image011
WAS SOMETHING WRONG?
WITHIN ten minutes of the time fixed, Mrs. Stirring called at the door for "Miss Tracy," and Dorothea rose to go.
Miss Henniker still sat on perseveringly, doing her six calls in one, and the tête-à-tête on which Mrs. Effingham had set her heart never took place. Little conversation had passed between the elderly lady and the young girl; and each was conscious of disappointment.
"But we will meet again, my dear," Mrs. Effingham murmured, answering Dorothea's unspoken thought as they shook hands. "I don't quite know how long I may be absent, or whether I shall run up to town for a month in the spring. London never suits me for any length of time. But when I do return, I shall send for you. We will not forget one another meantime!"
So the longed-for call was over, and nothing had come of it: nothing was likely to come of it for the present. Dorothea, walking home in the dark beside the little lodging-house keeper, was conscious of feeling flat. She had had an amusing peep into a life which would have been very pleasant,—just enough of a peep to be tantalising and no more. It was all over now, at least for a good while to come. She would have to go back to her solitude and friendlessness. She could almost have echoed the words of Dolly Erskine, written not long before: "It does seem sometimes as if life were made up of disappointments."
Almost—not quite. Dorothea Tracy, with far less of outward brightness in her life than Dorothea Erskine, was far more disposed to look upon what brightness she had, and to turn her back upon the shadows. Also she had a more real and vivid belief in the Overshadowing Love which arranged every step of the path she had to tread,—even the disappointing steps.
"One thing is certain,—I have no business to grumble," she told herself cheerily. "It is all right, or it would be different; and if I am meant to be dull for a while, why, I just have to be dull, and to keep cheerful through it." Then she smiled at the opposition of ideas. "Mrs. Kirkpatrick would call that an Irishism. After all, it isn't outside things that make dulness. It just depends on what one is in oneself. I shall find interests—somehow. Perhaps by-and-by I shall even find that I can be of use to my father."
"And you had a nice party, I hope, Miss Tracy?" said Mrs. Stirring, curiosity getting the upper hand.
"Yes, very nice,—only it was not a party," Dorothea answered.
"There was folks to talk to, though, wasn't there? That's what you'd ought to have,—a young lady like you! Never going nowhere, nor seeing nobody,—it ain't natural. You do take it patient, and no mistake; but it ain't right, and if I was you, I'd tell your Pa, that I would!"
This little outburst, the culmination of much smothered pity, took Dorothea by surprise. She did not speak, and Mrs. Stirring went on—
"Gentlemen don't know what's fit for a young lady. If you had a Ma alive, it 'ud be a different life for you, Miss,—and I wish it was different, too."
"My father must decide for himself. That is only his business—and mine," Dorothea said with gentle decision.
Mrs. Stirring was silenced. She murmured something unintelligible, and no further words passed between them till the house was reached.
"I didn't mean to vex you, Miss," Mrs. Stirring said then, as she fumbled with her latch-key.
"I am not vexed. I quite understand. It is all right," Dorothea replied, with a smile.
"She is the nicest young lady," muttered Mrs. Stirring to herself, remaining behind in the hall. "I never saw a nicer. Always civil to everybody, and got a smile whenever she speaks. But if I was the Colonel, I'd be ashamed to keep her shut-up like he does. It's too bad, and I don't care who hears!" Nevertheless, Mrs. Stirring was careful to utter her protest in a tone which should not be overheard. She had no wish to lose a good lodger.
The drawing-room stood open when Dorothea reached it. She did not need to turn the handle, and her soft movements made no noise. One lighted candle stood as usual on the table. Dorothea had half crossed the room before she knew that it was not empty, and that her own entrance was unobserved.
Colonel Tracy sat in an easy-chair near the fireplace, not in his ordinary place beside the table. There was a look of trouble in the drooped head, and in the attitude of the broad hand covering his eyes. Colonel Tracy was not as a rule given to limp attitudes. Plainly, he counted himself alone still, and Dorothea stopped short, hesitating. Should she slip out and leave him, or—? A deep pulling sigh, almost a groan, broke from him; and with the instinct of sympathy, Dorothea moved forward.
"Father, is anything wrong?" she asked.
"Dorothea!" The Colonel's exclamation was almost a shout. He started up with an air of profound disgust and annoyance. "Why—why—what—how—you don't mean to say it's nearly half-past five! I didn't expect you for—for—another half-hour."
"I have just come home."
"Didn't hear you. Door not shut, of course. That wretched girl never will shut doors, and if I've told her once, I've told her five hundred times," declared the Colonel, looking askance, like a detected school-boy, his complexion the colour of a turkey-cock's comb. "She gets past bearing. I'll give it her by-and-by, and no mistake. Well,—seen your friends?"
"I have seen Mrs. Effingham. She is very kind and nice," said Dorothea. "Only it is such a pity,—she may be away for months."
The Colonel tried unsuccessfully to hide his gratification.
"No other old ladies, eh?"
"There was a caller—Miss Henniker; but I should not speak of her as old—only as very middle-aged," said Dorothea, and the Colonel gave vent to an awkward "Ha, ha!"
"Nobody else?" He was holding at bay the pending question, which he saw in his daughter's face.
"Yes, two others, but they were young: a Mr. and Miss Claughton,—Emmeline Claughton and her brother. You know the Curate, Mr. Claughton, who called the other day. Don't you remember? They are his brother and sister."
"Left my card on him to-day. Didn't think it needful to go in," said the Colonel.
"Was he at home?"
"Didn't ask, my dear. Blissful ignorance best in some cases, you know," said the Colonel, rather sheepishly still.
"What a pity! I should have liked to know the Claughtons."
Then Dorothea was silent, looking earnestly at her father, and the Colonel grew redder still.
"Well, well; now you've had your little jaunt, so perhaps you'll settle down for a while,—keep quiet, and try to be contented."
"Have I been discontented?" asked Dorothea. She came closer, and slipped a hand into her father's arm. "I should not like to be that. Discontent is so horrid. Father, if you and I could be more of friends, I shouldn't care so much about having outside friends. I don't think I should care at all," she said wistfully.
"Eh, my dear? Eh?"
"Couldn't we be friends? Won't you tell me when you are in trouble? I might not be able to do anything, but still—Something is worrying you now, isn't it? Do you mind my asking?"
The Colonel jerked his arm away from hers, not unkindly, but as if from an irresistible impulse. "Nonsense! Rubbish, my dear!" he said loudly. "Pray don't talk such nonsense."
"Is it nonsense?" Dorothea showed no sign of affront. It was not her way to be easily affronted. Standing so near to the Colonel, she was in a favourable position to examine him well with her shortsighted eyes, which were keen enough within a limited range; and she used the opportunity. "But something has happened,—I am sure of it," she said, recalling the distress of that big noisy sigh. "Are you—is it that you are not well?"
Colonel Tracy snatched at the suggestion with relief.
"Indigestion, my dear; indigestion the whole afternoon. Miserably cooked dinner to-day. You must have seen,—but women have no sense of taste—no sense of taste whatever. That creature knows no more how to make a sauce than—Why, it wasn't sauce!" pursued the Colonel, with lively disgust. "Sauce! It was liquid paste,—flour and water,—anything you like, except what it was called! And the beef—all the goodness drained out of it. Nothing left but rags. Pastry, enough to make anybody ill,—mere dough, nothing but dough. Can't think what Mrs. Stirring is about. If she doesn't look sharp, I'll move elsewhere. Arrant carelessness!"
This was hard, and Dorothea knew it. Mrs. Stirring might be slow, and not very brilliant, but her mistakes did not arise from carelessness. She was always painstaking, only sometimes rather dull. Remonstrance would have been useless, however.
"And nothing else is wrong except dinner?" said Dorothea. "Nothing of importance?"
"My dear, I hope that is of importance," said the Colonel grimly.
Dorothea was not satisfied. That an ill-cooked dinner—even if it had been ill-cooked, which was not strictly the case—could cause such a sigh as she had overheard, seemed to her young mind an impossibility. Questioning was not at an end yet, the Colonel knew. Perhaps he had never in his life before been glad of a caller.
"Mr. Claughton, sir, please," said Mrs. Stirring, putting her head round the door.
"Bring him in," the Colonel answered with alacrity. Anything—even a Curate—to check his daughter's too affectionate solicitude!
Not the Mr. Claughton whom Dorothea had seen that afternoon, but another, entered,—Edred Claughton, of course. Dorothea would have preferred perhaps to see Mervyn. The two were very much alike in outer seeming; only here were a clerical coat, some additional gravity, and a hard-worked air. Nobody could have accused Mervyn of appearing overworked.
"I am returning your call very quickly," Mr. Claughton said, as he bowed and shook hands. "You were so good as to come this afternoon, when I was out."
"Yes—er—I—I'm very glad to see you," the Colonel said, speaking truthfully. "Pray sit down."
"We have been unfortunate hitherto, always missing one another. I thought I would come late, in the hope of finding you. The fact is, I am anxious to enlist Miss Tracy's services in the Parish."
"That's not at all in my daughter's line," declared the Colonel promptly.
"O father, I should like nothing better!"
Dorothea's eager tones were unmistakable.
"My dear, I couldn't possibly allow it," the Colonel said, with a disgust equally unmistakable. "I couldn't possibly consent! Girls of your age have no business in back slums."
"Certainly not," assented Mr. Claughton. "But how about a class in the Sunday-school?"
"That would be delightful! Father, do say that I may."
Colonel Tracy was dubious. He asked a good many questions as to hours, modes, ways of management, and supposed perils. "I can't and I won't have Dorothea running in the way of infectious diseases," he said.
Dorothea, seated near the young clergyman, noted a movement at the sound of her name,—a sudden widening of the eyes, and an odd flash which might, perhaps, have done duty for a smile. Edred seemed less given to smiling than Mervyn.
"I can't and I won't have it!" repeated the Colonel irascibly. "Girls of eighteen are ripe to catch anything. I won't have her running after the school-children into filthy alleys, whenever they don't turn up. She's too young, and she's not used to London."
"But if I promise always to take Mrs. Stirring with me?" pleaded Dorothea. "I do so want some little work. I have nothing to do now, for anybody."
"One would wish, of course, that a Sunday-school teacher should sometimes see the children in their homes," said Mr. Claughton calmly, with a manner which recalled to Dorothea the stately Emmeline. "But I think I can arrange to give a class to Miss Tracy, consisting of children with respectable homes. If there are any exceptions, I undertake to warn her not to go. Will that do?"
"Well, well—I suppose I shall have to let her try," the Colonel said reluctantly. "School's close to the Church, you say? Well, I suppose she must try. She'll be tired of it in a month."
Dorothea smiled, and there was a decisive little shake of her head.
A faint answering smile hovered round the lips of the grave young clergyman.
image012
A PARK ENCOUNTER
IF Mrs. Effingham came to town in the spring, she omitted to let Dorothea know; so probably she did not come. Dorothea felt sure she had not.
Life no longer seemed purposeless and friendless to the young girl in her dull home. She had her Sunday class twice every Sunday, and her teachers' meeting in the week. Sometimes she could persuade Mrs. Stirring to pay a round of calls with her on the children's parents, which always meant a fresh supply of interests, in little attempts to help those who were needy. She had formed a speaking acquaintance with certain other teachers in the school, and one or two had even been to see her. The Rector and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Mordan, had called more than once, and were especially kind to Dorothea.
It was not an overpoweringly full and busy life, according to modern notions; but Dorothea could be easily cheered and contented. She no longer felt herself useless or solitary.
Now and then, Edred Claughton looked in on the two, for a call half pastoral, half friendly—always ostensibly with a particular reason. Dorothea hardly, perhaps, acknowledged to herself that she would have preferred to see Mervyn appear. Edred was so earnest and good and indefatigable in work, that no one could fail to esteem him highly: but he was very slow to relax. There was habitually a grave distance of demeanour, oddly like that of Emmeline, oddly unlike the lighter and more sparkling manner of Mervyn. Conversation ran almost entirely in Parish grooves. Edred never spoke of his home or his relatives; and Dorothea, from a something which might have been shyness, did not introduce more personal subjects. The only departure from Parish interests was in the direction of literature.
Edred Claughton was one of those very reserved people, whom Dolly Erskine counted herself unable to get on with. Only, as she could get on with him, she probably did not count him reserved.
All these months the Colonel had never avowed to Dorothea the existence of any particular cares. Yet Dorothea felt certain that some kind of heavy anxiety was weighing on him. She did not again find him lounging deplorably in his chair, or hear any more profound sighs; nevertheless she had not the slightest doubt that something was wrong. The more he grumbled over his dinner, the more he talked of after-indigestion, the more convinced she was of the truth of her surmise. There was often a worried expression in his face; and sometimes, he would sink into a troubled dream, forgetting to read or write. Yet what the "something wrong" might be, she could not even guess.
Plainly, he did not like being questioned, and Dorothea forbore to tease him. She only waited with patience, watching for every possible opportunity to make herself useful and pleasant to him. As time went by, she had some little measure of reward. The Colonel opened out gradually; he began to show gratification in her presence, and to dislike her too frequent absence; he talked more, and appealed to her occasionally for an opinion; he even displayed some manner of interest in her pursuits. Only, if he had troubles, he still did not mention them.
The first of August came, and London was emptying fast. It did not look empty to unaccustomed eyes, but no doubt there was a difference. Certain crossings were more easily passed than in the full height of the season; and Dorothea was conscious of this weighty fact.
She had persuaded Colonel Tracy to take her into the Park one sunny afternoon, and when there, she smiled at the idea of "emptiness."
"Comparative, my dear—all comparative. Everything is comparative in this life," declared the Colonel sententiously. "Besides, Parliament is sitting late. Members can't get away till next week."
"Poor things! I wish we could get away," said Dorothea. "Can't we, father?"
"Eh?—what, my dear?"
"Don't you mean to take me to the seaside or somewhere, as you used to do when I was at school?"
The Colonel was silent for a minute.
"Really, I don't know. Don't see the necessity."
"London is getting so hot and dusty. I should like a glimpse of the waves."
"Not Brighton!"
"O no; somewhere country-like. Some place where I could wander about, without the need of anybody to take care of me. Won't you?" begged Dorothea.
"Cost a lot!" growled the Colonel.
"Would it? Couldn't we do things very cheaply? Why, father—" in sudden surprise, "you never used to mind about spending money."
The look of care which Dorothea had often noted of late sat upon his forehead.
"Well, well, I'll think—I'll see about it. By-and-by, perhaps," he said moodily.
"That is the trouble," Dorothea murmured to herself, moving her lips, but uttering no sound. "Something to do with money! Why didn't I think of it before?"
Both were silent for some seconds.
"It doesn't matter," she said then. "I shouldn't like you to go to any expense that isn't right. And I am quite well; I don't need change. It is only a fancy. Father, we'll stay where we are all the summer, and economise—shall we?"
She was at very close quarters with the Colonel, and she watched him earnestly with her light eyes. Colonel Tracy reddened and fidgeted.
"We'll see, my dear, we'll see."
"But I shouldn't like you even to think of such a thing, for my sake, if you haven't plenty of money—if you can't perfectly well afford it. I never thought about that."
"Well, well, my dear, we'll see," reiterated the Colonel.
"Wouldn't you like to rest a little?" asked Dorothea, as they came upon an unoccupied seat.
Colonel Tracy agreed, but with an evident determination not to be catechised. One minute had not elapsed before he was nodding sleepily over his stick. Dorothea smiled, and turned her attention to other people.
This being a quiet side-path, there were no crowds, though a good many pedestrians came and went. The feigned sleep presently became genuine. Perhaps the Colonel really was tired; at all events, he showed no signs of an early awakening. Slight snores sounded, winning amused looks from those who were near. Dorothea did not think it mattered, or count herself obliged to rouse him.
Another snore: and a gentleman turned to glance in their direction. Immediately his hat came off, and Dorothea, having already noted a familiar outline, bowed. She took him for Edred Claughton, and was surprised at that busy young man having any leisure for the frivolities of the Park; but as he came across the path, she recognised the older brother.
"How do you do? So you are getting into swing," Mervyn said, as they shook hands; and the gleam of fun came which Dorothea always missed in Edred. "Have you found out yet what it is to have no time for anything or anybody? You see, I have not forgotten our last talk."
"Or Miss Henniker," added Dorothea. "My father," she said, indicating the sleeper. "He seems tired."
"Hot day," Mervyn answered, taking the empty seat on her other side. "So you don't find yourself in a whirlpool of engagements?"
"No, indeed. My only engagements are Church and Sunday-school, and teachers' meeting."
"Not even afternoon teas?"
Dorothea shook her head smilingly.
"But that must be awfully dull," the young man said, with a face of concern.
"I suppose it is,—rather. I should not mind going somewhere to afternoon tea now and then. I really did go once to Mrs. Mordan in the spring."
"Once in the spring!"
"Yes. That isn't getting into the whirlpool, is it?"
"Sounds more like Craye than London."
"Craye!" Dorothea repeated the word in a puzzled tone, wondering what connection she had with the word. "Is your home at Craye?"
"Hasn't Edred acquainted you with that fact?"
"I don't know. He has not said much about his home. And I have only seen your sister once,—that pretty sister of yours."
"Is Emmeline pretty?"
"I thought so,—if she had not been quite so grave."
"Ah, that you have to expect. Em and Edred are solemn individuals—far too busy doing good to everybody, to have time for laughing."
"It must be very delightful to be always doing good to people."
"Well, yes,—if it were not for the bother."
Dorothea glanced at him questioningly.
"But that is not your real self speaking," she said.
An odd expression came over Mervyn's face, half comical, half assenting.
"What makes you suppose so?"
"I am sure it is not. You are trying to seem different from what you are."
"I assure you, I don't always know which is my true self, and which is my false."
"Don't you—really?"
Mervyn laughed.
"If you put the question in that style—but after all, you are the first to suggest the idea."
"It is so easy to see. Your sister would say the same."
"Emmeline! She looks upon me as the most hopelessly frivolous of mortals."
"But—"
"I assure you she does. And as for Edred—"
"He is a Clergyman. He has to live a life apart."
"He is the best fellow I know," said Mervyn, with unexpected warmth, instantly relapsing into a tone of indifference. "Ready to sacrifice his life any day for the veriest riff-raff of the streets. He and Em can take nothing lightly. It's partly constitution,—not all principle. I am of different make, and I simply can't go through existence as they do. I should expire of dulness in a fortnight. If ever I do sacrifice myself for anybody, I shall do it with a joke—not at all with the correct air of dignity and martyrdom. It's a thousand pities Em can't be tied to a stake. She would do it so awfully well, and enjoy it any amount."
"O but—" protested Dorothea.
"Don't be horrified. You know, of course, exactly how much I mean and don't mean. But, seriously, if one could inoculate those two with a touch of fun from somebody else, it would do no harm."
"They would not need to be less in earnest."
"Only to have a little froth overlying the solid element."
"I am afraid I should laugh too often to suit your sister. One can't help sometimes seeing the droll side of things. But I was going to ask you to tell me about your home—Craye. Where have I heard that name?"
"Craye is a mere village. Nothing happens there."
"And you live in the village?"
"Outside it. Ancestral house and grounds, etcetera, only unfortunately the ancestors were none of my own. My grandfather made a lot of money, and bought the place."
"And is it—pretty?"
"Exquisite!"—in her own tone.
"I wonder whether you mean what you say, now."
"Of course I don't. Emmeline would tell you that I never mean anything I say."
Dorothea made a little movement of dissent.
"I don't believe that," she said.
"It really is a pretty place,—but ineffably slumberous. I'm there occasionally,—oftener than I wish, and not so often as others will."
"But of course you have a great many friends in the neighbourhood?"
"Acquaintances."
"Not more?"
"Well,—we know the Erskines pretty intimately."
"The Erskines!" A recollection of her father's Christmas card sprang up. "The Erskines—and Craye! Oh, I know now,—it was at Craye, he said they lived."
"You know them?"
"No; I have only heard—" Dorothea hesitated. She did not feel herself at liberty to tell the little story of the rift between the old comrades. "I have heard of a family of that name," she said. "There is a Colonel Erskine,—he used to be a friend of my father's. They have not met for years. I think my father said he lived at a place called Craye."
"The same, of course. Our friend is Colonel Erskine."
"Do tell me about him. What is he like?"
"Quite the old soldier,—straight as a dart. A great favourite with everybody."
"And he has a family? I want to know all about them."
"All,—in a dozen words! Yes, he has a family. Wife, elderly. Daughters, three. Sons, none. House, no particular architecture. Kitchen-garden, well stocked. Would you like an inventory of the drawing-room furniture?"
"I'm more interested in the daughters. What are their names?"
"Isabel—Margot—Dolly."
"Dolly!"
"Everybody calls her so. I believe 'Dorothea' is more strictly correct; but she is every inch 'Dolly!'"
"My name is Dorothea too."
"Curious coincidence," said Mervyn, looking down on Dorothea with his odd smile.
"What are the Miss Erskines like?"
"Exactly like other people. A perfect reproduction of all the Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons."
"No, but really—"
"Isabel is plain, if one may venture to say that of any lady. Margot is good-looking—would be beautiful, if she were not an invalid. The Colonel and she are particular friends of mine."
"And Dolly?"
"Dolly is a mere kitten, just out of the school-room,—a little creature always on the go. Not exactly pretty, but she has lovely hair, and there is any amount of fun and sparkle. Sure to be admired."
"And you like her—as much as Margot?"
"I!" expressively. "You had better go to Edred for information about Dolly. Ask him some day what he thinks of her. But of course, he won't betray himself."
"Do you mean that you think—"
"I don't profess to know. Wiser folks than I foretell something in that quarter."
"But if she is so full of fun—would she suit him?"
"Convex and concave!" Mervyn could say no more, for Colonel Tracy woke up.
"Hey! Hallo!—Why—Why—What's this? Hallo,—Dorothea!"
"Father, you have been sound asleep."
"Rubbish, my dear! Stuff and nonsense! Asleep, indeed! Just shut my eyes for half-a-minute on account of the glare."
Dorothea's face rippled with suppressed laughter, but she did not contest the point.
"Father, Mr. Claughton is here," she said.
"Hey,—what? Mr. Claughton! How do?" Colonel Tracy put out his hand, and, like Mrs. Effingham on a similar occasion, half drew it back. "Why—"
"Our Mr. Claughton's brother," explained Dorothea, and the two gentlemen bowed, Mervyn cordially, the Colonel stiffly.
"Hot day," the Colonel remarked. "Time we should get home."
"Perhaps you will allow me to call upon you some day, when I happen to be in town?" Mervyn said as the Colonel stood up resolutely.
The question was addressed to them both.
"O do!" Dorothea replied frankly, without a blush. She was longing to hear more about "Dolly."
Colonel Tracy growled out some sort of consent, and hurried his daughter away. Mervyn made no attempt to accompany them.
"My dear, you must be careful. Who is that young fellow?" demanded Colonel Tracy, when they were at a safe distance.
"Mervyn Claughton, father,—the brother of our Curate."
"Hum!—Ha!—Well, mind you're careful, my dear."
"I met him and his sister at Mrs. Effingham's. Don't you remember?"
"H'm—ha—"
"They seem such a nice family. I should like to know more of them. Their home is at a place called Craye. And isn't it curious,—a family named Erskine lives near them? The father is a Colonel, and one of the daughters is named Dorothea. I wonder if they are your Erskines?"
The Colonel made absolutely no answer to this. He hurried on at such a pace as to render conversation impossible, and the subject was not alluded to again.
Perhaps his very reluctant consent to a call from Mervyn had had the force of a rebuff: for time passed, and Mervyn did not appear. Dorothea ceased at length to expect him. Also, for a long while, Edred did not come near them. He was very much occupied while the Rector went away for a summer holiday; and when the Rector returned, Edred had his turn of absence.
Colonel Tracy and Dorothea remained through the summer in their lodgings. Nothing further was said about a change to the seaside.
image013
ISABEL'S QUESTIONING
"DOLLY, you have not practised once for a whole week."
"O, no more I have!"
"And there are four pairs of your stockings that want darning."
"Now, Issy,—you dear creature—"
"Yes, you can always coax when you want something done. But mother particularly wishes you to get into the way of mending your own clothes."
"I don't mind patches. It's that horrible darning that I hate."
"Only, if mother wishes—"
"Yes, of course—" rather fretfully. "But I've got such a lot to do this week. Won't you, won't you,—just for once, Issy?"
Isabel stood looking down with puzzled eyes on the small "kitten-like" creature, lounging in the bow-window. As Mervyn had told Dorothea Tracy, Dolly Erskine was "sure to be admired." She was so slight, and her skin was so fair, her big eyes were so blue and her little hands were so graceful, while the masses of golden hair which fell down her back and over her shoulders were so abundant, that despite the possession of a "real undeniable snub nose," Dolly could not but be counted "pretty." At this moment, however, the fair brow was puckered, and the rosy lips had a distinct pout.
"So much to do! Dolly!"
"Well, I have. Tennis every single afternoon this week; and—"
"But tennis is only an amusement."
"It takes a lot of time. Dear me, I can't live by rote and rule, Issy. I can't do it. I'm not you or Emmeline,—don't want to be either," Dolly added voicelessly. "And we're almost in October now, and this is our very last spell of anything like summer weather. Most likely I shan't get any tennis after this week."
"Where do you play to-day? I forget."
"At the Park." A quick blush dyed Dolly's cheek, and she turned her head away, playing with the window-curtain. "I've promised to be there at half-past three, and it's past two now."
"Time enough for a little darning first. You are not going to waste a whole hour in doing nothing?"
"Reading isn't doing nothing. Not that I was reading really," added Dolly, who was truthful, at all events. "Issy, how you do plague!" Then she jumped up, and flung her arms round the elder sister. "Dear good Issy, do be kind this once. I can't darn just now,—I really really can't. I'm too excited. Please do be kind."
"What are you so excited about?" asked Isabel, smoothing down a stray wisp of the fair hair.
"O,—why,—going to the Park—" And again there was a tell-tale blush.
"I didn't know you were so devoted to Emmeline."
"Dear old Em! Of course I like her—immensely. She's a personification of all the virtues."
"And Mervyn and Edred are both there to-day, are they not? That makes it more exciting."
"Of course it does!" Dolly gave her head a little toss. "Tennis always wants a man or two, and we don't abound in men down here."
"But Edred doesn't play tennis."
"O yes, he does,—when he's out on a holiday. He never has time in London, so of course it's awfully bad play. Mervyn's is first-rate."
"But you don't care for Mervyn more than Edred?" said Isabel, deluding herself with the belief that she was putting these questions to "the child" in so careless a manner as to make no impression.
"Care for Mervyn more than Edred!" repeated "the child," with wide-open blue eyes. "Why, of course I like them both,—immensely. They are Emmeline's brothers."
"And you only like them—just for her sake?" inquired innocent Isabel.
Dolly shook her head. "Well, no,—I like Mervyn for the way he serves at tennis. It is so deliciously baffling. But the best fun of all is to see Edred's face when he misses a ball,—and he always does miss, nine times in ten. He can't laugh, you know, and he always takes everything solemnly. You'd think from the corners of his mouth that the Westminster Tower had tumbled down."
"Ah, it is all right," thought Isabel. "She could not laugh at them if she really cared for either. That is a relief, for certainly they mean nothing." Dolly's blue eyes, watching, read Isabel's conclusion, at least in part; and the rosy lips twitched mischievously.
"Well, just to-day,—just this once," Isabel said aloud, "I'll see to your mending. But not next week."
"No, not next week. Thank you awfully, you dear old thing!"
"It is no kindness to spoil you, Dolly."
"O no,—but I don't mean to be spoilt. Isn't Margot going out to-day?"
"I don't think she can. Her back is bad. That is why I don't like to go with you to the Park."
"There's no need. I don't want any chaperon there, happily."
Dolly danced away, and Isabel went slowly to the breakfast-room, where Margot was lying on the couch.
"I have just been having a little talk with Dolly," she said.
"Yes?" Margot's peculiar whiteness of complexion and hands gave her a very delicate look; but the features were small and regular, and the expression was so sweet, that many counted her beautiful.
"She was in such a state of excitement about going to the Park. Of course,—Mervyn and Edred being there—"
"Yes?"
"I am always so afraid of any one-sided attachment. Poor little Dolly, it would be dreadfully sad. I am afraid she is susceptible. But I had an opportunity to put a question or two—quite simply—and I assure you, she declared she did not know which she liked best."
"Ah!" Margot said.
"Indeed, she laughed at them both in the most amusing way. On the whole, she seemed to think she preferred Mervyn, because of his good playing. But that means nothing."
"No,—of course. Issy, I would not ask Dolly any more questions."
"I don't think I need. My mind is at rest now."
"Anyhow, it will be wiser not. You see, you might make a slip, and suggest to Dolly just what you don't want her to think about."
"Yes; but I have not done so this time. I was most careful. It all came most naturally and easily," said Isabel, her narrow forehead puckering a little. "I assure you it is all right."
"Only as you have found out what you wanted, I would let things alone now."
"Yes,—to be sure. There is no need to say any more. Are you quite comfortable, Margot? I ought to go to mother."
"And you don't mean to be at the Park?"
"I don't care to go, and really I am too busy. As Dolly says, she needs no chaperon there."
"Not generally, of course. I should have thought—just to-day—"
But Isabel was gone. Margot lay considering the matter, and the result of her cogitations was, that she presently rose, and went upstairs. Soon after three o'clock, a little white figure, with golden hair and bright cheeks, came into the breakfast-room, to find Margot no longer on the sofa, but dressed in pale grey silk, with hat to match.
"Margot!—you don't mean to say you are going too! Margot, you do look lovely! But I thought—your back—"
"Yes, it is aching rather; still, I think I can manage this. Don't protest before mother. The pony-carriage will take us there, and if I like to leave before you, I can. I don't want you to go alone."
The tone was not particularly expressive, but Dolly's cheeks made a quick response.
"It's much nicer having you too," the younger girl said demurely.
"Yes,—I thought silver-grey would be suitable for your chaperon."
"Chaperon! Nonsense! A girl of twenty-seven!"
"Ten years out,—and you barely 'out' yet. I'm very nearly on the shelf, Dolly."
"Nonsense!" cried Dolly. "There isn't a girl for twenty miles round half as pretty as you."
"Of course you expect me to return the compliment," laughed Margot.
"Now, Margot!"
"But it wouldn't be good for you, even if I could. People's heads are easily turned at your age. Isn't that the chaise?"
"Well I shan't look to you for compliments," retorted Dolly, "or to Mrs. Claughton. She is perfectly sure to give me another lecture on having my hair put up. I hope I shall not be cross. It isn't really her business. My father likes this way best,—and—" after a pause, "other people too."
"What other people?" Margot asked the question involuntarily.
"Mervyn and Edred." Dolly's colour went up, and her lips parted into a smile. "Good old Issy has just been trying to find out which of them I like best."
"Yes?" Margot said calmly.
"As if one couldn't like them both in different ways! Come along, Margot."
image014
A TENNIS PARTY
UNDER the "ancestral trees" of the Park a good many ladies were assembled, a few black coats and lighter masculine costumes being sprinkled among them. The feminine element commonly predominates in a country spot, such as Craye.
They were better off than usual at the Park, since both the sons of the house were present—Mervyn, handsome, and full of talk; Edred, not less handsome, perhaps, but grave and silent.
Two sets of tennis-players were already in full swing when Margot and Dolly arrived. Mrs. Claughton swept forward to meet them, her large frame imposing in puce satin and black lace. Mr. Claughton was not so tall as his wife, but he equalled her in breadth; and by a certain patronising assurance of manner, he more than made up for lack of height.
"Fine afternoon! Seasonable weather, very!" he declared, casting looks of admiration upon Margot's graceful figure and Dolly's "golden locks." "Most glad to see you both. Quite a gratification."
"But imprudent of Margot," chimed in Mrs. Claughton. "I heard this morning how unwell you were. How do you do, Dolly. Margot is looking very pale. I wonder Isabel allowed her to venture."
"Isabel isn't a household tyrant," said Dolly.
"Margot ought to be old enough to judge for herself, you mean. But some people never are old enough. Some people never learn prudence. I am afraid Margot is one of them. Emmeline—imagine Margot coming to-day."
The grave-mannered Emmeline had appeared behind her mother. Emmeline always did her duty loyally on these occasions; but she did it as a duty, with no sign of enjoyment. Nothing was neglected, nobody was forgotten, yet all were conscious that Emmeline Claughton would have preferred their absence to their presence. She could not relax, could not open out, could not be simple and bright and conversational.
"I will find an easy-chair for Margot somewhere," she said, in the constrained manner which seemed natural to her.
"Don't mind about me. I am all right," Margot said, smiling.
"And pray what is to be done with our golden-haired maiden?" demanded Mr. Claughton, in his most patronising tone.
Mrs. Claughton's eyes ran over Dolly, not for the first time. "Still down!" she murmured.
"My father likes her best so for the present," observed Margot.
"But, my dear Margot,—now Dolly has come out—it is so unlike other girls, you know! Of course, your father's wishes—ahem—but he is only a man—he knows nothing about the correct things for young girls. I really think, in such a case as this—if Dolly is not to become a marked person in the neighbourhood—"
Dolly was desperately angry with herself for being unable to restrain a brilliant blush as the two young men drew near. Poor Isabel's well-meant but clumsy questioning had broken down a barrier which hitherto had fenced round Dolly's allowed consciousness of the state of things. Dolly's eyes were suddenly opened wide. If Issy—dear dull Issy!—had begun to notice, surely other people must have begun too; and if that were so, she must have shown too plainly something of what she felt. So it was quite time to put people off the scent. That anybody should think she cared particularly for Edred, when Edred had shown no signs of caring particularly for her, was too dreadful! Dolly had come to the Park this afternoon, with a resolute determination to meet Edred and behave towards him exactly as she would meet and behave towards the merest acquaintance. Everybody, seeing her manner, should be convinced of her indifference.
And here was she, after all these brave resolutions, crimsoning and trembling the moment he approached.
It would not do! It should not be! Dolly told herself so, fiercely, in her heart. The blush must somehow be covered.
"I don't care whether I am marked or not!" she declared, with a toss of her dainty head, and a well-acted show of vexation, quite enough to account for rising colour. "So much the better if I am, unlike other girls! I shall wear my hair down so long as my father wishes it."
"Dolly!" murmured Margot, rather startled by this new development of the home-pet.
"My dear Dolly!" said Mrs. Claughton reprovingly.
Nearer came the young men, and Dolly's heart beat almost to suffocation.
"Of course I shall," she added, shaking the golden mass, and looking brilliantly pretty, with her rosy cheeks and shining eyes. Mervyn had never been so struck with the attractiveness of "the little Dolly."
"I declare—she's coming out!" he said to his brother in an undertone. Edred made no answer: and the next moment, Mervyn was saying lightly, "How do you do, Dolly?"