image018
THE SOMETHING THAT WAS WRONG
"NINE hundred and eighty pounds! That is a great deal," said Dorothea slowly. "Nearly one thousand pounds."
Then she drew a chair to his side, sat down, and laid one hand lightly on his knee. If he had been a more affectionate parent, she would have laid her head on his shoulder, partly to give and partly to receive comfort. For the threatening blow would fall upon her no less than upon him; though this was not Dorothea's first thought. But any manner of caress was rare between the two. She only ventured on a touch.
"Father, don't be unhappy. We shall manage—somehow. Things will not be so bad as you expect—perhaps."
"Things could not be worse! It means—ruin," groaned the Colonel. "I—I shall never hold up my head again."
She stole a little closer to him.
"It isn't quite a new trouble, is it? All the autumn, haven't you been expecting—something of the kind?"
An inarticulate sound came in answer.
"Looking forward to a trouble is sometimes worse than bearing it when it really comes. Don't you think so?"
Another indefinite sound, more like a groan than anything else.
"Won't you tell me how it has happened?"
The Colonel shook himself roughly, and stood up.
"My dear, I can't be bothered. Only let me alone."
"And I can do nothing? I can't help you in any way?"
"No, no—nothing. Only don't plague. Leave me in peace."
Dorothea was hurt—naturally—though she would not show it. Her one desire was to comfort him, and he repelled her with coldness. But she remembered how unhappy, he was, and she would not let her face cloud over.
"We shall have tea soon, That will do you good," she said cheerfully.
"Tea" meant a somewhat heavy meal at seven o'clock. Till then the Colonel occupied himself with mysterious blue papers; reading and re-reading them, and sighing repeatedly. Now and again, in restless style, he got up to walk about the room. During one such peregrination, he remarked brusquely—
"We shall have to leave this."
"Leave this house?"
"Of course."
"Where shall we go?"
"I don't know."
A pause.
"Do you mind telling me—will you have anything at all left?"
"You'll know soon enough," said the Colonel sharply. He sat down, rested his face on his two hands, and remained thus until tea was ready.
"The fish will get cold," Dorothea said, as he showed no signs of moving.
Colonel Tracy drew a heavy sigh, came to the table, mumbled the three syllables which were his usual apology for a grace, and sat down with a groan. Then he turned over the fried sole, and inspected it disgustedly.
"Not fresh," he growled.
"You couldn't go yourself to-day,—but Mrs. Stirring seemed quite sure."
"My dear, Mrs. Stirring knows nothing about the matter. She takes whatever is given her. It's uneatable."
Nevertheless, he gave some to Dorothea and helped himself, not without a scowl or two.
"Bread isn't properly baked. Been getting worse and worse the last month," said the Colonel.
"O do you think so? It seems to me such nice light bread."
"Women never know good food from bad, my dear."
Dorothea thought silently of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and of her own struggles against daintiness.
"I declare they've not sent fresh butter. It's absolutely—impregnated with salt."
Dorothea could have laughed, if she had been less oppressed with the recent news. For some time past housekeeping arrangements had been slipping gradually out of the Colonel's hands into hers; and though every item had to be referred to the Colonel, Mrs. Stirring usually came to Dorothea, thankful to have her for a "go-between." So she was able to answer decisively—
"It is the very best fresh butter that can be got, father. Two shillings a pound! I suppose we shall not be able to afford that any longer. Ought we not to begin to make a difference at once?"
"I can't eat salt butter, my dear! Never could."
But if he could not afford fresh? That question presented itself strongly before Dorothea's mind.
Tea over, the Colonel collapsed into his arm-chair once more. Collapsed attitudes are commonly ungraceful fur anybody; and especially they are not graceful where the individual is rather stout and not tall. Despite his rust-red complexion, the Colonel was not a bad-looking man when he held himself upright, and walked energetically, but his outlines at this moment were not attractive.
Dorothea wondered whether she might venture to say anything more on the subject of his losses, and decided that she had better wait. If he were not disposed to talk, further pressure would only excite him.
"It's rather hard, and I should like to know all about it," she told herself. "But perhaps that is just why I can't yet,—because I'm so inclined to be impatient."
Then she brought out her work, and sat stitching away quietly, near the one candle; her head a little bent, and the light falling on her pale face, with its neat glasses. Nobody, looking at her, would have counted Dorothea an impatient person; but doubtless she knew herself best. We do not often accuse ourselves of faults which are not ours, however apt to be blind to faults which are ours.
Not another word was uttered that evening on the subject of the Colonel's impending bankruptcy. He sat moodily and gloomily apart, nursing his woes. Dorothea worked and thought. She made up her mind on one point,—that economy should begin immediately.
Next morning, the Colonel disappeared after breakfast, telling Dorothea that for once she could not have her walk. Business required him in the City, he said. Dorothea acquiesced; and finding dinner left entirely in her hands, she made a very simple affair of it. Mrs. Stirring stared and protested, but Dorothea was firm.
"Not no fish nor soup neither?"
"No, not to-day."
"And only cold mutton, Miss?" Mrs. Stirring gasped.
"I think there is plenty of mutton over,—and it goes farther cold than minced. Yes, that will do perfectly well. You can make us a small bread-and-butter pudding."
"And a tart. Just, an apple-tart, Miss,—and some boiled custard."
"No, not a tart. Nothing except the bread-and-butter pudding."
Mrs. Stirring looked dismay unutterable, but Dorothea's quiet manner allowed no opposition. She retreated to the kitchen, murmuring to herself.
At dinner-time, punctual to the moment, Colonel Tracy returned. While no less gloomy than the evening before, he was evidently in a state of hunger. That became apparent at once, by the manner in which he took a seat at the table, and looked round.
No soup! No fish! No hot joint! Only cold mutton, potatoes, and pickle. Dorothea would have counted pickle an extravagance, had they not had it in the house.
"Hallo!" uttered the Colonel, and his jaw fell. The girl, putting a plate on the sideboard, fled, rather to Dorothea's relief.
"I thought we ought to begin to economise at once, father, after what you told me yesterday evening," said Dorothea in her gentlest manner.
"My dear, you don't suppose I can live on cold mutton!"
"But if you are bankrupt—"
"My dear, you talk rubbish! It's all very well for—you!" said the Colonel, not exactly knowing what he said, perhaps. "I couldn't do it! Impossible! Pray, have you nothing else in the house than—this!" in a tone of intense disdain.
"I didn't think it would be right to get anything more, as we had enough. You were out, so I could not ask you."
The Colonel sliced away in solemn silence, helped Dorothea, helped himself, and ate without a word. If Dorothea spoke, he made no answer. When the meat was taken away, he looked out eagerly and his jaw dropped anew at the sight of one small pudding.
"I can't stand this sort of thing," he said, when the girl was gone again.
"But if we can't afford more," pleaded Dorothea. "Is it right to spend more money than we can reckon on?"
Growing silence again. The Colonel ate his portion, then left the table abruptly, and flung himself into the arm-chair, with a disappointed and martyred air. Dorothea had taken the most effective means in her power to do away with some of his reserve, and to make him speak out; but she did not know it. She had not acted with that intention.
"The fact is—" he said.
Dorothea looked up earnestly.
"The fact is, my dear—"
"Yes, father."
"You had better ask me—another time—before you make any changes. You understand?"
"I thought, if your money affairs were in such a bad state—"
"I have had losses, and I am in difficulties. That need not mean absolute starvation."
Dorothea could not help smiling. She bit her lip, and endeavoured to be grave. After all, it was no laughing matter. If the Colonel could have looked into some of the rooms where certain of her Sunday-scholars lived, and could have seen their scanty meals, even his fastidious palate would hardly have counted this day's meal "starvation." But she might not say so to him.
"I will do whatever you tell me—whatever is right—of course. But, father, don't you think that if I knew just a little more, it would save me from making mistakes. I don't want to bother you; but I am not a child now, and perhaps—Will you be very poor indeed? Must you leave London?"
The Colonel's "Yes" probably referred to the last question. Dorothea accepted it thus.
"And where shall we go?"
"I haven't an idea."
"Then things really are bad. It is not merely a little passing loss."
"If I can't get close upon a thousand pounds early in January, my dear—"
"Yes," she said.
The Colonel made a despairing movement with both hands. "Everything will go," he said.
"But I don't quite understand. I thought a Colonel's pension was so good. Mrs. Kirkpatrick once said—"
"Mrs. Kirkpatrick knows nothing about it. I've only brevet rank as Colonel."
"Then you were not 'Colonel' when you retired?"
"No."
"But still—" and a pause. "There are only us two. And you always have your pension to count on."
An impatient jerk came in answer. "My dear, you don't know or understand anything about the matter. What is the use of talk?" demanded the Colonel. "If I had the command of my whole pension—but the fact is, I was in difficulties many years ago—had to borrow heavy sums at a heavy rate of interest. It doesn't matter how or why. You don't understand, of course. I have been closely run for years. And now this thousand pounds has to be paid—or—of course, I've known it would have to be paid, but one doesn't realise long before. I always hoped to lay by, and somehow—it hasn't been possible."
"I wish I had known. I would have helped. We might have spent less in so many ways."
"Well, well—it can't be helped now. But mind you take warning. Don't you ever run into debt, or—or put your name to bills."
"Won't the people that you owe the money to wait a little longer?"
The Colonel shook his head.
"Or—couldn't you—" Dorothea hesitated.
"I shall either have to borrow again, at a rate of interest that will pretty well deprive me of the yearly pittance I have now,—or else let things go, and become bankrupt," he said gloomily.
Dorothea did not feel herself competent to give advice on either of those dire alternatives. She only said gently, after a pause—"But at least, ought we not to economise?"
Another jerk came. "Economise as much as you like, my dear," he said, "only pray don't expect me to live on cold mutton; for I can't do it."
"But—" Dorothea felt hopeless. How was she to know what was right?
"I can't and won't! That's flat," said the Colonel. Then, with a forlorn attempt to pull himself together, "But there's a month yet! Something may happen. One never knows what will turn up."
If the Colonel found comfort in such a vague calculation on chances, Dorothea did not. She had better comfort; nevertheless, it was hard, as the days went by, not to feel anxious. She had no one to confide in, and the future wore a burdened look.
Nothing would induce the Colonel to submit to simpler and less expensive meals. Yet Dorothea could see in him a growing pain and oppression. Week by week the threatened trouble weighed more heavily. Till within a few days of Christmas, he bore up, walking, sleeping, eating, as usual; but then there was a change, sudden enough to be marked, though Dorothea hardly knew how it began. The red of his complexion was changing into a sickly grey; strength failed, when he would have gone fast and far; he had no appetite, and complained bitterly of everything on table.
Did this mean coming illness? Dorothea watched with a sinking heart, unable to decide. She had very little experience. All recollection of the Erskines was driven from her mind for the time by these pressing troubles.
image019
DOLLY'S JOURNAL AGAIN
"CHRISTMAS EVE"
"AS I expected! Not one word more in my journal since that long prelim-statement! I don't know what in the world I have taken it out for now—only one must do something, and I have nothing to do. And I feel so restless and stupid."
"What a state of spirits I was in when I wrote last in this book!—all except the last few words. I'm not at all in spirits now. Everything seems dull, and I am prosy and tame."
"Life does seem awfully made up of disappointments, sometimes. I wasn't wrong there, at all events."
"For instance,—that afternoon at the Park, weeks and weeks ago,—how I had been looking forward, and counting the hours! Yet, when the time came, there was nothing but disappointment all through. Nothing happened as I had expected, though I suppose nobody was to blame. I've gone over, scores of times since, all that I said and did, and all that he said and did; and I never can make up my mind what was really wrong, or how things happened as they did, or whether I might have done differently."
"Only I wish—I wish—nobody would meddle and ask questions, and put ideas into one's head. Poor old Issy! She didn't mean any harm, of course; people never do! But if only she had just not interfered!"
"Well, it can't be helped now. It couldn't be helped then. Dear good stupid people, like Issy, do such a lot of harm, meddling and trying to give advice; and all the time it is meant so kindly, that I suppose one ought to be grateful. Only—"
"Anyhow, nobody was likely that day to accuse me of—of thinking too much about anybody in particular. I had plenty of Mervyn, and I don't care for him one atom; and Edred kept out of my way, and I only saw him once again for five minutes, before he went to Scotland, and then we were like two icicles."
"If only I didn't mind! If I could make myself not care! If I could be as cool and indifferent as he is! But it is hard sometimes, oh, so hard not to show! All the life seems to have gone out of everything. Tennis had grown so dull—I was glad when cold weather put a stop to it; and now, skating is a trouble. The only thing I really feel inclined to do is to curl myself up in the corner of the sofa, and—no, not think! That's the worst of giving in. It means more time for thinking."
"I suppose one gets used in time to anything, even to—But I wish the days wouldn't drag and seem so awfully long. And I wish Margot's eyes wouldn't look at me as they do. And I wish I didn't always feel tired. And I wish I could stop thinking, and go to sleep for a whole year. How silly it is to have such a lot of impossible wishes!"
"Edred has not been to Craye once since October; and they say he can't get away till after Christmas. If he could, what difference would it make to me? He has that other girl in London—Dorothea Tracy. Mervyn seems to think her nice,—not very pretty, but rather uncommon. And I'm such a commonplace little thing—not clever at all. So, no wonder Edred likes her best. But—"
"I wonder if it is really the same Dorothea who was Christened with me. The same time, the same font, the same name, the same age!—and our two fathers such friends,—and the two mothers wanting their two babies to grow up friends! So Margot says. She only told me the story lately. I did not know it before,—all about the friendship, and the quarrel, and the Christmas card going to and fro."
"But, instead of being friends, Dorothea Tracy and I are strangers. Perhaps something else, too. Perhaps—rivals!"
"She does not know that; and it is not her fault. I must not let myself feel wrongly. Dorothea Tracy is not to blame. I have to tell myself that very often, to keep down something almost like anger. It is no fault of hers, if she is nicer than me,—if Edred cares for her most."
"To-morrow is Christmas Day; so the card will come back from her father—if her father really is my father's old friend. There doesn't seem to be much doubt about that. Margot says he always sends it punctually, so that it arrives on Christmas morning; but I have always been a child till lately, so I was not told about it."
"What an odd man the Colonel must be! Why doesn't he write? Margot says he ought. She says Colonel Tracy was really the one to blame; and as my father took the first step, Colonel Tracy ought to take the second. If I were Dorothea Tracy, I would try to make him. Perhaps she has tried and has failed. After all, she is only my age, though Mervyn says she looks older."
"Dec. 27th."
"Christmas Day is over, and the card which we all expected has not come from Colonel Tracy. There were heaps of cards, of course, for everybody, but that was not among them."
"Father looks quite sad and worried. He must have been very fond of this friend in old days. Margot says she can't think why, because she knows the Colonel was not a favourite with most people. He was counted overbearing and ill-tempered, and fussy. But, somehow, my father and he suited one another. The friendship began when they were boys at school, and it went on when they were subalterns in the same regiment. I think they were both Captains when the quarrel came and divided them, but I am not sure. I know my father was senior."
"Two such old friends, and comrades, and brothers-at-arms! It does seem melancholy that they should have been separated. Margot says the two wives—our mother and Mrs. Tracy—did all they could to smooth matters. But it was no use. Colonel Tracy had behaved so very badly to father, and he never would say one word of apology."
"So for years and years they kept apart. Colonel Tracy exchanged into another regiment, and my father quite lost sight of him. It wasn't till after we came to live here that he saw the death of Mrs. Tracy in the paper, and so learnt Colonel Tracy's London address. That was close upon Christmas; and he sent the card as a peace-offering. He could not tell if the Colonel was willing to be friendly again; and of course the first move ought really to have been Colonel Tracy's; but still, he put that aside, and did what he could. So like the dear father, I think he wrote just a word inside the envelope about 'remembrance' and 'sympathy.'
"No answer came at all; and Margot says he was very much hurt and disappointed. But when a whole year had gone by, and Christmas Day came round again, the very same card arrived by the morning post, addressed to father in Colonel Tracy's handwriting."
"It was an odd way of meeting his kindness, I think; but Margot says my father took it kindly. He wasn't offended, but said he would keep the card, and send it again next year. So he did; and the next year after it was returned."
"That has gone on ever since, year after year. Colonel Tracy sent some address once which would always find him—his banker, Margot believes—and there hasn't been a word said besides. Only the card coming and going."
"This year it has failed for the first time, and father looks so mournful. Margot is sure he feels very much disappointed. She says he has always hoped that in the end the quarrel would somehow be made up; and now things look as if Colonel Tracy didn't care for the old friendship."
"Dec. 31st."
"It is all explained. Colonel Tracy is in trouble, and he has been ill for some days; so the card was forgotten. I do think dear father is the very best of men!"
"We were in the morning-room before lunch, when father came hurrying through the glass door, in a great state of excitement. I don't know when I have seen him so excited. He was holding up a card in one hand and a letter in the other; and he talked so fast, that none of us could make out at first what it was all about."
"Mother said in her gentle way, 'My dear, sit down and tell us quietly;' and my father sat down as she told him. Then he laughed, and very nearly cried too. Mother patted his hand, and I crept on his knee. I haven't quite left that off yet."
"'Well, Dolly! Well, Dolly!' he said in a husky voice, 'What do you think? I've got the card. Yes, the old card, mother,—the old card, girls! But something else besides. I've got a letter; guess who from?' But he was too impatient to wait. 'From this child's namesake,' he said before anybody could make a guess."
"'Dorothea Tracy!' exclaimed Issy."
"'Dorothea Tracy, herself. As nice a letter as ever you read. Poor Tracy is ill,—knocked down by money troubles. And that child all alone with him,—not a soul to help! Think, mother, if it were our Dolly!'"
"He showed me the card,—a queer old-fashioned blue thing, with a hideous bird sprawling across it. But if it had been the most perfect specimen of high art ever seen, my father couldn't have been more delighted. He tried to read Dorothea's letter aloud, and broke down over the first six lines; so then he gave it over to mother to read, and took to hugging me instead. And we all listened."
"It is a very simple and girlish sort of letter,—touching, my father said, but perhaps I am hard, for it didn't touch me. I kept thinking—But never mind about my thoughts."
"The letter began by saying that Colonel Tracy had been ill all the week; so ill that the Christmas card was forgotten. Dorothea had to go to his desk for something, and she came across an envelope with my father's name outside. So then, she says, she 'remembered'; and she thought she had better send it straight off, without asking her father, as the doctor wished him not to be excited."
"Next came a few words about having heard of the old friendship; and the sentence after I think I can write down from memory: 'Perhaps I shall not be wrong to tell you that the cause of my father's illness is money anxiety. I do not understand all about it; but I know that he is in debt for over nine hundred pounds, and he does not know how to meet it. I would not say this if you were not such a very old friend of his. I think he could not mind. We shall have to leave London soon; and I do not know yet where we shall go.' Then there was something more about how sorry she was that the card had not been sent earlier, and then,—'I have heard something about you all, not only from my father, but from Mr. Claughton and his brother.'"
"'There!' father said, while I was wondering whether she meant Mervyn or Edred by Mr. Claughton,' for she has seen them both. 'There! What do you all think of that?'"
"'Poor things! What is to be done?' mother asked."
"'I'll tell you what I should like to do,' my father said slowly,—not in a hurry now. He sat bolt upright, and looked round at each of us. 'I'll tell you what I have it in my mind to do. I should like to send Tracy a cheque for one thousand pounds, to put him straight.'"
"Mother didn't speak at once. She seemed to be thinking in her quiet way. Isabel opened her eyes very wide, with a sort of astonished look, and Margot smiled. I don't know how I felt. I tried to keep from thinking anything—except how dear and beautiful it was of my father!"
"'Well?' he said."
"'Can you afford it, my dear?' asked mother."
"'Yes—I can afford it. I can do it. But it's a big sum, and I don't say it will be no loss. It won't mean a serious diminution of income, but it will mean somewhere about forty pounds a year less for all of us now, and for the girls by-and-by. I haven't a thousand pounds of loose money lying at my banker's. If I do this—for the sake of old days—it must be with your consent, mother, and the girls' too.'"
"'I am willing,' Margot said."
"'Father gave her such a look. I shouldn't think she would ever forget it. I wished I had been the first to speak.'"
"'And so am I,' Issy added."
"'My dear, you are much the best judge,' mother said. 'I always leave money affairs in your hands. Colonel Tracy does not deserve it, but if you are inclined—'"
"'And Dolly?'"
"I won't say it was not a struggle. It ought not to have been, of course. I ought to have been glad for Dorothea Tracy, and not to have thought about myself. Only it seemed as if she were to have so much. I didn't grudge her the money for a moment, but I did feel as if I could not be interested or glad."
"Then my father turned to me with those two words—'And Dolly?' And they were all waiting for my answer. And it came over me, in a moment, how ready father was to make the peace, even if it cost him something, and how one word from me might hinder the peace-making."
"'I think it would be worth more than a thousand pounds to end a quarrel between such old old friends,' I found myself saying."
"Father put his arm round me, and gave me a kiss."
"'Thanks, Dolly, and thanks to you all,' he said. 'I'll see about it at once. If my letter is met as I hope it will be, we'll see about getting Tracy and his daughter down here for a change.'"
"Should I like that?"
"I have written all this down, while it is fresh in my mind, because I want to remember how it came about, and how nobly my father has acted. But—to have Colonel and Miss Tracy down at Woodlands—"
"What does it matter about my liking? There's no surer sign of a spoilt child than always thinking whether one 'likes' or 'dislikes' what is going to happen. I have only woke up to that fact lately. And I do think it is time I should buckle to, and try to be different,—try to think more of other people's likings, and less of my own. It's plain enough, one can't always have one's own way in life."
image020
A FRIEND IN NEED
COLONEL TRACY ill was altogether another man from Colonel Tracy well. His brusquerie and independence were nowhere. His military carriage vanished with the rust-red of his complexion. He had grown pale and yellowish, limp and languid. He could not bear to be left alone, depended meekly on Dorothea's judgment, and went in with praiseworthy submission for any amount of semi-liquid invalid messes.
Nobody would have expected so vigorous a man to be so soon pulled down; but people are always doing what would not be expected of them. When, on the third day of the new year, Colonel Tracy tottered across from his bedroom to the drawing-room, and dropped feebly into an arm-chair, he might have been ill for months.
"Nervous, partly—of course," the doctor had remarked that morning to Dorothea. "Don't encourage him to think too much about himself."
But that was the difficulty. Colonel Tracy wanted to talk about himself and his symptoms all day long. He expected an inordinate amount of sympathy. If Dorothea gave the sympathy, he talked about himself continuously. If she did not, he waxed cross.
There was no mention of money affairs between them. Dorothea knew well that such mention could not be long delayed; but for the moment delay was necessary. The Colonel, if not so ill as he counted himself, was too ill to be worried. Dorothea had to bide her time.
She was a little disappointed that no quick answer had come from Colonel Erskine. The mention of her father's trouble and consequent break-down would surely, she had thought, bring a few words of sympathy. Dorothea had built upon this expectation, hoping thus to bring together again the old long-parted comrades. But apparently Colonel Erskine meant to wait a year, as usual, before sending back the card. Dorothea felt that she would not have done so in his place, and she allowed herself to judge him somewhat hardly for the same, thereby laying up a little store of fuel for future remorse.
"What o'clock is it, my dear?" Colonel Tracy asked in a sunk piping voice, not absolutely needful under the circumstances.
"Nearly time for lights," Dorothea answered cheerfully. "I can't see my watch, I am afraid. What a dull afternoon! I shall be glad when the curtains are drawn."
Colonel Tracy sighed lugubriously.
"Isn't it nice that you are able to come in here again? I hope you will soon be able to have a short walk."
"My dear, I have no strength,—none whatever."
"Living on beef-tea and gruel makes anybody feel rather weak, I suppose. Mrs. Stirring says so. You will be able to try a little piece of chicken to-morrow."
"Mrs. Stirring's bread sauce!" The Colonel shuddered.
"Oh, she will do her best now you are not well. And when you are able to get out of doors, you will be quite hungry again."
"I have no appetite. None whatever," groaned the Colonel.
"Perhaps a little starving does no harm," hazarded Dorothea. "If it does not go on too long."
"My dear, you don't know what you are talking about. You don't understand in the least. If Mrs. Stirring knew how to cook—but I have such a sense of emptiness. I feel quite ill for want of food. It is a most distressing sensation."
"He means that he is getting hungry again," thought Dorothea. "That is a good thing."
But she knew that she must not venture to congratulate him.
"I dare say it will go off in a day or two, father," she suggested. "The doctor says you are really pulled down."
"Really pulled down!" The Colonel quite forgot to speak in a piping voice. "That man is a perfect ignoramus. He knows no more than an old woman. I have about as much strength as an infant."
A pause. Dorothea could not assent, and would not contradict.
"And what we are to do next I cannot imagine. My head will not stand money affairs. Everything will have to go."
If the Colonel had been a woman, Dorothea would have suspected sobs as near at hand. Still, she was glad to hear an allusion to the money difficulty. Anything rather than persistent silence.
"Father, don't you think it would be a help if you would tell me all about it?"
"You, my dear! You! Women know nothing about business."
"Perhaps not very much; but I would try to understand. I would consult somebody, Mr. Mordan, or—"
"No, no! Rubbish and nonsense," said the Colonel, speaking energetically. "Nothing can be done. I shall be bankrupt. There's no help for it. I'm done for."
This was not very cheerful, or very good for an invalid. Dorothea wondered whether she had better turn to some other subject. Then she heard the postman's rap, and stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"I'll be back directly, father."
"Mind you are not long," ordered the Colonel.
Dorothea smiled, and stepped away. She had not quite given up hope of a line from Craye, though expectation was growing dim; but when the post came she was still on the alert.
This afternoon, her hopes and expectations were rewarded. A registered letter was handed in, addressed to herself. Dorothea signed the receipt, and after a moment's hesitation went into the dining-room, where she lit a candle.
Yes, there was the Craye postmark! Dorothea's first impulse was to rush upstairs; but she resisted that impulse, and opened the envelope.
Within she found another envelope, addressed to her father, and also a half-sheet of paper written across.
"MY DEAR MISS TRACY,—If you think your father well enough,pray give him the enclosed. It may do him good by enabling himto meet the difficulties you mention.""I am very glad you wrote. Will not you and your father cometo see us here?—Yours sincerely,""J. ERSKINE."
Enable Colonel Tracy to meet his difficulties? What could it mean?
Dorothea flew upstairs, for once forgetting to move softly. She threw open the drawing-room door, with glowing cheeks.
"O father—"
"My dear, I thought you were never coming," said the Colonel fretfully. "Pray don't fluster me. I really am not equal—Do shut the door, there is such a draught from downstairs. I am quite chilly, and—what? Who is this from?"
"Your old friend, Colonel Erskine."
Dorothea clasped her hands with eager excitement and self-restraint. She longed to tear the envelope open; but Colonel Tracy turned it round dubiously.
"I suppose he thinks the Christmas card ought to have gone; I forgot it, of course. A man cannot remember things when he is ill."
"I sent it—a few days ago."
"You did!"
"Yes,—I found it by accident. Was I wrong? I had to go to your desk one day,—don't you remember?—and the card was there. I didn't like to bother you with questions, and Colonel Erskine's address I happened to know already, so I just sent it off, with a note explaining why it had not gone sooner."
"How did this come? It has no stamp."
"Enclosed in an envelope to me, to be given to you, if you should be well enough."
Colonel Tracy made way slowly into the envelope, pulled out what was within, and jumped as if he had received an electric shock.
"What!" he shouted, in a voice which penetrated to kitchen regions, and made Mrs. Stirring palpitate.
Dorothea was rather alarmed. "Yes, father?" she said inquiringly.
"What!" repeated the Colonel as loudly as before; and he held up before his daughter's astonished eyes a cheque for one thousand pounds.
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
The Colonel sat and stared—first at the cheque, then at the overjoyed Dorothea.
"Erskine!" he uttered at length.
"There is a letter! Won't you read it?" begged Dorothea. "Do see what he says."
Colonel Tracy obeyed the suggestion. His face had regained its usual colouring, and his eyes stared still in blank bewilderment. He read the letter solemnly through, once, twice, thrice, without a word, though not without some suspicious twitches about his nose and mouth.
Did he mean to read it a fourth time? Dorothea could not stand that.
"Do tell me! What does it mean? What does Colonel Erskine say?"
Colonel Tracy hesitated an instant, gazing at Dorothea over the top of the sheet. Then he put it into her hand. It ran as follows:
"DEAR TRACY,—Your daughter tells me that you are ill, and speaksof difficulties. Will you pardon me for venturing to send theenclosed, and accept it for old friendship's sake? It may helpto put things straight; and I have enough and to spare besides.I know—I feel sure—you will not distress me by a refusal.""The card has reached me late this year, and I shall not sendit to you again. From this time, I shall keep it as one of mygreatest treasures.—Believe me, always and ever, your old friendand comrade,""J. ERSKINE."
Dorothea's eyeglasses were wet before she reached the end. "O, what a man he must be!" she said.
"Well, yes, he always was a fine fellow. But I say—I don't like to be under this sort of obligation," said the Colonel, fingering the thousand pound note, frowning, and sitting bolt upright, quite forgetful of his extreme weakness.
"What do obligations matter? It only means that we shall love him, and be grateful. Father, you can't really hesitate. You couldn't, couldn't refuse! It would grieve him so terribly. And now you will be friends again, just as you were years and years ago. Think how delightful that will be! I do think it is quite lovely of Colonel Erskine!"
Dorothea dropped her face on her father's knee, and about equally surprised herself and him by an uncontrollable sob.
"Hallo!"
"I didn't mean—I'm not going to be stupid," said Dorothea, starting up, and trying to smile through her tears. "Only it is such a comfort to feel that you can pay that nine hundred pounds; and I can't tell you how I do admire dear old Colonel Erskine."
"Old! He's not old. Not two years my senior."
"Well, then,—that dear middle-aged Colonel Erskine," responded Dorothea, with a joyous but rather choky laugh. "Father, you'll write to him now—directly—won't you? And tell him how very very grateful you are."
"I—really, my dear,—I don't quite know that I am equal to the exertion," said the Colonel, suddenly recalling his invalid condition. He leant back, and laid a hand across his forehead in the most approved style of requesting sympathy. "I really think I must depute you—"
"O no, that would not do at all. I'll write, too, but you must send a line," urged Dorothea gently, but with decision. "It would never do. And, father, you will write warmly, won't you? I'm sure he deserves it. See, I'm going to get your writing-case, and bring the little table to your side. And I'll write my letter at the same time."
The Colonel gave in, though not without a protesting groan. Dorothea accomplished her share of the thanks eagerly and fast, scarcely hesitating a moment for a word; and when she had finished, she was surprised to see Colonel Tracey still nibbling his pen-holder, while a clean sheet lay before him.
"Why, father, not begun yet!"
"My dear, I really think—"
"It won't take you a minute when once you are started. When you have done you shall see what I have said," Dorothea added, as if offering a reward.
Thus pressed, the Colonel did at length put pen to paper, and actually achieved a very tolerable composition, not gushingly grateful, but on the whole responsive. A few doleful remarks about his own bodily condition wound up the effort neatly, and served as an excuse for shortness.
"Have you done? Now read mine, father."
Colonel Tracy obeyed, and towards the close, he exclaimed, "Hallo! What's this? Going to Craye!"
"I forgot to show you Colonel Erskine's note to me. Won't it be lovely? I shall like to see Craye."
"My dear, I couldn't possibly think of such a thing."
"But this doesn't bind you to anything. I only say what I think,—how very very delightful it will be. And after such a present from him—don't you think we shall feel inclined to do whatever he wants? Now, if you will give me your note, I'll have them both posted directly."
"Well," the Colonel said in resigned accents; and he resisted no more.
"Things certainly are better than they were a year ago," Dorothea thought; but she did not think how much her own patience and unselfishness had had to do with the change.
image021
A MISTAKE
"THE twelfth of February," said Emmeline Claughton. She spoke in a slow considering tone, gazing at the Woodlands' drawing-room fireplace, and surrounded by the Woodlands quartette of ladies.
"Nearly a fortnight off," remarked Margot.
"Yes."
"My father was bent upon getting the Tracys down here on the earliest possible day; but nothing will induce Colonel Tracy to stir sooner."
"No."
"So February the twelfth has been definitely settled?"
"Yes."
"Have you anything against it?" asked Isabel abruptly, speaking out what the others only thought.
"Why should I?"
"Well—you looked—"
"Colonel Erskine is naturally anxious to see his old friend. I would not have a hand in putting off such a meeting for a single hour. If it had happened to be a week later—"
"But why? What difference could that make?"
"Oh, none really. Only Mervyn is coming home on the seventh for two or three weeks; and we have just heard that Edred means to run down on the twelfth for a couple of nights or so. Mother thought some of you would come to dinner on the thirteenth,—Colonel Erskine, and perhaps Margot and Dolly. You don't care for dinner parties, I know."
"I detest them. But why shouldn't they all go still, and the Tracys too?" asked blundering Isabel.
Emmeline met the suggestion by silence.
"My dear, that would not do," said Mrs. Erskine. "We can't inflict utter strangers upon Mrs. Claughton."
"But couldn't—" Isabel hesitated, and looked at Dolly with a meaning glance, which Dolly did not see, but felt. A swift flush rose to the girl's pale cheeks.
"My father would not think of leaving Colonel Tracy," said Margot, purposely misunderstanding the question. "It is unfortunate, but I am afraid the thing can't be."
"If the Tracys could be put off for two days," said Isabel.
Dolly spoke up suddenly. "O no; my father would be so disappointed. Very likely, that would mean they're not coming at all. It can't be helped."
"It is very unfortunate," said Emmeline.
"Things won't always fit in just as one wishes," said Dolly. Then she left her seat and went towards the door. "Margot, I quite forgot to see to those Christmas roses in your room. I'll do it now."
Margot simply said, "Thank you."
Isabel exclaimed, "Why, Dolly, there is no hurry. You needn't run away while Emmeline is here."
"I may not have time by-and-by," said Dolly, and she escaped without saying good-bye.
Twenty minutes later Margot went upstairs, and found Dolly, as she expected, in her bedroom. The supply of Christmas roses had been turned out upon a small table, and the vase had been filled with fresh water. Dolly stood with her back to the door, snipping at the ends of the stalks in most businesslike style; but the next moment Margot saw tears running fast down her cheeks.
"My dear Dolly!" she said gently.
"I haven't—quite done," Dolly murmured.
Margot stood for a few seconds watching; but the tears streamed on. Dolly's lips quivered unmanageably, and it was evident that she could not see what she was doing. Margot drew the scissors out of her hand, sat down, and took Dolly into her arms. There was a momentary of effort at resistance; and then Dolly gave in, hid her face, and broke into bitter sobbing.
"Poor little Dolly! Dear little Dolly! Never mind! A good cry will make you feel better."
"O Margot! It is so hard. I don't know how to bear it!"
So much and no more reached Margot's ears. She attempted no answer at first, but stroked the fair hair and kissed the hot brow over and over again, with comforting whispers. Presently, when the sobs lessened, she asked—
"What is it that seems so hard?"
"I don't know. Everything."
"Not only this disappointment about the evening at the Park?"
"Oh,—that and—everything."
"I'm so sorry. It is very unfortunate, as Emmeline says. After you were gone, I tried to feel my way to some other arrangement; but Emmeline did not help me. If Mrs. Claughton has set her mind on having my father, she would not care to have you and me without him,—two ladies at a dinner are not very welcome, you know. And I don't quite think we both ought to leave Miss Tracy under the circumstances. Colonel Tracy must be a touchy man, and he might take offence. And, Dolly, I don't think it would do for you to go alone, well as we know the Claughtons. Even if Emmeline had proposed it, and she didn't—"
"No," whispered Dolly.
"But we are sure to see Mervyn and Edred somehow."
Dolly sighed heavily.
"Perhaps Edred may stay longer than he intends."
"Yes," murmured Dolly; "when he knows that—that—she will be here."
"Dorothea Tracy? It may be only our fancy about him and her. Still—"
"Margot, I feel so wicked about her sometimes."
"Or rather, you are tempted to feel wickedly."
"Is that all? I think I do feel it—now and then. I'm trying not to give in. But when she comes—if I should hate her—if I should see that she—"
Margot was silent, considering what to say. Then she spoke out gently.
"If you should see Edred loving and seeking Dorothea Tracy, you know that one happiness which you wish for is not to be yours. You would know that the life you could choose is not to be your life. Dolly, some of us have to go through that pain, and, hard as it may seem, I think we are not the worse for it in the end; at least, we need not be. One has to learn, somehow, to fight and endure: and that may be as good a way as any other. I can't tell yet if that is to be your discipline; but if it is, you will not hate Dorothea Tracy. She has a right to be loved: and she would not be to blame. Whether he would be to blame is another question. I do not know if he has ever given any reason—"
Margot hesitated, but she had no answer to the half-spoken question.
"One thing I do know," she said; "whatever may be the ending of all this, the last few months have done our Dolly no harm."
"O Margot!"
"I don't think you can judge. Perhaps an outsider can tell better. I had a fear at one time that yours was to be only a kitten life, Dolly—nothing in it but amusement and self-pleasing. Lately, I do see a difference."
"I am afraid it is only, partly, because I haven't cared; because everything has seemed not worth doing."
"And that has made you give more time to things that are worth doing—partly because you haven't cared. But, dear, you have cared, and you do care. Do you think I have not seen the fight going on?"
"Margot, you are such a comfort!" said Dolly, sighing.
If Dolly Erskine looked forward to the twelfth of February with doubtful sensations, Dorothea Tracy's expectations were of unmixed delight.
For a while it had seemed very uncertain whether the visit to Craye was a thing to be or not to be. Colonel Erskine's invitation was pressed cordially, but Colonel Tracy held back. A trickling correspondence went on for three weeks, before the one veteran gave in to the other. Colonel Tracy at length yielded, partly to his old friend's desire, partly to his daughter's insistence, and consented to name the twelfth of February. Thereafter he was hold to his word.
The twelfth of February came—a mild grey day, more like autumn than winter. Dolly had hoped and longed-for a frost which might mean skating at the Park, but no frost rewarded her expectations. The roads were muddy; the air was saturated with moisture.
At four o'clock the train, fifteen minutes overdue, drew up at the small platform, where two elderly porters loitered about. Colonel Erskine stood talking to the station-master, with Dolly by his side. He would have no one but his Dolly to welcome the other Dorothea.
A red face came out of one carriage window, and a voice called—
"Hi! Is this Craye?"
"Yes, yes. All right!" Colonel Erskine moved swiftly forward, beckoning to a porter. "See to this gentleman's luggage," he said.
Colonel Tracy jumped out, and the hands of the long-separated comrades met in a hasty clasp—stirred and warm on the one side, shy and uncomfortable on the other. "Welcome—" Colonel Erskine tried to say, and it was as much as he could do to bring the word out. His voice was husky, and something like a tear shone in each eye, while Colonel Tracy's face was at its reddest, and he had not an idea at command.
Then Dolly followed suit, shaking hands with the Colonel, and privately thinking what an ugly man he was. Colonel Erskine helped Dorothea to descend, and as she sprang on the platform, she squeezed his hand, saying eagerly, "How good you are to us!"
"No, no—it is you who are good to come," Colonel Erskine answered, returning the warm pressure. "Here is my Dolly—your namesake. You have met before;" and he tried to laugh, though there was still a wet glitter in his eyes, as he brought the girls together, with a hand on the arm of each.
"At our Christening," Dorothea said at once. Dolly was very quiet, putting out her gloved hand with one shy glance; and a curious tenderness crept into Dorothea's eyes. "What a little darling! How I shall love her!" she was saying to herself; but Dolly could not guess the thought.
Colonel Tracy muttered something about "luggage," and careered away down the platform, only to find his trunks already landed. The other three followed, Colonel Erskine saying—"So your father is quite well again?"
"Oh, quite!" Dorothea's bright glance said plainly. "Thanks to you!"
"You are very like your mother," said Colonel Erskine, a touch of sadness in the tone.
"Am I? It is nice to be told that."
"Doesn't your father say the same?"
"I don't know. Yes—perhaps—something of the kind."
Colonel Tracy awaited their arrival, not yet at his ease. "What's to be done with these?" he asked gruffly as they approached.
"Do you object to a short walk? It is not far," said Colonel Erskine. "That's right. Then Miss Tracy and Dolly will go in the pony-carriage. The trunks are all right. A porter will bring them presently. This way."
Dolly did not approve of the arrangement. She shrank from being alone with Dorothea; yet it was manifestly a good plan. The two old friends might well wish for a few minutes together, after their long estrangement. Whether Colonel Tracy desired it, might indeed be a matter for doubt, though he offered no protest; but Colonel Erskine's face showed unmitigated pleasure, and Dolly submitted.
"Take the lower road, Fred," were her father's parting words to the boy. Dolly had meant to give a contrary order. The "lower road" was less steep, but much longer than the more direct route, and she did not care for a lengthened tête-à-tête. However, it had to be. Jack, the plump pony, trotted leisurely off along the village street, and the two Colonels turned up a side lane.
"Craye seems a very pretty place," said Dorothea.
"Yes—I suppose it is."
"And you have lived here a long while?"
"Yes; ever since I was quite little."
"It must be nice to have a settled home."
"Yes," Dolly answered dreamily.
"I wonder," Dorothea said, after a break, "I wonder whether you care half as much about seeing me as I do about seeing you."
Dolly made a quick movement. "O yes," she began, "I am very glad."
"But of course, it can't be the same. You have so many belonging to you,—so many friends; and I have nobody except my father."
Had she not Edred too? That thought darted through Dolly's mind with the force and pain of an actual stab. It seemed to take away her breath, and to turn her pale.
"People in London generally have more friends than people in the country," she said.
"Do they? Ah—so Mr. Claughton says—Mr. Mervyn Claughton, I mean," with a half smile. Dorothea hesitated for a second, noting Dolly's faint blush. Then was it Mervyn, not Edred, who might hope to win Dolly? "Poor man!" Dorothea said to herself, thinking of Edred, and there was a little sigh, not wholly on his account. She went on talking quietly, while so thinking: "But I am not in the swing of London society, for my father goes nowhere."
"Doesn't he?"
The indifferent tone hardly called for a response; and a pause followed.
"I wonder whether I may say one thing about—" began Dorothea, and again there came to Dolly the question, which was like a stab—was it something about Edred? But—"about your father," were the next words, and Dolly's strained attention lessened. "We owe him so much. You know, of course, how good he has been—how kind and noble. One can't explain feeling," Dorothea added with a little laugh; "but if I could—Do you know, I almost think there can't be another man like him in the world."
"I am sure he is very glad," said Dolly, feeling her own words and manner to be horribly cold. "And it is nice for them to be together again."
"Yes," Dorothea murmured. "It must be more to me than to you, of course." Then she abruptly changed the subject by asking, "Is the Park far from your house?"
Dolly grow rigid. "No," she said.
"You know, I have seen something of your friends, the Claughtons." Dorothea coloured faintly, and Dolly saw it; but she did not see how much of the blush was on her own account, in sympathy with her supposed feelings. "I was surprised to hear that Mr. Claughton—our curate—would be down here just now."
"Only for two nights."
"I believe he hopes to stay for a week. He called on us the day before yesterday, and said so."
Dolly twisted herself round to lean over the back, her face turned away. "That shawl—it seems to be slipping," came in rather smothered accents. "O never mind—all right. Yes, and the eldest brother is here too—Mervyn, I mean." Dolly straightened herself, and Dorothea could not but notice her brilliant blush, could not but connect it with the last uttered name.
"Then it is Mr. Mervyn Claughton— not the other," she said to herself decisively. "Well, I have not come here to step in the way of Dolly's happiness, even supposing I had the power. If any choice is left to me, I must keep clear of Mr. Mervyn Claughton."
"You know him too, don't you?" said Dolly, looking ahead, with burning cheeks.
"The eldest Mr. Claughton. Yes; and he seems very pleasant," said Dorothea. "I know them both—a little."
"He has a great deal the most fun in him of the two."
Dorothea smiled. "Yes: a great deal." She could hardly think of the word "fun" in connection with Edred Claughton.
"And he skates beautifully. I only wish we had a frost while he is here."
"Does Mr. Edred Claughton skate too?"
"Not much. He is clumsy compared with his brother."
Dorothea made no immediate answer. The pony was walking slowly uphill, and Dolly seemed to sink into a dream. She woke from it after a while, to find Dorothea attentively studying her.
"I forgot! How stupid of me not to talk!"
"Why?"
"Why, you have only just come."
"But I have not come to be a trouble. I should not like you to feel any 'ought' about talking to me."
"I didn't mean it exactly in that way."
Dolly pulled herself upright, and endeavoured to put on an air of polite interest. "It is such a dull day," she said. "You should see Craye in sunshine."
Dorothea was still studying Dolly: and her next words were unexpected—
"I don't think you ought to have come to the station to meet me. You are tired—or something—are you not?"
"Tiredness doesn't matter," said Dolly, with a short laugh.
"What makes you so?"
"Nothing particular,—at least, nothing that can be helped. Please don't say a word about it at home."
Dolly glanced up as she spoke, and the pitying tenderness of Dorothea's look almost upset her self-command. Dorothea could see the muscles in her throat working painfully.
"No, of course I will not. But I know so well that feeling of wanting to cry about nothing when one is overdone."
"Thank you," murmured Dolly, glad of any respectable excuse to let two or three tears drop. "Only, it is awfully stupid," she added, trying to smile. "One has no business to be so ridiculous. You will be sure not to tell."
The short and steep cut from Craye to Woodlands was supposed to take not more than fifteen minutes up, and ten minutes down of quick walking. The two Colonels, however, managed to spend an hour on the road. Tea was cold before they appeared. Colonel Tracy had by that time parted with the last remnants of embarrassment. Dorothea had never in her life seen him so much at his ease, or so full of talk.
The old comrades were inseparable all that evening. They fought old battles over again, lived old days over again, told old regimental stories over again, discussed the histories of brother veterans over again,—only about the long quarrel, now happily ended, a discreet silence was kept. If anything had had to be said on that subject, it was doubtless said in the tête-à-tête walk.
Dorothea was greatly taken with Mrs. Erskine; also she liked Isabel, and found Margot charming. But her chief admiration was for Colonel Erskine, and her chief interest centred itself in Dolly.
Without seeming to do so, she watched Dolly closely, noted every change of colour, observed every sign of depression. A quick instinct had told her at once that some kind of trouble lay below Dolly's physical listlessness; but, from lack of experience, she was too easily taken in as to Dolly's feelings. That Edred loved Dolly, and that Dolly cared for Mervyn, she felt now little doubt. But—did Mervyn care for Dolly? Did the clue to Dolly's trouble lie in that direction?
Dolly had her wish, after all. The world awoke next morning to a frost-decked landscape.
She did not skip with delight, as she would have done a year earlier, but only stood soberly looking out.
"Will it be hard enough for skating? And will the Claughtons ask us?" she murmured.
"Splendid frost, Dolly," greeted her downstairs.
"Just the weather for you."
"For skating, father?"
"Ah, ha,—that's what she always thinks of," laughed Colonel Erskine, who was in high spirits. "Dolly is a first-rate skater. But you don't look quite the thing this morning, child. What is wrong?"—as he kissed her.
"Oh, nothing. I'm only cold," said Dolly, trying to believe what she said. It would never do to give in and be lazy,—if an invitation should come from the Claughtons.
A good part of the morning passed without any sign, and Dolly's languor could not but be noticed. Nothing would induce her to leave the house, and she seemed unable to settle to any occupation.
"I don't suppose the pond is safe yet," Isabel said repeatedly. "Emmeline would be sure to send us word. She always does."
Dorothea had already been for a brisk turn with her father and Colonel Erskine. She now sat contentedly near a window, work in hand, ready for talk or silence as others might wish. There were no signs about Dorothea of a mind ill at ease: yet she had fought a fight in the past night, and had come off conqueror. Whatever pain might be involved to herself in the resolution, she was utterly determined not to stand in the way of Dolly's happiness. If Dolly cared for Mervyn Claughton, the less Dorothea had to do with him, the better. She was not without a certain consciousness of power over him; and a young man hovering between two girls is often easily swayed by a touch either way. Dorothea would not, if she might, give that touch.
The resolution was not taken without a sigh, perhaps not without a tear; for Dorothea liked Mervyn. She was conscious that she could have liked him very much indeed. But if Dolly's happiness were at stake,—"No, no, no!" Dorothea cried in her heart twenty times that morning. "After what we owe to Dolly's father—oh, no, never! I will never be the one to come between."
Nobody looking at Dorothea's placid face would have dreamt of any such thoughts below. She did not hang about listlessly, like Dolly, or change colour at the sound of every bell.
Suddenly a boy passed the window, and the hitherto inert Dolly darted from the room. She came back brilliant.
"It's all right,—all right, Issy! Ice as hard as possible. We are to go directly after lunch, as many as like. Emmeline particularly asks Colonel Tracy and Dorothea. Do you skate?"—to Dorothea.
"Yes; only I have no skates here."
"Oh, that doesn't matter. We'll fit you with a pair. Past twelve,—nearly an hour to lunch. Where is father? I must tell him."
Dolly flitted off, and Isabel stood gazing after her.
"What a child it is still. Who would guess her to be not far from twenty?"
"She doesn't seem so old as I am," said Dorothea.
"No, indeed. I am afraid Margot and I can't go," continued Isabel. "Margot can't stand about, and I have so many things to see to. Will you think it very neglectful if we don't? My father and Dolly will be there."
Dorothea managed to set Isabel's mind at rest. She was a little excited herself at the prospect of the Park gathering, and wondered silently, would the elder Mr. Claughton be as pleasant to her as when they had last met? Would both the brothers pursue Dolly with anxious attentions? Would Dolly smile upon Mervyn, and turn a cold shoulder to Edred?