"Dear, dear!" said Miss Donnithorne, "they're bigger than mine. Mine
are rather small, and yours--you will forgive me, but yours are
enormous; 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 to
order, as she says they last twice as long; and she always insists on
having them made two sizes too large. She says she can't be troubled by
hearing me complain that they are too small."
"Dear me, child!" said Miss Donnithorne. "Do you know that you
aggravate me more each moment?"
"Aggravate you?" I answered.
"Yes. You make something plainer and plainer. There! not a word more
at present. But before I go upstairs, do tell me, was it Hannah or
yourself who chose _that_?"
As she spoke she pointed to the red blouse and the brown skirt. She
evidently thought of them as a costume, for she did not speak of them in
the plural; she spoke of them as "that," and if ever there was
condemnation 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 I
was coming to you that my clothes were rather shabby, and he bought
them--he chose them himself."
"Bless him!" said Miss Donnithorne.
She looked at me critically for a minute, and then she burst into a
perfect shriek of laughter. I felt inclined to be offended. It had
never occurred to me that anybody in all the world could laugh at the
Professor; but Miss Donnithorne laughed till the tears rolled down her
cheeks.
"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 the
clothing of girls. Why, child, that is a woman's skirt. Let me feel
the texture."
She felt it between her finger and thumb.
"Not at all the material for a lady," was her comment. "That skirt is
meant for a hard-working artisan's wife. It is so harsh it makes me
shudder as I touch it. A lady's dress should always be soft, and not
heavy."
"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," she
continued, "the skirt is nothing to the blouse. My dear, I will be
frank with you; there are some men who know nothing whatever about
dress, 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 this
and my little, shabby everyday dress."
"Now, I wonder," said Miss Donnithorne; but she did not utter her
thought 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 a
figure of fun walking through Chelmsford with me. That would be quite
impossible."
"All right, Miss Donnithorne," I said, inclined to be offended, although
in my heart of hearts I had no love for the brown skirt and the red
blouse.
"That costume will do admirably for that Hannah of yours," said Miss
Donnithorne after another pause. "From what you tell me of that body, I
should 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 your
other 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 into
the hall, and then I heard her laugh. I felt half-inclined to be
offended; I was certainly very much puzzled. Truly my cheeks were red
now. I looked at myself in the glass. No, I was not pretty. I saw at
once now why people called me Dumps. It is a great trial for a girl
when her nose is half an inch too short, and her eyes are too small, and
her mouth a trifle too broad, and she has no special complexion and no
special look of intelligence, and no wonderfully thick hair, and has no
beautiful shades of colouring--when she is all made up of drabs and
greys, and her nose is decidedly podgy, and her cheeks inclined to be
too fat--and yet when all the time the poor girl has a feverish desire
in her soul to be beautiful, when she thinks more of beauty of feature
and beauty of form, and beauty, in fact, of every sort, than of anything
else in the world. It was a girl with that sort of exterior who now
looked into the round glass. It was an old-fashioned glass, but a very
good one, and I, Dumps, could see myself quite distinctly, and knew at
last that it was fit and right that I should have the name. It was
absurd to call a creature like me Rachel. Was not the first Rachel
always 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. I
would not be offended any longer when I was called by it. My figure
very much matched my face, for it was squat and decidedly short for my
age. In the hideous red blouse, and with that brown skirt, I looked my
very worst. I was glad to take them off. Talk of heat and weight! I
knew 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-to
garments, and I ran down to Miss Donnithorne, feeling as though I, like
Christian, had got rid of a heavy burden.