WAS SOMETHING WRONG?
WITHIN ten minutes of the time fixed, Mrs. Stirring called at the door
for "Miss Tracy," and Dorothea rose to go.
Miss Henniker still sat on perseveringly, doing her six calls in one,
and the tête-à-tête on which Mrs. Effingham had set her heart never
took place. Little conversation had passed between the elderly lady and
the young girl; and each was conscious of disappointment.
"But we will meet again, my dear," Mrs. Effingham murmured, answering
Dorothea's unspoken thought as they shook hands. "I don't quite know
how long I may be absent, or whether I shall run up to town for a
month in the spring. London never suits me for any length of time. But
when I do return, I shall send for you. We will not forget one another
meantime!"
So the longed-for call was over, and nothing had come of it: nothing
was likely to come of it for the present. Dorothea, walking home in the
dark beside the little lodging-house keeper, was conscious of feeling
flat. She had had an amusing peep into a life which would have been
very pleasant,—just enough of a peep to be tantalising and no more. It
was all over now, at least for a good while to come. She would have
to go back to her solitude and friendlessness. She could almost have
echoed the words of Dolly Erskine, written not long before: "It does
seem sometimes as if life were made up of disappointments."
Almost—not quite. Dorothea Tracy, with far less of outward brightness
in her life than Dorothea Erskine, was far more disposed to look
upon what brightness she had, and to turn her back upon the shadows.
Also she had a more real and vivid belief in the Overshadowing Love
which arranged every step of the path she had to tread,—even the
disappointing steps.
"One thing is certain,—I have no business to grumble," she told herself
cheerily. "It is all right, or it would be different; and if I am
meant to be dull for a while, why, I just have to be dull, and to keep
cheerful through it." Then she smiled at the opposition of ideas. "Mrs.
Kirkpatrick would call that an Irishism. After all, it isn't outside
things that make dulness. It just depends on what one is in oneself. I
shall find interests—somehow. Perhaps by-and-by I shall even find that
I can be of use to my father."
"And you had a nice party, I hope, Miss Tracy?" said Mrs. Stirring,
curiosity getting the upper hand.
"Yes, very nice,—only it was not a party," Dorothea answered.
"There was folks to talk to, though, wasn't there? That's what you'd
ought to have,—a young lady like you! Never going nowhere, nor seeing
nobody,—it ain't natural. You do take it patient, and no mistake; but
it ain't right, and if I was you, I'd tell your Pa, that I would!"
This little outburst, the culmination of much smothered pity, took
Dorothea by surprise. She did not speak, and Mrs. Stirring went on—
"Gentlemen don't know what's fit for a young lady. If you had a Ma
alive, it 'ud be a different life for you, Miss,—and I wish it was
different, too."
"My father must decide for himself. That is only his business—and
mine," Dorothea said with gentle decision.
Mrs. Stirring was silenced. She murmured something unintelligible, and
no further words passed between them till the house was reached.
"I didn't mean to vex you, Miss," Mrs. Stirring said then, as she
fumbled with her latch-key.
"I am not vexed. I quite understand. It is all right," Dorothea
replied, with a smile.
"She is the nicest young lady," muttered Mrs. Stirring to herself,
remaining behind in the hall. "I never saw a nicer. Always civil to
everybody, and got a smile whenever she speaks. But if I was the
Colonel, I'd be ashamed to keep her shut-up like he does. It's too bad,
and I don't care who hears!" Nevertheless, Mrs. Stirring was careful to
utter her protest in a tone which should not be overheard. She had no
wish to lose a good lodger.
The drawing-room stood open when Dorothea reached it. She did not need
to turn the handle, and her soft movements made no noise. One lighted
candle stood as usual on the table. Dorothea had half crossed the room
before she knew that it was not empty, and that her own entrance was
unobserved.
Colonel Tracy sat in an easy-chair near the fireplace, not in his
ordinary place beside the table. There was a look of trouble in the
drooped head, and in the attitude of the broad hand covering his eyes.
Colonel Tracy was not as a rule given to limp attitudes. Plainly, he
counted himself alone still, and Dorothea stopped short, hesitating.
Should she slip out and leave him, or—? A deep pulling sigh, almost
a groan, broke from him; and with the instinct of sympathy, Dorothea
moved forward.
"Father, is anything wrong?" she asked.
"Dorothea!" The Colonel's exclamation was almost a shout. He started up
with an air of profound disgust and annoyance. "Why—why—what—how—you
don't mean to say it's nearly half-past five! I didn't expect you
for—for—another half-hour."
"I have just come home."
"Didn't hear you. Door not shut, of course. That wretched girl
never will shut doors, and if I've told her once, I've told her
five hundred times," declared the Colonel, looking askance, like a
detected school-boy, his complexion the colour of a turkey-cock's comb.
"She gets past bearing. I'll give it her by-and-by, and no mistake.
Well,—seen your friends?"
"I have seen Mrs. Effingham. She is very kind and nice," said Dorothea.
"Only it is such a pity,—she may be away for months."
The Colonel tried unsuccessfully to hide his gratification.
"No other old ladies, eh?"
"There was a caller—Miss Henniker; but I should not speak of her as
old—only as very middle-aged," said Dorothea, and the Colonel gave vent
to an awkward "Ha, ha!"
"Nobody else?" He was holding at bay the pending question, which he saw
in his daughter's face.
"Yes, two others, but they were young: a Mr. and Miss
Claughton,—Emmeline Claughton and her brother. You know the Curate, Mr.
Claughton, who called the other day. Don't you remember? They are his
brother and sister."
"Left my card on him to-day. Didn't think it needful to go in," said
the Colonel.
"Was he at home?"
"Didn't ask, my dear. Blissful ignorance best in some cases, you know,"
said the Colonel, rather sheepishly still.
"What a pity! I should have liked to know the Claughtons."
Then Dorothea was silent, looking earnestly at her father, and the
Colonel grew redder still.
"Well, well; now you've had your little jaunt, so perhaps you'll settle
down for a while,—keep quiet, and try to be contented."
"Have I been discontented?" asked Dorothea. She came closer, and
slipped a hand into her father's arm. "I should not like to be that.
Discontent is so horrid. Father, if you and I could be more of friends,
I shouldn't care so much about having outside friends. I don't think I
should care at all," she said wistfully.
"Eh, my dear? Eh?"
"Couldn't we be friends? Won't you tell me when you are in trouble? I
might not be able to do anything, but still—Something is worrying you
now, isn't it? Do you mind my asking?"
The Colonel jerked his arm away from hers, not unkindly, but as if from
an irresistible impulse. "Nonsense! Rubbish, my dear!" he said loudly.
"Pray don't talk such nonsense."
"Is it nonsense?" Dorothea showed no sign of affront. It was not her
way to be easily affronted. Standing so near to the Colonel, she was
in a favourable position to examine him well with her shortsighted
eyes, which were keen enough within a limited range; and she used the
opportunity. "But something has happened,—I am sure of it," she said,
recalling the distress of that big noisy sigh. "Are you—is it that you
are not well?"
Colonel Tracy snatched at the suggestion with relief.
"Indigestion, my dear; indigestion the whole afternoon. Miserably
cooked dinner to-day. You must have seen,—but women have no sense of
taste—no sense of taste whatever. That creature knows no more how to
make a sauce than—Why, it wasn't sauce!" pursued the Colonel, with
lively disgust. "Sauce! It was liquid paste,—flour and water,—anything
you like, except what it was called! And the beef—all the goodness
drained out of it. Nothing left but rags. Pastry, enough to make
anybody ill,—mere dough, nothing but dough. Can't think what Mrs.
Stirring is about. If she doesn't look sharp, I'll move elsewhere.
Arrant carelessness!"
This was hard, and Dorothea knew it. Mrs. Stirring might be slow, and
not very brilliant, but her mistakes did not arise from carelessness.
She was always painstaking, only sometimes rather dull. Remonstrance
would have been useless, however.
"And nothing else is wrong except dinner?" said Dorothea. "Nothing of
importance?"
"My dear, I hope that is of importance," said the Colonel grimly.
Dorothea was not satisfied. That an ill-cooked dinner—even if it had
been ill-cooked, which was not strictly the case—could cause such a
sigh as she had overheard, seemed to her young mind an impossibility.
Questioning was not at an end yet, the Colonel knew. Perhaps he had
never in his life before been glad of a caller.
"Mr. Claughton, sir, please," said Mrs. Stirring, putting her head
round the door.
"Bring him in," the Colonel answered with alacrity. Anything—even a
Curate—to check his daughter's too affectionate solicitude!
Not the Mr. Claughton whom Dorothea had seen that afternoon, but
another, entered,—Edred Claughton, of course. Dorothea would have
preferred perhaps to see Mervyn. The two were very much alike in outer
seeming; only here were a clerical coat, some additional gravity,
and a hard-worked air. Nobody could have accused Mervyn of appearing
overworked.
"I am returning your call very quickly," Mr. Claughton said, as he
bowed and shook hands. "You were so good as to come this afternoon,
when I was out."
"Yes—er—I—I'm very glad to see you," the Colonel said, speaking
truthfully. "Pray sit down."
"We have been unfortunate hitherto, always missing one another. I
thought I would come late, in the hope of finding you. The fact is, I
am anxious to enlist Miss Tracy's services in the Parish."
"That's not at all in my daughter's line," declared the Colonel
promptly.
"O father, I should like nothing better!"
Dorothea's eager tones were unmistakable.
"My dear, I couldn't possibly allow it," the Colonel said, with a
disgust equally unmistakable. "I couldn't possibly consent! Girls of
your age have no business in back slums."
"Certainly not," assented Mr. Claughton. "But how about a class in the
Sunday-school?"
"That would be delightful! Father, do say that I may."
Colonel Tracy was dubious. He asked a good many questions as to hours,
modes, ways of management, and supposed perils. "I can't and I won't
have Dorothea running in the way of infectious diseases," he said.
Dorothea, seated near the young clergyman, noted a movement at the
sound of her name,—a sudden widening of the eyes, and an odd flash
which might, perhaps, have done duty for a smile. Edred seemed less
given to smiling than Mervyn.
"I can't and I won't have it!" repeated the Colonel irascibly. "Girls
of eighteen are ripe to catch anything. I won't have her running after
the school-children into filthy alleys, whenever they don't turn up.
She's too young, and she's not used to London."
"But if I promise always to take Mrs. Stirring with me?" pleaded
Dorothea. "I do so want some little work. I have nothing to do now, for
anybody."
"One would wish, of course, that a Sunday-school teacher should
sometimes see the children in their homes," said Mr. Claughton calmly,
with a manner which recalled to Dorothea the stately Emmeline. "But
I think I can arrange to give a class to Miss Tracy, consisting of
children with respectable homes. If there are any exceptions, I
undertake to warn her not to go. Will that do?"
"Well, well—I suppose I shall have to let her try," the Colonel said
reluctantly. "School's close to the Church, you say? Well, I suppose
she must try. She'll be tired of it in a month."
Dorothea smiled, and there was a decisive little shake of her head.
A faint answering smile hovered round the lips of the grave young
clergyman.
[Illustration]