image015
"My dear Dolly!" said Mrs. Haughton reprovingly.
"How do you do?" she answered, smiling up in his face, then turning away in apparent oblivion of Edred's presence.
"Dolly, you don't see Edred."
Dolly had no idea who said the words. She only felt sure it was accompanied by a smile, and she scorned herself afresh for the renewed rush of colour.
"O, how do you do?" she said carelessly, holding out her hand, and turning again to Mervyn. "It's too bad that a girl can't be left in peace to wear her hair anyhow!" she muttered, with well-assumed pettishness, Mrs. Claughton having passed on to welcome other arrivals, while Emmeline was leading Margot to a shady seat.
Mervyn was quite taken in. "Come!—never mind," he said, astonished at the unwonted signs of temper. "People will make remarks, but what does it matter?"
"I don't see why one is to be interfered with," pouted Dolly.
She had not seen the momentary brightness and the succeeding gravity of Edred's face, for she had not dared to look at him. She only knew that he made no further effort to gain her attention, but fell back at once, leaving Mervyn to escort her towards the tennis-lawn. Dolly became suddenly conscious of fierce disappointment, and of a desperate inclination to shed tears; but she kept her eyes bent smilingly upwards, having dropped the look of annoyance the moment the need for it was over.
"You'll like to be in the next set, I dare say," said Mervyn.
"I don't mind. Any time."
"But I know you are a devotee of tennis. Perhaps Edred will join too. Good for him, you know. He has worked too hard lately—doesn't look well."
"Doesn't he?" carelessly.
"No. Don't you think him rather pale,—'interestingly pale,' as somebody says?"
"I didn't notice."
"Too much taken up with the hair question. Why, Dolly, I didn't know you could be so easily upset."
Mervyn spoke in an elder-brotherly style of assumed reproof, and to his utter amazement Dolly's blue eyes were straightway full to overflowing.
"Why—Dolly!" he uttered.
"Some people are enough to make anybody cross," faltered Dolly, in choked accents.
"Well, but if I were you—Bravo! That's well hit. Game," exclaimed Mervyn, echoing the word which reached them. "Now we shall have to form a new set. I'll ask Edred to join,—shall I? Wait here a moment."
"Why can't you join?" asked Dolly, in her usual tone.
Mervyn paid no attention to the request, but he speedily came back alone. "Lazy fellow,—I can't persuade him," he said lightly.
Dolly made no sign, but her interest in tennis was gone. She played languidly, absently, missing every ball, till her partner, Mervyn, asked, "Why, Dolly, what is the matter?" Then she coloured furiously, and roused herself to do her best, winning acclamations more than once from lookers-on. If only Edred had been among those lookers-on!—but she knew he was not.
"Better ending than beginning," Mervyn remarked, when he and Dolly came out victorious.
"Yes. I suppose I wasn't trying."
"You'll join the next set."
"O no. It is too hot," said Dolly, in a listless tone. "I'm going among the trees."
She strolled away; and two minutes later she would have given anything not to have refused, for Edred was among the players. If only she had seen him coming in time! Too late now! Mervyn strode after her, to say, with a smile, "Think better of it, Dolly!" But how could she retract, just because Edred was there? What would everybody say?
"I can't. It is too hot!" she repeated.
Then she found a cane chair under a may-tree, from which she could watch the game at a distance. Edred certainly did not play well. He was not in practice, and he missed often the easiest balls. But Dolly cared nothing about his bad play, as compared with Mervyn's good play; or for his unrelaxed gravity, as compared with Mervyn's pleasant ease. The one thing she did care for was that Edred never once looked towards the may-tree, under which a little figure in white sat forlornly alone,—never once! Dolly was sure of that; and yet how could she really know?
This set did not last very long; and Edred was standing not far off, talking to somebody. Would he come to Dolly, or would he not? She was longing for a reassuring word or glance from him, with a craving which for the time almost smothered her dread of what people might say. Now he had drawn nearer still, and Dolly knew he saw her. If he had not seen her before, he saw her now. The uncertainty set her heart beating again, faster than before. Would he—oh, would he—?
Emmeline walked up, and said something to Edred. Then she went away, and he seemed to hesitate. He looked towards Dolly—yes, straight towards her. The next moment, he turned and walked in the opposite direction, out of sight.
Dolly felt stupefied. She grew cold, and shivered all over.
"What! Here still?" exclaimed Mervyn, coming under the shady tree. "Hidden from view!"
"Yes, I—It's a nice corner."
"Not bad for solitary meditation; but I didn't know that was in your line. Have you been hidden away long enough? Will you have some tea,—or an ice?"
Dolly laughed vaguely, and stood up. "I should like some tea," she said. The colour had all faded out of her cheeks, leaving her white and limp.
"Dolly, you are half-frozen. The wind is a little chilly, perhaps, but I shouldn't have thought—"
"Yes, it's dreadfully chilly. I'm just like an icicle."
"A cup of tea will put you right. Come along."
A decorated table under some elm-trees had attracted most of the company—tea, cakes, and ices being in full swing. Mervyn found a chair for Dolly close to Margot. "She's chilly, and wants a cup of tea," he said.
"Dolly, you are the colour of the table-cloth," said Margot.
"I had a game, and got too hot; and then I suppose I sat still too long."
"Where have you been? I could not get a glimpse of you anywhere."
"Only under a tree. It was a cosy spot, and I could watch the tennis."
Dolly saw Edred's head, far away in the throng, moving to and fro. He seemed to be attending to people's wants busily. She had no inclination now to blush, feeling too cold and miserable; besides, he showed no disposition to come near. Mervyn, not Edred, brought tea and cake.
"That will do you good," he said, pulling a chair up for himself. "Everybody seems supplied, so I don't see why I shouldn't indulge in a moment's repose. Feeding the British public is hard work!" This in a confidential undertone.
"Edred is making himself desperately useful," remarked Margot.
"Edred never does anything less than desperately. Can't be moderate if he tries."
image016
DOLLY'S TROUBLE
"BY-THE-BYE—" exclaimed Mervyn.
"Something very important?" asked Margot, as he stopped.
"Well, no! A sudden idea. I came across a young lady in town, not long ago, who seemed immensely interested in all of you—in Dolly especially."
Dolly's head came round with an air of languid attention.
"A Miss Tracy," said Mervyn.
Margot's eyes wore the look which means recognition of something or somebody, though she only said, "Yes."
"You know the name?"
"There was a brother-officer of my father's, years ago, named Tracy."
"And Miss Tracy said something about a former friend of her father's, named Erskine."
"What is Miss Tracy like?"
"About Dolly's age, I imagine, but she looks older. May be the effect of wearing glasses; and nobody would take Dolly for more than fifteen,—I beg your pardon, Dolly! Miss Tracy's name is Dorothea."
The look of recognition came again to Margot's eyes.
"Ah!" said Mervyn.
"Is she one of a family,—or an only daughter?"
"She has a father,—that is all. No brothers or sisters. He seems to be a cantankerous old fellow. I stumbled upon them in the Park—the Colonel snoring, and his daughter keeping guard over him. We had a little private confab, not a word of which he heard, after which he solemnly avowed that he hadn't been to sleep. Miss Tracy's manner of taking the fiction was perfect. He knows nobody and goes nowhere; so the young lady's round of spring gaieties consisted of one afternoon tea."
"What is she like? Pretty?"
"Rather hard to say. She is pretty and not pretty. Sometimes the one and sometimes the other. Curiously self-possessed, for a girl who has never been into society; and simplicity itself. With a spice of keenness and oddity. Oh, she is uncommon, and decidedly taking. Improves on acquaintance. You must have heard of her, by-the-bye! She is the heroine who saved old Mrs. Effingham last Christmas from being run over. Edred was on the spot."
Dolly's interest, languid hitherto, was wide awake now.
"We never heard," she said. "Mrs. Effingham?"
"A friend of Edred's. I know her name," observed Margot.
"Edred had better give you the facts himself. There he is!"
Mervyn stood up, and after some vigorous signals from him, Edred approached,—not too willingly, it would seem from his manner.
"I say, I want you to describe that little scene last Christmas, when Miss Tracy saved Mrs. Effingham from being run over. Margot and Dolly have never heard of it."
Edred looked reluctant.
"Yes, I remember," he said.
"How did it happen?" inquired Margot, while Dolly sat motionless, rigid with the effort not to tremble.
"Mrs. Effingham slipped down on a slide, after leaving the church. A hansom cab would have been upon her, but Miss Tracy pulled her away in time. No one else was within reach."
A drier statement could hardly have been made, but all who knew Edred knew that any amount of unexpressed admiration might lie below.
"How plucky of her!" exclaimed Margot.
Edred merely said, "Yes."
"And you were there?"
"I was there—not near enough to act, unhappily."
"Ah, that is why nobody has heard the story. Men don't like to be outdone by a girl. But it was not your fault."
"No."
"And the old lady was not hurt?"
"No."
"She was infinitely grateful," said Mervyn. "Em and I called upon her one day, and found her in a state of gush. Miss Tracy was there also; so we had an opportunity to inspect the heroine."
"Did she bear her honours meekly?" asked Dolly, in an odd constrained voice.
"She didn't seem aware of their existence. Em acted the icicle as usual, and Miss Tracy studied her—rather amused, I thought. She has a piquant way of looking at one through her glasses; unlike the rest of the world. Mrs. Effingham was unutterably grateful to me for doing the polite."
"And you saw her in the Park—afterwards, I suppose?" Margot asked.
"Months after. August."
Mervyn made a movement, as if to go.
"What is she like?" inquired Dolly, in the same stiff voice, as if she had not heard all that passed before.
"I've given my view of the matter. Ask Edred! He's quite intimate in the house; and I haven't so much as ventured to call. I did propose it, and had a snubbing from the gallant Colonel. But black cloth may go anywhere."
Mervyn was gone, and Edred lingered in an uncertain manner, showing an evident inclination to decamp also.
"So you see a good deal of Miss Tracy?" said Margot.
"She teaches in our Sunday-school."
"Ali, that would bring you together, of course."
Margot paused, with a sudden thought of Dolly; but she would not even look in her sister's direction, for fear the glance should be noticed. She knew, without looking, that the usually restless Dolly was seated like a small statue, white and motionless.
"Yes, sometimes."
"Does she teach well?"
"Very well."
"The fact is, I am interested about her. My father, once upon a time, knew some Tracys very well. But that was years ago—a good many years."
"I could find out—anything you wish. I shall be seeing Miss Tracy."
"I don't think it matters. All intercourse has been dropped for so long; and after all—" Margot hesitated. "Dolly, I am thinking of going home. Will you come with me, or shall I leave you behind?"
"I'll go home."
"Would you not like another game of tennis?" asked Edred.
The tone was unmistakably cold, and he hardly looked at Dolly; or if he looked, his eyes did not meet hers.
"No; I'd rather not," she answered, as coldly.
"I fancy the pony-carriage is here by this time," Margot observed.
She rose, and found her way to Mrs. Claughton, Dolly following, like one in a dream.
"I must say good-bye early to-day," she said to the stout lady.
"Yes, quite right. You had no business to come at all, Margot,—with your spine," said Mrs. Claughton, careless of the fact that Margot hated remarks in public upon her health.
"I couldn't well come with somebody else's spine," murmured Margot, finding relief in the small witticism, which she took care that Mrs. Claughton should not hear.
"However, Dolly of course will stay another hour or two. Dolly need not go yet."
"Dolly seems tired to-day."
"Dolly tired! She wants another game of tennis; that is all," said Mrs. Claughton energetically. "Nonsense, Dolly!" as a little hand came out. "My dear, I am not going to say good-bye to you yet. Where is Edred?"
Dolly dropped her hand, and turned away, keeping close to Margot. Outside the group, she said pitifully, in an undertone, "I must go! I can't stay!"
"Yes, dear,—if you are quite sure."
"Please take me home. And don't tell Issy."
Margot made no answer beyond an indefinite sound of assent. She knew that Dolly had reached her utmost extent of endurance. A word more might prove too much.
The pony-chaise waited at the front door, so there was no delay in getting off. Neither spoke on the way home—a short distance, though often too much for Margot to walk. Near Woodlands, Margot leant forward, and said to the boy—
"You need not go up to the door. Stop at the little side-gate."
The boy obeyed, and Margot stepped out.
"Take the chaise round to the yard," she said. "Now, Dolly."
Dolly too obeyed, wordlessly. Margot led her to the back garden-door of the house, which they entered unobserved. Dolly's room was at the top of the house, a story higher than Margot's, and Margot toiled up the stairs, regardless of her aching back, till the sunny little room was reached. Then she shut the door, sat down, and held out her arms. Still without a word, Dolly subsided into them.
Two or three minutes passed, and then—
"Poor little Dolly!" Margot said tenderly.
"Margot, did I show—"
"Show what, dear?"
"That I—I—that I—minded?"
"You didn't manage to look quite like yourself. What was it that you minded so much?"
"Didn't you see?"
"I thought you gave Edred an unnecessarily cold shoulder; and he seemed rather vexed. I'm not sure that he had not reason."
"O no; it wasn't that. He didn't care. And I mustn't care," said Dolly, lifting her face, which had one white and one red cheek. "I don't mean anybody to see. Only I felt so—so stupid—I was so afraid I should do or say something wrong."
"Then perhaps it was best for you to come away."
Dolly hid her face again.
"Margot, didn't you see—about Miss Tracy?"
"Yes."
"He—likes her."
Margot was silent, passing her hand over the soft hair.
Dolly's self-command broke down, though she struggled hard to hold the sobs in check.
"Good Dolly! Wise child!" Margot whispered. "You'll be brave, won't you?"
"I'm not good—I'm not wise or brave," Dolly broke out. "It is so hard to bear. I never thought—never knew before. Margot, hold me tight. Margot, I'm not brave," she sobbed. "It's only pride. I couldn't—couldn't—let anybody know—but oh, I do feel as if I could hate that girl."
"You must not."
"No, no, I know; but how am I to help it?"
"There's only the one way. Nothing is ever too hard to be overcome. And after all we don't know—we don't know anything really. It may be all a mistake. I mean, as to his caring in the least for her."
"But you thought—"
"I fancied his look a little suspicious,—that shut-up manner that he puts on, when he minds particularly about anything. And Mervyn's way of speaking too. Still, it may be all a mistake, all nonsense."
"Only—"
"Only it may not be. And meantime you are right to be careful. Don't be hard and cold to Edred, Dolly; no need for that. Only be simple and dignified."
"I can't be dignified. It isn't in me. I'm all one way or all the other."
"Then you have to learn. If you are too cold, you will drive him away; and if you are too warm—" Dolly shuddered. "Yes, you see. Just be natural."
Dolly drew a long breath. "O if only Issy hadn't said anything!"
Margot could not truthfully say, "Issy meant nothing."
"I think I must lie down now," she remarked presently.
Dolly started up from her clinging posture. "Margot, is your back bad?"
"It has been bad all day." Margot seldom admitted so much, but she was anxious to lead Dolly's mind on a fresh tack. "Suppose you come and settle me on the couch in my room. And then—I wonder if you could read me a story, and help me to forget the aching."
"I'll do anything. I'm so sorry. It is all my fault."
An hour passed in attending to Margot did Dolly more good than any amount of brooding over her own woes. Margot really was in very bad pain—so severe, that when she had reached her room, she turned faint with it. She would not have Isabel called, however, but insisted that Dolly should do all that was requisite.
"Now I hear Issy coming, so you can go," Margot said at length. "Kiss me, Dolly, and take a run in the garden. Don't let yourself sit and think."
Dolly promised, then fled, and Isabel entered, remarking, "We did not know till just now that you had both come in. Margot, what made you go this afternoon?"
"I thought I ought."
"Mother is quite worried. You will just make yourself ill." Isabel was settling the pillows which Dolly had not placed rightly.
"Then I must bear it. Issy!"
"Well?"
"Don't say one word more, please, about Edred to Dolly, or before her!"
"Why? She didn't surely suspect—?"
"I'm afraid she saw through your questions. She was as stiff as a poker to him."
"Dolly always goes to such ridiculous extremes. All one wishes is that she should not look too gushingly delighted whenever he turns up."
"She didn't look gushingly delighted to-day by any means."
"Did Edred seem to notice?"
"He was equally stiff to her."
"Well—perhaps—after all, that is safer than—"
"Not safer to have him driven off, if they care for one another."
"Dolly may care for him."
"I have an idea that he cares for Dolly; only his is such a curious temperament."
"Proud as a pikestaff."
"No, no, not proud. At least, if he is, it is the sort of pride which always looks to its owner like humility. He would never give in knowingly to pride. There's any amount of shyness, and if once he has a serious check—"
"Oh, well, I shall have to explain to Emmeline that Dolly's manner is all my fault."
"Issy, don't! No, on no account! What are you thinking of?" exclaimed the dismayed Margot. "Fancy Dolly's position, if it came to Edred's ears. Dear old Issy, don't you see—you only have to let things alone? If ever you had had a love affair yourself—"
"Which happily I never had!" asserted Isabel, as if congratulating herself on escape from an epidemic.
"No, I know; but if you had, you would understand. Issy dear, do pray make up your mind not to breathe a word to anybody. Things will settle themselves one way or another. All we have to do is not to interfere. If Dolly went to you for advice, then of course—"
"She won't. That isn't Dolly's style."
"I would wait till she does."
Isabel looked rather doleful. "You mean that I have been stupid and done harm," she said. "I am stupid, I know, but really I didn't intend—I never thought—Yes, I'll be good, I promise you. I'll never mention Edred's name again in Dolly's hearing."
"My dear Issy! As if that would be possible!"
"Well, I mean—unnecessarily."
Then Margot, secure of having made a sufficient impression, told about the Tracys, omitting only the possibility which had occurred to Dolly and herself, that Edred might be peculiarly taken by the other Dorothea.
"Very curious! How odd! Really!" interjected Isabel at intervals. "A Colonel and a Dorothea! It sounds like the same people. I don't know why they shouldn't be. My father's Colonel Tracy lives in London, I believe."
"So I fancied. I know he used; but my father so seldom mentions his name."
"Except at Christmas. I wonder what sort of daughter he has?"
"Nice, I fancy. But, Issy, don't say anything to mother. She is always so grieved about that unfortunate quarrel. Some day perhaps I may tell my father."
"I wouldn't rake things up. It would only bother him," said Isabel, acting counsellor in her turn.
"Well, you have taken my advice, so it is only fair that I should take yours," laughed Margot.
"I wouldn't," repeated Isabel. "Father took the first stop towards a reconciliation—sending that card, I mean,—and it is Colonel Tracy's turn next. He ought to do something more than just to send back the card after waiting a whole year. He was the one in the wrong,—most in the wrong, at all events. If Mrs. Tracy were alive—but she isn't, and we don't know anything about that Dorothea girl."
image017
DOROTHEA'S LETTER
"I HAVE been very nearly a year at home now," wrote Dorothea Tracy to her friend, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, one dull December afternoon.
"Nearly a whole year! What a long time a year is! I feel ages older than when I saw you last. Quite middle-aged and experienced."
"It has not been an unhappy year. Need one ever be unhappy, I wonder, merely because things are not exactly as one would choose? Or rather,—no, I don't wonder, because I am perfectly sure one need not."
"I want to tell you that I really have tried hard to follow the advice you gave me that last evening,—you will remember it, though perhaps not as clearly as I do. Trying to do doesn't always mean doing; but indeed I have tried."
"You said that I must always live steadily by rule, not let myself be a victim to impulses; and above all, that I was not to be indulgent to self in little matters, because that always means self-indulgence in greater matters too. And I was always to hold myself ready to do whatever might come to hand, and yet not to be discontented if very little came to hand. So you see I have not forgotten."
"It was a hard battle at first not to be discontented. Everything was so different from what I had fancied beforehand. And for a time there seemed really nothing to do, except to run up or down stairs for my father, and to be kind to little Minnie. But one thing after another turned up; and I have found, as you said I should, that one always may be busy and useful, if only one will."
"As for self-discipline, I shouldn't think one ever need be in any difficulty."
"At first, of course, I was in the swing of school habits; and I kept on doing as you had taught me, half in a mechanical way. But there came a time when I began to realise that I was free to please myself in little things, and that there was nobody to control me, and somehow I began to give in."
"I wonder whether you ever did that, and found out how dreadfully self-indulgent one can grow in a very little while."
"I didn't see it at all at first. The change wasn't slow, but it was so gliding. I never had an idea before how easily one can slip and slide into a sort of small slavery to one's body, if once one relaxes guard! You won't believe it, perhaps, but I was getting quite lazy—always lounging about in easy-chairs, and lying in bed too late in the morning, and indulging myself in story reading when I ought to have been doing some other thing, and fancying myself tired when I only wanted rousing, and even getting fanciful and fussy about food—which you know was an old trouble, but I really did think I had quite got over it."
"My father got vexed one morning, when I was down rather late for breakfast, and he told me I was indolent. That helped me to see, first. And then Lent came; and on the first Sunday evening we had a sermon from Mr. Mordan, on 'bringing the body into subjection,' and 'using such abstinence,'—in the Collect, you know."
"He did speak plainly! He warned us to take care of just those very things that I had been growing careless about. He mentioned a good many ways in which one might fail; and amongst them were too much lying in bed, and daintiness in eating, and self-indulgence in reading. And he advised us to make particular use of Lent by going right in the face of any habits that were getting a mastery over us—for yielding in one thing would be yielding in all, and every time one is beaten, one gets weaker. 'But mind,' he said, 'you must not think that when Lent is over, you are free to revert to your bad habits.' That did so remind me of you, and how you used to say, 'Don't slacken because Lent is ended.'"
"It was a hard fight after that, but I did begin to get up earlier, and not to let myself lounge about or read stories in the morning, and to make myself sometimes eat things I didn't like. After a while it grew easier; and then I felt how much I had owed to you. But somehow I never felt inclined to write this all until now."
"Soon after I came home, my father subscribed to a library near for me, and that has been a great delight. Mr. and Mrs. Mordan lend me books too, now and then. I make it a rule to have some volume of solid reading always in hand, and a good sensible story besides for the evening—not a trashy sort."
"And only think! My father goes to Church with me now, at least once every Sunday. Isn't that a change? I could so seldom persuade him at first."
"One thing has disappointed me. For a time he was so much brighter and more chatty. He used to tell stories of his Army life, and he really seemed to like me to chat to him. But that is over now. He has been getting more and more silent through the autumn—even gloomy. Some days, he hardly speaks at all, and when he does, he speaks sharply. I feel almost sure that some trouble or worry is weighing on his mind; and I have an idea that it has to do with money."
"I don't think it can be wrong of me to say all this to you, because you have always been—"
Dorothea came to a pause, and sat, pen in hand, considering.
"Am I wrong?" she murmured. "Ought I to say so much? Mrs. Kirkpatrick is my oldest and dearest friend—but she is not my father's friend. He calls her 'an estimable old lady'—and that is all. Is it quite honourable of me to tell her about his affairs? He would not tell her himself. Have I the right, without his leave?"
She sat thoughtfully, gazing towards the lighted candle.
"Perhaps he is waiting till he is sure that I am trustworthy, and not a gossip, before he speaks out. After all, his affairs are not the concern of other people—not even of my dear Mrs. Kirkpatrick. If I were at a loss to know what to do, perhaps my right plan would be to go to Mr. Mordan for advice, but I don't see that advice would help me just now. I have no right to press for my father's secrets; and unless he speaks to me himself, I cannot do anything."
Another break. Dorothea ran her eyes through the letter.
"What a lot I have written about myself. It is I—I—I all through! How horrid! I don't think I will send it off to-day. Perhaps I will re-write part to-morrow. That is the worst of living so much alone. One gets into such a narrow circle of ideas, and self grows so important. To be sure Mrs. Kirkpatrick begs to be told everything, but still—No, I'll wait."
Dorothea put pen and paper away, and peeped through the venetian into the lamp-lit street.
"Why doesn't my father come in? He is not often so late. However, there is not enough fog to hinder anybody; so I dare say he has some good reason."
She had hardly settled down to her book before the door was whisked open.
"Beg pardon, Miss; I thought your Pa was at home," Mrs. Stirring exclaimed. "Mr. Claughton wants to see the Colonel."
"My father will be in directly," said Dorothea; while, "Which Mr. Claughton?" flashed through her mind.
One candle does not make a room light, and for a moment she was in uncertainty; but before the newcomer's features were discernible, she knew his walk. "How do you do? I am expecting my father every moment," she said. "Will you sit down? He cannot be long now."
"Thanks." And Edred took a seat.
He looked pale, Dorothea thought, and his air was alike preoccupied and depressed.
"We have not seen you for a long while. Hardly since the summer."
"No; I have been remiss, I know. There has been so much to do, especially since my holiday."
"You were away all October, were you not? But you don't seem much the better for your month's rest," said Dorothea, suddenly conscious that her old shyness of Edred existed no longer. She could hardly have told why. He had perhaps never been less cordial in manner; yet she had never felt less afraid of him. It occurred to her mind that here was an opportunity to find out more about the Erskines of Craye—about Dolly, in particular. Why not? If she could ask questions of Mervyn, what should keep her from putting queries to Edred?
"And I will," she told herself smilingly, "if my father leaves me time."
"There is nothing wrong with me," came stiffly in answer; and then, as if the word were extorted by conscience,—"Except—"
"Except that you have rather too much to do, I suppose."
"Thanks, no; not in the least."
"Did you spend your month at home?"
"Three days of it. The rest in Scotland. No, I have not been home since."
"That was a very scanty allowance for your sister."
"My sister went to Scotland with me."
"Ah, Scotland is delightful. But I know Scotland, and I don't know Craye. I am more interested in Craye," said Dorothea. "You know I have seen your sister once, and your brother more than once. He is so like you."
"Mervyn! We are opposites."
"In character, are you? But not in face."
The frank simplicity of Dorothea's manner was taking effect. Mr. Claughton glanced up with more of attention than he had vouchsafed hitherto.
"Likeness is surely a matter of expression, at least, as much as of feature. However, one cannot be a judge of oneself."
"I don't think you are alike in expression; but nobody could help seeing that you are brothers."
"And yet," Dorothea was astonished to hear him say after a break, "we have scarcely one interest or subject in common."
"Is that a necessary state of things?" Dorothea did not question his assertion, as he perhaps expected.
"Perhaps not, if either could enter into the other's feelings." Dorothea thought of Mervyn's words in the Park. "Don't misunderstand me," he added, "I am not complaining of Mervyn. It is of myself that I complain."
"Isn't that the first step towards a change?"
"No. The difficulty is in our temperaments. He is all sunshine and merriment, hardly able to look at anything seriously for five minutes together. I am—" and a pause. "Hardly necessary to tell you. I have no sparkle or lightness in my composition. Sometimes I wish I had. Not to the extent that—" and another pause.
"But he is not all merriment. He does take things seriously—below. The froth is only on the surface, you know."
"I don't know. I should be glad to believe it."
"And—I think—" hesitatingly—"I am quite sure there must be some sparkle and lightness in everybody. Only it wants cultivating, doesn't it?"
"That may be a suggestion worth attending to," Edred said, with a rather melancholy smile. "We have got into an odd personal talk, Miss Tracy. I don't often indulge in remarks about myself; but since we are on the subject, I do not mind saying that I am conscious of a certain want. Too grave a manner is taken for moodiness by some people, and perhaps it repels them, when a little more of sunshine—a manner mere like Mervyn's—would attract."
Dorothea had never liked Edred so well, even while she began to fear that she had spoken too freely. It certainly was not her business to tell him of his failures, whether in manner or aught else; and the instinctive wish to defend Mervyn, which had lain below her utterances, was not even acknowledged to herself, much less could it be allowed to appear to Edred.
"It always seems to me that manner is the hardest thing in the world to manage," she said. "One is told to be perfectly natural, and then one finds that what is natural is wrong; and if one tries to change, one is called affected. At least, that is a girl's difficulty sometimes—at school. But you were going to tell me about Craye. There is a Colonel Erskine living near your home?"
"Yes—" Edred shrank suddenly into his shell.
Dorothea saw the change, thought of Mervyn's remarks about "Dolly," and mischievously resolved to persevere.
"And he has a wife and three daughters?"
"Yes."
"Named Miss Erskine, Miss Margot Erskine, and Miss Dolly Erskine?"
"Yes," for the third time.
"I want very much to know more about them. I can't tell you altogether why; only it is partly that I think my father and he must once have known one another. I believe they were in the same regiment; but they have not met now for years. There was a disagreement of some kind." Dorothea hesitated, for this was rather at variance with her resolution not to divulge her father's secret. She had spoken impulsively. "Perhaps my father might not like me to say so much."
"It would be a good thing that they should come together again."
"I wish they could; but I am not sure that my father would be willing. He hardly over speaks about Colonel Erskine." She was greatly tempted to mention the Christmas card, but refrained. "Some day, perhaps, it will come about. I am not even perfectly sure that they are the same Erskines; but there isn't much doubt. My father's friend had a little girl about my age, named Dorothea. And there is a Dorothea Erskine at Craye, is there not? The one called 'Dolly.'"
"Yes."
"Do tell me what she is like. It seems as if we ought to know something about each other."
Edred was silent.
"Is she in the least like me?"
"No."
"Please describe her. I want to be able to picture her face."
Thus driven, Edred had no choice. There was no getting out of it. Dorothea waited expectantly. The information was slow in coming, but patience was at length rewarded.
"She is—she is—little," Edred said desperately. "And fair."
"Blue eyes and golden hair?"
"Yes."
"Oh, go on. I don't see her yet. Is she very pretty?"
Edred's "Yes" was gruff; and a certain couplet darted through Dorothea's mind—
"If she be not fair for me,What care I how fair she be?"
Was that the state of affairs between the two? "No, no!" cried Dorothea to herself; "I hope not! I do hope not! If he is in love with her, can't she care for him? But perhaps this is all put on."
"People's opinions differ about a pretty face," said Edred curtly.
"Yes, of course. Does your brother admire Dolly very much?"
The question was unpremeditated; it flashed up, and was spoken out. But Dorothea had hit the mark now. Not only so, for the weapon which she flung bounded back and inflicted at least a scratch upon herself. She was startled first to see Edred's usually impassive face flush and grow pale; then she was still more startled to feel herself becoming just a degree more colourless than usual. It was not enough to strike a careless observer—only enough to rouse her own anger. What utter nonsense!
"Ah! I see!" she said.
Edred made no response whatever, and before Dorothea could decide what she would say next, the door was thrown open.
"Father, Mr. Claughton is waiting to speak to you."
The Colonel, entering roughly, stopped short and bowed. He looked very much out of temper, Edred Claughton thought; while Dorothea, bettor used to the Colonel's varieties of expression, read more truly the signs of trouble.
Edred had risen, and the Colonel did not sit down; so the two remained upright, each facing the other.
"I shall not take up many minutes of your time," said Edred apologetically, putting away as it were all remnants of his talk with Dorothea, and becoming instantly the polite Curate, intent on business. "You are probably busy."
"I am—very busy indeed," said Colonel Tracy, with sharpness.
"I have merely called to inquire—"
"Well?" thrust in the impatient Colonel.
"We are badly off just now for teachers in the night-school. Mr. Mordan thought it just possible, that you might be kindly willing now and then to take a class."
"No, sir! I am not kindly willing," shouted the Colonel, like a man goaded into sudden fury.
Edred stood, silent and gentlemanly. This did not cause a change of colour, like Dorothea's words.
"I've borne enough of this sort of thing! Interference and meddling! I'll not take a class in the night-school, or any other school!" declared the angry Colonel, in a voice which might be heard across the street.
Dorothea grow white again; but she came forward, close to her father, as if to restrain him.
"And if there's any more of it, I'll—I'll—I'll keep Dorothea at home too," spluttered the Colonel.
"Father, there is no harm in being asked. It is so easy to say No," observed Dorothea gently.
"I have said No! I'll say it again if needful."
"Hardly necessary. I am sorry to have even made the suggestion, since it is so unpleasant to you," said Edred, with cold courtesy. "Pray excuse me. Some day when you are not so busy—"
The Colonel began to splutter anew.
"No, do not misunderstand me. I was merely going to say that I would call again—not about the night-school."
The Colonel was silent, with a manifest effort. Edred bowed to him, and shook hands with Dorothea.
"Please come again. He will not mind—another time. Something must have happened," she murmured, almost inaudibly. If the Colonel heard, he made no sign. Edred's face broke into a slight smile.
"Pray don't think about it again," he said.
The door was hold open for him in grim style by the Colonel, and in his rear it was shut with a bang.
"Thank goodness that's over! Night-school, indeed! I wonder what next! The conceit of these young fellows!"
"Was there any need to be so vexed?" asked Dorothea sorrowfully.
No answer came at first. Colonel Tracy was tossing over some books with unsteady hands. Dorothea watched him in growing fear. She had never seen him so flushed and excited, so entirely off his balance. Though a fussy man about his food, he was abstemious in taking wine; yet a dread darted through her mind. Could he for once have taken too much? She had heard and read of such things.
Suddenly he dropped the books, let himself heavily into the arm-chair, and covered his heated face with two broad hands. Groan after groan burst from him.
"Father!" said Dorothea. She stood by his side, anxious yet quiet. "Tell me what is the matter."
"Nothing. Everything, I mean," groaned the Colonel. "No use. It's all up with us."
"It! What?"
No answer.
"I had better know. What is the use of hiding things from me?" asked Dorothea's gentle voice. "Perhaps I could help—somehow. Won't you tell me?"
"Nobody can do anything. My dear—I'm ruined. That's all. If I can't get nine hundred and eighty pounds by this day month,—I'm—I'm bankrupt!"