A PARK ENCOUNTER
IF Mrs. Effingham came to town in the spring, she omitted to let
Dorothea know; so probably she did not come. Dorothea felt sure she had
not.
Life no longer seemed purposeless and friendless to the young girl
in her dull home. She had her Sunday class twice every Sunday, and
her teachers' meeting in the week. Sometimes she could persuade Mrs.
Stirring to pay a round of calls with her on the children's parents,
which always meant a fresh supply of interests, in little attempts to
help those who were needy. She had formed a speaking acquaintance with
certain other teachers in the school, and one or two had even been to
see her. The Rector and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Mordan, had called more
than once, and were especially kind to Dorothea.
It was not an overpoweringly full and busy life, according to modern
notions; but Dorothea could be easily cheered and contented. She no
longer felt herself useless or solitary.
Now and then, Edred Claughton looked in on the two, for a call half
pastoral, half friendly—always ostensibly with a particular reason.
Dorothea hardly, perhaps, acknowledged to herself that she would have
preferred to see Mervyn appear. Edred was so earnest and good and
indefatigable in work, that no one could fail to esteem him highly:
but he was very slow to relax. There was habitually a grave distance
of demeanour, oddly like that of Emmeline, oddly unlike the lighter
and more sparkling manner of Mervyn. Conversation ran almost entirely
in Parish grooves. Edred never spoke of his home or his relatives;
and Dorothea, from a something which might have been shyness, did
not introduce more personal subjects. The only departure from Parish
interests was in the direction of literature.
Edred Claughton was one of those very reserved people, whom Dolly
Erskine counted herself unable to get on with. Only, as she could get
on with him, she probably did not count him reserved.
All these months the Colonel had never avowed to Dorothea the existence
of any particular cares. Yet Dorothea felt certain that some kind of
heavy anxiety was weighing on him. She did not again find him lounging
deplorably in his chair, or hear any more profound sighs; nevertheless
she had not the slightest doubt that something was wrong. The more he
grumbled over his dinner, the more he talked of after-indigestion, the
more convinced she was of the truth of her surmise. There was often a
worried expression in his face; and sometimes, he would sink into a
troubled dream, forgetting to read or write. Yet what the "something
wrong" might be, she could not even guess.
Plainly, he did not like being questioned, and Dorothea forbore to
tease him. She only waited with patience, watching for every possible
opportunity to make herself useful and pleasant to him. As time went
by, she had some little measure of reward. The Colonel opened out
gradually; he began to show gratification in her presence, and to
dislike her too frequent absence; he talked more, and appealed to her
occasionally for an opinion; he even displayed some manner of interest
in her pursuits. Only, if he had troubles, he still did not mention
them.
The first of August came, and London was emptying fast. It did not
look empty to unaccustomed eyes, but no doubt there was a difference.
Certain crossings were more easily passed than in the full height of
the season; and Dorothea was conscious of this weighty fact.
She had persuaded Colonel Tracy to take her into the Park one sunny
afternoon, and when there, she smiled at the idea of "emptiness."
"Comparative, my dear—all comparative. Everything is comparative in
this life," declared the Colonel sententiously. "Besides, Parliament is
sitting late. Members can't get away till next week."
"Poor things! I wish we could get away," said Dorothea. "Can't we,
father?"
"Eh?—what, my dear?"
"Don't you mean to take me to the seaside or somewhere, as you used to
do when I was at school?"
The Colonel was silent for a minute.
"Really, I don't know. Don't see the necessity."
"London is getting so hot and dusty. I should like a glimpse of the
waves."
"Not Brighton!"
"O no; somewhere country-like. Some place where I could wander about,
without the need of anybody to take care of me. Won't you?" begged
Dorothea.
"Cost a lot!" growled the Colonel.
"Would it? Couldn't we do things very cheaply? Why, father—" in sudden
surprise, "you never used to mind about spending money."
The look of care which Dorothea had often noted of late sat upon his
forehead.
"Well, well, I'll think—I'll see about it. By-and-by, perhaps," he said
moodily.
"That is the trouble," Dorothea murmured to herself, moving her lips,
but uttering no sound. "Something to do with money! Why didn't I think
of it before?"
Both were silent for some seconds.
"It doesn't matter," she said then. "I shouldn't like you to go to any
expense that isn't right. And I am quite well; I don't need change. It
is only a fancy. Father, we'll stay where we are all the summer, and
economise—shall we?"
She was at very close quarters with the Colonel, and she watched him
earnestly with her light eyes. Colonel Tracy reddened and fidgeted.
"We'll see, my dear, we'll see."
"But I shouldn't like you even to think of such a thing, for my sake,
if you haven't plenty of money—if you can't perfectly well afford it. I
never thought about that."
"Well, well, my dear, we'll see," reiterated the Colonel.
"Wouldn't you like to rest a little?" asked Dorothea, as they came upon
an unoccupied seat.
Colonel Tracy agreed, but with an evident determination not to be
catechised. One minute had not elapsed before he was nodding sleepily
over his stick. Dorothea smiled, and turned her attention to other
people.
This being a quiet side-path, there were no crowds, though a good many
pedestrians came and went. The feigned sleep presently became genuine.
Perhaps the Colonel really was tired; at all events, he showed no signs
of an early awakening. Slight snores sounded, winning amused looks
from those who were near. Dorothea did not think it mattered, or count
herself obliged to rouse him.
Another snore: and a gentleman turned to glance in their direction.
Immediately his hat came off, and Dorothea, having already noted a
familiar outline, bowed. She took him for Edred Claughton, and was
surprised at that busy young man having any leisure for the frivolities
of the Park; but as he came across the path, she recognised the older
brother.
"How do you do? So you are getting into swing," Mervyn said, as they
shook hands; and the gleam of fun came which Dorothea always missed in
Edred. "Have you found out yet what it is to have no time for anything
or anybody? You see, I have not forgotten our last talk."
"Or Miss Henniker," added Dorothea. "My father," she said, indicating
the sleeper. "He seems tired."
"Hot day," Mervyn answered, taking the empty seat on her other side.
"So you don't find yourself in a whirlpool of engagements?"
"No, indeed. My only engagements are Church and Sunday-school, and
teachers' meeting."
"Not even afternoon teas?"
Dorothea shook her head smilingly.
"But that must be awfully dull," the young man said, with a face of
concern.
"I suppose it is,—rather. I should not mind going somewhere to
afternoon tea now and then. I really did go once to Mrs. Mordan in the
spring."
"Once in the spring!"
"Yes. That isn't getting into the whirlpool, is it?"
"Sounds more like Craye than London."
"Craye!" Dorothea repeated the word in a puzzled tone, wondering what
connection she had with the word. "Is your home at Craye?"
"Hasn't Edred acquainted you with that fact?"
"I don't know. He has not said much about his home. And I have only
seen your sister once,—that pretty sister of yours."
"Is Emmeline pretty?"
"I thought so,—if she had not been quite so grave."
"Ah, that you have to expect. Em and Edred are solemn individuals—far
too busy doing good to everybody, to have time for laughing."
"It must be very delightful to be always doing good to people."
"Well, yes,—if it were not for the bother."
Dorothea glanced at him questioningly.
"But that is not your real self speaking," she said.
An odd expression came over Mervyn's face, half comical, half assenting.
"What makes you suppose so?"
"I am sure it is not. You are trying to seem different from what you
are."
"I assure you, I don't always know which is my true self, and which is
my false."
"Don't you—really?"
Mervyn laughed.
"If you put the question in that style—but after all, you are the first
to suggest the idea."
"It is so easy to see. Your sister would say the same."
"Emmeline! She looks upon me as the most hopelessly frivolous of
mortals."
"But—"
"I assure you she does. And as for Edred—"
"He is a Clergyman. He has to live a life apart."
"He is the best fellow I know," said Mervyn, with unexpected warmth,
instantly relapsing into a tone of indifference. "Ready to sacrifice
his life any day for the veriest riff-raff of the streets. He and Em
can take nothing lightly. It's partly constitution,—not all principle.
I am of different make, and I simply can't go through existence as they
do. I should expire of dulness in a fortnight. If ever I do sacrifice
myself for anybody, I shall do it with a joke—not at all with the
correct air of dignity and martyrdom. It's a thousand pities Em can't
be tied to a stake. She would do it so awfully well, and enjoy it any
amount."
"O but—" protested Dorothea.
"Don't be horrified. You know, of course, exactly how much I mean and
don't mean. But, seriously, if one could inoculate those two with a
touch of fun from somebody else, it would do no harm."
"They would not need to be less in earnest."
"Only to have a little froth overlying the solid element."
"I am afraid I should laugh too often to suit your sister. One can't
help sometimes seeing the droll side of things. But I was going to ask
you to tell me about your home—Craye. Where have I heard that name?"
"Craye is a mere village. Nothing happens there."
"And you live in the village?"
"Outside it. Ancestral house and grounds, etcetera, only unfortunately
the ancestors were none of my own. My grandfather made a lot of money,
and bought the place."
"And is it—pretty?"
"Exquisite!"—in her own tone.
"I wonder whether you mean what you say, now."
"Of course I don't. Emmeline would tell you that I never mean anything
I say."
Dorothea made a little movement of dissent.
"I don't believe that," she said.
"It really is a pretty place,—but ineffably slumberous. I'm there
occasionally,—oftener than I wish, and not so often as others will."
"But of course you have a great many friends in the neighbourhood?"
"Acquaintances."
"Not more?"
"Well,—we know the Erskines pretty intimately."
"The Erskines!" A recollection of her father's Christmas card sprang
up. "The Erskines—and Craye! Oh, I know now,—it was at Craye, he said
they lived."
"You know them?"
"No; I have only heard—" Dorothea hesitated. She did not feel herself
at liberty to tell the little story of the rift between the old
comrades. "I have heard of a family of that name," she said. "There is
a Colonel Erskine,—he used to be a friend of my father's. They have not
met for years. I think my father said he lived at a place called Craye."
"The same, of course. Our friend is Colonel Erskine."
"Do tell me about him. What is he like?"
"Quite the old soldier,—straight as a dart. A great favourite with
everybody."
"And he has a family? I want to know all about them."
"All,—in a dozen words! Yes, he has a family. Wife, elderly. Daughters,
three. Sons, none. House, no particular architecture. Kitchen-garden,
well stocked. Would you like an inventory of the drawing-room furniture?"
"I'm more interested in the daughters. What are their names?"
"Isabel—Margot—Dolly."
"Dolly!"
"Everybody calls her so. I believe 'Dorothea' is more strictly correct;
but she is every inch 'Dolly!'"
"My name is Dorothea too."
"Curious coincidence," said Mervyn, looking down on Dorothea with his
odd smile.
"What are the Miss Erskines like?"
"Exactly like other people. A perfect reproduction of all the Browns,
Joneses, and Robinsons."
"No, but really—"
"Isabel is plain, if one may venture to say that of any lady. Margot
is good-looking—would be beautiful, if she were not an invalid. The
Colonel and she are particular friends of mine."
"And Dolly?"
"Dolly is a mere kitten, just out of the school-room,—a little creature
always on the go. Not exactly pretty, but she has lovely hair, and
there is any amount of fun and sparkle. Sure to be admired."
"And you like her—as much as Margot?"
"I!" expressively. "You had better go to Edred for information about
Dolly. Ask him some day what he thinks of her. But of course, he won't
betray himself."
"Do you mean that you think—"
"I don't profess to know. Wiser folks than I foretell something in that
quarter."
"But if she is so full of fun—would she suit him?"
"Convex and concave!" Mervyn could say no more, for Colonel Tracy woke
up.
"Hey! Hallo!—Why—Why—What's this? Hallo,—Dorothea!"
"Father, you have been sound asleep."
"Rubbish, my dear! Stuff and nonsense! Asleep, indeed! Just shut my
eyes for half-a-minute on account of the glare."
Dorothea's face rippled with suppressed laughter, but she did not
contest the point.
"Father, Mr. Claughton is here," she said.
"Hey,—what? Mr. Claughton! How do?" Colonel Tracy put out his hand,
and, like Mrs. Effingham on a similar occasion, half drew it back.
"Why—"
"Our Mr. Claughton's brother," explained Dorothea, and the two
gentlemen bowed, Mervyn cordially, the Colonel stiffly.
"Hot day," the Colonel remarked. "Time we should get home."
"Perhaps you will allow me to call upon you some day, when I happen to
be in town?" Mervyn said as the Colonel stood up resolutely.
The question was addressed to them both.
"O do!" Dorothea replied frankly, without a blush. She was longing to
hear more about "Dolly."
Colonel Tracy growled out some sort of consent, and hurried his
daughter away. Mervyn made no attempt to accompany them.
"My dear, you must be careful. Who is that young fellow?" demanded
Colonel Tracy, when they were at a safe distance.
"Mervyn Claughton, father,—the brother of our Curate."
"Hum!—Ha!—Well, mind you're careful, my dear."
"I met him and his sister at Mrs. Effingham's. Don't you remember?"
"H'm—ha—"
"They seem such a nice family. I should like to know more of them.
Their home is at a place called Craye. And isn't it curious,—a family
named Erskine lives near them? The father is a Colonel, and one of the
daughters is named Dorothea. I wonder if they are your Erskines?"
The Colonel made absolutely no answer to this. He hurried on at such
a pace as to render conversation impossible, and the subject was not
alluded to again.
Perhaps his very reluctant consent to a call from Mervyn had had the
force of a rebuff: for time passed, and Mervyn did not appear. Dorothea
ceased at length to expect him. Also, for a long while, Edred did not
come near them. He was very much occupied while the Rector went away
for a summer holiday; and when the Rector returned, Edred had his turn
of absence.
Colonel Tracy and Dorothea remained through the summer in their
lodgings. Nothing further was said about a change to the seaside.
[Illustration]