DRESS AND MANNER--I EXAMINE MYSELF--MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHER.
When we began our biographies we resolved that neither of us should read
the other's till both were finished. This was partly because we thought
it would be more satisfactory to be able to go straight through them,
partly as a check on a propensity for beginning things and not finishing
them, 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 pick
the 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 break
it, and we have ended by finding excellent reasons for doing so.
We both wish to read the biographies--why should we tease ourselves by
sticking obstinately to our first opinion?
No doubt it would be nice to read them "straight through." But we are
rather apt to devour books at a pace unfavourable to book-digestion, so
perhaps it will be better still to read them by bits, as one reads a
thing that "comes out in numbers."
And in short, at this point Eleanor took mine, and has read it, and I
have read hers. She lays down mine, saying, "But, my dear, you don't
remember all this?"
Which is true. What I have recorded of my first English home is more
what 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. Also
that the Ayah, who had a mother's love and care for me, paid very little
attention to my being tidy in person or dress, except when I was
exhibited to "company."
But my mother was dead. Ayah (after a terrible parting) was left behind
in 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 in
the subject of dress at a very early age. A very keen interest was taken
in it by Aunt Theresa herself, by Aunt Theresa's daughters, and by the
ladies of Aunt Theresa's acquaintance. I think I may say that it formed
(at least one of) the principal subjects of conversation during all
those working hours of the day which the ladies so freely sacrificed to
each other. Mrs. Buller was truly kind, and I am sure that if I had
depended in every way upon her, she would have given to my costume as
much care as she bestowed upon that of her own daughters. But my parents
had not been poor; there was no lack of money for my maintenance, and
thus "no reason," as Aunt Theresa said, why my clothes should not be
"decent," and "decent" with Aunt Theresa and her friends was a synonym
for "fashionable."
Thus my first black frock was such an improvement (in fashion) upon the
pink 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 youngest
little girl's frocks as a copy, for "the poor little orphan"; and a bevy
of ladies sat in consultation over it, for all Mrs. St. Quentin's things
were well worth copying.
"Keep a paper pattern, dear," said Mrs. Minchin; "it will come in for
the 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 an
incident connected with it. It had six crape tucks, of which fact I was
very 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 up
to him holding my skirt out, and my head up.
"Look at my black frock, Mr. George," said I; "it has got six crape
tucks."
Matilda was most precocious in--at least--one way: she could repeat
grown-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. Minchin
said so."
"They are real tucks," I stoutly asserted.
"No, they're not. They're cut on the bias, and laid on to imitate
tucks," Matilda repeated. I think she was not sorry there should be some
weak 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 and
disconcerted me. He only said, "Good heavens!" And all my after efforts
were vain to find out what he meant, and why he looked in that strange
manner.
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 remembrance
never was a pleasant one. It chilled my enthusiasm for my new dress at
the time, and made me feel inclined to cry. I think I have lived to
understand it.
But I was not insensible of my great loss, though I took pride in my
fashionable mourning. I do not think I much connected the two in my
mind. I did not talk about my father to any one but Mr. George, but at
night I often lay awake and cried about him. This habit certainly
affected my health, and I had become a very thin, weak child when the
home voyage came to restore my strength.
By the time we reached Riflebury, my fashionable new dress was neither
new nor fashionable. It was then that Mrs. Minchin ferreted out a
dressmaker whom Mrs. St. Quentin employed, and I was put under her
hands.
The little Bullers' things were "made in the house," after the pattern
of 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 my
appearance on other friends in the regiment. They openly remarked on it,
and did not scruple to do so in my hearing. Callers from the
neighbourhood patronized me also. Pretty ladies in fashionably pitched
bonnets smiled, and said, "One of your little ones, Mrs. Buller? What a
pretty little thing!" and duly sympathized over the sad story which Aunt
Theresa seemed almost to enjoy relating. Sometimes it was agony to me to
hear the oft-repeated tale of my parents' death, and then again I
enjoyed a sort of gloomy importance which gave me satisfaction. I even
rehearsed such scenes in my mind when I was in bed, shedding real tears
as (in the person of Aunt Theresa) I related the sad circumstances of my
own grief to an imaginary acquaintance; and then, with dry eyes,
prolonging the "fancy" with compliments and consolations of the most
flattering nature. I always took care to fancy some circumstances that
led to my being in my best dress on the occasion.
Gentleman company did not haunt my new home as was the case with the
Indian one. But now and then officers of the regiment called on Mrs.
Buller, and would say, "Is that poor Vandaleur's child? Dear me! Very
interesting little thing;" and speculate in my hearing on the
possibility of my growing up like my mother.
"'Pon my soul, she _is_ like her!" said one of the "middle ones" one
day, examining me through his eyeglass, "Th' same expressive eyes, you
know, and just that graceful gracious little manner poor Mrs. Vandaleur
had. By Jove, it was a shocking thing! She was an uncommonly pretty
woman."
"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, and
Mrs. 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 kindly
delicacy.
The "old one" had lowered his voice, but still I could hear what he
said, as Mrs. Buller saw.
When my father was not spoken of, my feelings were very little hurt. On
this occasion my mind was engaged simply with the question whether I did
or did not inherit my mother's graces. I ran to a little looking-glass
in 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 walked
about, shaking out my skirts, and thinking of my gracious and graceful
manner. 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 if
I could make use of it unobserved. But the gentlemen had gone, and I
feared that Mrs. Buller might come up-stairs. In a few minutes, however,
the door-bell rang, and I heard the sound of a visitor being ushered
into 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 now
saw myself. Once more I attempted to make expressive eyes, but the
result 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 and
graciousness of which I was conscious into my manner, and holding out my
hand, 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 the
threshold, and with her a little old lady. The little old lady had a
bright, delicately cut face, eyes of whose expressiveness there could be
no question, and large grey curls. She wore a large hat, with large bows
tied under her chin, and a dark-green satin driving-cloak lined with
white 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.