Part II Chapter 9 Dumps — A Plain Girl by L. T. Meade
First Impressions
It seemed to me that I had hardly closed my eyes in sleep before I was awakened again by seeing Justine standing by my bedside with a tray of very appetising food in her hand.
“Here are your rolls and coffee, mademoiselle,” she said.
As she spoke she laid the little tray on a small table by the side of my bed, evidently put there for the purpose; and taking a dressing-jacket from the wardrobe, she made me put it on, and admonished me to eat my breakfast quickly, as I must rise and attend prayers in the space of three-quarters of an hour.
Here was hurry indeed. I munched my delicious rolls, and sipped my coffee, and thought of the new life which was before me, and then I got up with energy and washed and dressed. When I had completed my toilet I went into the sitting-room, for although our rooms opened one into the other, there were other doors on to an adjoining landing. Here I found Hermione waiting for me.
“Where’s Augusta?” I said.
“I don’t know—surely she is dressed.”
“I’ll go to her room and find out,” I said.
I went and knocked at the door. A heavy voice said “Come in,” and I entered. Augusta was now lying well wrapped up in the bedclothes. She had not touched either her coffee or her rolls.
“Aren’t you getting up?” I said. “The bell will ring in a moment for prayers. We are expected to go down.”
“I have a headache,” said Augusta.
“Are you really ill, Augusta? I am sorry.”
“I am not ill, but I have a headache. I had bad dreams last night.”
“And you never got into bed at all.”
“I fell asleep, and my dreams were troublesome. I can’t get up yet. No, I won’t have any breakfast. I wish I hadn’t come; I don’t like this place.”
I knelt down by the bed and took her hand.
“You know that your mother and your uncle wouldn’t have made such an effort to send you here if they didn’t think it would be for your good,” I said. “Do try and like it.”
There was a new tone in my voice. I really felt sorry for her. She raised her head and fixed her dark eyes on my face.
“Do you think your father would like it?”
“I am sure he would, Augusta,” I said; and an idea flashed through my brain. I would write that very day to my step-mother and beg her to get my father to send Augusta a message. The slightest word from him would control her life; she would work hard at her French, her German, hard at manners, refinement—at everything—if only he would give her the clue. Surely my step-mother would manage it.
I flashed a bright glance at her now.
“I know that my father would like it. I’ll tell the Baroness you are not well and cannot come down this morning.”
“The Baroness? What did you say?” said Augusta.
“Our head-mistress; her name is Baroness von Gablestein.”
Augusta closed her eyes and shivered.
“To this we have sunk,” I heard her mutter, and then she turned her face to the wall.
A great bell, musical and dear, sounded all over the house.
“That is our summons,” I said. “Mademoiselle Wrex will meet us on the next landing, and I will come to you as soon as I can.”
I left the room.
“What’s the matter?” said Hermione.
“She says she has a headache, but I think she is mostly sulking,” I replied. “I am going to write to my step-mother; I think I know how to manage her.”
“Dumps, how bright you look—and how happy!” Yes, I was happy; I was feeling in my heart of hearts that I really meant to do my very best.
On the next landing we met Mademoiselle Wrex. See looked approvingly at us. I told her about Augusta, and she said she would see to the young lady, but in the meantime we must follow her downstairs. We went down and down. How airy and fresh, and I must say how cold also, the house felt! I had always imagined that French houses were warm. When we arrived on the ground étage we turned to our left and entered a very large room. Like all the other rooms in the house, it was bare of carpet. On a sort of dais at the top of the room there stood the Baroness von Gablestein. She was one of the handsomest and most distinguished-looking women I had ever seen. She was not young; she must have been between forty and fifty years of age. Her hair was dark by nature, but was now very much mixed with grey. She had dark and very thick eyebrows, and a broad and massive forehead. She wore her hair on a high cushion rolled back from her face. The rest of her features were regular and very clearly cut. Her lips were sweet but firm, and her eyes dark and very penetrating. But it was not her mere features, it was the clear, energetic, and yet joyous expression of her face which so captivated me that I, Dumps, stood perfectly still when I saw her, and did not move for the space of two or three seconds. I felt some one poke me in the back, and a voice in broken English said, “But stare not so. Go right forward.”
I turned, and saw a girl much shorter than myself, and much more podgy, who glanced at me, smiled, and pointed to a bench where I was to sit.
The Baroness read a few verses of Scripture in the French tongue, and then we all knelt down and a collect for the day was read, also in French, and then we were desired to join our different classes in the schoolroom. I stood still, and so did Hermione. The Baroness seemed to observe us for the first time, and raised her brows.
Mademoiselle Wrex came up and said something to her.
“Ah, yes,” I heard her say in very sweet, clear English. “The dear children! But certainly I will speak with them.”
She went down two or three steps and came to meet us.
“You are Rachel Grant,” she said. “Welcome to our school.—And you are Hermione Aldyce. Welcome to our school.”
She had a sort of regal manner; she bent and kissed me on the centre of my forehead, and she did the same to Hermione.
“I trust you will enjoy your life here. I trust you will in all respects be worthy of the reputation of our school; and I trust, also, that we shall do our utmost to make you happy and wise.”
She paused for a minute.
“My dear children,” she said then, “this is a very busy hour for me, and I will see you later; in the meantime I leave you in the care of Mademoiselle Wrex, who will take you to those teachers who will superintend your studies.”
I felt my cheeks growing very red. Hermione was cool and composed. We followed Mademoiselle Wrex through several rooms into the schoolroom, and there we were examined by a German lady, who put us in a very low form as regarded that language. We were next questioned by a French mademoiselle, who did likewise; but an English lady, with a matter-of-fact and very quiet face, rescued us from the ignominious position in which we found ourselves with regard to German and French by discovering that our attainments in our mother-tongue were by no means contemptible.
In the end we found, so to speak, our level, and our school life began right merrily.
Late that evening I found time to write a few words to my step-mother.
“I will tell you all about the school later on,” I began. “At present I feel topsy-turvy and whirly-whirly; I don’t know where I am, nor what has happened to me. I dare say I shall like it very much, but I will keep my long letter for Sunday; we have all the time we want for ourselves on Sunday; no one interferes, and we are allowed to talk in our own tongue—that is, if we wish to do so. What I am specially writing to you about now is Augusta. She is taking the change in her circumstances very badly, I must say, my dear step-mother; she is not reconciled. She would not get up this morning, nor would she undress last night. She pleads a headache, and will not eat. But, at the same time, Mademoiselle Wrex, who has the charge of our department, cannot find anything special the matter with her. I think it is a case of homesickness, but not the ordinary sort, for she is certainly not pining for her mother. It really is a case of grieving because she cannot attend my father’s lectures. She does think a great deal of him, and seems to have set her whole life by his example. Now, if you could get him to send her the tiniest little note, just the merest line, to say he hopes she will do well and like her French and German—oh, anything will do—she will do her duty and will be as happy as the day is long. You are so clever, I know you can manage it. I haven’t time for another word.—Your affectionate step-daughter, Rachel Grant.”