by L. T. Meade
big, fog-begrimedparlour. I came close to it, and I even so far forgot proprieties as todrop on my knees and to hold out my hands to the blaze.
"Chilblains, I declare!" said Miss Donnithorne, taking one of my handsbetween both her own. "The best cure for those is to bathe your handsonce or twice a day in a very strong solution of salt and hot water.The water must be as hot as you can bear it. But the best cure of allis a good circulation."
"What's that?" I asked.
"Bless you, child! Don't you know, and you go to school every day?"
I stood up; my hands were warm, and my feet were tingling with renewedlife. I had a curious sensation that my nose, which was by no means mybest feature, was very red, for it certainly felt hot. I turned roundand said, "I am quite warm now."
"Then you would like to go up to your room. Nancy will go with you.She'll unpack your parcel for you."
"Oh no, thank you," I replied. Then I added, "Is Nancy one of yourservants?"
"I have only one servant in this tiny house, my dear, and Nancy is theone. She is a very good-natured sort of girl, and quite pleased at theidea of your coming to stay with me. I treat her as a sort of friend,you see, as she and I are all alone in the house together."
I began to like Miss Donnithorne better and better each moment. She wasso jolly. Whenever she spoke her eyes sparkled as though they werelaughing, while the rest of her face was grave. All the same, I did notwant Nancy, and I said so.
"I can help myself," I argued. "We have only got Hannah in our bighouse."
"Well, well, dear! if you can manage for yourself, I am the last one towish you to do otherwise," said Miss Donnithorne. "Here is your parcel;you can take it upstairs."
"But how am I to find my way to my room?"
"You cannot lose it, my dear. Go up that little staircase, and when youreach the landing you will see an open door. Go through that doorwayand you will be in your own bedroom. There's no other bedroom on thatlanding, so you cannot miss it, can you?"
"No," I replied, laughing.
I seized my brown-paper parcel and ran upstairs. It certainly was nicein the country, and how delicious a small house was! One could be warmin a small house; it was impossible to be warm in that great, rambling,old-fashioned house which belonged to the college and where father andthe boys and I lived.
I found my bedroom. Now, girls who are accustomed to nice bedrooms alltheir lives take, I suppose, no particular interest in another nicebedroom when they are suddenly introduced into it. But my room at homecould never, under any pretext, be considered nice. For someextraordinary reason, big as the house was, I had always slept next toHannah in one of the attics. There was no earthly reason for this,except perhaps that when I was a child I was nearer to Hannah in case Ishould turn ill. It had never occurred to me to change my room, and ithad certainly never occurred to anybody else to make it comfortable.There was a bedstead and a bed of a sort, and there was a looking-glass,with a crack right down the middle, which stood on a little deal table.The deal table was, as a rule, covered with a cloth, which seldom lookedwhite on account of the London fogs. There was a huge wooden press--itcould certainly not be called by the modern name of wardrobe--in which Ikept my clothes; and there was a wooden chair on which I placed mycandle at night, and that was about all. One side of the room had asloping roof, and the window was at the best of times of minuteproportions. But the room itself had a vast amount of unoccupied space;it was a huge room, and terribly ugly.
Never had I realised that fact until I went into the sweet littleapartment which Miss Grace Donnithorne had ordered to be got ready forme. In the first place, its window looked out on a pure expanse ofsnow-covered country, and I jumped softly up and down as I gazed at thatview, for the sun was shining on it, and the sky overhead was blue--blueas sapphires. Then in the grate there was a fire--a fire just as brightas the one in the little sitting-room with the stuffed birds downstairs;and all the hangings of the room were of white dimity, which hadevidently been put up fresh from the wash. It was by no means a grandroom; it was simple of the simple, but it did look sweet. There was alittle nosegay of chrysanthemums on the dressing-table; there weredainty hangings round my snow-white couch; and on the floor was anold-fashioned carpet made of different shades of crimson, and very thickand soft it felt to the feet. The china in the room was very pretty,being white with scarlet berries on it; it all looked Christmasy andwintry and yet cheery, like the sort of Christmases one reads of in thefairy-tales of long ago.
I unfastened my parcel. I had just taken my long brown skirt out of itswrappings, and was shaking it out preparatory to putting it on, when Iheard Miss Grace say from the bottom of the stairs, "Dumps, how longwill it be before you are downstairs? I am just having the cutletsdished up."
"Oh dear!" I said to myself.--"I'll be down in a very few minutes," Ianswered.
Now, I had promised father that I would certainly go down in the brownskirt and red blouse, and I would not break that promise to him for theworld; so I quickly divested myself of my shabby little travellingcostume and got into the brown skirt. It was a little tight in thewaist, for I must say mine was very broad, but in every other singleparticular it was too big for me; it was so long in front that I couldscarcely walk without stumbling. Still, I had no doubt that I made avery imposing figure in it. It was thick, it felt warm, and Iremembered my father's remark that there would be room for growth, andthat the thinning process would eventually make it not quite so heavy.
But the brown skirt, although a partial success, was nothing at all tothe red blouse. I have said that it was a brick-red, and it did notsuit my face. It was of common material, made with thick folds, and thesleeves were much too long. I got into it somehow, and cast a glance atmyself in the glass. How funny I looked!--my head not too tidy; my faceflushed, in by no means a becoming way; with a brick-red blouse and abrown skirt. Nevertheless, I was dressed, and there was a sort ofsatisfaction in feeling grown-up just for once. I wished that I had hadtime to plait my hair and pin it round my head; then I might haveimpressed Miss Grace Donnithorne with the fact that not a child but agrown-up young lady had come to visit her. But as there was no time forthat, and as there was a most appetising smell coming up the narrowstairs, I flew down just as I was, in my new costume. I very nearlystumbled as I ran downstairs, but I saved myself by picking up my skirt,and then I entered the little drawing-room.
"Come, come, child!" said Miss Donnithorne. "Not that way; come intothis room now."
I turned and crossed the little hall and entered the dining-room. Thedining-room was twice the size of the little room where the stuffedbirds dwelt. It was furnished in quite a modern fashion, and lookedvery nice indeed to me. The cloth on the table was so white that it didnot even look dirty by contrast with the snow outside, and the silvershone--oh, like a number of looking-glasses; and the knives were soclean and new-looking.
Miss Grace just opened her eyes for the tenth of a second when I enteredthe room, and I wondered what reflection passed through her mind, butshe gave utterance to none. She invited me to seat myself, and I hadthe most delicious meal I had ever partaken of in the whole course of mylife. Nancy flew in and out, serving us with more and more dainties:puddings, jellies--oh dear, what delicious things jellies are when youhave never tasted them before! Then there was fruit--apples which, MissDonnithorne told me, had grown and ripened in her own garden; andfinally we cracked nuts and became excellent friends, sitting close tothe fire. Nancy's final entrance had been with coffee on a little tray.Miss Donnithorne poured out a cup for me and a cup for herself.
"We'll go out presently," she said. "It's a lovely day for a walk. Ishall take you a good way and show you some of the beauties of theplace. But what about your boots? Are they strong?"
"Oh, pretty well," I replied.
"I can lend you some rubbers; but what size are your feet?"
I pushed out one of my feet for inspection.
"Dear, dear!" said Miss Do
nnithorne, "they're bigger than mine. Mineare rather small, and yours--you will forgive me, but yours areenormous; they really are. Have you been attended to by a shoemaker?"
"Oh, Hannah gets my boots for me," I said. "She always has them made toorder, as she says they last twice as long; and she always insists onhaving them made two sizes too large. She says she can't be troubled byhearing me complain that they are too small."
"Dear me, child!" said Miss Donnithorne. "Do you know that youaggravate me more each moment?"
"Aggravate you?" I answered.
"Yes. You make something plainer and plainer. There! not a word moreat present. But before I go upstairs, do tell me, was it Hannah oryourself who chose _that_?"
As she spoke she pointed to the red blouse and the brown skirt. Sheevidently thought of them as a costume, for she did not speak of them inthe plural; she spoke of them as "that," and if ever there wascondemnation in a kind voice, it was when she uttered that word.
"It was father who got them at Wallis's," I said. "I told him when Iwas coming to you that my clothes were rather shabby, and he boughtthem--he chose them himself."
"Bless him!" said Miss Donnithorne.
She looked at me critically for a minute, and then she burst into aperfect shriek of laughter. I felt inclined to be offended. It hadnever occurred to me that anybody in all the world could laugh at theProfessor; but Miss Donnithorne laughed till the tears rolled down hercheeks.
"Mercy! Mercy me!" she repeated at intervals.
When she had recovered herself she said, "My dear, you mustn't be angry.I respect your father immensely, but his gift does not lie in theclothing of girls. Why, child, that is a woman's skirt. Let me feelthe texture."
She felt it between her finger and thumb.
"Not at all the material for a lady," was her comment. "That skirt ismeant for a hard-working artisan's wife. It is so harsh it makes meshudder as I touch it. A lady's dress should always be soft, and notheavy."
"Father thought a great deal of the weight," I could not help saying."He thought it would keep me so warm."
"Bless him!" said Miss Donnithorne again. "But after all," shecontinued, "the skirt is nothing to the blouse. My dear, I will befrank with you; there are some men who know nothing whatever aboutdress, and that blouse is--atrocious. We'll get them both off, Rachel,or Dumps, or whatever you call yourself."
"But," I said, "I have nothing else much to wear. I only brought thisand my little, shabby everyday dress."
"Now, I wonder," said Miss Donnithorne; but she did not utter herthought aloud. She became very reflective.
"I should not be surprised," she said under her breath. "Well, anyhow,we'll go out in the shabby little things, for I couldn't have you look afigure of fun walking through Chelmsford with me. That would be quiteimpossible."
"All right, Miss Donnithorne," I said, inclined to be offended, althoughin my heart of hearts I had no love for the brown skirt and the redblouse.
"That costume will do admirably for that Hannah of yours," said MissDonnithorne after another pause. "From what you tell me of that body, Ishould think it would suit her; but it's not the thing for you."
"Only father--" I expostulated.
"I'll manage your father. Now go to your room, child, and get into yourother things as fast as possible."
I went away, and Miss Donnithorne still continued to sit by the fire.Could I believe my own ears? I thought I heard her sigh when I got intothe hall, and then I heard her laugh. I felt half-inclined to beoffended; I was certainly very much puzzled. Truly my cheeks were rednow. I looked at myself in the glass. No, I was not pretty. I saw atonce now why people called me Dumps. It is a great trial for a girlwhen her nose is half an inch too short, and her eyes are too small, andher mouth a trifle too broad, and she has no special complexion and nospecial look of intelligence, and no wonderfully thick hair, and has nobeautiful shades of colouring--when she is all made up of drabs andgreys, and her nose is decidedly podgy, and her cheeks inclined to betoo fat--and yet when all the time the poor girl has a feverish desirein her soul to be beautiful, when she thinks more of beauty of featureand beauty of form, and beauty, in fact, of every sort, than of anythingelse in the world. It was a girl with that sort of exterior who nowlooked into the round glass. It was an old-fashioned glass, but a verygood one, and I, Dumps, could see myself quite distinctly, and knew atlast that it was fit and right that I should have the name. It wasabsurd to call a creature like me Rachel. Was not the first Rachelalways spoken of as one of the most beautiful women in all the world?Why should I dare to take that sacred name? Oh yes, I was Dumps. Iwould not be offended any longer when I was called by it. My figurevery much matched my face, for it was squat and decidedly short for myage. In the hideous red blouse, and with that brown skirt, I looked myvery worst. I was glad to take them off. Talk of heat and weight! Iknew at last what it was to be too hot and to have too much to carry.
I was delighted to be in my little, worn-out, but well-accustomed-togarments, and I ran down to Miss Donnithorne, feeling as though I, likeChristian, had got rid of a heavy burden.
PART ONE, CHAPTER SIX.
AT HEDGEROW HOUSE.
We took a long walk. We went right through Chelmsford, and I wasenchanted with the appearance of that gay little country town. Then wegot out into the country, where the snow lay in all its virgin purity.We walked fast, and I felt the cold, delicious air stinging my cheeks.I felt a sense of exhilaration, which Miss Donnithorne told me the snowgenerally gives to people.
"It makes the air lighter," she said; "and besides, there is so muchammonia in it."
I did not understand what she meant, but then I did not want tounderstand. I was happy; I was having a good time. I liked her bettereach moment.
We got back to the little cottage in time for tea, which we had cosilyin the sitting-room with the stuffed birds and animals.
After tea Miss Donnithorne showed me some of her treasures--vastcollections of shells, which she had been gathering in different partsof the world ever since she was a small child. I was fascinated bythem; she told me that I might help to arrange them for her, and I spenta very blissful time in this fashion until it was time for supper.Supper was a simple meal, which consisted of milk and bread-and-butterand different sorts of stewed fruit.
"I don't approve of late dinners," said Miss Donnithorne. "That is,"she added, "not for myself. Now, Dumps, do tell me what sort of mealthe Professor eats before he goes to bed at night."
"Oh, anything that is handy," I answered.
"But doesn't he have a good nourishing meal, the sort to sustain a brainlike his?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Hannah sees to it."
"But don't you?" said Miss Donnithorne, looking rather severe, and thelaugh going out of her eyes. "Don't you attend to your father's wants?"
"As much as I can, Miss Donnithorne. You see, I am still supposed to benothing but a child, and Hannah has the management of things."
"You are supposed to be nothing but a child?" said Miss Donnithorne, andshe looked me all up and down.
How I did hate the length of leg that I showed in my very short skirt!She fixed her eyes in a very obstinate manner on those said legs,clothed as they were in coarse stockings, which, alack and alas! weredarned in more places than one. Then her eyes travelled lower andrested on my feet. I had taken off my huge boots now; but what was thegood of that when my feet were enveloped in shoes quite as large, and ofthe very ugliest possible make?
Miss Donnithorne heaved a profound sigh.
"I wish--" I said impulsively.
"You wish what, Rachel?"
"That you would let me wear the brown skirt."
"And why, child? It is absolutely hideous."
"But it is long," I cried. "You would not see my legs nor my uglyfeet."
"Rachel, you want a great deal of attention; you are being sadlyneglected."
"Am I?" I said. Then I added, "Why do y
ou say so?"
"It is but to look at you. You are not such a child that you could notdo hundreds of things which at present never enter into your head."
"How do you know, Miss Donnithorne?"
"I know," she answered. "A little bird has told me." Now, all my lifeI had hated women who spoke about having confidences with little birds;and I now said impulsively, "Please don't say that. I am so inclined tolike you just awfully! But if you wouldn't speak about that bird--"
"You have heard of it before?" she asked, and the sparkle came back intoher eyes. "Well, never mind how I know. I suppose I know because Ihave got observation. But, to begin with, tell me how old you are."
"I'll be sixteen in a little less than six months."
"Bless us!" said Miss Donnithorne, "why can't the child say she isfifteen and a half?"
"Oh, that's because of the birthdays," I replied.
"The birthdays?" she asked, raising her brows.
"Miss Donnithorne," I said impulsively, "a birthday is _the_ day in thewhole year. A birthday makes up for many very dismal days. On abirthday, when it comes, the sun shines and the world is beautiful. Oh,Miss Donnithorne, what would life be without birthdays?"
I spoke with such emotion and earnestness that the
