Six to Sixteen
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[Illustration: "'I've got a pink silk here,' said I, 'and pink shoes.'"]
SIX TO SIXTEEN.
_A STORY FOR GIRLS._
BY
JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.
[Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]
DEDICATION.
TO MISS ELEANOR LLOYD.
MY DEAR ELEANOR,
I wish that this little volume were worthier of being dedicated to you.
It is, I fear, fragmentary as a mere tale, and cannot even plead as an
excuse for this that it embodies any complete theory on the vexed
question of the upbringing of girls. Indeed, I should like to say that
it contains no attempt to paint a model girl or a model education, and
was originally written as a sketch of domestic life, and not as a
vehicle for theories.
That it does touch by the way on a few of the many strong opinions I
have on the subject you will readily discover; though it is so long
since we held discussions together that I hardly know how far your views
will now agree with mine.
If, however, it seems to you to illustrate a belief in the joys and
benefits of intellectual hobbies, I do not think that we shall differ on
that point; and it may serve, here and there, to recall one, nearly as
dear to you as to me, for whom the pleasures of life were at least
doubled by such interests, and who found in them no mean resource under
a burden heavier than common of life's pain.
That, whatever labour I may spend on this or any other bit of
work--whatever changes or confirmations time and experience may bring to
my views of people and things--I cannot now ask her approval of the one,
or delight in the play of her strong intellect and bright wit over the
other, is an unhealable sorrow with which no one sympathizes more fully
than you.
This story was written before her death: it has been revised without her
help.
Such as it is, I beg you to accept it in affectionate remembrance of old
times and of many common hobbies of our girlhood in my Yorkshire home
and in yours.
J. H. E.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
Introduction 11
I. My Pretty Mother--Ayah--Company 20
II. The Cholera Season--My Mother Goes Away--My Sixth
Birthday 26
III. The Bullers--Matilda takes Me up--We Fall Out--Mr. George 34
IV. Sales--Matters of Principle--Mrs. Minchin Quarrels with
the Bride--Mrs. Minchin Quarrels with Everybody--Mrs.
Minchin is Reconciled--The Voyage Home--A Death on Board 40
V. A Home Station--What Mrs. Buller thought of it--What
Major Buller thought of it 53
VI. Dress and Manner--I Examine Myself--My Great-Grandmother 59
VII. My Great-Grandmother--The Duchess's Carriage--Mrs.
O'Connor is Curious 67
VIII. A Family History 73
IX. Hopes and Expectations--Dreams and Daydreams--The
Vine--Elspeth--My Great-Grandfather 84
X. Thomas the Cat--My Great-Grandfather's Sketches--Adolphe
is my Friend--My Great-great-great-Grandfather Disturbs
my Rest--I Leave The Vine 96
XI. Matilda's News--Our Governess--Major Buller turned
Tutor--Eleanor Arkwright 103
XII. Poor Matilda--The Awkward Age--Mrs. Buller takes Counsel
with her Friends--The 'Milliner and Mantuamaker'--Medical
Advice--The Major Decides 120
XIII. At School--The Lilac Bush--Bridget's Posies--Summer--
Health 138
XIV. Miss Mulberry--Discipline and Recreation--Madame--
Conversation--Eleanor's Opinion of the Drawing-master--
Miss Ellen's--Eleanor's Apology 146
XV. Eleanor's Theories reduced to Practice--Studies--The
Arithmetic-master 159
XVI. Eleanor's Reputation--The Mad Gentleman--Fancies and
Follies--Matilda's Health--The New Doctor 166
XVII. Eleanor's Health--Holy Living--The Prayer of the Son
of Sirach 175
XVIII. Eleanor and I are late for Breakfast--The School Breaks
Up--Madame and Bridget 179
XIX. Northwards--The Black Country--The Stone Country 183
XX. The Vicarage--Keziah--The Dear Boys--The Cook--A
Yorkshire Tea--Bed-fellows 191
XXI. Gardening--Drinkings--The Moors--Wading--Batrachosperma--
The Church--Little Margaret 197
XXII. A New Home--The Arkwrights' Return--The Beasts--Going
to Meet the Boys--Jack's Hat-box--We Come Home a Rattler 209
XXIII. I Correspond with the Major--My Collection--Occupations--
Madame Again--Fete de Village--The British Hooray 219
XXIV. We and the Boys--We and the Boys and our Fads--The Lamp
of Zeal--Clement on Unreality--Jack's Ointment 234
XXV. The "Household Album"--Sketching under Difficulties--A
New Species?--Jack's Bargain--Theories 242
XXVI. Manners and Customs--Clique--The Lessons of Experience--
Out Visiting--House-pride--Dressmaking 257
XXVII. Matilda--Ball Dresses and the Ball--Gores--Miss
Lining--The 'Parishioner's Pennyworth' 269
XXVIII. I go Back to The Vine--After Sunset--A Twilight
Existence--Salad of Monk's-hood--A Royal Summons 279
XXIX. Home Again--Home News--The Very End 293
SIX TO SIXTEEN.
INTRODUCTION.
Eleanor and I are subject to _fads_. Indeed, it is a family failing. (By
the family I mean our household, for Eleanor and I are not, even
distantly, related.) Life would be comparatively dull, up away here on
the moors, without them. Our fads and the boys' fads are sometimes the
same, but oftener distinct. Our present one we would not so much as tell
them of on any account; because they would laugh at us. It is this. We
purpose this winter to write the stories of our own lives down to the
present date.
It seems an egotistical and perhaps silly thing to record the
trivialities of our everyday lives, even for fun, and just to please
ourselves. I said so to Eleanor, but she said, "Supposing Mr. Pepys had
thought so about his everyday life, how much instruction and amusement
would have been lost to the readers of his Diary." To which I replied,
that as Mr. Pepys lived in stirring times, and amongst notable people,
_his_ daily life was like a leaf out of English history, and his case
quite different to the case of obscure persons living simply and
monotonously on the Yorkshire moors. On which Eleanor observed that the
simple and truthful history of a single mind from childhood would be as
valuable, if it could be got, as the whole of Mr. Pepys' Diary from the
first volume to the last. And when Eleanor makes a general observation
of this kind in her conclusive tone, I very seldom dispute it; for, to
begin with, she is generally right, and then she is so much more clever
than I.
One result of the confessed superiority of her opinion to mine is that I
give way to it sometimes even when I am not quite convinced, but only
helped by a little weak-minded reason of my own in the background. I
gave way in this instance, not altogether to her argument (for I am sure
_my_ biography will not be the history of a mind, but only a record of
small facts important to no one but myself), but chiefly because I think
that as one grows up one enjoys recalling the things that happened when
one was little. And one forgets them so soon! I envy Eleanor for having
kept her childish diaries. I used to write diaries too, but, when I was
fourteen years old, I got so much ashamed of them (it made me quite hot
to read my small moral reflections, and the pompous account of my
quarrels with Matilda, my sentimental admiration for the handsome
bandmaster, &c., even when alone), and I was so afraid of the boys
getting hold of them, that I made a big hole in the kitchen fire one
day, and burned them all. At least, so I thought; but one volume escaped
the flames, and the fun Eleanor and I have now in re-reading this has
made me regret that I burned the others. Of course, even if I put down
all that I can remember, it will not be like having kept my diaries.
Eleanor's biography, in this respect, will be much better than mine; but
still, I remember a good deal now that I dare say I shall forget soon,
and in sixteen more years these histories may amuse us as much as the
old diaries. We are all growing up now. We have even got to speaking of
"old times," by which we mean the times when we used to wade in the
brooks and----
But this is beside the mark, and I must not allow myself to wander off.
I am too apt to be discursive. When I had to write leading articles for
our manuscript periodical, Jack used to laugh at me, and say, "If it
wasn't for Eleanor's disentangling your sentences, you'd put parenthesis
within parenthesis till, when you got yourself into the very inside
one, you'd be as puzzled as a pig in a labyrinth, and not know how to
get back to where you started from." And I remember Clement--who
generally disputed a point, if possible--said, "How do you know she
wouldn't get back, if you let her work out each train of thought in
peace? The curt, clean-cut French style may suit some people, whose
brains won't stretch far without getting tired; but others may have more
sympathy with a Semitic cast of mind."
This excuse pleased me very much. It was pleasanter to believe that my
style was Semitic, than to allow, with Jack, that it tended towards that
of Mrs. Nickleby. Though at that time my notion of the meaning of the
word Semitic was not so precise as it might have been.
Our home is a beautiful place in the summer, and in much of spring and
autumn. In winter I fancy it would look dreary to the eyes of strangers.
At night the wind comes over the top of Deadmanstone Hill, and down the
valley, whirls the last leaves off the old trees by the church, and
sends them dancing over the closely-ranged gravestones. Then up through
the village it comes, and moans round our house all night, like some
miserable being wanting to get in. The boys say it does get in, more
than enough, especially into their bedrooms; but then boys always
grumble. It certainly makes strange noises here. I have more than once
opened the back-door late in the evening, because I fancied that one of
the dogs had been hurt, and was groaning outside.
That stormy winter after the Ladybrig murder, our fancies and the wind
together played Eleanor and me sad tricks. When once we began to listen
we seemed to hear a whole tragedy going on close outside. We could
distinguish footsteps and voices through the bluster, and then a
struggle in the shrubbery, and a _thud_, and a groan, and then a roar of
wind, half drowning the sound of flying footsteps--and then an awful
pause, and at last faint groaning, and a bump, as of some poor wounded
body falling against the house. At this point we were wont to summon
courage and rush out, with the kitchen poker and a candle shapeless with
tallow shrouds from the strong draughts. We never could see anything;
partly, perhaps, because the candle was always blown out; and when we
stood outside it became evident that what we had heard was only the
wind, and a bough of the old acacia-tree, which beat at intervals upon
the house.
When the nights are stormy there is no room so comfortable as the big
kitchen. We first used it for parochial purposes, small night-schools,
and so forth. Then one evening, as we strolled in to look for one of
the dogs, the cook said, "You can sit here, if you like, Miss Eleanor.
_We_ always sits in the pantry on winter nights; so there'll be no one
to disturb you." And as we had some writing on hand which we did not
wish to have discussed or overlooked by other members of the family, we
settled down in great peace and comfort by the roaring fire which the
maids had heaped to keep the kitchen warm in their absence.
We found ourselves so cosy and independent that we returned again and
again to our new study. The boys (who go away a great deal more than we
do, and are apt to come back dissatisfied with our "ways," and anxious
to make us more "like other people") object strongly to this habit of
ours. They say, "Who ever _heard_ of ladies sitting in the kitchen?"
And, indeed, there are many south-country kitchens in which I should not
at all like to sit. But we have this large, airy, spotlessly clean room,
with its stone floor, its yellow-washed walls, its tables scrubbed to
snowy whiteness, its quaint old dresser and clock and corner cupboards
of shiny black oak, and its huge fire-place and blazing fire all to
ourselves, and we have abundance of room, and may do anything we please,
so I think it is no wonder that we like it, though it be, in point of
fact, a kitchen. We cover the table, and (commonly) part of the floor,
with an amount of books, papers, and belongings of various sorts, such
as we should scruple to deluge the drawing-room with. The fire crackles
and blazes, so that we do not mind the wind, though there are no blinds
to the kitchen, and if we do not "cotter" the shutters, we look out upon
the black night, and the tall Scotch pine that has been tossed so wildly
for so many years, and is not torn down yet.
Keziah the cook takes much pride in this same kitchen, which partly
accounts for its being in a state so suitable to our use. She "stones"
the floor with excruciating regularity. (At least, some people hate the
scraping sound. I do not mind it myself.) She "pot-moulds" the hearth in
fantastic patterns; the chests, the old chairs, the settle, the dresser,
the clock and the corner cupboards are so many mirrors from constant
polishing. She says, with justice, that "a body might eat his dinner off
anything in the place."
We dine early, and the cooking for the late supper is performed in what
we call "the second kitchen," beyond this. I believe that what is now
the Vicarage was originally an old farmhouse, of which this same
charming kitchen was the chief "living-room." It is quite a journey,
through long, low passages, to get from the modern part of the house to
this.
One year, when the "languages fad" was strong upon us, Eleanor and I
earned many a backache by carrying the huge volumes of the _Della
Crusca_ Italian dictionary from the dining-room shelves to the kitchen.
We piled them on the oak chest for reference, and ran backwards and
forwards to them from the table where we sat and beat our brains over
the "Divina Commedia," while the wind growled in the tall old box-trees
without, and the dogs growled in dreams upon the hearth.
It is by this well-scrubbed table, in this kitchen, that our biographies
are to be written. They cannot be penned under the noses of the boys.
Eleanor finds rocking a help to composition, and she is swinging
backwards and forwards in the glossy old rocking-chair, with a pen
between her lips, and a vacant gaze in her eyes, that becomes almost a
look of inspiration when the swing of the chair turns her face towards
the ceiling. For my own part I find that I can meet the crisis of a
train of ideas best upon my feet, so I pace up and down past the old
black dresser, with its gleaming crockery, like a captain on his
quarter-deck. Suddenly Eleanor's chair stands still.
"Margery," she says, laying her head upon the table at her side, "I do
think this is a capital idea."
"Yours will be capital," I reply, pausing also, and leaning back
against the dresser; "for you have kept your old diaries, and----"
"My dear Margery, what if I have kept my old diaries? I've lived in this
place my whole life. Now, you have had some adventures! I quite look
forward to reading your life, Margery. You have no idea what pleasure it
gives me to think of it. I was thinking just now, if ever we are
separated in life, how I shall enjoy looking over it again and again.
You must give me yours, you know, and I will give you mine. Yes; I am
very glad we thought of it." And Eleanor begins to rock once more, and I
resume my march.
But this quite settles the matter in my mind. To please Eleanor I would
try to do a great deal; much more than this. I will write my
autobiography.
Though it seems rather (to use an expressive Quaker term) a "need-not"
to provide for our being separated in life, when we have so firmly
resolved to be old maids, and to live together all our lives in the
little whitewashed cottage behind the church.
CHAPTER I.
MY PRETTY MOTHER--AYAH--COMPANY.
My name is Margaret Vandaleur. My father was a captain in her Majesty's
202nd Regiment of Foot. The regiment was in India for six years, just
after I was born; indeed, I was not many months old when I made my first
voyage, which I fancy Eleanor is thinking of when she says that I have
had some adventures.
Military ladies are said to be unlucky as to the times when they have to
change stations; the move often chancing at an inconvenient moment. My
mother had to make her first voyage with the cares of a young baby on
her hands; nominally, at any rate, but I think the chief care of me fell
upon our Ayah. My mother hired her in England. The Ayah wished to return
to her country, and was glad to do so as my nurse. I think that at first
she only intended to be with us for the voyage, but she stayed on, and
became fond of me, and so remained my nurse as long as I was in India.
I have heard that my mother was the prettiest woman on board the vessel
she went out in, and the prettiest woman at the station when she got
there. Some people have told me that she was the prettiest woman they
ever saw. She was just eighteen years old when my father married her,
and she was not six-and-twenty when she died.
[I got so far in writing my life, seated at the round, three-legged
pinewood table, with Eleanor scribbling away opposite to me. But I could
get no further just then. I put my hands before my eyes as if to shade
them from the light; but Eleanor is very quick, and she found out that I
was crying. She jumped up and threw herself at my feet.
"Margery, dear Margery! what _is_ the matter?"
I could only sob, "My mother, O my mother!" and add, almost bitterly,
"It is very well for you to write about your childhood, who have had a
mother--and such a mother!--all your life; but for me----"
Eleanor knelt straight up, with her teeth set, and her hands clasped
before her.
"I do think," she said slowly, "that I am, without exception, the most
selfish, inconsiderate, dense, unfeeling brute that ever lived." She
looked so quaintly, vehemently in earnest as she knelt in the firelight,
that I laughed in spite of my tears.
"My dear old thing," I said, "it is I who am selfish, not you. But I am
going on now, and I promise to disturb you no more." And in this I was
resolute, though Eleanor would have burned our papers then and there,
if I had not prevented her.
Indeed she knew as well as I did that it was not merely because I was an
orphan that I wept, as I thought of my early childhood. We could not
speak of it, but she knew enough to guess at what was passing through my
mind. I was only six years old when my mother died, but I can remember
her. I can remember her brief appearances in the room where I played, in
much dirt and contentment, at my Ayah's feet--rustling in silks and
satins, glittering with costly ornaments, beautiful and scented, like a
fairy dream. I would forego all these visions for one--only one--memory
of her praying by my bedside, or teaching me at her knee. But she was so
young, and so pretty! And yet, O Mother, Mother! better than all the
triumphs of your loveliness in its too short prime would it have been to
have left a memory of your beautiful face with some devout or earnest
look upon it--"as it had been the face of an angel"--to your only child.
As I sit thinking thus, I find Eleanor's dark eyes gazing at me from her
place, to which she has gone back; and she says softly, "Margery, dear
Margery, do let us give it up." But I would not give it up now, for
anything whatever.]
The first six years of my life were spent chiefly with my Ayah. I loved
her very dearly. I kissed and fondled her dark cheeks as gladly as if
they had been fair and ruddy, and oftener than I touched my mother's,
which were like the petals of a china rose. My most intimate friends
were of the Ayah's complexion. We had more than one "bearer" during
those years, to whom I was greatly attached. I spoke more Hindostanee
than English. The other day I saw a group of Lascar sailors at the
Southampton Station; they had just come off a ship, and were talking
rapidly and softly together. I have forgotten the language of my early
childhood, but its tones had a familiar sound; those dark bright faces
were like the faces of old friends, and my heart beat for a minute, as
one is moved by some remembrance of an old home.
When my mother went out for her early ride at daybreak, before the heat
of the day came on, Ayah would hold me up at the window to see her
start. Sometimes my father would have me brought out, and take me before
him on his horse for a few minutes. But my nurse never allowed this if a
ready excuse could prevent it. Her care of me was maternal in its
tenderness, but she did not keep me tidy enough for me to be presentable
off-hand to company.
There was always "company" wherever my mother went--gentleman company
especially. The gentlemen, in different places, and at different times,
were not the same, but they had a common likeness. I used to count them
when they rode home with my father and mother, or assembled for any of
the many reasons for which "company" hung about our homes. I remember
that it was an amusement to me to discover, "there are six to-day," or
"five to-day," and to tell my Ayah. I was even more minute. I divided
them into three classes: "the little ones, the middle ones, and the old
ones." The "little ones" were the very young men--smooth-cheeked
ensigns, etc.; the "old ones" were usually colonels, generals, or
elderly civilians. From the youngest to the oldest, officers and
civilians, they were all very good-natured to me, and I approved of them
accordingly.
When callers came, I was often sent into the drawing-room. Great was my
dear Ayah's pride when I was dressed in pink silk, my hair being
arranged in ringlets round my head, to be shown off to the company. I
was proud of myself, and was wont rather to strut than walk into the
room upon my best kid shoes. They were pink, to match my frock, and I
was not a little vain of them. There were usually some ladies in the
room, dressed in rustling finery like my mother, but not like her in
the face--never so pretty. There were always plenty of gentlemen of the
three degrees, and they used to be very polite to me, and to call me
"little Rosebud," and give me sweetmeats. I liked sweetmeats, and I
liked flattery, but I had an affection stronger than my fancy for
either. I used to look sharply over the assembled men for the face I
wanted, and when I had found it I flew to the arms that were stretched
out for me. They were my father's.
I remember my mother, but I remember my father better still. I did not
see very much of him, but when we were together I think we were both
thoroughly happy. I can recall pretty clearly one very happy holiday we
spent together. My father got some leave, and took us for a short time
to the hills. My clearest memory of his face is as it smiled on me, from
under a broad hat, as we made nosegays for Mamma's vases in our
beautiful garden, where the fuchsias and geraniums were "hardy," and the
sweet-scented verbenas and heliotropes were great bushes, loading the
air with perfume.
I have one remembrance of it almost as distinct--the last.