AN UNPROMISING BEGINNING.
My first sight of Miss Ledbury was a sort of agreeable disappointment.
She was not the least like what I had imagined, though till I did see
her I do not think I knew that I had imagined anything! She had been
much less in my thoughts than her pupils; it was the idea of companions,
the charm of being one of a party of other girls, with a place of my own
among them, that my fancy had been full of. I don't think I cared very
much what the teachers were like.
What I did see was a very small, fragile-looking old lady, with quite
white hair, a black or purple--I am not sure which, anyway it was
dark--silk dress, and a soft fawn-coloured cashmere shawl. She had a
white lace cap, tied with ribbons under her chin, and black lace
mittens. Looking back now, I cannot picture her in any other dress. I
cannot remember ever seeing her with a bonnet on, and yet she must have
worn one, as she went to church regularly. Her face was small and still
pretty, and the eyes were naturally sweet, sometimes they had a twinkle
of humour in them, sometimes they looked almost hard. The truth was that
she was a gentle, kind-hearted person by nature, but a narrow life and
education had stunted her power of sympathy, and she thought it wrong to
give way to feeling. She was conscious of what she believed to be
weakness in herself, and was always trying to be firm and determined.
And since her niece had come to live with her, this put-on sternness had
increased.
Yet I was never really afraid of Miss Ledbury, though I never--well,
perhaps that is rather too strong--almost never, I should say, felt at
ease with her.
I was, I suppose, a very shy child, but till now the circumstances of my
life had not brought this out.
This first time of seeing my future school-mistress I liked her very
much. There was indeed something very attractive about her--something
almost "fairy-godmother-like" which took my fancy.
We did not stay long. Miss Ledbury was not without tact, and she saw
that the mention of the approaching parting, the settling the day and
hour at which I was to come to Green Bank to _stay_, were very, very
trying to mamma. And I almost think her misunderstanding of me began
from that first interview. In her heart I fancy she was shocked at my
coolness, for she did not know, or if she ever had known, she had
forgotten, much about children--their queer contradictory ways of taking
things, how completely they are sometimes the victims of their
imagination, how little they realise anything they have had no
experience of.
All that the old lady did not understand in me, she put down to my being
spoilt and selfish. She even, I believe, thought me forward.
Still, she spoke kindly--said she hoped I should soon feel at home at
Green Bank, and try to get on well with my lessons, so that when my dear
mamma returned she would be astonished at the progress I had made.
I did not quite understand what she said--the word "progress" puzzled
me. I wondered if it had anything to do with the pilgrim's progress, and
I was half inclined to ask if it had, and to tell her that I had read
the history of Christian and his family quite through, two or three
times. But mamma had already got up to go, so I only said "Yes" rather
vaguely, and Miss Ledbury kissed me somewhat coldly.
As soon as we found ourselves outside in the street again, mamma made
some little remark. She wanted to find out what kind of impression had
been left on me, though she would not have considered it right to ask me
straight out what I thought of the lady who was going to be my
superior--in a sense to fill a parent's place to me.
And I remember replying that I thought Miss Ledbury must be very, very
old--nearly a hundred, I should think.
"Oh dear no, not nearly as old as that," mamma said quickly. "You must
not say anything like that, Geraldine. It would offend her. She cannot
be more than sixty."
I opened my eyes. I thought it would be very nice to be a hundred.
But before I had time to say more, my attention was distracted. For just
at that moment, turning a corner, we almost ran into the procession I
was so eager to join--Miss Ledbury's girls, returning two and two from
their morning constitutional.
I felt my cheeks grow red with excitement. I stared at them, and some
of them, I think, looked at me. Mamma looked at them too, but instead of
getting red, her face grew pale.
They passed so quickly, that I was only able to glance at two or three
of the twenty or thirty faces. I looked at the smallest of the train
with the most interest, though one older face at the very end caught my
attention almost without my knowing it.
When they had passed I turned to mamma.
"Did you see that little girl with the rosy cheeks, mamma? The one with
a red feather in her hat. _Doesn't_ she look nice?"
"She looked a good-humoured little person," said mamma. In her heart she
thought the rosy-faced child rather common-looking and far too showily
dressed, but that was not unusual among the rich Mexington people, and
she would not have said anything like that to me. "I did notice one
_very_ sweet face," she went on, "I mean the young lady at the end--one
of the governesses no doubt."
I had, as I said, noticed her too, and mamma's words impressed it upon
me. Mamma seemed quite cheered by this passing glimpse, and she went on
speaking.
"She must be one of the younger teachers, I should think. I hope you
may be in her class. You must tell me if you are when you write to me,
and tell me her name."
I promised I would.
The next two or three days I have no clear remembrance of at all. They
seemed all bustle and confusion--though through everything I recollect
mamma's pale drawn face, and the set look of Haddie's mouth. He was so
determined not to break down. Of father we saw very little--he was
terribly busy. But when he was at home, he seemed to be always
whistling, or humming a tune, or making jokes.
"How pleased father seems to be about going so far away," I said once to
Haddie. But he did not answer.
He--Haddie--was to go a part of the way in the same train as father and
mamma. They were to start on the Thursday, and I was taken to Green Bank
on Wednesday morning. Father took me--and Lydia. I was such a little
girl that mamma thought Lydia should go with me to unpack and arrange my
things, and she never thought that any one could object to this. For she
had never been at school herself, and did not know much about school
ways. I think the first beginning of my troubles and disappointments was
about Lydia.
Father and I were shown into the drawing-room. But when the door opened
this time, it was not to admit gentle old Miss Ledbury. Instead of her
in came a tall, thin woman, dressed in gray--she had black hair done
rather tightly, and a black lace bow on the top of her head.
Father was standing looking out of the window, and I beside him holding
his hand. I was not crying. I had had one sudden convulsive fit of sobs
early that morning when mamma came for a moment into my room, and for
the first time it _really_ came over me that I was leaving her. But she
almost prayed me to try not to cry, and the feeling that I was helping
her, joined to the excitement I was in, made it not so very difficult to
keep quiet. I do not even think my eyes were red.
Father turned at the sound of the door opening.
"Miss Ledbury," he began.
"Not Miss Ledbury. I am Miss Aspinall, her _niece_," said the lady; she
was not pleased at the mistake.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said poor father. "I understood----"
"Miss Ledbury is not very well this morning," said Miss Aspinall. "She
deputed me to express her regrets."
"Oh certainly," said father. "This is my little daughter--you have seen
her before, I suppose?"
"No," said the lady, holding out her hand. "How do you do, my dear?"
I did not speak. I stared up at her, I felt so confused and strange. I
scarcely heard what father went on to say--some simple messages from
mamma about my writing to them, and so on, and the dates of the mails,
the exact address, etc., etc., to all of which Miss Aspinall listened
with a slight bend of her head or a stiff "indeed," or "just so."
This was not encouraging. I am afraid even father's buoyant spirits went
down: I think he had had some idea that if he came himself he would be
able to make friends with my school-mistress and be able to ensure her
special friendliness. But it was clear that nothing of this kind was to
be done with the niece.
So he said at last,
"Well, I think that is all. Good-bye, my little woman, then. Good-bye,
my darling. She will be a good girl, I am sure, Miss Aspinall; she has
been a dear good child at home."
His voice was on the point of breaking, but the governess stood there
stonily. His praise of me was not the way to win her favour. I do
believe she would have liked me better if he had said I had been so
naughty and troublesome at home that he trusted the discipline of school
would do me good. And when I glanced up at Miss Aspinall's face,
something seemed to choke down the sob which was beginning again to rise
in my throat.
[Illustration: "GOOD-BYE!"]
"Good-bye, my own little girl," said father. One more kiss and he was
gone.
My luggage was in the hall--which was really a passage scarcely
deserving the more important name--and beside it stood Lydia. Miss
Aspinall looked at her coldly.
"Who----" she began, when I interrupted her.
"It's Lydia," I said. "She's come to unpack my things. Mamma sent her."
"Come to unpack your things," repeated the governess. "There must be
some mistake--that is quite unnecessary. There is no occasion for you to
wait," she said to poor Lydia, with a slight gesture towards the door.
Lydia grew very red.
"Miss Geraldine won't know about them all, I'm afraid," she began. "She
has not been used to taking the charge of her things yet."
"Then the sooner she learns the better," said Miss Aspinall, and Lydia
dared not persist. She turned to me, looking ready to burst out crying
again, though, as she had been doing little else for three days, one
might have thought her tears were exhausted.
"Good-bye, dear Miss Geraldine," she said, half holding out her arms. I
flew into them. I was beginning to feel very strange.
"Good-bye, dear Lydia," I said.
"You will write to me, Miss Geraldine?"
"Of course I will; I know your address," I said. Lydia was going to her
own home to work with a dressmaker sister in hopes of coming back to us
at the end of the two years.
"Miss Le Marchant" (I think I have never said that our family name was
Le Marchant), said a cold voice, "I really cannot wait any longer; you
must come upstairs at once to take off your things."
Lydia glanced at me.
"I beg pardon," she said; and then she too was gone.
Long afterwards the poor girl told me that her heart was nearly bursting
when she left me, but she had the good sense to say nothing to add to
mamma's distress, as she knew that my living at Green Bank was all
settled about. She could only hope the other governesses might be kinder
than the one she had seen.
Miss Aspinall walked upstairs, telling me to follow her. It was not a
very large house, but it was a high one and the stairs were steep. It
seemed to me that I had climbed up a long way when at last she opened a
door half-way down a dark passage.
"This is your room," she said, as she went in.
I followed her eagerly. I don't quite know what I expected. I had not
been told if I was to have a room to myself or not. But at first I think
I was rather startled to see three beds in a room not much larger than
my own one at home--three beds and two wash-hand stands, a large and a
small, two chests of drawers, a large and a small also, which were
evidently considered to be toilet-tables as well, as each had a
looking-glass, and three chairs.
My eyes wandered round. It was all quite neat, though dull. For the one
window looked on to the side-wall of the next-door house, and much
light could not have got in at the best of times, added to which, the
day was a very gray one. But the impression it made upon me was more
that of a tidy and clean servants' room than of one for ladies, even
though only little girls.
I stood still and silent.
"This is your bed," said Miss Aspinall next, touching a small white
counterpaned iron bedstead in one corner--I was glad it was in a corner.
"The Miss Smiths are your companions. They share the large chest of
drawers, and your things will go into the smaller one."
"There won't be nearly room enough," I said quickly. I had yet to learn
the habit of not saying out whatever came into my head.
"Nonsense, child," said the governess. "There must be room enough for
you if there is room enough for much older and----" she stopped. "At
your age many clothes are not requisite. I think, on the whole, it will
be better for you not to unpack or arrange your own things. One of the
governesses shall do so, and all that you do not actually require must
stay in your trunk and be put in the box-room."
I did not pay very much attention to what she said. I don't think I
clearly understood it, for, as I have said, in some ways I was rather a
slow child. And my thoughts were running more on the Miss Smiths and the
rest of my future companions than on my wardrobe. If I had taken in that
it was not only my clothes that were in question, but that my little
household gods, my special pet possessions, were not to be left in my
own keeping, I would have minded much more.
"Now take off your things at once," said Miss Aspinall. "You must keep
on your boots till your shoes are got out, but take care not to stump
along the passages. Do your hands want washing? No, you have your gloves
on. As soon as you are ready, go down two flights of stairs till you
come to the passage under this on the next floor. The door at the end is
the second class schoolroom, where you will be shown your place."
Then she went away, leaving me to my own reflections. Not a word of
sympathy or encouragement, not a pat on my shoulder as she passed me,
nor a kindly glance out of her hard eyes. But at the time I scarcely
noticed this. My mind was still full of not unpleasant excitement,
though I was beginning to feel tired and certainly very confused and
bewildered.
I sat down for a moment on the edge of my little bed when Miss Aspinall
left me, without hastening to take off my coat and bonnet. We wore
bonnets mostly in those days, though hats were beginning to come into
fashion for young girls.
"I wish there were only two beds, not three," I said to myself. "And I
would like the little girl with the rosy face to sleep in my room. I
wonder if she's Miss Smith perhaps. I wonder if there's several little
girls as little as me. I'd like to know all their names, so as to write
and tell them to mamma and Haddie."
The inclination to cry had left me--fortunately in some ways, though
perhaps if I had made my _debut_ in the schoolroom looking very
woe-begone and tearful I should have made a better impression. My future
companions would have felt sorry for me. As it was, when I had taken off
my things I made my way downstairs as I had been directed, and opening
the schoolroom door--I remember wondering to myself what second class
schoolroom could mean: would it have long seats all round, something
like a second-class railway carriage?--walked in coolly enough.
The room felt airless and close, though it was a cold day. And at the
first glance it seemed to me perfectly full of people--girls--women
indeed in my eyes many of them were, they were so much bigger and older
than I--in every direction, more than I could count. And the hum of
voices was very confusing, the _hums_ I should say, for there were two
or three different sets of reading aloud, or lessons repeating, going on
at once.
I stood just inside the door. Two or three heads were turned in my
direction at the sound I made in opening it, but quickly bent over their
books again, and for some moments no one paid any attention to me. Then
suddenly a governess happened to catch sight of me. It was the same
sweet-faced girl whom mamma had noticed at the end of the long file in
the street.
She looked at me once, then seemed at a loss, then she looked at me
again, and at last said something to the girl beside her, and getting up
from her seat went to the end of the room, and spoke to a small elderly
woman in a brown stuff dress, who was evidently another governess.
This person--I suppose I should say lady--turned round and stared at me.
Then she said something to the younger governess, nothing very pleasant,
I fancy, for the sweet-looking one--I had better call her by her name,
which was Miss Fenmore--went back to her place with a heightened colour.
You may ask how I can remember all these little particulars so exactly.
Perhaps I do not quite do so, but still, all that happened just then
made a very strong impression on me, and I have thought it over so much
and so often, especially since I have had children of my own, that it is
difficult to tell quite precisely how much is real memory, how much the
after knowledge of how things must have been, to influence myself and
others as they did. And later, too, I talked them over with those who
were older than I at the time, and could understand more.
So there I stood, a very perplexed little person, though still more
perplexed than distressed or disappointed, by the door. Now and then
some head was turned to look at me with a sort of stealthy curiosity,
but there was no kindness in any of the glances, and the young governess
kept her eyes turned away. I was not a pretty child. My hair was
straight and not noticeable in any way, and it was tightly plaited, as
was the fashion, _unless_ a child's hair was thick enough to make pretty
ringlets. My face was rather thin and pale, and there was nothing of
dimpling childish loveliness about me. I was rather near-sighted too,
and I daresay that often gave me a worried, perhaps a fretful
expression.
After all, I did not have to wait very long. The elderly governess
finished the page she was reading aloud--she may have been dictating to
her pupils, I cannot say--and came towards me.
"Did Miss Aspinall send you here?" she said abruptly.
I looked up at her. She seemed to me no better than our cook, and not
half so good-natured.
"Yes," I said.
"Yes," she repeated, as if she was very shocked. "Yes _who_, if you
please? Yes, Miss ----?"
"Yes, Miss," I said in a matter-of-fact way.
"What manners! Fie!" said Miss ----; afterwards I found her name was
Broom. "I think indeed it was quite time for you to come to school. If
you cannot say my name, you can at least say ma'am."
I stared up at her. I think my trick of staring must have been rather
provoking, and perhaps even must have seemed rude, though it arose
entirely from my not understanding.
"I don't know your name, Miss--ma'am," I said. I spoke clearly. I was
not frightened. And a titter went round the forms. Miss Broom was angry
at being put in the wrong.
"Miss Aspinall sent you to my class, _Miss Broom's_ class," she said.
"No, ma'am--Miss Broom--she didn't."
The governess thought I meant to be impertinent--impertinent, poor me!
And with no very gentle hand, she half led, half pushed me towards her
end of the room, where there was a vacant place on one of the forms.
"Silence, young ladies," she said, for some whispering was taking place.
"Go on with your copying out."
And then she turned to me with a book.
"Let me hear how you can read," she said.