My presents were much appreciated, although it is true that father
looked somewhat dubiously at his inkpot. He asked me how it was opened.
I described the exact method by which he was to press the spring, and
he remarked then that it would take time.
"But," I said, "you see there is a kind of sponge with a leather cover
to it, which presses down into the bottle and prevents every scrap of
air from getting in, so that the ink keeps much longer."
"Yes; but the period it takes from one's existence!" remarked father.
Then he glanced at me. "Never mind," he said; "you meant well. I am
always willing to admit it when any one means well."
Now, I had actually spent a pound of my money on this inkstand of
father's--one-tenth of my quarter's allowance--and all the praise I got
was that I meant well.
Von Marlo came up to me and said, "It is a most wonderful and cleverly
constructed inkstand. I tell you what--whenever I come over to your
house I'll see that it's dusted and kept in order. I'll look after it
myself. I think it's quite lovely."
I had given Von Marlo a nice little tablet for notes, which he professed
to be delighted with; and I had given my step-mother a new sort of diary
with a lock and key. There was no one whom I had forgotten. Even
Augusta was in raptures with the very driest book on mathematics that I
could pick up. She said that for once she believed I was a thoroughly
sensible girl.
Then there were the gifts from the others to me. My step-mother gave me
a lovely little narrow gold chain with a locket attached to it; and
father, for the first time since I could remember, gave me a present
simply as a present. It consisted of a row of very curious,
sweet-scented beads, which were mounted now in gold, and could be worn
either as a necklace or as a bracelet.
"But you have had these for ages," I said.
"Yes; but my wife thought that they could be set very prettily for you,"
he said.
I was delighted, and thanked him heartily. I had often coveted those
blue beads, for they were a wonderful greenish blue, and in some lights
looked quite opalescent.
The boys, too, gave me things very suitable and very useful. No one had
forgotten me. Even Augusta gave me a pin-cushion stuck full of pins
that I scratched myself with the first thing. That was very likely, for
she had put them in so badly that several stuck out underneath, and I
had inflicted a wound before I was aware of this fact.
But the presents, after all, were nothing compared to the festive air
which pervaded the place.
We went to church, and we knelt before God's altar, and joined in the
great and glorious Festival of Divine Love.
After church we were all to go to the Aldyces' for dinner. This
invitation had been vouchsafed to us on the occasion of my father's
marriage, and Mrs Grant said that it was quite impossible not to accept
it.
"You will like Hermione," I said to Augusta. I thought she would. I
thought Hermione's precise ways would rather please Augusta. The
carriage, however, did not meet us at the church, for it was arranged
that we were to go home first and have lunch at Hedgerow House, and then
were to walk in a body the two miles which separated us from The Grange,
Squire Aldyce's beautiful old residence.
We went there in high spirits. Everything was joyful that day. Here
more and more presents awaited us. Really it was marvellous. Alex
managed to whisper to me, "Have you no eye for contrasts?"
"Contrasts?" I asked, turning round and giving him a flashing glance.
"Between this Christmas and last," he said.
I felt annoyed. I had been trying so very hard to keep in the best of
humours--to be good, if I, poor naughty Dumps, could really and truly be
good--and now the spirit of naughtiness was once more awakened. Oh, of
course, this was a glorious time, and I ought to be delighted; but the
ache had returned to my heart, the longing to be in my own little room
looking at my mother's miniature, the wish for the old desolation when
she, as I said to myself, had been honoured and her memory respected.
I stood in a brown study for a minute or two, and as I stood thus
Hermione came up to me and asked me if I would not like to go away with
her to her room. I was very glad of the reprieve. She took my hand and
we ran upstairs. When we found ourselves in her pretty room she made me
sit down in the cosiest chair she could find, poked the fire, and
squatted herself on the hearth-rug. She wore a lovely dress of very
pale Liberty green silk, and looked, with her aristocratic small face
and beautiful hair, like a picture.
"Well, Dumps," she said, "and so you have solved the mystery?"
"You knew it at that time?" I said.
"Knew it? Of course I did! It was the greatest amazement to me when
Miss Donnithorne said, `You are not to tell her; her father doesn't wish
it to be known.'"
"Then she did not want to have it kept a secret?"
"She?" said Hermione. "Poor darling! it was her greatest desire to tell
you--in fact, she had quite made up her mind to do so--but she received
a most urgent letter from your father saying that he would infinitely
prefer none of you to know until after the ceremony. You mustn't blame
her."
"I think it was exceedingly wrong to deceive me," I said.
"It was not her fault; you must not blame her."
I was silent. On the whole, my step-mother's conduct could not seem
quite so black if she herself had been forced to act as she did.
Nevertheless, I felt uncomfortable.
Hermione glanced at me.
"You look very much better," she said.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Not that you are dressed so wonderfully well--of course, I shouldn't
dream of making any comments with regard to your dress; but then you
were quite exquisitely attired the last time you came here. Mother said
she had never seen anything so _chic_ in all her life as that little
dark-blue costume with the grey fur; and it suited you so well."
I was wearing one of my summer dresses which my step-mother had altered
for me shortly after she came to us. It was made of pale-blue crepon,
which had been rather ugly, but she had put on a beautiful lace tucker,
and had arranged the skirt so that my growing length of limb was not so
discernible.
"It isn't your dress," continued Hermione--"never mind about it--nobody
cares what any one else wears on Christmas Day--but it is your face."
"And what about that?" I said.
"You are so much better-looking."