury, my fashionable new dress was neithernew nor fashionable. It was then that Mrs. Minchin ferreted out adressmaker whom Mrs. St. Quentin employed, and I was put under herhands.
The little Bullers' things were "made in the house," after the patternof mine.
"And one sees the fashion-book, and gets a few hints," said Mrs. Buller.
If Mr. George was not duly impressed by my fashionable mourning, I could(young as I was) trace the effect of Aunt Theresa's care for myappearance on other friends in the regiment. They openly remarked on it,and did not scruple to do so in my hearing. Callers from theneighbourhood patronized me also. Pretty ladies in fashionably pitchedbonnets smiled, and said, "One of your little ones, Mrs. Buller? What apretty little thing!" and duly sympathized over the sad story which AuntTheresa seemed almost to enjoy relating. Sometimes it was agony to me tohear the oft-repeated tale of my parents' death, and then again Ienjoyed a sort of gloomy importance which gave me satisfaction. I evenrehearsed such scenes in my mind when I was in bed, shedding real tearsas (in the person of Aunt Theresa) I related the sad circumstances of myown grief to an imaginary acquaintance; and then, with dry eyes,prolonging the "fancy" with compliments and consolations of the mostflattering nature. I always took care to fancy some circumstances thatled to my being in my best dress on the occasion.
Gentleman company did not haunt my new home as was the case with theIndian one. But now and then officers of the regiment called on Mrs.Buller, and would say, "Is that poor Vandaleur's child? Dear me! Veryinteresting little thing;" and speculate in my hearing on thepossibility of my growing up like my mother.
"'Pon my soul, she _is_ like her!" said one of the "middle ones" oneday, examining me through his eyeglass, "Th' same expressive eyes, youknow, and just that graceful gracious little manner poor Mrs. Vandaleurhad. By Jove, it was a shocking thing! She was an uncommonly prettywoman."
"You never saw _her_ mother, my good fellow," said one of the "old ones"who was present. "She _had_ a graceful gracious manner, if you like, andMrs. Vandaleur was not to be named in the same day with her. Mrs.Vandaleur knew how to dress, I grant you----"
"You may go and play, Margery dear," said Aunt Theresa, with kindlydelicacy.
The "old one" had lowered his voice, but still I could hear what hesaid, as Mrs. Buller saw.
When my father was not spoken of, my feelings were very little hurt. Onthis occasion my mind was engaged simply with the question whether I didor did not inherit my mother's graces. I ran to a little looking-glassin the nursery and examined my eyes; but when I tried to make them"expressive," I either frowned so unpleasantly, or stared so absurdly,that I could not flatter myself on the point.
The girls were out; I had nothing to do; the nursery was empty. I walkedabout, shaking out my skirts, and thinking of my gracious and gracefulmanner. I felt a pardonable curiosity to see this for myself, and,remembering the big glass in Aunt Theresa's room, I stole out to see ifI could make use of it unobserved. But the gentlemen had gone, and Ifeared that M
rs. Buller might come up-stairs. In a few minutes, however,the door-bell rang, and I heard the sound of a visitor being usheredinto the drawing-room.
I seized the chance, and ran to Aunt Theresa's room.
The mirror was "full length," and no one could see me better than I nowsaw myself. Once more I attempted to make expressive eyes, but theresult was not favourable to vanity. Then I drew back to the door, and,advancing upon the mirror with mincing steps, I threw all the grace andgraciousness of which I was conscious into my manner, and holding out myhand, said, in a "company voice," "_Charmed_ to see you, I'm sure!"
"_Mais c'est bien drole!_" said a soft voice close behind me.
I had not heard the door open, and yet there stood Aunt Theresa on thethreshold, and with her a little old lady. The little old lady had abright, delicately cut face, eyes of whose expressiveness there could beno question, and large grey curls. She wore a large hat, with large bowstied under her chin, and a dark-green satin driving-cloak lined withwhite and grey fur.
She looked like a fairy godmother, like the ghost of an ancestor--like"somebody out of a picture." She was my great-grandmother.