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.
[Illustration]