It was nearly thirty years later that Myra passed into Connie’s care. Myra’s mother was delicate and could afford to give in to it. She spent a lot of time chasing the sun. Both Myra’s parents were enormously proud of her, but they worshipped each other to such an extent that Myra could merely edge into their hearts. She was, therefore, from the age of eight practically Connie’s child.
Some professions are like an ice slide; start on them and you cannot stop. Governessing is one of these. Connie would gladly have been almost anything but a governess, but she skidded from job to job, unable from lack of will-power to brake for long enough to set off in a new direction. Nevertheless, as she went in and out of different homes, apparently unassuming, obviously hoping to be mistaken for part of the schoolroom furniture, she was developing. From one doing her duty, teaching her charges to read, write, and take a dim interest in their national history and the map of the world, she began to care about the form of their minds and characters. It was foolish to care too much; parents had their own ideas and a nonconforming governess was soon dismissed. Connie had suffered by the time she reached Myra and took her seat under the picture of the angel.
For all that she meant to Myra, Connie never understood the child because she missed one of the ruling factors of Myra’s existence. Her beauty. Neatness was Connie’s goal. If a hair blew becomingly loose she forced it back with a pin. Cosmetics were not suitable to her position so her face had to “make do” as God made it, and not even in its youth was it the sort of face that could stand “making do”. By the time she reached middle-age, faces had become to her just a thing you had, and their effect on others never crossed her mind.
Myra’s face, almost from birth, was breath removing. Like the majority of the really beautiful, she was completely lacking in vanity, and, equally like other beauties, she used her face as a boxer uses his fists. She had wide apart eyes of a miraculous blue overhung with black lashes. She was still a baby when she became aware what those eyes and lashes could obtain. Why make an effort when, with a smile and an upward glance, you could have anything you liked from anybody.
Connie arrived at night to take up the post of teaching Myra. She had a talk with the child’s father and mother, during which she heard at intervals the statement that Myra was a very pretty child. Most of her pupils had been considered that by their parents, so the remark was to Connie as much a part of schoolroom life as dripping cake.
Nannie was still in command in the nursery, so Myra ate up there, and Connie ate in her own sitting-room, so it was that the two met for the first time in the schoolroom. Nannie brought the child in and both she and Myra waited for the intake of breath followed by the purring tone which was Myra’s customary reception. Connie held out her hand, she did not believe in kissing as a habit, and said briskly: “Good-morning.” Nobody shook Myra’s hand; she felt puzzled and thrown out of her stride; so did Nannie, who already resented a governess coming to the house and now felt her charge was being insulted. She said: “Miss Myra comes to me for milk at eleven, don’t you, dearie?” Connie, who had learnt last night that Myra was to lose Nannie as soon as it could be done painlessly, agreed smiling. As the door shut on Nannie’s curved behind surmounted by its crisp apron bow, Connie moved to the table and sat in the chair under the angel. She pointed to the chair facing her.
“Sit there, dear.” She drew a sheet of paper towards her. “Now we must make out our time-table.”
Myra had been having lessons in a haphazard way from the vicar’s sister. The lessons were a farce, for the vicar’s sister knew little and had no ability to pass on such fragments as she did know. All the same Myra had learnt just enough to tell her what bored her. The making of the time-table was a contest. Myra used every trick she knew, and a fine variety had by this time become natural to her. Connie asking: “Are you fond of history? Do you like geography?” registered the glittering smile, the peering up at her from under Myra’s eyelashes, the head held first on one side and then on the other, and made a mental note: “This child is shy and nervous.” She was therefore amazed when suddenly Myra burst into a howl that was clearly caused by rage.
“My dear child!” Connie’s voice was shocked, for she never allowed her children to be uncontrolled. “Whatever’s the matter?”
Myra choked back a sob.
“That beastly time-table!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s the way you want it and not the way I do.”
There was such an imperious note in Myra’s voice that Connie was interested.
“That’s how it should be. Children have to be told what to do, you know.”
“Not me. I always do exactly what I want and I always will.”
Connie had her mouth open to reprove, not harshly, of course, because this was her first day and new brooms must sweep cautiously, and it was at that second that the scene with her headmistress flung itself out of her subconsciousness, and hung in front of her as clear visually and orally as if it were a talking picture. There was a pause while she recalled it.
“Why should you always do what you wish?”
Myra fought against lack of words and lack of understanding, but after a short struggle there burst from her:
“Because I’m me.”
Connie had taken to spectacles for close work. She took them off to have a better look at Myra. The corn-coloured hair did not register with her, and less observant eyes could easily have missed the child’s beauty, for her face was red with temper and puffy with aggression. Connie considered her. A person so violently individualistic at eight might surely be trained, if care were taken, to be free in the way of which her headmistress had dreamed. Of course it was early days yet to find out. Connie felt like a patch of dry land which after years is in process of being irrigated. The full glory of what had been given her came in small bursts of thought. “The mother expressly said that she wouldn’t interfere.” “The father said what they wanted was somebody to take complete charge.” “I’m a bit rusty on modern methods. I could get some books.” “The child, to all intents and purposes, is mine.” She patted the time-table.
“Don’t scowl like that. We’ll go through this again. I’m quite prepared to alter it. Even a child of your age has tastes. Everything has to be studied, of course, but there’s no reason why distasteful subjects should be next to each other. Now, Monday, Scripture is followed by arithmetic, and then we have reading. Would you like me to alter the order? We could put reading in the middle and arithmetic to finish up with.”
Myra was swimming in new waters. For eight years she had been treated by all as a lovely baby. Now she was being expected to think and make sensible answers, and she was not being called darling, or petted. She was flattered at the grown-up suggestion, but she could not get away from her nature. She got off her chair and came to Connie, and leant against hers. Connie misread the move.
“I’ll read this again. Bring your chair beside mine.”
Connie had been like an aspidistra that had not been watered. From her first day with Myra she was a new plant, still, of course, an aspidistra, but such beauty as is possible to an aspidistra in the way of glossy leaves, and an air of well-being, was hers. In as far as a governess’s position in a house is ever easy, hers was. The staff accepted the fact that Myra had to have a governess, and if such had to be, then “that Miss Fogetty” was probably about as little trouble as you could find. In her early days in the house there was a concerted effort to keep her in her place, but Connie, from painful experience, knew to a whisker what that place was, and never budged from it. Even Nannie’s departure passed off happily. Connie knew only too well that a nurse or, indeed, any other member of the staff, might have scarcely a friend during their term of office, but if they were leaving because of the coming of a new and rather superior type of employee, then their cause would be taken up by the entire household, and they would be hurriedly end
owed with every lovable quality, and the newcomer be solely to blame for their departure. Nannie had not had a nursery maid, and was what the advertisements call “Nursery waited on,” which meant she expected tireless service, and had caused much friction. This would naturally have been forgotten when her departure was caused by Connie, but cook had a niece. Miriam was wrapped in mystery. She was brought up by cook’s mother and was supposed to be the child of cook’s sister, who had always had a way with men. Against this, every stitch that Miriam wore had to be provided by cook, and children’s fashions and giving a hand with young Miriam’s things was part of the life of the staff sitting-room. It was admitted that cook was good-hearted, and, of course, if her sister would not do her duty by the child, then someone else must. All the same, it was queer the way cook’s mother took it for granted cook would look after Miriam, and there was doubt who did the paying, for cook never had a penny to spare. With Nannie going, Miriam was to be maid to Myra. It was so excellent an arrangement, and, if what everybody thought was true, so nice for cook, that Nannie left with merely lip regret.
Connie found one of the most lovely of childhood’s joys returning to her. She woke feeling excited simply because a new day was beginning. Her thoughts were all for Myra. She searched her schooldays to discover where her own training had been wrong. Certainly it had not failed in teaching the value of honest thinking; no girl could possibly have spent even a term in the school without knowing she was supposed to think for herself, and that any convictions she had arrived at as the result of her thoughts would have the respectful attention of authority. But it had been nonsense; a theory, nothing more. The girls had made a joke of it. “As the result of honest thinking I have arrived at the conclusion that we’ll have a feast in our room on Saturday night.” Few of the mistresses believed the girls capable of thought, some used the school principle as a weapon. “Well, if you honestly think that, you should ask to see the Head, but remember she does not like her time wasted, so be sure that you really have thought this point out. You haven’t quite thought it out? You don’t want an appointment? Very well then, please let us hear no more of your ideas.” Probably the strongest personalities and the clearer-cut characters profited, but those did not need to profit; it was the others, the weaker people, such as herself, who so easily slipped along with the herd, for whom the system failed. Myra was too young for Connie to judge her strength of character. That she had a strong personality and a great belief in the importance of Myra was clear. How were these things to be harmonised to build a fine fearless woman? “Fearless!” Connie found that word in the night. Fear was something that few women were without. Could it be got rid of? The petty fears. Fear of being talked about. Fear of standing alone, of not being understood. Fear, of course, of insecurity, that probably drove a lot of women into loveless marriages. Fear of not appearing a success, that must be the cause of many of the rich, socially desirable, but miserable marriages, such as she had lived cheek by jowl with in the course of her governessing. The big fears, many of them about things which would never happen, which were part of most women’s physical make-up, and dug black patches in their lives. Connie was herself fairly free from imaginative dreads, but living in other people’s houses she had seen that form of suffering, and knew the wretchedness it could cause. Could thought help? If all your life you as it were pulled out your fears and turned them inside out and studied them, would half of them go on existing?
It was one thing to think out a form of training and quite another to work it out on Myra. For one thing, Connie’s own mind was anything but clear; she saw visions of what she was aiming at one minute, and lost them the next. Her personal visions were too confused by the half-recalled teachings of her childhood, so she never knew what she really had worked out for herself and what she had been taught at school. Then, habit was hard to break; for years she had been saying in answer to “Why?” “Because your mother says no,” or “Because Daddy doesn’t like it,” or “Because I say so and that’s enough.” Now she had to struggle with explanations, and leaving room for argument, and very trying she often found it. She was shocked to discover how much sheltering behind others she had gone in for. There was God, for instance. In the past she had made God responsible for almost everything which had to be accepted without argument or too much probing. “We speak the truth because it makes God sad if we don’t.” “Babies come into the world just like flowers, it’s all part of God’s wonderful plan.” Now, training herself while training Myra, she felt foolish and in need of support. The first Sunday after her arrival she had a tussle with old formed habit. “Why,” asked Myra, “must I wear a hat to go to church?” Connie spoke before she thought. “God doesn’t like . . .” Then she pulled herself up and gave a short talk on established custom, and marks of respect, finishing up with: “It’s like going to see the King. You would put on a hat to go and see him, wouldn’t you?” Myra was dressed for church at the time of the discussion. She had on a ribbon-trimmed hat. She stood on the fire guard to look at herself in the glass over the mantelpiece. “Cook says only high-ups can afford to be fussy. When I grow up I’ll be a high-up.” Connie refused to finish the discussion on so unsatisfactory a note. “But you are pleased to wear it if it shows respect, aren’t you?” Myra was delighted with what she saw in the glass, she jumped off the guard. “Well, I’m pleased to wear it, and if God’s pleased too that makes everyone pleased.” Connie felt this was most unsatisfactory, but she was exceedingly vague as to why women’s heads were covered in church, and who had said they should be, so she let the subject drop. But she was not pleased with herself, and spent the twenty minutes while the vicar was preaching giving herself a talking to, and at the sermon’s close joined in “Rock of Ages cleft for me” as if every word were a personal prayer.
Myra was not a child who enjoyed book work. As Connie expounded history, geography, English and mathematics, her eyes would turn to the window. The house was on one side of a valley. The drive wandered down through larches to the twisting river, and beyond that a road, and on the far side of the road, like a wall, stood the opposite side of the valley with a wood like a moss carpet clinging to its side. The curving fields, squares and oblongs of red and green, the wooded valley and the rush of the river were loved by Myra so that it hurt. Outside the schoolroom there was a stone terrace with a parapet round it. Sometimes she would come out on the terrace after rain, perhaps the sun was breaking through the mist, and the valley below was dark, but the trees on the hilltop glowed with colour; or in the winter, when snow had fallen and, lying on the red earth, made pink fields with dark stripes, at such moments she loved her world so much that she had a pain in the pit of her stomach.
Leaning on the bridge which crossed the river where the house drive joined the road, she tried once to tell Connie how she felt. The may flies were out. One bank of the river was reflected in the water. Where the river swirled round rocks, little calms picked up the blue of the sky. Myra hung over the bridge, her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Oh, I do wish I could do something for it. Don’t you simply long to give things when you’re awfully fond of something?”
Connie too had been full of thought. The chattering of the river had set her wondering if it were not time Myra learnt French from somebody who was French. She came back to the world slowly. Her mind had to repeat what Myra had said before she took in the sense. Then she turned eyes like a startled cow on the child.
“Do something for what, dear?”
Myra stretched out her arms.
“For everything, the river, the trees, the garden. Just all of it.”
“What sort of something?”
“A blood sacrifice like those people made in that book we read.”
“That was to cure a plague.”
Myra shook off Connie’s prosaicness as if it were a garment that was curtailing physical movement.
“Yes, but they did it about everything. They sacrific
ed young men and maidens to please the land, because they loved it. I know just how it feels to be the chosen maiden to be sacrificed.”
Connie tried to think along Myra’s lines.
“It seems a waste, doesn’t it? I should have thought that the best way to treat land that you are fond of would be to look after it, gardening and all that sort of thing.”
Myra kicked the bridge rail.
“Oh, Foggy, how dull! So ordinary! Don’t you feel yourself being squeezed to give the absolutely most thing in the world when you love something?”
Connie turned her mind to the one real love of her life, Myra. What would she do for Myra? Everything. There was nothing she would hold back. Giving her life for Myra would be easy, if the need arose, rescuing her from drowning, or sucking poison out of her, any of those fancy occasions you read about in books, but that would be pure instinct and done without thought. Except for such an unlikely call on her devotion, she was plainly more use to the child alive than dead. Then, like a caterpillar crawling up a stalk, an idea looped its way into her mind. Some day Myra would outgrow the need of her, some day it would be better, for the finishing of her education, if she were entrusted to other hands. Myra’s parents were lazy; when that day came she would have to be the one to suggest and plan. In spite of the sun she felt chilly, and to her imagination the river darkened. Her voice was toneless.
“I think the best way of showing love is in whatever you do for what you love, to put what you want out of your mind, and live only for them.”
Myra Carrol Page 2