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"Did it hurt you? Oh, I hope not," said Dorothea.
"Hurt! Oh no!" Dorothea looked up, smiling. "Only I'm so dreadfully blind without glasses. I shouldn't know my own father."
Then a recollection flashed across her of the "turkey and plum-pudden," and of the Colonel's agony of mind if he had to wait.
"But I am afraid I must make haste home," she added. "Could somebody get a cab for—"
"For Mrs. Effingham," as she hesitated. "The hansom will take her home. And you?"
"I live close by—only two streets off. I do hope Mrs. Effingham isn't much hurt," Dorothea went on anxiously.
"My dear, I should have been but for you," said Mrs. Effingham.
The young clergyman had not been idle while speaking to Dorothea, but had gently lifted the little old lady to her feet. Though disorganised as to dress, and agitated still in manner, she was able to stand, with his help.
"No; not much hurt, I think," he said kindly.
"Things might have been very different but for your courage. Now, Mrs. Effingham, I think we had better help you into the hansom. What do you say to dropping this young lady at her door on your way?"
"O no, indeed; it is only three minutes' walk," protested Dorothea. "I wish I had time to see Mrs. Effingham home, but—my father—"
"My dear, I must know where you live. I must come to thank you again," said Mrs. Effingham, her face breaking into its sweet smile, tremulous still.
"I don't want thanks; but I should like to know that you are not the worse for this," said Dorothea. "My father and I live at 77 Willingdon Street."
"And your name, my dear? Miss—"
"Tracy."
"Miss Tracy, 77 Willingdon Street. Will you remember?" Mrs. Effingham asked, looking at the young clergyman, as he led her towards the hansom.
"Certainly," he answered. "I am going to see you home now, if Miss Tracy really prefers to walk."
"Oh, much!" Dorothea answered. She gave her hand girlishly to both of them, then set off at full speed homeward, not in the least upset by her adventure, only smiling to herself.
"Wasn't it curious—happening just after I had so wished to be of use to somebody? Such a dear old lady! I do hope I shall know her. There's an interest in life already. What will my father say? I'm afraid it's awfully late."
The Colonel stood at the dining-room window, looking out, and he reached the front door before Dorothea.
"Twelve minutes past our dinner-hour! Everything will be in rags," he said sepulchrally.
"Father, I couldn't help—"
"Hush: not a word—get ready at, once. Don't lose a moment," entreated the agonised Colonel.
Dorothea fled upstairs, two stops at a time, tore off jacket, hat, and gloves, brushed her hair, washed her hands, and was downstairs with amazing promptitude. But the Colonel's gloom did not lessen.
"Fifteen minutes late! Everything will be spoilt," was his greeting.
"Father, I'm so sorry; but, indeed I couldn't help it," cried Dorothea. She took her seat, for the turkey had appeared, and smiled across the table at him. "I should have been quite in time, but an old lady fell down in the road, and was nearly run over. I just pulled her on one side, and then I couldn't get away till she was safely off."
"Rags! Rags! Rags!" sighed the Colonel dolorously, shaking his head. "Have a slice of breast?"—in a mournful tone, as much as to say, "Nothing worth eating now!"
"Please, father. I'm ravenously hungry. It cuts as if it were tender, doesn't it?" hazarded Dorothea. "Your knife seems to go so easily."
"Tender! It's cooked to rags. All the goodness gone out of it," groaned the unhappy Colonel.
Dorothea judiciously kept silence for a minute or two. The Colonel passed her some delicate slices, helped himself abundantly, and began to eat.
"Father, do you know a Mrs. Effingham?"
"No—" in a preoccupied tone.
"She says she is coming to see me."
At any other time the Colonel would have taken fright. He really was too much absorbed just now with his dinner miseries to understand aught else.
"She is the dearest little old lady, with such a kind smile." A pause. "Father, this is a delicious turkey; and such nice stuffing."
"The turkey would be well enough—properly cooked. No goodness left in it now," said the Colonel. "What made you so late? The service ought to have been over an hour before."
"I stayed to Holy Communion," said Dorothea gently.
The Colonel grunted.
"If it had not been for the accident, I should have been back almost in time."
"Well, another day, pray remember," said the Colonel shortly. "I expect punctuality at meals, whatever else you choose to do. Have some more turkey?"
"No, thank you."
The Colonel gave himself a second bountiful supply, not without sundry muttered strictures, of which "rags" was the only word which reached Dorothea.
Even the "plum-pudden" failed to console him. It had fallen into three parts—the result, he contended, of the fifteen minutes' delay. Everything was spoilt, as he had predicted! The worst Christmas dinner he had had for years!
Dorothea could only listen patiently till dinner was over, and the Colonel took himself off.
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DOLLY'S JOURNAL
"I'M awfully excited to-day, because—NO, that is not the way to begin a journal. Margot advises me to start one, now I am eighteen. She has been advising it ever since my birthday, and this morning she gave me a charming little red book, with lock and key. So I suppose I really must do as she wishes."
"She says it will be a make-weight to my spirits when I am disposed to bubble over. Is there any harm in bubbling over? The world would be very dull if everybody's feelings were always to be kept hermetically sealed."
"No fear of mine being so, at all events. I'm not reserved, and I hate reserve, and I can't get on with reserved people. I like to say out just what I think. Of course there must always be some little inner reserves in everybody; at least I suppose so; but that is different from taking a pride in hiding what one feels, and in trying to seem unlike what one is."
"There's one good thing about a private journal! One can say exactly what one likes, and nobody's feelings are hurt. That is the only difficulty about always saying out what one thinks. Some people are so awfully thin-skinned, always taking offence. Of course the polite way of describing them is to say that they are 'sensitive'; but when I speak out what I think, I call them ill-tempered."
"I suppose the correct opening for a journal is a general statement about everything and everybody; a description of one's home and people and ways of life. But that would take a lot of time and patience. If I have the time, I haven't the patience."
"Still, something has to be written by way of introduction, though really I don't know why. If anybody ever reads what I write, it can only be one who knows all about everything already. And most likely my first entry will be my last."
"However—we live at Woodlands; not a big grand place, but the quaintest of old-fashioned houses in the quaintest of old-fashioned gardens. The house has wings and high gables and queer little windows. And the garden in summer has no horrid carpet-patterns or red triangles and blue squares, but is just one mass of trained sweetness—just Nature under restraint. That was what Edred said one day last spring."
"Craye is ten minutes off, down the hill, a funny old town in a hollow. Craye went to sleep a few hundred years ago, like the Kaiser Barbarossa; and unlike the Kaiser, it has never woke up since, not even once in a century. Yet Craye has a railway station, and actually it is not more by rail than an hour and a half from London. Only, as one always has to wait at least an hour at the Junction, the journey can't be done under two hours and a half."
"Now for the preliminary statement about our important selves."
"There is my father first; the dearest and kindest and best old father that ever lived. Not really old either, and so handsome and soldierly still. He can be sharp sometimes, but not to me. He spends lots of time in the clouds, and when he comes out of them, he does dearly love to spoil his Dolly. I am sure she loves to be spoilt."
"Then there is my mother. She is two years older than my father, which didn't perhaps show when they were young, but it does now. A woman of sixty-three is so much more elderly than a man of sixty-one. At least it is so in this house. Mother has silver-white hair, and she stoops, and is getting infirm—more than many of her age; while my father is still slim and upright and active. He has iron-grey hair and never an ache or a pain, and he makes nothing of a fifteen-miles' walk."
"I sometimes think my mother is almost more like a grandmother in the house; so gentle and invalidish, and able to do so little. Yet nothing would go straight without her; and she and he are like lovers still; except that he has a sort of reverent way of looking up to her. He always calls her 'Mother,' and she calls him 'My dear!' Never anything else."
"Next comes Isabel, our eldest. She is thirty, and looks like forty. She has managed everything for the last ten years, and she is a dear good creature,—only rather fussy about little things. She counts herself tremendously severe with me, though she never can say 'No' when I coax; but then she always gives in 'only this once.' She is full of sense, and can't understand a joke by any possibility.
"Then follows Margot, poor dear! Four years younger than Isabel, and eight years older than me. Margot has a weak spine, and lies down a good deal; still she hates to be called an invalid, and never will talk about herself and her symptoms. So people don't get tired of Margot's invalidism. I don't think I should describe her as the model invalid of story books; and yet she is not what Miss Baynes calls 'the fractious sufferer of real life.' Sometimes she has depressed moods, but when she is happy, she has the sweetest face in the world. And even when she is depressed, she never gets into a temper."
"Last of all there is me—Dolly—the household pet and plague. I am not like Issy or Margot. Issy is substantial and slow; and Margot is tall and slim; while I am small and bony, but not a scrap delicate, and everything that I do is always done in a hurry. I have a great lot of fair hair—golden hair some call it—but the trouble of my life is a snub nose,—a real undeniable little snub. Nothing can hide or cure that. Issy's is too long, with a droop at the end, worse even than mine; but Margot has the sweetest little love of a straight nose, neither long nor short. If only I had a nose like hers, I should be perfectly happy."
"Well, no—not perfectly, perhaps; because I should want to be tall and graceful also. It would be so nice to carry one's head higher than other people, and always to be gentle, and calm, and dignified. I should wish to be like Lady Geraldine—"
"'While as one who quells the lions, with a steady eye serenelyShe, with level fronting eyelids, passed out stately from the room.'"
"That would be delicious! I suppose most people's eyelids are level, and face the front; but it sounds distinguished. Mine, of course, are level, only they are always on the move, and I am afraid I haven't 'steady eyes serenely' quelling other people."
"O me, what nonsense I am writing! Is that the good of a journal—to show one more of one's real self?"
"I have done at last with regular lessons, and a daily governess. After the holidays, I shall be supposed to read history and French, and to practise regularly. But my plans always come to grief."
"They say I ought to take Emmeline for my model—good dear Emmeline Claughton, who gets up at six and lives by clockwork, and does everything, and has time for everybody. Whereas I lie in bed till nearly eight, and have to scramble to be in time, and spend every day unlike the rest, and hate rules, and never have time for anything except fun and story books, skating in winter, and tennis in summer. So I don't seem likely to grow into a second Emmeline."
"Would Edred be pleased, if I did?"
"How stupid of me to write that! What did make me? I have a great mind to scratch out the sentence. Now I can never show my journal to anybody."
"After all, why should I show it? And what is the harm of speaking about Edred?"
"Perhaps the proper thing here is to make a statement about the Claughtons. They live at the Park and are very rich. There is only one daughter, Emmeline, and Emmeline has two brothers, Mervyn and Edred. Mervyn is the heir, and he does nothing particular, but comes and goes, and bothers people. Edred is a curate in London. I like him—oh, much the best of the two, and so I know does Emmie."
"Mr. Claughton is kind, only too pompous, and I am not very fond of Mrs. Claughton. She has such a way of setting everybody to rights. But very likely, she doesn't mean to be disagreeable."
"I'm most awfully excited about—"
* * * * * *
"I had to leave off in a hurry, because the lunch-bell rang. And now it doesn't seem worth while to go back to that half-written sentence, about being awfully excited! For it is all over, and I am so dreadfully disappointed."
"Edred was expected down yesterday for just two nights—all the time he could spare from his work this Christmas. And Emmeline had asked me to go to the skating on their pond this afternoon. I think it was to pass the time before three o'clock that I took to my journal."
"But at lunch my father said a change had come, and a thaw was setting in. And before we had done, a note arrived from Emmie, telling me that the ice was unsafe, and that Edred had to hurry back to town to-day. So this time I shall not even see him."
"It does seem sometimes as if life were all made up of disappointments."
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A POSSIBLE ACQUAINTANCE
DOROTHEA built a good deal upon the promised call from Mrs. Effingham. As one day after another passed, and nobody came, she began to feel flat. Not knowing the old lady's address, she could not ask after her, so nothing remained but to wait.
Three days after Christmas, the frost broke up and a spell of mild weather set in. Dorothea had her morning rambles pretty regularly, but she found the long afternoons and evenings hard to get through, whether alone, or in wordless attendance on her occupied father. What he was always so busy about, Dorothea could not make out. He sent her upstairs or downstairs for books, and sometimes he set her to work copying dry extracts, but he gave no reasons or explanations.
She could not flatter herself that he grew less silent. All her efforts to call out his interest and sympathy were at present a failure.
The oppression of this continual silence was creeping over Dorothea herself. She could not persist in talk which had no response. Silent walks, silent meals, silent tête-à-têtes with the Colonel,—these were steadily subduing her young spirits. At thirty or forty, she could have struck out her own way of life, could have made her own work and interests. At eighteen, she was not free.
A Christmas card had come from Mrs. Kirkpatrick, but no letter. Dorothea, had begun to long with actual heart-sick craving for a letter, a word, a smile, from somebody. Anything to break the dead monotony of her present existence. Yet when New Year's Day brought from happy schoolfellows eager scrawls about their home delights, she had a little shower of tears over them. Her own lot was so different.
"Have you seen St. Paul's?" demanded Colonel Tracy next day at lunch.
"Seen St. Paul!" The girl had not fallen yet into London colloquialisms, and a sudden question from her father always had a bewildering effect.
"Cathedral."
"No, never."
"I'll take you this afternoon—by omnibus. Get ready sharp, you know."
"O father, can we stay to the Service?"
"What for?"
"I should so like it."
"Don't know. I must be back by half-past four."
No hope then. But any innovation in the daily round was delightful, and Dorothea had never been satiated with sight-seeing. She made short work of her dressing, and Colonel Tracy looked in surprise at her bright face.
"You like going about!" he said.
"O yes, indeed."
"Well—we'll do Westminster Abbey some day. Monuments worth looking at there."
Dorothea thought they were worth looking at in St. Paul's. She would have liked to dream over each in succession, and to spend a quiet hour studying the outlines of the great expanse:—not a solitary hour, for she had too much of solitude, but a quiet reverent hour, with her father by her side, feeling—if that had been possible—that he felt with her.
Colonel Tracy's notions of "doing a cathedral" admitted of no dreams. He whisked his daughter through the aisles and past the monuments in the most approved British style. "That's so-and-so, my dear; and that's so-and-so," came in quick succession. The whispering gallery was remarkable in his estimation—"best thing in the Cathedral," he asserted.
Reaching home before five o'clock, they were met in the hall by Mrs. Stirring. "There's been callers, Miss," the little woman said, swelling with gratification. "Callers, Miss—a lady and a gentleman. And they come together, and the lady she was that disappointed to find you out. I did say it was a thousand pities, for you wasn't scarcely never out, and such a dull life too! And she hopes you'll be sure and go to see her, Miss Tracy."
Dorothea took up the cards from the hall slab, following her father into the dining-room. "Mrs. Effingham," she said. "I wish I had been at home. To think that she should have come this day of all days! Father, Mrs. Effingham has called—the lady who slipped down on Christmas Day. Don't you remember—I told you?"
The Colonel's recollections of his over-boiled turkey were vivid: not so his recollections of the cause.
"Eh, what? Somebody slipped down?"
"On Christmas Day, just before dinner; don't you remember?"
"My dear I know you were late, and everything was spoilt," said Colonel Tracy, waking up into a lively air of attention. "Turkey a mere rag—pudding broken to pieces! Never dined worse on Christmas Day. Next year, I'm sure I hope—"
Then he stopped, reading discomfort in his daughter's face, and asked, "Who did you say had slipped down?"
"It was on Christmas Day—a dear old lady, coming out of church. I helped her and that hindered me. I am afraid she would have been run over, if I had not been so near," added Dorothea, feeling it needful to explain.
"A policeman ought to have been at hand. Great shame!" said the Colonel, who, like most people, expected each policeman to parade ubiquitously the whole of his beat. "But it's done—can't be helped now. Old ladies have no business to cross streets alone. Where's the book I left here—what's its name?"
"Father, Mrs. Effingham has been to call on us."
"Eh! Then she wasn't seriously injured! Where is that book?" soliloquised the Colonel, peering about.
"No, and she said she would call. I should so like to know her. Somebody else has been too—'The Rev. E. Claughton!' See, father—he has left two cards. I don't know who Mr. Claughton is, but—"
"One o' the Curates, Miss," came in subdued tones from Mrs. Stirring in the doorway.
"What's the woman dawdling there for?" muttered Colonel Tracy, and at the sound of his growl Mrs. Stirring vanished. Colonel Tracy received the cards from Dorothea, and frowned over them.
"Claughton! Claughton! I don't know anybody of the name of Claughton. Must be a mistake, my dear. Just chuck it into the waste-paper basket."
"O no; I am sure it is meant kindly. Father, he is one of the Curates of our Church. Don't the Clergy always call?" asked Dorothea. "And I think it must be the same who helped to lift up Mrs. Effingham. I should not know his face again, because I am so blind without my glasses; but he had a nice voice, and I really think you would like him."
The Colonel grunted. He had a particular aversion to Curates.
"Mrs. Effingham lives in Willingdon Square, I see. Then, she can't be very far off, can she? Father, shall I call on Mrs. Effingham alone, or will you come with me?"
"I!" uttered the Colonel, as if she had suggested a leap from the iron gallery of St. Paul's.
"Don't you ever pay calls? I thought gentlemen did sometimes. Then may I go alone? It can't be far off."
"Alone! No, certainly not!" Colonel Tracy spoke with sharpness. "Church was to be the outside limit, remember! I can't have you wandering about London."
"Only if it is near—"
"My dear, I won't have it," declared the Colonel irately.
"I ought to return her call."
"There is no 'ought' in the matter. No necessity whatever. You did her a service, and she has called to express her gratitude. That is all. The matter need go no farther. I shall leave my card—perhaps—some day at Mr. Claughton's; not at present. His coming at all was unnecessary."
The Colonel's decision meant no small disappointment to Dorothea, and it took her by surprise. She had kept up so bravely hitherto, that the Colonel had no idea what this new life really was to her. But the fresh blow, however small, proved to be the final straw; and before Dorothea knew what to expect, three or four bright drops fell quickly from behind her glasses.
"Eh hallo! What! Crying!"
Dorothea said, "O no!" involuntarily, and looked up with a resolute smile; yet the wet glimmer was unmistakable.
Colonel Tracy's astonishment was unbounded. He had counted Dorothea a girl of sense, quite superior to feminine weaknesses, and the very model of an obedient cheerful daughter.
"What's the matter?" he asked curtly. "You don't know Mrs. What's-her-name! Why on earth should you care to see her?"
"I don't know—anybody. I have no friends."
"Humph!" growled the Colonel.
"I don't want to grumble indeed," Dorothea went on eagerly. "Only, if I could just have somebody—somebody I could go and talk to."
"Talk!" Colonel Tracy uttered the word with disdain. It sounded so feminine. Gentlemen never "talk," they always "converse." If Dorothea had expressed a wish to "hold conversations" with Mrs. Effingham, he would have had more respect for her requirements. But to care for mere "talk!" He shrugged his shoulders, and was mute.
"Of course I must do as you wish," she added sorrowfully.
"What on earth should you want to talk about?"
Dorothea laughed. She could not help it. "Why, father,—everything," she said. "The books I read, and the work I do, and the people I see. Is there any harm in talking?"
"Waste of time, my dear."
"But kind and pleasant words are not waste of time, are they? Words that make other people happy."
The Colonel had a marked objection to any remark which savoured ever so slightly of moralising. It was almost as bad as a Curate, in his estimation.
"Where can that book be?" he muttered.
Dorothea could only look upon the matter as settled. She gave one sigh, wondered what Mrs. Effingham would think, hoped they might some day meet again coming out of church, so that she could explain, and then cheerily set herself to find the missing volume.
"What is the name, father? Who is it by?" she asked, smiling.
The Colonel gave her a look. He had not expected this.
"Can't remember the name," he said. "It is by—by—bother my memory! Half-bound, with red edges."
A long search ended in success; and Dorothea then set herself to the copying out of a dry statement about tropical climates, which had seemingly engaged her father's affection. What could be the use of the extract she was unable to imagine. That fact did not lessen her diligence in making a fair copy.
"Thanks," the Colonel said, when she handed it to him. Not a little to her surprise, the monosyllable was followed by a remark "You write a good sensible hand. Like your mother's."
"I am glad. Then handwriting may be inherited," said Dorothea.
The Colonel scratched away with his squeaking quill for another ten minutes, after which he came to a pause, laid down the quill, gazed hard at Dorothea, and said, "I suppose it will have to be."
"It?" repeated Dorothea.
"Your call on Mrs. What's-her-name. I'll leave you at the door some day or other, when I happen to be going in that direction—and come for you later."
"O thank you!" Dorothea was not demonstrative commonly; but she started up in her sudden pleasure, and gave him a kiss. "Thank you very much. How kind you are!"
The rust-red of Colonel Tracy's complexion deepened into a tint not far removed from mahogany. He had not had such a sudden promiscuous kiss in the course of the day for years past; not even from Dorothea. She was rather surprised at her own unwonted impulse, and the Colonel was very much surprised indeed. At the first moment, his impulse was to mutter "Pshaw!" and to turn brusquely away, yet the next instant he would not have been without the kiss. It had an odd softening effect on his feelings. He felt the better for it, and he liked Dorothea the better. But Dorothea only heard that impatient "Pshaw!" and saw his movement of seeming disgust.
"I forgot,—you don't like being kissed," she said apologetically. "I won't do it again."
The Colonel hoped she would, but he made no sign.
"Only I am so grateful!"
"What makes you want to know people?" demanded Colonel Tracy, all the more gruffly because of the softening within.
"Why, father,—it is so sad to have no friends. So dismal and lonely. And how can one do kindnesses to others if one knows nobody?"
The Colonel scented a moral, and shrank into himself forthwith.
"Some afternoon" proved hard to find for the promised pleasure. One day, the Colonel would not go out. Another day, he had an engagement another direction. Another day it rained. So more than a week passed, and then a note came from Mrs. Effingham.
"DEAR MISS TRACY,—Will you not take tea with me this afternoon?I want to make better acquaintance with my preserver; and I amleaving town directly. Forgive informality.—Yours truly,""E. EFFINGHAM""P.S. No reply will mean that I may expect you at about four."
"May I go?" asked Dorothea, showing the note to her father.
Colonel Tracy noted with satisfaction that Mrs. Effingham would be going away.
"Well, if it has to be," he said. "But Mrs. Stirring must fetch you back. I don't mind if I drop you there."
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INTRODUCTIONS
MRS. EFFINGHAM had set her heart on a comfortable tête-à-tête with her "young preserver," as she called Dorothea. But things do not always turn out according to our previous planning; and a little before four o'clock, the front door bell sounded vigorously.
"Dear me! How tiresome! Now I know who that is," murmured the old lady,—not so very old either, for she was only sixty-five; and as everybody knows, sixty-five in the present age of hygiene is not at all advanced. She was very well kept too; little and slender, with a soft pale skin which had not forgotten how to blush, and brown hair only streaked with silver, and brown eyes capable of sparkling still, though not so large as they once had been. She wore a dainty cap of real lace, and a black lace shawl over a dress of black satin. The elderly style of attire gave her a look of greater youth.
"I know who that is," repeated Mrs. Effingham, sighing. Like many people who live alone, she had a habit of talking to herself half-aloud. "Nobody rings like Miss Henniker, and she said she would come before I left. But I wish she had waited till to-morrow."
"Miss Henniker," announced the trim parlour-maid. Mrs. Effingham kept no men-servants, though well able to do so in point of worldly goods. She did not like the responsibility, she said, and "men wanted men to manage them."
Despite her little soliloquy, Mrs. Effingham came forward in a cordial manner to welcome the caller,—a spare middle-aged single lady, of the "usual age," sharp-featured, and conspicuously fashionable in dress.
"My dear Miss Henniker! How do you do? How good of you to come! So busy as you always are," the elder lady's soft voice said, not untruthfully, for she really did count it "good"; only she suppressed the fact that some other afternoon would have been preferable. If Miss Henniker's visits were, like those of angels, few and far between, they were unlike angels' visits in duration. Miss Henniker was a careful economiser of time; and when she did get to a friend's house, she commonly paid six calls in one, thereby saving herself ten walks to and from that house. The reasoning will be found, on examination, unimpeachable.
"How do you do? Quite well, thanks. I have been planning for weeks to see you, but—thanks, this will do nicely," said Miss Henniker, planting herself in the chair which Mrs. Effingham had destined for Dorothea. She did it with the air of one not lightly to be dislodged. "Extremely busy lately, but I have contrived for once an hour's leisure. Really, it is quite dreadful, the way one's time gets filled up. I am told that you are leaving town directly. And you have had an accident! Nothing serious, I hope."
"O no; but it might have been," said Mrs. Effingham. She was aware that, if she did not wish to lengthen Miss Henniker's visit, it would be wiser not to speak of Dorothea; only the temptation was irresistible. "I slipped down coming out of Church on Christmas Day. Oh, I really was not hurt—" in answer to a commiserating sound,—"but I might have been. A hansom drove round the corner, and was almost upon me. I could not possibly move in time, and I must have been run over—killed, most likely—if a young lady had not darted forward and pulled me out of the way. Yes, quite a stranger, and such a nice-looking lady-like girl. I have not seen her since, but she is coming to tea this afternoon,—at least, I hope so. You will stay and see her too, of course," pursued the gentle old lady, vanquished by Miss Henniker's energetic signs of sympathy. "My young preserver, I call her: and really, you know, it was a most courageous thing to do. She might have been killed in saving me. We might both have been killed."
"It was most frightful," said Miss Henniker earnestly, while her busy eyes could not resist a little voyage of discovery round the room. Mrs. Effingham was always buying new pictures, new ornaments, new antimacassars and vases, for her pretty drawing-room; and Miss Henniker was always on the lookout for new ideas. "Yes, really quite terrible," she repeated, after noting with interest a dainty arrangement of grasses and scarves upon a side-table, Mrs. Effingham being addicted to combinations of Liberty's silks with Nature. "You might, as you say, so easily have been killed. It was most distressing. Christmas Day, too."
"Yes, indeed. I felt that I could not be sufficiently thankful. I meant to see Miss Tracy and to tell her how grateful I was, long before this; but I had a cold and could not go out. And she has been long returning my call. However, I hope we shall have her here presently."
"Miss Tracy! Is that her name? Where does she live?"
"O only in Willingdon Street,—in lodgings. It is not a very delightful part," Mrs. Effingham said apologetically for her heroine, as Miss Henniker's look of interest faded. "But that will not affect Miss Tracy herself—and, after all, there is nothing in the street—it is respectable enough, only, of course—well, I fancied that the family might be in town only for a short time; but when I went to call, I found that they actually lived there,—in lodgings. Just Colonel Tracy and his daughter; nobody else. It must be very dull for the poor girl."
"But you know nothing about them. I would not be drawn into an intimacy," said Miss Henniker.
"I assure you, they do not show any inclination to push; the difficulty is to get hold of Miss Tracy. Ah, here I hope she—no,—it is not."
"Mr. and Miss Claughton," announced the maid.
"Emmeline Claughton!" exclaimed Mrs. Effingham. "The sweetest girl!" she paused to whisper hurriedly to Miss Henniker. "Sister to the curate, you know. She stayed with him nearly a month last year, and I quite fell in love with her."
"Ah!" Miss Henniker murmured, privately thinking that Mrs. Effingham was apt to fall in love rather easily.
A tall, pale, dark-haired young lady entered, followed by a tall, pale, fair-haired young man. Neither could be called exactly handsome, but both were more than good-looking, and both had a certain distinguished air. Mrs. Effingham hurried forward with genuine delight, unalloyed this time. She threw her arms affectionately round the girl, holding out both hands the next moment to the brother, and then recoiling with a little start of surprise.
"Why it is not—" she exclaimed.
"Not Edred, but Mervyn. My eldest brother," explained Emmeline, and the delicate elderly hand went out again, though less enthusiastically. "We are spending two nights in town, and I promised Edred to see you."
"My dear, I am so glad. Pray sit down," said Mrs. Effingham. "Yes, indeed—delighted to make your brother's acquaintance. Of course, I was quite well aware that you had another brother. But I must introduce you both to my friend,—Miss Henniker, Mr. and Miss Claughton. Miss Henniker knows your other brother well, my dear."
Emmeline's bow was rather distant.
"You will have a cup of tea with me, of course," Mrs. Effingham said, as the tray appeared. Emmeline looked dubiously at her brother, but Mervyn offered no objection. "Somebody else will come directly, I hope," pursued the hostess, turning from one to another, in the anxious endeavour to blend her little circle into one harmonious whole. "Such a very charming girl—a Miss Tracy. She saved me from being run over on Christmas Day. I dare say your brother told you. He was on the spot and saw it all, only not near enough to be in time himself. Did he really not mention it?"
Mrs. Effingham looked disappointed.
"I should have thought,—he seemed so surprised at her action—her promptitude, you know. And I assure you, it was dangerous for herself. She might have been killed. Your brother seemed so much impressed at the moment, that I should have expected—"
"He has been extremely busy," said Emmeline, aware that silence on Edred's part might mean more than speech. "There is always so much going on at Christmas in a London Parish. And one of the curates has fallen ill, so they are short of hands."
"Ah, that explains," Mrs. Effingham said, her glances fluttering round to the silent brother and the attentive Miss Henniker; "that explains why he has not been to see me. He promised to call on Miss Tracy's father—an old Colonel, I believe, living in lodgings. Odd that he should not make a nice home somewhere for his daughter. However, we shall know more about them soon. I am so glad you have both come, my dear Emmeline. So glad you should be here to make acquaintance with—"
"Miss Tracy!" was announced.
The Colonel had brought his daughter to the front door, and there had left her. She was feeling a little shy by this time; but shyness did not mean awkwardness in her case. Dorothea's entrance was all that it should have been; quiet, unobtrusive and self-possessed—not self-conscious. Even when wearing her glasses, she could not see far across the large drawing-room; and her first impression was of an indefinite crowd of people. For a moment she hesitated, not knowing whom to accost; and impulsive Mrs. Effingham hurried towards her.
"My dear, you have come at last. My dear, how do you do? I am so glad. I have been longing to meet you,—to thank you. Yes, indeed, you know well that you saved my life that day at the risk of your own. It was a perfect marvel that we were not both killed," Mrs. Effingham went on, with eager gratification in the idea. To have passed through a peril and come out unhurt is particularly gratifying to some minds, and the greater the peril, the more eminent becomes the position of the individual who has escaped.
"It was very kind of you to call. I would have come sooner if I had been able," Dorothea said in her soft, quiet voice.
"The kindness was all the other way, my dear Miss Tracy. I assure you, I have been telling my friends about it,—telling them they must welcome you as a heroine. I can never thank you enough, but I shall never forget! We must always be friends. Now you will let me introduce you. Of course introductions are not the fashion; but sometimes, you know—" apologised Mrs. Effingham, who never could resist naming everybody to everybody. "And we are all friends here, or, at least, I am sure we shall be. This is Miss Henniker, a very old friend of mine. Miss Claughton and Mr. Claughton You saw the other Mr. Claughton on Christmas Day,—the clergyman who helped me up, after you had rescued me so bravely, my dear. This is his brother—and sister. I think you and Emmeline Claughton will exactly suit one another. I should like you to be friends."
Dorothea found all this rather embarrassing, while Emmeline looked unapproachably calm and dignified. Mr. Claughton, under his polite demeanour, highly enjoyed the scene. Mrs. Effingham's beaming face clouded over faintly, as she glanced from one to another.
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AFTERNOON TEA
"NOW you will sit down, and have some tea," Mrs. Effingham said to Dorothea. "Yes, here—by Emmeline—Miss Claughton, I mean. My dear, pray be kind," she whispered distressfully to the latter, bending close to pick up a fallen antimacassar. Mervyn, starting forward to forestall her, heard the small petition, and noted Emmeline's irresponsive gravity. "Too bad of Em!" he told himself, with a little twirl of his fair moustache, to hide the smile behind it.
Dorothea took the seat indicated, and Emmeline, turning towards her, made a distantly courteous remark upon the weather.
"Yes, very fine," Dorothea answered. She wore her neat dark brown costume, the brown hat, with its suggestion of red, suiting well her rather short and rounded face, and delicate features. The wistful eyes shone as usual through glasses, the set of which on her little nose, combined with the forward carriage of her head, gave a peculiar air of keen attention. There was something about Dorothea altogether out of the common—singularly free from self-consciousness, markedly quiet, the gloved hands lying still, with a lady-like absence of fidgets. She seemed to be neither anxious to push her way, nor susceptible to Emmeline's chilling manner.
Mervyn found her interesting; partly perhaps out of compassion for the charming old lady, Mrs. Effingham; partly perhaps from a perverse love of opposition, inclining him to go the contrary way to his sister; but partly also from a certain quickness of appreciation. He stood up politely to hand cake and tea, and when everybody's wants were supplied, he carelessly took possession of a chair on the other side of Dorothea.
"I suppose you are an experienced Londoner," came in subdued tones.
"I! O no," Dorothea answered. "I came home a week before Christmas."
"From—?" questioningly.
"School."
"Ah!" He had wondered what her age might be. "Not in town?"
"In Scotland. I have not been in London for years."
"And you like it?"
"I like St. Paul's—if one need not go through it merely as a sight."
Mrs. Effingham, listening to Miss Henniker, cast a grateful glance at Mervyn; and Emmeline, hearing the murmur of voices, cast a glance also, not grateful in kind.
The conversation was not at present brilliant.
"Scotland?" Mervyn said musingly. "Edinburgh, perhaps."
"Yes; the outskirts. There is nothing in London like Arthur's Seat."
"Not even the top gallery of St. Paul's?"
"Oh!" Dorothea uttered an indignant monosyllable, then paused.
"Well?" he said, smiling.
"One can't compare the two. And everything is so shut in here. There is no getting away from the people. Yet—" as if to herself, "I wanted to come!"
"I suppose the acmé of a school-girl's desires is to have done with school."
The wistful eyes went straight to his face, dubiously—not occupied with him, but with her own thoughts. They were pretty eyes, he could see.
"I wonder if one goes through life like that,—always wishing for something different?"
Mervyn laughed slightly. "Is that your present state of mind?"
"I don't care for London. And I should like—very much—"
A pause.
"You would like—?" he said.
"One or two friends."
"A modest wish, at all events. Most people 'would like' one or two hundred."
"Would they?"
"Certainly. You are not in the swing of London society yet."
"My father does not care for society. But—one or two hundred friends!" incredulously.
"A lady commonly values herself by the length of her visiting-list. One or two hundred are respectable. Four or five hundred are desirable. Seven or eight hundred are honourable. Don't you see?"
"But how could one ever have time for so many?"
"One has not time. That's the charm of it,—always to be too busy to do anything or see anybody."
As if in echo, Miss Henniker's tones came across the tea-table,—"I assure you, if it had been possible—but I have been so desperately busy,—not a single moment disengaged. Absolutely not one free moment."
Dorothea broke into a soft laugh. She was beginning to feel quite at ease with this pleasant-mannered Mr. Claughton. Dorothea's laughter was always low, and the accompanying smile lighted up her whole face into positive prettiness. Mervyn received another grateful glance from Mrs. Effingham, while Emmeline sat in absolute silence.
"Don't you see?" he murmured.
"I don't see the charm of such a state of things."
"No? You haven't caught the infection yet. It's a race for life,—everybody trying to get first. Anything to be popular and successful. More friends—otherwise, a longer visiting-list—means popularity, which means success."
"I should like a different aim in life. Would not you?"
There was a movement of indifference. "I! O I do in town as town does—comment on the follies of my neighbours and run in the same groove. In London, I pride myself on the number of my acquaintances. At Craye, I pique myself upon their quality."
"You are trying to make yourself out different from what you really are, I am sure," Dorothea said, scanning him in her slight, yet earnest fashion. "People so often do that. I never can understand why."
"So often do what?"
"Try to seem worse than they are. Why should they?"
"It's a weakness of human nature. Yes, I am subject to it, I believe. Edred is not. If you want to find a thoroughly consistent being, you must make my brother's acquaintance."
Dorothea did not think she would prefer the other brother to this one; and she kept silence. The handsome blue eyes, watching, read her thought, and the fair moustache curled mischievously.
"And if you want an inconsistent moraliser, you must turn to me."
Dorothea could have protested; but Emmeline succeeded at last in catching Mervyn's eye, and the two arose.
"I shall see you both again some day. Be sure you come to see me when you are in town," Mrs. Effingham said cordially, when good-byes were said.
Emmeline bowed slightly to Dorothea as she turned away. Mervyn shook hands, smiling, as with an old friend.
"That is really a most delightful young man," exclaimed Mrs. Effingham, when the door was closed. "Did not you think so?"—appealing to both her companions. "Almost as nice as his brother. And Emmeline Claughton is a charming girl, really charming,—only not quite in her best mood to-day, perhaps. Just a little stiff, you know. The way to enjoy Emmeline, is to have her to oneself. She is a good girl,—really good,—but sometimes perhaps a trifle too reserved."
"A trifle too proud, I should say," observed Miss Henniker.
"O it is not pride. I assure you it is not pride. Nobody could call Emmeline Claughton proud. I believe it is a form of shyness. She does not open out easily, and she wants a great deal of thawing. Her brothers are much more attractive,—though the one I know best is rather like her. But not altogether. No, certainly not altogether the same."