Six to Sixteen Part 9

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 un.o.bservant.

"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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 circ.u.mstances, and boasted of our Latin, I remember, to the little St. Quentins, when we met them at the dancing-cla.s.s. 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 a.s.sociation 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 Yorks.h.i.+re," 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 t.i.tle to share the newcomer's friends.h.i.+p.

"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 pa.s.sage 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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-gla.s.s. 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 Yorks.h.i.+re ladies run as lightly as children.

It was not the fas.h.i.+onable 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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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 s.h.i.+lling, 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."