Part II Chapter 4 Dumps — A Plain Girl by L. T. Meade
Christmas Day
My presents were much appreciated, although it is true that father looked somewhat dubiously at his inkpot. He asked me how it was opened. I described the exact method by which he was to press the spring, and he remarked then that it would take time.
“But,” I said, “you see there is a kind of sponge with a leather cover to it, which presses down into the bottle and prevents every scrap of air from getting in, so that the ink keeps much longer.”
“Yes; but the period it takes from one’s existence!” remarked father. Then he glanced at me. “Never mind,” he said; “you meant well. I am always willing to admit it when any one means well.”
Now, I had actually spent a pound of my money on this inkstand of father’s—one-tenth of my quarter’s allowance—and all the praise I got was that I meant well.
Von Marlo came up to me and said, “It is a most wonderful and cleverly constructed inkstand. I tell you what—whenever I come over to your house I’ll see that it’s dusted and kept in order. I’ll look after it myself. I think it’s quite lovely.”
I had given Von Marlo a nice little tablet for notes, which he professed to be delighted with; and I had given my step-mother a new sort of diary with a lock and key. There was no one whom I had forgotten. Even Augusta was in raptures with the very driest book on mathematics that I could pick up. She said that for once she believed I was a thoroughly sensible girl.
Then there were the gifts from the others to me. My step-mother gave me a lovely little narrow gold chain with a locket attached to it; and father, for the first time since I could remember, gave me a present simply as a present. It consisted of a row of very curious, sweet-scented beads, which were mounted now in gold, and could be worn either as a necklace or as a bracelet.
“But you have had these for ages,” I said.
“Yes; but my wife thought that they could be set very prettily for you,” he said.
I was delighted, and thanked him heartily. I had often coveted those blue beads, for they were a wonderful greenish blue, and in some lights looked quite opalescent.
The boys, too, gave me things very suitable and very useful. No one had forgotten me. Even Augusta gave me a pin-cushion stuck full of pins that I scratched myself with the first thing. That was very likely, for she had put them in so badly that several stuck out underneath, and I had inflicted a wound before I was aware of this fact.
But the presents, after all, were nothing compared to the festive air which pervaded the place.
We went to church, and we knelt before God’s altar, and joined in the great and glorious Festival of Divine Love.
After church we were all to go to the Aldyces’ for dinner. This invitation had been vouchsafed to us on the occasion of my father’s marriage, and Mrs Grant said that it was quite impossible not to accept it.
“You will like Hermione,” I said to Augusta. I thought she would. I thought Hermione’s precise ways would rather please Augusta. The carriage, however, did not meet us at the church, for it was arranged that we were to go home first and have lunch at Hedgerow House, and then were to walk in a body the two miles which separated us from The Grange, Squire Aldyce’s beautiful old residence.
We went there in high spirits. Everything was joyful that day. Here more and more presents awaited us. Really it was marvellous. Alex managed to whisper to me, “Have you no eye for contrasts?”
“Contrasts?” I asked, turning round and giving him a flashing glance.
“Between this Christmas and last,” he said.
I felt annoyed. I had been trying so very hard to keep in the best of humours—to be good, if I, poor naughty Dumps, could really and truly be good—and now the spirit of naughtiness was once more awakened. Oh, of course, this was a glorious time, and I ought to be delighted; but the ache had returned to my heart, the longing to be in my own little room looking at my mother’s miniature, the wish for the old desolation when she, as I said to myself, had been honoured and her memory respected.
I stood in a brown study for a minute or two, and as I stood thus Hermione came up to me and asked me if I would not like to go away with her to her room. I was very glad of the reprieve. She took my hand and we ran upstairs. When we found ourselves in her pretty room she made me sit down in the cosiest chair she could find, poked the fire, and squatted herself on the hearth-rug. She wore a lovely dress of very pale Liberty green silk, and looked, with her aristocratic small face and beautiful hair, like a picture.
“Well, Dumps,” she said, “and so you have solved the mystery?”
“You knew it at that time?” I said.
“Knew it? Of course I did! It was the greatest amazement to me when Miss Donnithorne said, ‘You are not to tell her; her father doesn’t wish it to be known.’”
“Then she did not want to have it kept a secret?”
“She?” said Hermione. “Poor darling! it was her greatest desire to tell you—in fact, she had quite made up her mind to do so—but she received a most urgent letter from your father saying that he would infinitely prefer none of you to know until after the ceremony. You mustn’t blame her.”
“I think it was exceedingly wrong to deceive me,” I said.
“It was not her fault; you must not blame her.”
I was silent. On the whole, my step-mother’s conduct could not seem quite so black if she herself had been forced to act as she did. Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable.
Hermione glanced at me.
“You look very much better,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Not that you are dressed so wonderfully well—of course, I shouldn’t dream of making any comments with regard to your dress; but then you were quite exquisitely attired the last time you came here. Mother said she had never seen anything so chic in all her life as that little dark-blue costume with the grey fur; and it suited you so well.”
I was wearing one of my summer dresses which my step-mother had altered for me shortly after she came to us. It was made of pale-blue crepon, which had been rather ugly, but she had put on a beautiful lace tucker, and had arranged the skirt so that my growing length of limb was not so discernible.
“It isn’t your dress,” continued Hermione—“never mind about it—nobody cares what any one else wears on Christmas Day—but it is your face.”
“And what about that?” I said.
“You are so much better-looking.”
I felt myself flushing.
“I wish you wouldn’t laugh at me, Hermione. It isn’t kind. I can’t help being plain.”
“No,” said Hermione, putting her head a little on one side. “Nothing will ever give you remarkably good eyes, or much of a nose, or anything special of a mouth; but you have got a complexion now, and your cheeks have filled out.”
“Oh, I was always fat,” I said.
“Well, but they look different,” she said; “I can’t tell why.”
I knew, but I would not enlighten her. I knew that it was the excellent food that I now had, and the warm rooms to live in, and the good influence of a comfortable home. I was not going to betray myself, however.
“You must be having a jolly time,” said Hermione. “Oh! if anything were to give me a step-mother, I should pine and long for a sort of Grace Donnithorne.”
“She is a dear,” I said.
Hermione looked at me very gravely.
“Dumps,” she said, “you don’t like her in your heart.”
“Hermione, how dare you say it?”
“You know you don’t. The moment I saw you I was certain of it.”
“I wish you wouldn’t read people like that,” I said.
“I saw it, and I was sorry; for the fact is, you have only known Grace for a little—a very little—time.”
“For two months,” I said.
“And I have known her ever since I have known anybody at all.”
“Then, of course, it is natural that you should be fond of her.”
“Not at all. There are other people I have known, so to speak, from my birth. There is old Mr Chatterton, and there is Mrs Frazer. Now, I detest fussy Mrs Frazer, and I run away a mile from Mr Chatterton. It isn’t the time I have known Grace, but because she is what she is.”
“Well, I suppose,” I said, “you are going to give me a lecture about her?”
“No, I am not; but I am simply going to say this—that you are in rare luck to have got the most amiable woman in the whole of Essex to be your step-mother. And then, Dumps dear, she is so jolly rich! She can give you all sorts of comforts. And what is more, she is awfully fond of you; she said so.”
“Fond of me? She couldn’t be!”
“She is, poor darling! She said so in such a loving and sad way just now. I know why she is sad; it is because you won’t return her love.”
“Never mind,” I said, jumping to my feet. I went over to the window and looked out.
“Hermione,” I said, “let us talk of something else.”
“Of course. For instance, how will you like your new school?”
“What new school?”
I sprang towards her; I took her by her shoulders; I turned her round.
“Oh! have I let the cat out of the bag?” said Hermione. “Didn’t you know you were going?”
“There!” I said; “and yet you tell me to like her. Has she been planning this?”
“It is awfully wrong of me to speak of it; but I thought, of course, you knew.”
“But I don’t want to go.”
“Oh, won’t you, though? Now look here, Dumps. You mustn’t make a fuss; you must be patient; you must—you really must—for I am going with you. It’s to a jolly, jolly school in Paris. We’ll have a nice time—I know we shall.”
“Paris?” I said.
Now, what London girl doesn’t own to a secret hankering for Paris—Paris the gay, the fascinating, the beautiful? Nevertheless, after my first shock of pleasure I was very wary. I said after a pause, “Perhaps you had better not say any more.”
“No, I won’t, as you didn’t know. It’s very odd; you’ll be told probably to-morrow.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
There came a knock at the door. Hermione said, “Come in;” and Augusta intruded her face.
“It seems a great pity you should be here,” she said. “I thought I’d tell you.”
“Come in, Miss Moore; make yourself at home,” said Hermione.
“Thank you so much,” said Augusta, “but I couldn’t come in.”
“And why not?” asked Hermione.
“Because he is talking—he is lecturing downstairs. We are all listening.—I thought it would be such a frightful deprivation for you, Dumps, not to hear him. I rushed upstairs; he was blowing his nose—I think he has a cold. I must go back at once. Do come down, if you don’t want to miss it. It’s about the time of Herodotus; it’s most fascinating—fascinating!” She banged the door after her and rushed away.
“Is that poor girl mad?” said Hermione slowly.
“I think so,” I answered. “She has conceived a violent worshipping attachment to father. She thinks he is the soul of genius.”
“Well, he is, you know. You, as his daughter, can really hold a most distinguished position; and now that you have got such a step-mother as Miss Donnithorne, and you yourself are to be sent to—oh, I forgot, that subject is taboo. Well, never mind; when you come out you will have quite a good time, Dumps, I can tell you. Your step-mother means to do the right thing both by you and the boys. You will have a splendid time, so just do cheer up and be thankful for the blessings which Providence has showered upon your head.”