Mrs. Buller was in the habit of asking the regimental Surgeon’s advice in small matters, and of employing a civilian doctor (whose fees made him feel better worth having) in serious illness. She estimated the seriousness of a case by danger rather than delicacy. So the Surgeon came to see Matilda, and having heard her cough, promised to send a “little something,” and she was ordered to keep indoors and out of draughts, and take a tablespoonful three times a day.
Matilda had not gone graciously through the ordeal of facing the principal Surgeon in his uniform, and putting out her tongue for his inspection; and his prescriptions did not tend to reconcile her to being “doctored.” Fresh air was the only thing that hitherto had seemed to have any effect on her aches and pains, or to soothe her hysterical irritability, and of this she was now deprived. When Aunt Theresa called in an elderly civilian practitioner, she was so sulky and uncommunicative, and so resolutely refused to acknowledge to any ailments, that (his other prescriptions having failed to cure her lassitude, and his pompous manner and professional visits rather provoking her feverish perversity) the old doctor also recommended that she should be sent to school.
Medical advice is very authoritative, and yet Uncle Buller hesitated.
“It’s like packing a troublesome son off to the Colonies, my dear,” said he. “And though Dr. Brown may be justified in transferring his responsibilities elsewhere, I don’t think that parents should get rid of theirs in this easy fashion.”
But when Eleanor came, the Major’s views underwent a change. If I went with Matilda, and we had Eleanor Arkwright for a friend, he allowed that he would consent.
“That is if the girl is willing to go. I will send no child of mine out of my house against her will.”
Major Buller asked her himself. Asked with so much kindness, and expressed such cheery hopes that change of air, regular occupation, and the society of other young people would make her feel “stronger and happier” than she had seemed to be of late, that to say that Matilda would have gone anywhere and done anything her father wished is to give a feeble idea of the gush of gratitude which his sensible and sympathetic words awoke in her. Unfortunately she could not keep herself from crying just when she most wanted to speak, and Uncle Buller, having a horror of “scenes,” cut short the one interview in which Matilda felt disposed to confide in her parents.
But she confided to me, when she came to bed that night (I didn’t mind her crying between the sentences), that she was very, very sorry to have been “so cross and stupid,” and that if we were not going to school she meant to try and be very different. I begged her to let me ask Uncle Buller to keep us at home a little longer, but Matilda would not hear of it.
“No, no,” she sobbed, “not now. I should like to do something he and Mamma want, and they want us to go to school.”
For my own part I was quite willing to go, especially after I had seen Eleanor Arkwright. So we were sent—to Bush House.