Matilda’s news was lengthy enough and interesting enough to make us late for tea, and mine kept us awake for a couple of hours after we were fairly in our two little iron bedsteads in the room that was now our very own. That is to say, I told what I had to tell after we came to bed, but my news was so tame compared with Matilda’s that we soon returned to the discussion of hers. I tried to describe my great-grandfather’s sketches, but neither Aunt Theresa in the drawing-room, nor Matilda when we retired for the night, seemed to feel any interest in the subject; and when Mrs. Buller asked what sort of people called at The Vine, I felt that my reply was, like the rest of my news, but dull.
Matilda’s, on the contrary, was very entertaining. She spoke enthusiastically of Miss Perry, the governess.
“She is so good-natured, Margery, you can’t think. When lessons are over she takes me walks on the Esplanade, and she calls me her dear Matilda, and I take her arm, and she tells me all about herself. She says she knows she’s very romantic. And she’s got lots of secrets, and she’s told me several already; for she says she has a feeling that I can keep a secret, and so I can. But telling you’s not telling, you know, because she’s sure to tell you herself; only you’d better wait till she does before you say anything, for fear she should be vexed.”
Of course I promised to do so, and craned my neck out of bed to catch Matilda’s interesting but whispered revelations.
Matilda herself was only partially in Miss Perry’s confidence, and I looked anxiously forward to the time when she would admit me also to her secrets, though I feared she might consider me too young. My fears were groundless, as I found Miss Perry was fond of talking about herself, and a suitable audience was quite a secondary consideration with her.
She was a protégée of Mrs. Minchin’s, who had persuaded Aunt Theresa to take her for our governess. She was quite unfit for the position, and did no little harm to us in her brief reign. But I do not think that our interests had entered in the least into Mrs. Minchin’s calculations in the matter. She had “taken Miss Perry up,” and to get Miss Perry a comfortable home was her sole object.
To do our new governess justice, she did her best to impart her own superficial acquirements to us. We plodded regularly through French exercises, which she corrected by a key, and she kept us at work for a given number of hours during the day; tatting by our sides as we practised our scales, or roasting her petticoats over the fire, whilst Matilda and I read Mrs. Markham’s England or Mrs. Trimmer’s Bible Lessons aloud by turns to full-stops. But when lessons were over Miss Perry was quite as glad as we were, and the subjects of our studies had as little to do with our holiday hours as a Sunday sermon with the rest of the week.
She was a great novel-reader, and I think a good many of the things she told us of, as having happened to herself, had their real origin in the Riflebury circulating library. For she was one of those strange characters who indulge in egotism and exaggeration, till they seem positively to lose the sense of what is fact and what is fiction.
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.