Dumps – A Plain Girl

Squire Aldyce was a very aristocratic-looking old gentleman, and his wife was the sort that one would describe as a very fine lady indeed. I did not like her half as much as I liked him. He was quite sweet. He congratulated me on being my father’s daughter, and asked when the Professor was going to bring out another pamphlet on some appallingly learned subject, the name of which I could not possibly pronounce. I said I did not know, and a minute or two later we found ourselves sitting round the dinner-table.

There were a few other guests, and I was introduced to them as Miss Rachel Grant.

“The daughter of the well-known Professor,” said the Squire after each of these formalities.

The ladies did not take much notice of me, but the gentlemen stared at me for a minute or two, and one man said, “I congratulate you, little girl. To be so closely related to so great a man is an honour, and I hope you appreciate it.”

Dear old father! I did not know that the glories and laurels he had won were to follow me, such a very plain little girl, to such a grand house.

When dinner came to an end we again went upstairs, and Hermione showed me her treasures, and forgot to ask me about my birthdays. We were having a long and very serious talk, in which she spoke of books and music and the delights of the higher sort of education, when I broke in by saying suddenly, “You don’t understand me a bit.”

“What in the world do you mean? What is the matter?” she exclaimed.

“Because I don’t love study, or books, or anything of that sort. I think,” I added, my eyes filling with tears, “that I have come here as a sham, for I am not the least morsel like father – not the least.”

“Perhaps you resemble your mother,” said Hermione in her very calm way.

I had quite loved her up to now, for she had such beautiful manners and such a nice face; but now when she made this reply I looked at her steadily, and saw that, just because of her wealth and high birth and fine clothes, her knowledge of life was limited. She could not see things from my point of view.

“I don’t think I am the least like my darling mother,” I said, “for she was beautiful.”

“And don’t you remember her?”

“I don’t remember her. If she were alive I should be quite a different sort of girl. But oh, Hermione! sometimes at night I think of her just when I am dropping off to sleep. She comes to me when I am asleep. To think of any girl having a mother! Oh, it must be the height of bliss and of joy!”

Hermione stared at me for a minute; then she said, “I don’t understand. I love my father best.”

“Do you?” I said, a little shocked.

“Of course you cannot possibly love your mother’s memory as you do your father, for he is such a great man – a man whom all the world is proud of.”

“But he is only a teacher in a school,” I could not help saying.

“He could be anything; but he will not leave the school. He loves to instruct the boys. But it isn’t for his scholastic work he is known; it is because he is himself, and – and because of those wonderful lectures, so many of which are published. He lectures also at the Royal Society, and he writes pamphlets which set the greatest thinkers all agog. Oh, I should be proud of him if I were you!”

“I am glad,” I said. I knew that I loved the Professor dearly. Had I not all my life sacrificed myself for his sake, as every one else had also done?

Hermione said after a pause, “Miss Donnithorne told me that you were – ”

“What?” I asked.

“A little bit – don’t be offended – a little bit neglected.”

“She had no right to say so; I am not.”

As I spoke I laid my hand on the dark-blue dress, and all of a sudden I grew to hate it. I disliked Hermione also.

“What is the matter?” she said. “Have I hurt you in any way? I wouldn’t for all the world. I am so truly glad to make your acquaintance.”

“You didn’t mean to,” I said, recovering my temper; “but the fact is, Hermione, I live one life and you live another. You are rich, and we are poor; I am not ashamed to say it.”

“It must be rather exciting to be poor,” said Hermione. “I mean it must be interesting to know the value of money. But you don’t look poor, Dumps – or – I mean Rachel. That dress – ”

“Oh! don’t talk of my dress, please.”

“I know it’s bad form,” she replied, and she seemed to shrink into her shell.

After a minute she spoke on a different subject, and just then a stately but somewhat withered-looking lady entered the room.

“Hermione, Miss Donnithorne says that you and Miss Grant must put on your things now in order to return to Hedgerow House, otherwise you won’t be in time to receive the Professor.”

“The Professor?” I cried, jumping to my feet. Hermione laughed.

“You don’t mean to say that Miss Donnithorne hasn’t told you that your father is coming to have tea with you both?”

“I didn’t know anything about it. My father? But he never leaves London.”

“He has managed to leave it to-day. How queer that you shouldn’t know!”

“I had better get dressed; I shouldn’t like to be late,” I said.

I felt all of a flutter; I was nervous. Would he remark my dark-blue costume, and be angry with me for not wearing my brown skirt and red blouse?

“I’ll get dressed in a twinkling,” said Hermione. “Come along, Dumps; this is interesting.”

I wondered why she was so pleased, and why a sort of inward mirth began to consume her. Her eyes were twinkling all the time. I began to like her a little less and a little less; and yet, of course, she was a most charming and well-bred and nice-looking girl.

We went downstairs a few minutes later. We said good-bye to the Squire and his wife. The Squire said he hoped he would have the honour of entertaining Professor’s Grant’s daughter again, and the Squire’s lady made some remark which I presumed signified the same. Then we went away, driving as fast as ever we could in the direction of Hedgerow House.

Part 1, Chapter VII

A Surprise Tea

We were a little late after all, for the Professor was standing on the steps. It does seem so ridiculous to call your own father the Professor, but after all I had heard of him that day I really felt that I could not even think of him under any other title. He was dressed just as carelessly and with as little regard to outward appearances as though he had been giving a lecture to the Sixth Form boys in the college. His hair was rumpled and pushed back from his lofty forehead. His eyes had that somewhat vacant stare which, notwithstanding his genius, I could not help constantly noticing in them. His adorers – and it struck me that the Professor had many adorers – called that his “far-away” or his “abstracted” or his “marvellous thinking” look, but to me it seemed that it was his vacant look. But there! it was very wrong of me to think such a thing about father.

“He has come,” said Miss Donnithorne. “Rachel, your father is here. I am more vexed than I can say not to have been ready to welcome him. I hope Nancy saw to his comfort. Jump out, child, and run up the path. Be the first to greet him. I will follow you immediately.”

I was almost pushed by Miss Donnithorne out of the carriage, and I ran up the little path which led to Hedgerow House. I felt that Miss Donnithorne and Hermione were following me a few steps behind. I wondered if father would notice the dark-blue dress and the grey fur. If he did he would be sure to say something which would let the cat out of the bag – something which would lower me for ever in the eyes of Hermione. As I had not chosen to tell Hermione at the time that Miss Donnithorne had requested me to wear the dress that day, I should dislike beyond anything to have father blazoning the whole secret abroad. But he did nothing of the kind; he merely said, “Well, Dumps, you look flourishing.”

He held out his hand and gave me the tips of his fingers. Then he shook hands with Miss Donnithorne, and Miss Donnithorne presented Hermione to him. I observed that Miss Donnithorne’s cheeks were brighter than their wont. She began to speak in a very apologetic way, but father cut her short.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said; “pray don’t apologise.” They both went into the house, and it seemed to me that they forgot all about Hermione and me as completely as though we did not exist.

“How queer!” I could not help saying.

“Queer?” said Hermione. “It isn’t a bit queer; it’s what we ought to expect.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.