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?"
[Illustration: "Did it hurt you? Oh, I hope not," said Dorothea.]
"Hurt! Oh no!" Dorothea looked up, smiling. "Only I'm so dreadfully
blind without glasses. I shouldn't know my own father."
Then a recollection flashed across her of the "turkey and plum-pudden,"
and of the Colonel's agony of mind if he had to wait.
"But I am afraid I must make haste home," she added. "Could somebody
get a cab for—"
"For Mrs. Effingham," as she hesitated. "The hansom will take her home.
And you?"
"I live close by—only two streets off. I do hope Mrs. Effingham isn't
much hurt," Dorothea went on anxiously.
"My dear, I should have been but for you," said Mrs. Effingham.
The young clergyman had not been idle while speaking to Dorothea, but
had gently lifted the little old lady to her feet. Though disorganised
as to dress, and agitated still in manner, she was able to stand, with
his help.
"No; not much hurt, I think," he said kindly.
"Things might have been very different but for your courage. Now, Mrs.
Effingham, I think we had better help you into the hansom. What do you
say to dropping this young lady at her door on your way?"
"O no, indeed; it is only three minutes' walk," protested Dorothea. "I
wish I had time to see Mrs. Effingham home, but—my father—"
"My dear, I must know where you live. I must come to thank you again,"
said Mrs. Effingham, her face breaking into its sweet smile, tremulous
still.
"I don't want thanks; but I should like to know that you are not the
worse for this," said Dorothea. "My father and I live at 77 Willingdon
Street."
"And your name, my dear? Miss—"
"Tracy."
"Miss Tracy, 77 Willingdon Street. Will you remember?" Mrs. Effingham
asked, looking at the young clergyman, as he led her towards the hansom.
"Certainly," he answered. "I am going to see you home now, if Miss
Tracy really prefers to walk."
"Oh, much!" Dorothea answered. She gave her hand girlishly to both of
them, then set off at full speed homeward, not in the least upset by
her adventure, only smiling to herself.
"Wasn't it curious—happening just after I had so wished to be of use
to somebody? Such a dear old lady! I do hope I shall know her. There's
an interest in life already. What will my father say? I'm afraid it's
awfully late."
The Colonel stood at the dining-room window, looking out, and he
reached the front door before Dorothea.
"Twelve minutes past our dinner-hour! Everything will be in rags," he
said sepulchrally.
"Father, I couldn't help—"
"Hush: not a word—get ready at, once. Don't lose a moment," entreated
the agonised Colonel.
Dorothea fled upstairs, two stops at a time, tore off jacket, hat, and
gloves, brushed her hair, washed her hands, and was downstairs with
amazing promptitude. But the Colonel's gloom did not lessen.
"Fifteen minutes late! Everything will be spoilt," was his greeting.
"Father, I'm so sorry; but, indeed I couldn't help it," cried Dorothea.
She took her seat, for the turkey had appeared, and smiled across the
table at him. "I should have been quite in time, but an old lady fell
down in the road, and was nearly run over. I just pulled her on one
side, and then I couldn't get away till she was safely off."
"Rags! Rags! Rags!" sighed the Colonel dolorously, shaking his head.
"Have a slice of breast?"—in a mournful tone, as much as to say,
"Nothing worth eating now!"
"Please, father. I'm ravenously hungry. It cuts as if it were tender,
doesn't it?" hazarded Dorothea. "Your knife seems to go so easily."
"Tender! It's cooked to rags. All the goodness gone out of it," groaned
the unhappy Colonel.
Dorothea judiciously kept silence for a minute or two. The Colonel
passed her some delicate slices, helped himself abundantly, and began
to eat.
"Father, do you know a Mrs. Effingham?"
"No—" in a preoccupied tone.
"She says she is coming to see me."
At any other time the Colonel would have taken fright. He really was
too much absorbed just now with his dinner miseries to understand aught
else.
"She is the dearest little old lady, with such a kind smile." A pause.
"Father, this is a delicious turkey; and such nice stuffing."
"The turkey would be well enough—properly cooked. No goodness left in
it now," said the Colonel. "What made you so late? The service ought to
have been over an hour before."
"I stayed to Holy Communion," said Dorothea gently.
The Colonel grunted.
"If it had not been for the accident, I should have been back almost in
time."
"Well, another day, pray remember," said the Colonel shortly. "I expect
punctuality at meals, whatever else you choose to do. Have some more
turkey?"
"No, thank you."
The Colonel gave himself a second bountiful supply, not without sundry
muttered strictures, of which "rags" was the only word which reached
Dorothea.
Even the "plum-pudden" failed to console him. It had fallen into
three parts—the result, he contended, of the fifteen minutes' delay.
Everything was spoilt, as he had predicted! The worst Christmas dinner
he had had for years!
Dorothea could only listen patiently till dinner was over, and the
Colonel took himself off.
[Illustration]