EDUCATION.
Whether Mrs. Tremenheere had any foundation of justice in the theory
which made her take her boy’s education in hand instead of her girl’s, I
cannot venture to say; but in the meantime the poor children had a
troubled interval to go through. She devoted herself to Eddy, walking
with him, superintending his lessons, doing everything the most anxious
care could do. The toys she bought him, the books she accumulated, the
common people with children whose acquaintance she permitted herself to
make on her boy’s account, that he might have some one to play with, are
not to be described. And she had a tutor for him, who came daily and
drove him quickly along the stony ways of learning, and took him out for
walks upon the Downs, and told his mother he was one of the brightest
of boys, not convincing her much, though he pleased her by so saying.
She had settled herself in Brighton with the express idea that it would
be good for him and cheerful, and I cannot tell with what anxiety, poor
soul, she watched over him, straining every faculty to amuse and cheer
him. But the more she devoted herself to Eddy the paler and quieter he
grew. He became as mild as a little invalid, and weak, though there was
nothing the matter with him. He clung to his mother, as sick children
do, stealing his hand into her’s when he walked with her, pressing close
up to her when she talked to any one, never leaving her when he could
help it, he who had been so little amenable to female government in
those old days at home. She perceived it and yet she did not perceive
it, as people do who resolutely shut their eyes and will not see; and it
was again her friend Elinor who first really called her attention to the
state of affairs, which had then lasted more than a year.
“Do you remember telling me your ideas about men training girls and
women boys?” said Elinor. Eddy was in the room with them as usual. It
was a warm day in the early spring, and the boy sat half out in the
balcony, with a book over which he pored. He heard what they were
saying, and yet did not hear, in his abstracted way.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Tremenheere, raising herself up. “What then? You have
seen my Vera, Elinor!”
“I have seen her; but that is not what I was thinking of.”
“What were you thinking of? Her letters are full of bright spirits, and
amusing, as she always was. Is her father not doing his duty to her?
Tell me, tell me, Nelly!”
“She is very well--quite well. I was not thinking of anything so far
off.”
Mrs. Tremenheere sat upright on her chair, very upright, grasping as it
were instinctively for her weapons of defence. “You are thinking of me?”
Elinor stretched out her oratorical right hand. “Look at that child,
Ada! is that a good specimen of a woman’s training? You are bringing him
up entirely as you would bring up a girl. Look at the color of his
hands--are these like a boy’s hands? Look at his quiet timid way. You
are ruining him, both health and spirit. I don’t know what you mean by
it; while Vera, whom you could have managed----”
“Nelly, you have heard something about my child.”
She began to tremble, she who was so firm and steady. Somehow any
mistakes she herself might have made seemed so trivial, so easily
rectified, in comparison with the mistakes that might be made on the
other side.
“It is not Vera,” said Elinor. “Vera is running wild; she is growing a
romp and a tomboy; but that is less harm. Her health will not suffer,
nor her mind much, at her age. But, Ada, look there! Is that pale, still
child, poring over his book, the sort of creature you wish your son to
be? You are bringing him up like a girl, not like a boy.”
“I thought you and your friends maintained that there should be no
difference between girls and boys,” said Mrs. Tremenheere, with a faint
smile. She had received the arrow into her very heart; but she did not
mean to show it now, however it might affect her afterwards. She was too
proud all at once to own herself in the wrong.
“You need not sneer about my friends,” said Miss Meadows, warmly. “I
thought, too, that you had been one of them, that you had yourself shown
some interest in such questions. I don’t care whether I am consistent or
not, any more than I care whether you are angry or not. Girls and boys
may be the same in the abstract, and it may be good for girls perhaps to
have more of a boy’s training; but for a boy to be thrown back into the
domestic bondage which I hope we shall break for girls, is monstrous--it
is a disgrace--it is against nature.”
“Do you wish me to quarrel with you, Nelly?”
“I don’t care whether you quarrel or not,” cried the orator, with a
large gesture of indifference. “Quarrel as you like, so long as you open
your eyes and see what you are doing to that boy.”
After this there was a long pause. Elinor, somewhat agitated by her own
boldness, sat still and began to work with great but fatal ardor at a
piece of embroidery she found on the table, and to which she did untold
damage. She was so carried away by her feelings that she did not
perceive that her friend had left the room. But when Mrs. Tremenheere
came down-stairs again, though there were traces of emotion about her
face she was as friendly as ever. She had put on her hat, and invited
Elinor to come out for a walk.
“Eddy, I see the Troutbeck boys going out to play cricket,” she said,
“could not you join them?”
A flash of boyish triumph came into Eddy’s still eyes.
“Cricket, mamma! What can you be thinking of? There is no cricket at
this time of the year.”
“What does it matter for the name? They are going to play at something.”
“Jumping, perhaps, or football. Some people still play football at this
season; or hare and hounds.”
“What does it matter which it is? but it does matter that you should
play and get a little color in your cheeks.”
“They are jumping,” said Eddy, from the window, with a sparkle of
energy, “but then there is a lot of them,” he added, falling back, “they
won’t want me.”
“Nonsense--go!” said his mother, peremptorily.
He got up from his book with reluctance. He did care for the jumping,
but was it worth while to disturb himself for that, or anything else? He
was quite comfortable and interested in his story. The two ladies stood
still and watched him creeping away, languid and indifferent. For the
first time Mrs. Tremenheere noticed the change in the boy. A great
wrinkle of anxiety came into her forehead. “Nelly, I am very much
obliged to you,” she cried. “What shall I do?”
Miss Meadows glowed and expanded with the sense of victory. “Ada,” she
said, “it is not many people who have the sense to see where they have
been wrong. I always said you were no ordinary woman. Send him to
school, my dear--send him to school; let him be among other boys; try
him with wholesome neglect; and come off to Italy with me.”
Mrs. Tremenheere listened very seriously till Elinor came to her last
clause, then she laughed, though her face was still clouded. “Come and
walk,” she said.
In the meantime things were going on very differently, and yet with much
the same result, at Hyde Park Square. Mr. Tremenheere was very kind to
Vera when she came immediately under his notice. He still allowed her to
pour out his tea for him in the morning while he read his newspaper, and
had her down-stairs to amuse him after dinner, when now and then he
dined at home. But in a very short time after his wife left him, this
ceased to be his ordinary custom. He got over the scandal much better
than he had hoped. It had taken place when Society was out of town, and
therefore had passed comparatively without notice; and without much
difficulty he fell back into his bachelor habits. He had suffered more
at the moment than she did, but he did not suffer very much after it was
over, and when the secondary consequences he feared proved in great part
illusory. He had liked his old life, with all its varieties and
comforts, and now, notwithstanding the interval of ten years which he
had spent in trying to learn how to be happy otherwise, he took it up
again with unfeigned pleasure. Now and then a few men dined with him at
home, and then Vera would come down in her best frock, and chatter to
them, and do the honors with childish excitement, her eyes blazing with
the novelty and pride of her position. Mr. Tremenheere had been
considerably startled, it is not to be denied, by her talk on several of
these occasions, and one morning he remonstrated gently.
“When there is company, as the servants say, a little girl of your age
should be very quiet, Vera. It is not to you, my dear, that my friends
look for amusement. You must be quiet and good, and answer when people
speak to you.”
“Why, papa, they all like to talk to me best,” said Vera, tossing her
little head. “They all laugh and say I am clever. Why shouldn’t I talk?
I am very fond of talking. I talk to everybody, and that is why people
like me, and say I am not at all proud.”
“What sort of people do you talk to?” said her father, half alarmed,
half amused.
“Oh, all sorts of people; not only gentlemen, papa. When Nurse goes to
see her friends I go with her, and they all say it is nice of me not to
be proud. They are going to have a party in the kitchen to-night. It is
such fun. They have tea, and then they dance, and then they have supper,
and Nurse says if I am good I may stay to supper this time.”
“This time!” said Mr. Tremenheere, with horror; “have you gone to
anything of the sort before?”
“Oh yes, papa, several! I went with Nurse to the servants’ party next
door; but oh,” said Vera, suddenly, “I am afraid I ought not have talked
of it. I don’t think they like the masters to know.”
Mr. Tremenheere rose and walked about the room in great agitation. Here
was an unlooked-for disclosure. For a moment he was quite appalled by
the discovery he had made. “Vera,” he said in a voice which trembled,
“you must promise not to go to this affair to-night.”
“Papa! not to go!” cried Vera, the corners of her mouth dropping; “oh,
you can’t mean it! you can’t mean it! It is such a nice party, papa, and
they take such care of me. I sit next to Nurse or the cook always, and I
dance with the nicest people only. There was once somebody quite as
nicely dressed as you, and with beautiful diamond studs, and who could
speak French and do all sorts of things. Papa, you can’t mean it. Nurse
says it is the only party I ever have, and that it would be cruel to
send me to bed.”
“The only party you ever have! I thought you went out a great deal, and
had a great many parties?”
“Yes, baby parties; I don’t care for them,” said Vera, with serene
fatuity, looking her father in the face, and holding up her little head.
After this a storm arose. Mr. Tremenheere sent for his three principal
functionaries, Jervis, the cook, and the nurse, and demanded to know how
they dared to take Miss Vera to their d---- parties. He was not a man
who interfered much in his household, and when he did so he was usually
calm and polite, a thing which the domestics understood much less and
resented much more deeply than the chance blasphemy, which they forgave
easily. Jervis stammered out excuses, and apologies, and protestations.
“As I was always against it, and knew it wasn’t no place for Miss Vera.”
Nurse retired in floods of tears, which threatened every moment to
become hysterics, and cook, who was hot-tempered, threw up her place.
Vera, very red and very angry, darted in front of the accused to defend
them. “Papa! when it was I who told you! They will never trust me any
more; they will think I am a traitor and betrayed them! Papa, you are
not to scold them, when it is all my fault!”
“Take Miss Vera up-stairs,” said Mr. Tremenheere to the housemaid, who,
stood by. “Go at once without a word,” he cried, and very reluctantly
the child, still hot and red with excitement, was forced to obey. Vera
was shut up all day, and overwhelmed by reproaches from the nurse. “You
see what comes of it with your tongue, Miss,” cried this weeping
sufferer. “Can’t you never hold your tongue, as I’m a telling of you,
night and day? Them as can’t hold their tongues should never be let into
secrets, and it’s all over Miss Vera, I can tell you, between you and
me. No more parties in this house, nor no other house; no more cakes as
I asked cook to make for you--no more nice suppers. After this you’ll go
to bed at eight o’clock regular, as you used to in your mamma’s time,
and when you feel to want something nice you needn’t look to me. And
here’s poor cook losing her good place along of your chatter!” she
added, discharging this last arrow with full confidence in its effect.
There was no party in the house that night; but nobody informed Vera of
this fact, which might have been partially consolatory. She was put to
bed, and left there in solitude to cry her eyes out, no one coming near
her. “Oh, mamma, mamma!” cried poor little Vera, forlorn in the
darkness. Her mother was miles off, and could not hear; her father was
at his club; the servants were having an indignation supper down-stairs,
four stories off, and there was nobody to say a word of consolation to
the poor little abandoned girl.
However, after these very different scenes, both husband and wife set
themselves to think on the subject, as Mrs. Tremenheere had predicted.
“He shall not say that the boy is ruined by a woman’s training,” she
said to herself; and “She shall not taunt me that I have not been able
to look after the girl,” said Mr. Tremenheere. This delightful spirit of
opposition worked strongly in concert with other feelings more laudable,
for indeed both parents were fond of their children, in their different
ways. Mrs. Tremenheere’s part was the easiest of the two, and she took
her steps promptly. The very next day after that revelation had been
made to her, she went off to one of the great public schools and put
Eddy’s name down, and began herself to look for a house in the
neighborhood, for she did not mean to throw the boy off entirely, as her
childless friend thought right and expedient. Before Easter, at which
time Eddy began his school-life, she had found the house she wanted, a
villa on a hillside, which was not high indeed, but which had all the
advantages of much greater height, since it looked over a great plain of
rich cultivated country, fields, and hedges, and fine trees, and red
farmhouses, with here and there a great mansion gleaming away into the
far distance, till it got indistinct like the sea, and almost as
suggestive. Here she settled and furnished her house, which was
agreeable work, and tossed the pale boy into the sea of life and youth
close by--where he soon ceased to be pale.
Mr. Tremenheere, poor man, had a more difficult task. The first thing he
did was to reflect bitterly upon his wife’s abandonment of her natural
duty. “It is just like a woman,” he said to himself through his teeth.
“They profess to love their children beyond everything, and yet they
will give up their children rather than give in or own themselves
wrong.” But this reflection, though it was in its way satisfactory, did
not help him to the solution of his problem. How was he to bring up his
daughter? In his perplexity he betook himself wisely to a friend who was
a clergyman, and had to do with all kind of educational and benevolent
institutions. “I suppose I want a governess,” he said. “She must be old
to avoid scandal, and well educated and so forth, but chiefly she must
be a dragon--recollect this. She must never relax, night or day. I will
have my girl well looked after; that is one thing I am determined on. A
woman who will suspect everything, believe nothing, and keep an eye upon
her for ever.”
“Surely this is going too far. It is against the spirit of the time.
Everything tends to emancipate women, Tremenheere, not to make slaves of
them.”
“I hate the spirit of the time,” he said. “I hate your enlightened
women, that know the world as well as we do. I want my girl to be of the
old type. I want her to be seen and not heard, like our grandmothers.
And therefore I want a dragon for her governess--a woman that will allow
nothing out of the regulation in point of propriety--an iceberg, a
machine, whatever you please, but one that will guard the child, and
watch her and make her incapable of mischief. Now, if you have any
regard for me, bestir yourself and find out what I want.”
“I have her,” said the clergyman, sighing. “So few people want dragons
nowadays that I feared she would have to fall back upon the Home, poor
lady. But, as that is what you want--only I don’t think you’ll find it
successful with a high-spirited child like Vera.”
“Vera’s high spirits must come down,” said her father. “I want a soft,
submissive, yielding girl, and not a self-opinionated being that will
set up for a mind of her own. What do they want with minds of their
own?”
“Tremenheere, you speak like a Turk.”
“Perhaps I feel like one,” he said, dismissing the subject with a forced
laugh. And this was how he found his way out of the dilemma. Miss
Campbell arrived at the end of the week, a tall, severe Scotswoman, with
a large nose and high cheekbones. She was over fifty, and she had been
trained in the belief that young ladies ought to be kept in absolute
subjection. A girl who had no will but that of her parents, and who
consulted her mother with her eyes before she took a piece of bread and
butter, was Miss Campbell’s ideal; she was exactly the kind of person to
satisfy Mr. Tremenheere.
Thus father and mother entered at the same time into the right way, or
into what they thought to be the right way; and the two experiments of
education began.
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