The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOld comradesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Old comradesAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: October 29, 2023 [eBook #71978]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: John F. Shaw and Co, 1896*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD COMRADES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Old comradesAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: October 29, 2023 [eBook #71978]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: John F. Shaw and Co, 1896
Title: Old comrades
Author: Agnes Giberne
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: October 29, 2023 [eBook #71978]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: John F. Shaw and Co, 1896
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD COMRADES ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF"LIFE-TANGLES," "IDA'S SECRET," "WON AT LAST,""THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE," ETC.
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A CHRISTMAS CARD
II. THINGS NOT IN THE COLONEL'S LINE
III. USING OPPORTUNITIES
IV. MRS. EFFINGHAM
V. DOLLY'S JOURNAL
VI. A POSSIBLE ACQUAINTANCE
VII. INTRODUCTIONS
VIII. AFTERNOON TEA
IX. WAS SOMETHING WRONG?
X. A PARK ENCOUNTER
XI. ISABEL'S QUESTIONING
XII. A TENNIS PARTY
XIII. DOLLY'S TROUBLE
XIV. DOROTHEA'S LETTER
XV. THE SOMETHING THAT WAS WRONG
XVI. DOLLY'S JOURNAL AGAIN
XVII. A FRIEND IN NEED
XVIII. A MISTAKE
XIX. "STRICTLY IN CONFIDENCE"
XX. CUTTING THE KNOT
image002
OLD COMRADES
A CHRISTMAS CARD
"DOROTHEA!"
The voice was deep-toned, verging on gruffness, and it lingered over the name, not affectionately, but as if the speaker's mind were absent.
No answer came in words from the girl seated beyond the round table. She lowered the book in her hands, and waited.
"Dorothea!"
"Yes," she said.
"Fetch me the first volume of the Encyclopædia."
"The Encyclopædia?"
"Britannica, of course."
"Downstairs?" Dorothea asked hesitatingly.
"Of course!"—again. "Lowest shelf of the bookcase."
"That long row of big volumes! I think I saw the first volume upstairs."
"Then, my dear, it ought not to be. Everything should always be in its right place."
Colonel Tracy spoke with the air of one enunciating a profound truth, disembosomed by himself for the first time in the history of the world. He was a grey-haired veteran, with large features, a complexion of deep-red rust, and solid though not tall figure. Fifteen years of "retired" life had not undone his Indian military training. When giving an order to daughter or domestic, he was apt still to give it as to a Sepoy. "Ready! Present! Fire!" was the Colonel's style. Domestics were disposed to rebel, where the daughter had to endure.
Dorothea laid down her book, and stood up slowly. There was a controlled stillness about her movements, unusual in girls of eighteen, and not too common in women of middle age. She did not remind her father that he, not she, had conveyed the volume to its present resting-place. One week at home—if this could fairly be called "home"—had shown Dorothea that whatever went wrong would be the fault of anybody rather than of the Colonel. So she left that question alone, and vanished.
The Colonel lifted his head, and looked after her. "Quiet!" he muttered in a gratified tone. "Good thing, too! I hate your bouncing women, slamming the doors, and shaking the house at every step." He had himself a heavy footfall, and he was given to loud shutting of doors, but these were exclusive privileges, not to be accorded to anybody else.
The room which Dorothea left was not attractive. Carpet and curtains were faded; wall-paper and furniture were ugly; ornaments were cheap and in bad taste. There were no dainty knick-knacks on brackets or side-tables. An old-fashioned round table stood in the centre, and was strewn with books—dull books in dull bindings.
London lodgings are not wont to be attractive, especially the second-rate sort. This was the "upstairs parlour" of a very second-rate sort, situated in a side-street of exceptional dreariness.
All the houses on either side of the street were exactly like all the rest. Each had a porch with steps; each had an area with more steps; each had one window of a small dining-room beside the porch, and two windows of a little drawing-room above; each had two bedroom windows yet higher, and most had two garret holes at the top. Each was discoloured with smoke, dingy and dismal. Each had white blinds to the bedroom windows, which seemed to keep up a futile struggle after cleanliness.
These particulars would have been patent in daylight; but daylight vanishes early on a December afternoon in town. Night had drawn its pall over the big city an hour before. A tall candle burnt upon the table, close to the Colonel. He was so used to read and write alone by the light of a single candle, that the need of a second for his daughter had not occurred to him.
She came in, carrying the big volume, laid it down, and stood for a moment beside him, as if to await further orders.
There was nothing "school-girlish" about Dorothea, in the ordinary sense of the word, though she had left school but one week earlier. Of good height, she had a pretty figure, the effect of which was somewhat spoilt by the forward carriage of her head, almost amounting to a poke, and due to short sight. Her face was rounded and pale, and in repose was serious. The wistful eyes looked through a pair of "pincer" glasses, balanced on a neat little nose.
Colonel Tracy was making voluminous notes from a decrepit brown volume, which had lost half its binding. He wrote an atrocious hand, which fact had mattered little hitherto, since nobody needed to read it except himself. Now that he was beginning to wake up to the possession of a daughter who might be useful, a new element came into the question.
"Is that all?" asked Dorothea.
"Humph!" was doubtless meant for thanks, and the girl went towards her seat. But before she could reach it, a supplementary order was issued: "Ha! No! It's not here! Second volume."
"Shall I get the second volume?"
Colonel Tracy glanced up, and really did say "Thanks!" with even a suspicion of apology in the tone.
Dorothea ran down the narrow staircase this time, instead of up. She had to light a candle, and take it into the dining-room. Having found the required volume, some impulse led her to the window, where she peeped through the lowered venetians.
A hansom was dashing past; and two ladies on the pavement seemed to be carrying home an armful of packages. Dorothea could detect a merry ring in their voices as they went. Then came a boy, bearing a big bunch of holly. For this was Christmas Eve.
The Colonel had bought no holly. "Nonsense," he had said that morning, when Dorothea petitioned for some. "You are not a child now, my dear; and I have no money to throw away on rubbish."
Was it rubbish? Dorothea considered the question, as she leant against the window, forgetting for the moment the volume which had to be taken to her father.
"He does not, seem to care much about Christmas," she thought. "I used to feel it dull to stay at school; but this seems more dull. Did Mrs. Kirkpatrick guess how it would be, when she told me I should have worries? She said I must try to draw out my father's sympathies, because he has been so long alone. But how? What can I do? He does not care to talk. I can see that it only bothers him. And he seems to have no friends. Nobody calls to see him, not even any letters come. Will it always be so?"
As if in response, the postman's rap sounded.
"Mrs. Kirkpatrick, I dare say! She will not forget me," the girl said joyously, hastening out.
But the one letter handed to her was addressed "Colonel Tracy."
"I shall hear to-morrow. I did not really expect it sooner," she thought, and she ran lightly upstairs.
"Something for you, father. A Christmas card!" she suggested.
Colonel Tracy looked up. "Christmas card!" he repeated. "Where is the volume?"
"The Encyclopædia! O how stupid of me! The postman came, and I forgot. I'll get it at once."
"Make haste!" hurried her steps. She would have liked to wait and see the envelope opened. Expeditious as she was, that process was over by the time she returned. The Colonel sat bolt upright, gazing at something in his hand, with a singular expression on his sunburnt face. It was a Christmas card, as Dorothea had guessed, and she came fearlessly near, to gaze also. There was a background of dull pale blue, and across the background flew a white dove, bearing in its beak a bunch of leaves—presumably an olive-branch. "Peace and Good-Will" in golden letters occupied one corner.
"Why, father, it is quite an old card," Dorothea exclaimed merrily, anxious to throw herself into his interests. "Look at the soiled edges; and a crease all down the middle. It might be years old."
The Colonel was not communicative. He glanced at her with the same odd expression, and said, "Yes."
"Who can it be from? Some old friend of yours?"
"We were friends—once!"
"And not now?"
"No!" decisively.
"But you exchange Christmas cards?"
"We send—this," after a pause. Colonel Tracy seemed unwilling to explain.
Dorothea knelt on a stool close to the table, resting her hands upon it, much interested.
"Do tell me more," she said. "It is Christmas Eve, and I have nobody else to talk to."
"There is nothing to tell. We had a—a trifling disagreement," said the Colonel. "What makes you wear spectacles?"
"Short sight. Why, father, you know that!"
"I had forgotten. Well, I shall put this away," said the Colonel.
"And send another to your friend?"
"No. Certainly not. Next Christmas, I shall return this."
A light dawned on Dorothea. "Is that it? I see. How strange!"
"Not strange at all. We have done so for some years—eight or nine, I think—alternately."
"Always the same card?"
"Yes."
"And you have never met! And never written!"
"No. Why should we?"
Dorothea was silent for a moment. Then she said, "If you met, you would be friends again."
The Colonel made a dubious sound.
"Was it you who sent the card first, or was it he?"
"Not I."
"And when you first got it, did you wait a whole year to send it back?"
"Certainly."
The wonder in Dorothea's tone was lost upon the gallant Colonel.
"And you will wait a whole year now! Not write a letter, or—"
"I shall wait till next Christmas," said the Colonel.
Thereupon, he pushed the little messenger of peace into a square envelope, wrote upon it, "Christmas Card—Erskine—" and hid it away in his desk.
"Is Erskine his name?"
"Colonel Erskine. We were in the same regiment. He was my senior, slightly; and I believe, he retired first."
"And now he lives at—"
"Craye. My dear, we have talked long enough. I have no more time to spare," said the Colonel, turning with assiduity to vol. ii. of the Encyclopædia.
Dorothea subsided into her chair and into silence. She was not timid, but she did not wish to worry him. Besides, she had something fresh to think about, in the slow progress of reconciliation between the two veterans. "But to have gone on all these years!" she said to herself. "And I wish my father had been the first to send the card."
image003
THINGS NOT IN THE COLONEL'S LINE
LONDON is commonly counted a lively place, with plenty to do, and abundance to see; even though it has its little drawbacks in the shape of noise, soot, and fog. But the compensating liveliness seemed unlikely to enter into Dorothea Tracy's town existence.
If a man wishes for freedom from society, he is as likely to get what he wants in London as in the tiniest village—perhaps more so. Colonel Tracy had never been a man of society. He detested the generality of human beings, hated company, abhorred teas, dinners, and conversation.
In earlier life, he had had one friend—the quondam comrade of the olive-leaf card!—and had lost that friend. He had also had a wife, and had lost that wife.
Thenceforward, habits of seclusion had grown upon him apace. As years went on, he troubled himself to see less and less of his child; though always looking forward, curiously, to the time when he would have her to live with him. Now that time was come, and it found him a confirmed hermit. He had no friends. He associated with no one, called upon no one. As a natural corollary, no one called upon, or associated with him. He did not even belong to a club, for a club means acquaintances, and the Colonel wanted no acquaintances. He lived in a huge overgrown parish, the work of which could never be overtaken by the toiling clergy. A call from one of the curates, some months earlier, had met with no gracious reception, and had not yet been repeated.
The manner of life which might suit the tastes of a retired veteran was not precisely fitted for a young girl. This as yet did not cause the Colonel concern; if indeed it occurred to him. He expected to go on as he had done hitherto, with merely the little addition of a silent and useful daughter. He expected Dorothea to conform unquestionably to his will.
She had come "home," as she called it—or rather, as she had called it beforehand—full of young hopes and dreams. At eighteen, one is apt to see future life through rosy spectacles. In one short week, the glasses had gained a leaden hue, borrowed from the leaden atmosphere around. The hopes were dying; the dreams were fading. Dorothea had had, and would have, some rebellious struggles before settling down to the dead level of existence which seemed inevitable. Thus far, the effect of her surroundings was rather to stupefy than to excite. Everything was so different from the previous expectations of the school-girl, that she did not know what to make of her own position.
A girl naturally wishes for companions. Beyond her father, Dorothea had none; and Colonel Tracy was far too self-absorbed a man to render satisfying companionship. Below the rugged surface, he was in the main kind-hearted; but he lacked the mighty gift of sympathy. He neither understood his daughter, nor troubled himself to be understood by her. Each was more or less of an enigma to the other.
He had his own notions of propriety, and after his own fashion, he was careful. "You are too young to walk out alone at present in London," he had said to Dorothea, the day following her arrival. "I always take my constitutional after breakfast, and you may accompany me. I hope you are a good walker. If it should be necessary for you to leave the house at any time when I am otherwise engaged, you must have Mrs. Stirring for a companion. She has promised me to attend to your wants."
Mrs. Stirring was the lodging-house keeper: a highly respectable little woman, "genteel" to a degree in her own estimation, but apt to be plaintive in tone and behindhand in work. So she was not always an available "companion," and when available she was not too cheerful.
The morning "constitutional" became a daily event, regular as breakfast itself when weather permitted. Happily, Dorothea was a very good walker. The Colonel went fast and far; and he never thought of asking whether pace or distance suited his daughter's capabilities. Dorothea enjoyed the rapid motion and the comparative freshness of the morning air. She would have enjoyed some conversation likewise; but the Colonel was seldom in a talkative mood. If she spoke, he grunted; if she asked a question, he answered it, and that was all.
How to fill the remaining hours of the day became, even in one week, something of a problem to Dorothea. She had work in hand, but it is dull, at the age of eighteen, to sit and work with no one to take any interest in the progress of the needle. She dearly loved reading, but the Colonel's books were such as to put that love to a pretty severe test. She could have spent hours happily any day in writing to Mrs. Kirkpatrick and her favourite schoolfellows; but her father's pet economy was in the matter of paper and stamps. So time threatened to hang upon Dorothea's hands.
Nine years had elapsed since the death of Dorothea's mother; and the greater part of those nine years had been spent by her in a small Yorkshire school, kept by Mrs. Kirkpatrick. That had grown to be Dorothea's real "home." She hardly realised the fact while there, loyally reserving the term for future life with her father, and sometimes counting it a little hard to spend so many of her holidays at school. But now that the long-expected life with her father had begun, she knew well enough which was the real home.
Through the nine years Colonel Tracy had lived more or less in London, often going abroad for a while. It had happened curiously often—almost regularly—that he had to go abroad just before Dorothea's holidays, so that he was "quite unable to receive her." Whether the more correct word would not have been "unwilling" may be doubted. He was a man who disliked trouble; and he had no notion of doing on principle that which he disliked, for the sake of others.
About once a year, he had commonly arranged to spend a fortnight at some northern watering-place with Dorothea: this being the least troublesome mode he could devise for amusing a school-girl. From the age of twelve to the age of eighteen, she had never been to London. "Too expensive a journey," the Colonel said, though he made nothing of going himself north or south, travelling first-class. He liked to have Dorothea always within easy reach of Mrs. Kirkpatrick, that he might get her off his hands without difficulty when he found the girlish spirits too much.
Dorothea's recollections of his manner of life in town, seen before her thirteenth birthday, had grown somewhat dim, and perhaps were embellished by distance. Moreover, he had often changed his headquarters since those days, so her recollections were the less important. Certainly she did not expect what she found. The first glimpse of the dingy apartments, which for more than a year, he had made his home, gave a shock. Had the Colonel been aware of her sensations, he would have counted them unreasonable. He had "done his duty by her" in the matter of education. He expected now that she should "do her duty by him" in the matter of submission and usefulness.
Dorothea was a girl of too much character not to be useful, of too much principle to indulge in discontent. Still, this week had been a week of "deadly dulness"; and what there was for her to do, she had, as yet, failed to discover.
The Colonel arranged everything, ordered dinner, interviewed the landlady, and undertook to procure fish and vegetables. He piqued himself upon his intimate acquaintance with household details. He needed neither advice nor help. Dorothea was a mere adjunct in his existence thus far, less important than the said fish, less necessary than the said vegetables. She felt like a stranded boat, cast upon a mudbank, out of reach of the tide of life which surged and roared around. This, in a London street, where cabs and hansoms dashed past, where the sound of the great human Babel never ceased.
* * * * * *
Christmas morning dawned.
"I shall hear from Mrs. Kirkpatrick to-day," thought Dorothea cheerily. "Will my father go to Church with me?"
He had excused himself the Sunday before on the plea of bad weather and "indigestion." "Bad weather" did not keep the Colonel in when he wanted to secure fresh fish for dinner; but Church was another matter. Dorothea had had to content herself with Mrs. Stirring's companionship. The Church was very near, so near that she meant soon to plead for leave to go alone.
"Good morning, father," she said, in her brightest tone, when he came into the dining-room. He was punctual to the moment, yet Dorothea was before him.
An indistinct grunt served for "good morning." The Colonel was exercised in mind, to think that Dorothea should have already made the tea. It was no small trial to give up his tea-making to her, which he had done as in duty bound, he being man and she woman; and he liked to stand close by, watching with critical eyes, as she measured out each spoonful. On the Colonel's plate lay a neat white package, tied round with blue ribbon. He was far too much absorbed in the tea-question to notice it.
"How many spoonfuls did you put in, my dear?"
"Three, father. One for you, one for me, and one for the teapot. Mrs. Kirkpatrick always said—"
"Full spoons, but not piled up?" demanded the Colonel, wrinkling anxiously the skin of his face.
"Yes; just as you showed me."
"And the teapot,—you made the teapot hot first?"
Dorothea nodded. She had to bite her lips to keep from laughing, as the Colonel lifted the lid and peered in.
"Too much water! A great deal too much water!" he said solemnly.
"No, I don't think so indeed. It will all come right," Dorothea assured him with audacious confidence. "O father, never mind the tea. See what Mrs. Kirkpatrick has sent me."
The Colonel did not wish to receive the article in question, but Dorothea put it resolutely in his hands. He found himself dangling helplessly a small blue satin pincushion, with "Happy Christmas" worked in white beads.
"Eh, what? yes. Very pretty," said the Colonel. "Yes, quite smart."
"And three Christmas cards, from my schoolfellows."
"Eh? Yes,—uncommonly pretty. What's the use of them all?" demanded the Colonel, merely because he was at a loss what else to say.
"The use, father! The use of Christmas cards?"
"Well,—yes. What's the use?" persisted the Colonel.
Dorothea stood opposite him, smiling; the light falling full upon her glasses, with the gentle light eyes behind.
"Don't they all do what yours did last night? Don't they all speak of 'peace and good-will'?"
This was a shade too personal, and the Colonel dropped Dorothea's pincushion in a hurry.
"Yes, yes, of course,—all right, no doubt. But such things are not in my line, I'm afraid. Too much trouble for a busy man to bother about a lot of cards."
Did Dorothea hear him? She was looking towards the window wistfully, dreamily; a moist glitter showing through her glasses.
"I'm not sure," she said as if to herself, "but I almost think Christmas cards are a sort of carrying on of the angels' song. A sort of echo of it. Don't you think so, father?"
"My dear, I'll trouble you to ring the bell. Mrs. Stirring will over-do the cutlets, and it's time the tea was poured out. Brewed long enough. You'd better take all that rubbish off the table. What's this?"
Any amount of notes of admiration might have been written after the question. Dorothea watched him, smiling, though she rebelled internally against the word "rubbish."
"Some mistake," said the Colonel gruffly.
"No, father; it is for you. It is from me."
Colonel Tracy looked extremely uncomfortable. He had had presents from Dorothea from time to time; but always as it happened by post; little bits of pretty handiwork, which he could smile over grimly, and consign to a lumber-drawer, only wishing that they would not come because he had to compose a sentence of thanks in his next letter. But for years he had received no present in public, so to speak,—with a witness to his manner of reception. That the giver should be seated opposite was embarrassing, and that he should be expected to show pleasure was more embarrassing still. His red rust complexion grew redder than usual, and an awkward laugh broke from him, as he took refuge in blowing his nose. Still Dorothea looked expectant, and the parcel had to be opened.
"I'm much obliged, I'm sure. But you see this sort of thing isn't in my line," said the Colonel.
"Don't you use shaving-tidies, father? Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought—"
"Well, well, of course I use—something," said the Colonel, shoving his new possession aside, to make room for cutlets and hot plates. "Yes, of course; but you had better not waste pretty things upon me in future, my dear. You see, they're not in my line. Other people appreciate them better."
"But I have nobody else," the girl said.
She was a little hurt and disappointed; no doubt more so than she would admit even to herself. It was evident that her well-meant effort merely bored the Colonel. "I hope you don't expect Christmas presents from me," the Colonel went on, helping himself vigorously. He noted her words, and was alarmed lest something sentimental should follow. "You see, I was not brought up to the sort of thing; and really I could not be troubled to choose. But if you would care to get something for yourself, I have no objection to give you five shillings."
Dorothea did not speak at once.
"That reminds me," pursued the Colonel, anxious to get away from a ticklish subject; "that reminds me! I intend to make you an allowance of twenty pounds for your clothes, beginning with five pounds on the first of January. I hope you will keep strictly to the amount, and on no account allow yourself to run into debt. Nothing worse than debt!"
"Thank you, father," Dorothea said slowly.
"Anything you'd care to do to-day? Take a 'bus and go into the country, if you like?" said the Colonel, meaning that they would do it together.
Dorothea looked surprised. "I am going to Church, of course," she said.
"Oh, ah,—yes, I forgot! No doubt,—quite correct. By-the-bye, I'm not sure about Mrs. Stirring, whether she can escort you, I mean. Turkey and plum-pudding, you know. Couldn't leave them, could she?" The Colonel was old-fashioned, and stuck to early dinner through all vicissitudes of fashion. "So I think you'll have to come out with me this morning, and be content to go to Church in the evening,—eh, my dear?"
"Father, I always go, morning and evening. I could not stay away. Won't you come too?"
"I—really, I should be happy to oblige you, but something at a distance requires my attention. Besides, week-days are not Sundays. Perhaps I'm not quite so much of a Church-goer as you. Now and then we will do it together,—on Sunday,—but I'm not so young as I was, and, in fact,—however, about this morning?"
"If Mrs. Stirring cannot go, I must go alone." She spoke in a resolute low voice. "It is so near; there cannot be any harm. I could not stay away on Christmas Day,—for no real reason."
"H—m!" her father said, in a dubious tone.
"I shall want to go often, when Mrs. Stirring is not free. Please don't make any difficulty. Let me have that one happiness," she pleaded. "Only two streets, and such quiet streets. And I look older than I am."
"Well, well!" the Colonel foresaw agitation, and feminine agitation was his abhorrence. "Well, well,—I suppose I must say yes. But mind, nowhere else, and never after dark. Not after dusk. The distance isn't much, as you say. Take another cutlet?"
The Colonel impaled one on a fork, and held it out.
"No? Why, you don't half eat." He landed the rejected article on his own plate, and disposed of the eatable portions in four mouthfuls. "Coming for a walk this morning?"
"No, I think not. I might be late for Church."
"You're like your mother. She was just such another Church-goer," said the Colonel, as if remarking on an idiosyncrasy of character.
Dorothea could be interested now. She felt relieved and free. "Was my mother like me in other ways?"
"Pretty well. Pretty well," said the Colonel, wiping his moustache.
"Did she know the Erskines?" This question came suddenly, almost surprising Dorothea herself.
"Well—yes. She and Mrs. Erskine were great friends—at one time."
"But not after you and Colonel Erskine quarrelled?"
"Well, not after our—little difference. No, we didn't keep up intercourse. What makes you bother about the Erskines?"
"I don't know. I like to think about them? Do tell me one thing, father,—are there any Erskine girls?"
"I'm sure I don't know. There was one, of course," said Colonel Tracy, getting up. "Done, my dear? For I have to be off. Why, of course! Same name, both of you."
"Dorothea?"
"Yes, Dorothea. Just ring the bell; I want to speak to Mrs. Stirring. She roasted the turkey to a rag last Christmas, and I can't have it happen again. Yes, you were both called Dorothea,—a fancy of the two mothers. Great nonsense, of course; but when women take a notion into their heads, there's an end of it. What a time that girl is! Ring again. The morning will be gone, before I am able to start."
"O! I should like to know if Dorothea Erskine is alive still," cried Dorothea.
image004
USING OPPORTUNITIES
"AND you going out alone, Miss Tracy! And the Colonel that particular! As he wouldn't hear of you crossing the road by yourself."
Mrs. Stirring was manifestly uneasy, counting herself in some sort responsible. She looked upon this motherless young lady as a charge upon her conscience,—otherwise, as one of the many burdens in her life. Mrs. Stirring was a person who professed to carry a great many burdens. She always had been, and always would be, laden with cares; not so much because she had really more cares than other people, as because she had less pluck and endurance for the bearing of them. Where Dorothea would have looked up and smiled, Mrs. Stirring looked down and sighed. The difference was in the individuals themselves; not in the weight of the burdens laid upon them.
To be sure, Mrs. Stirring was a widow, which sounds sad. There are women, however, to whom widowhood comes as a merciful release from unhappy wifehood, and Mrs. Stirring was one of these. She had married in haste, and had repented at leisure. When her husband was taken from her, she had been conscious in her heart of relief from a bitter thraldom, though much too correct a little person to let any such feeling appear through her showers of weeping,—for Mrs. Stirring was a person who had always tears at command. Still—there the consciousness was.
Now for years, she had been a successful lodging-house keeper, and was not only paying her way, but was laying by a nice little sum for the future. She had one child, a pretty winning little girl, and one faithful though uncouth domestic. This was not altogether a bad state of things. Nevertheless, Mrs. Stirring talked on plaintively of her trials and burdens, making capital of the widowhood which had been a release.
"And you going out alone, Miss!" she reiterated, coming upon Dorothea dressed for walking. Mrs. Stirring was apt to be untidy at this hour, and her cap had dropped awry; while Dorothea was the very pink of dainty neatness, in a costume of dark brown, with brown hat to match, relieved by a suggestion of red, the glasses over her happy eyes balanced as usual over the little nose.
"To Church," Dorothea said, smiling. "I wish you could go too."
Mrs. Stirring shook her head dolorously.
"There's the turkey and plum-pudden, Miss," she said, in unconscious echo of the Colonel. "Dear me! Why if I was to leave them to Susanna, I don't think your Pa 'd stay a day longer under my roof; I don't, really. He's that particular about the roasting. I'm all of a quake now with the thought of it—if I shouldn't do it right. And there's the stuffing, and the gravy, and the sauce! And the pudden, as I've boiled six hours yesterday, and it's been on again these two hours. Dear me! No; I couldn't go to church! A poor widow like me 's got to stay at home and mind the dinner."
"I wish my father could dine late," said Dorothea.
A scared look came into Mrs. Stirring's face.
"Now don't you put him up to that—don't you, Miss Tracy. Late dinner means a deal of work. If your papa dined late, he'd dine early too—that's what gentlemen come to. No, I wouldn't wish that. But if I was a lady—like yourself, Miss—and hadn't to be at work all the morning, why I'd be glad enough to put on my best, and go off to Church with the rest of the folks. And take Minnie too."
"Minnie! O I never thought of that! Why should not Minnie go with me?"
"It's like you to think of it, Miss." Mrs. Stirring was evidently gratified. "And I'm sure she'd have been glad enough, for she does fret, being kept in. But the bells 'll stop this minute, and she's in her curl-papers."
"Curl-papers. Can't you pull them out, and smooth her hair, and put on her hat and jacket?"
Mrs. Stirring was injured.
"Dear me! No! My Minnie don't go to Church without she's dressed suitable. I couldn't get her ready under twenty minutes. She's in her oldest frock, and not a tucker to it; and I wouldn't have her go without—not for nothing. And them curls do take a lot of time. Not as I grudge it, if it's a duty."
"A duty! But what do curls and tuckers matter?" cried Dorothea. "What does it matter how she is dressed, if only she is there? We don't go to Church to show off our best dresses. At least, I hope not. Let me have Minnie as she is, only with her hair smooth. If I don't care, who else will mind? Curls don't signify. Do let her come! It seems so sad to stay away for nothing on Christmas Day."
No; Mrs. Stirring scouted the proposal. Minnie to go to Church in an old frock and uncurled hair! She was scandalised. What would the neighbours think? Dorothea had to give in, and turn away.
"As if it mattered how one is dressed—there!" she thought.
Shutting the hall door, she went briskly down the street, with a delicious feeling of freedom. She would not have felt so free, perhaps, if even Minnie had been her companion.
It was a sharp day, and for London tolerably clear. Something of wintry haze hung overhead, of course; but a red sun made efforts to pierce it. Puddles in the road were frozen, and here and there a slippery slide might be seen upon the pavement, perilous for elderly people.
The parting interview with Mrs. Stirring had almost made Dorothea late. As she drew near the bells stopped, and her pace became something like a run. She gained the nearest side-door and went softly in.
The Church, a large red brick building, was already crowded, and Dorothea, glancing round, saw no vacant seat; but somebody beckoned to her, and room was made. Almost immediately the choir burst into the old Christmas hymn, "Hark! the herald angels sing," and the congregation joined with heartiness.
Among all that mass of people, Dorothea knew not a single person, and not a single person knew her. She was a stray unit from a distance dropped into their midst.
Yet the lonely and forlorn sensations which had so often assailed her during the past week did not assail her here. Strangers though these people were to her, and she to them, they were one in a Divine fellowship, they served the same Master, they prayed the same prayers, they sang the same hymns; nay, with many of the throng, she would soon be united yet more closely, for they would "partake" of the same "holy food."
How could she be lonely? A realisation of this union, and a glow of happy love, crept into Dorothea's heart, as she lifted her eyes from the hymn-book and looked around. The angelic message of "Peace and good-will" had been to all of them alike.
"If only I could do something for somebody—not live for myself alone," was the next thought.
Then just across the aisle she saw a little old lady in mourning, distressfully fumbling for something which she could not find. Dorothea's quick glance detected a pair of glasses lying on the floor. In a moment she had stepped out of her place, picked up the glasses, and given them to their owner.
"Thanks," came in a whisper of relief, with a very sweet smile. Dorothea stepped back, blushing slightly to feel that she had done a rather prominent thing; yet she would have done it over again, if required.
The sermon was short, earnest, spirited, mainly about the duty of rejoicing. Not rejoicing only on Christmas Day, only when things seem cheery and to one's mind, but always,—on dark days as well as bright ones, amid anxieties as well as pleasures.
"That is for me, I am sure," Dorothea told herself, looking back to some troubled hours in the past week.
image005
MRS. EFFINGHAM
COMING out of Church, Dorothea found the hour later than she had expected. A very large number had stayed, and it was already past the Colonel's dinner-hour.
"I must make haste," Dorothea thought. As she said the words to herself, she dreamily noted the little old lady in mourning a few yards distant, in the act of crossing the road. "I wonder what her name is? Oh!"
Dorothea's "Oh!" was hardly audible; indeed she felt rather than said it. The old lady had stepped on a slippery spot, or slide, and went down in a helpless heap, just at the instant that a hansom dashed round the nearest corner.
Whether instinct or thought guided Dorothea, she could not afterwards have told. Before she knew what she meant to do, the deed was done.
Two or three ladies near shrieked; and two or three men not so near rushed towards the scene of action. But shrieks were useless, and the men could not be in time.
To everybody's amazement, a young placid-looking girl in spectacles, just leaving the gates, flung herself forward, and by an extraordinary exertion of strength dragged the helpless lady aside from almost under the horse's hoofs. There was not a half-second to spare.
"Did I hurt you? I hope not," said Dorothea, at the sound of a moan. She knelt in the road still, rather paler than usual, but not excited, trying to hold the other up.
"Oh, my dear!" and the old lady burst into tears.
"Hurt! You've saved her life, anyways!" a gruff voice said. "A pluckier thing I never seed!"
Dorothea glanced round, and became aware that her glasses were gone. She had a dim consciousness of a gathering crowd, but to her unaided eyes all beyond a distance of two or three inches was enveloped in mist.
"My spectacles!" she said.
There was a slight laugh, checked instantly, and a gentleman stood by her side, close enough for Dorothea to make out the clerical dress, and a grave rather colourless face.
"I am afraid they have been broken," he said. "Are you sure you are not, hurt yourself?"