Dumps – A Plain Girl

She smiled and shook her little head.

“But what would you do,” she said a few minutes afterwards, “if these things were not arranged? You might reach, say, twenty, or even twenty-one or twenty-two, and – ”

“Well, suppose I did reach twenty-one or twenty-two; surely those years are not so awful?”

“But to be unbetrothed at twenty-one or twenty-two,” she continued. “Why, do you not know that at twenty-five a girl – why, she is lost.”

“Lost?” I cried.

“Well, what we call put aside – of no account. She doesn’t go to dances. She stays at home with the old parents. The young sister supersedes her; she goes out all shining and beautiful, and the adored one comes her way, and she is betrothed, and gets presents and the dot and the beautiful wedding, and the home where the house linen is so marvellous and the furniture so good. Then for the rest of her days she is a good housewife, and looks after the comforts of the lord of the house.”

“The lord of the house?” I gasped.

“Her husband. Surely it is her one and only desire to think of his comforts. What is she but second to him? Oh! the chosen wife is happy, and fulfils her mission. But the unfortunate maiden who reaches the age of twenty-five, why, there is nothing for her – nothing!”

The Comtesses pretty checks were flushed with vivid rose; her blue eyes darkened with horror.

“Poor maiden of twenty-five!” I said. “Why, in England you are only supposed to be properly grown-up about then.”

“But surely,” said the Comtesse, glancing at me and shrugging her shoulders – “you surely do not mean to say that at that advanced age marriages take place?”

“Much more than before a girl is twenty-five. But really,” I added, “I don’t want to talk about marriages and dots; I am only a schoolgirl.”

The Comtesse laughed.

“Why will you so speak? What else has a girl of my great nation to think of and talk of? And the mademoiselles here – what have they to think of and to talk of? Oh! it is all the same; we live for it – our dot, and our future husbands, and the home where he is lord and we his humble servant.”

“It doesn’t sound at all interesting,” I said; and after that my conversation with Comtesse Riki languished a little.

A few days afterwards this same girl came to me when I was preparing a letter for home. I was writing in our sitting-room when she entered. She glanced quickly round her.

“It is you who have the sympathy,” she said.

“I hope so,” I answered. “What is the matter, Riki?” Her eyes were full of tears; she hastily put up her handkerchief and wiped them away.

“There is no doubt,” she said, “that you English are allowed liberties unheard-of for a German girl like me. I would beg of you to do me a great favour. I have been thinking of what you said the other day about this so great liberty of the English maidens, and the great extension of years which to them is permitted.”

“Yes, yes?” I said, and as I spoke I glanced at the gilt clock on the chiffonier.

“You are in so great a hurry, are you not?” asked Riki.

“I want to finish my letter.”

“And you will perhaps post it; is it not so?”

“Yes; I am going out with Hermione and Mademoiselle Wrex.”

“You are going, perhaps, to shops to buy things?”

“Yes. Do you want me to bring you in some chocolates?”

“Oh! that would be vare nice; but if you would, with your own letter, put this into the post also?”

As she spoke she gave me a letter addressed in the somewhat thin and pointed hand which most German girls use, and which I so cordially detested.

“It is to Heinrich,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask you; but your heart is warm, and – he suffers.”

“But why should I post it? Will you not take it downstairs and put it with the other letters in the letter-box?”

The delicate colour flew to her cheeks; her eyes were brighter than usual.

“Heinrich would not then receive it,” she answered. “You will post it – it is nécessaire for him that he gets it soon; he is in need of comfort. You will, will you not?”

I really hardly thought about the matter. I did not know why, but it did not occur to me that Riki was asking me to do anything underhand or outside the rules. She laid the letter on the table and flew away. I had just finished my own; I put it into an envelope and addressed it, and taking Riki’s letter also, I put on my outdoor things and went downstairs to meet Hermione and Mademoiselle Wrex.

It was now a very bitter day in March. We had been at school for two months. The time had flown. I was a healthy and very happy girl.

Mademoiselle Wrex said, “We must walk quickly to keep ourselves warm in this so bitter north-east wind.”

We all walked quickly, with our hands in our muffs, and as we were passing a pillar-box I dropped the letters in.

“Now that is off my mind,” I thought, with a sigh of relief.

“How did you manage to write two letters?” asked Hermione. “You were in such a fearful fuss getting through your one!”

I made no answer. Something the next moment distracted our attention, and we absolutely forgot the circumstance.

It was not until about a week afterwards that I observed a change in Comtesse Riki. She was very pale, and coughed now and then. She no longer took interest in her work, and often sat for a long time pensive and melancholy, her eyes fixed on my face. One bitterly cold day I found her alone in the salon, where we seldom sat; for although there was what was called central heating all over the house, it was not often put on to any great extent in the salon. Riki had flung herself into a chair which was the reverse of comfortable. She started up when she saw me.

“Oh, you will sympathise with me in my trouble!”

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“If we might go for a little walk together.”

“But why so?” I asked. “You are not fit to go out to-day, it is so cold.”

“But the cold will revive me. Feel my hand; my pulse beats so fast.”

I took her hand; her little pulse was bounding in her slender wrist.

“I am sure you ought not to go out; indeed, you can’t.” She looked up at me imploringly. Suddenly she burst out crying.

“Oh Riki,” I said, “what is the matter?”

“If you don’t help me I shall be the most miserable girl in all the world,” she said. “And it is all your fault, too.”

“My fault?” I cried. “Why, Riki, you must be mad. Whatever have I done?”