Six to Sixteen | Page 4

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