DOLLY'S TROUBLE
"BY-THE-BYE—" exclaimed Mervyn.
"Something very important?" asked Margot, as he stopped.
"Well, no! A sudden idea. I came across a young lady in town, not long
ago, who seemed immensely interested in all of you—in Dolly especially."
Dolly's head came round with an air of languid attention.
"A Miss Tracy," said Mervyn.
Margot's eyes wore the look which means recognition of something or
somebody, though she only said, "Yes."
"You know the name?"
"There was a brother-officer of my father's, years ago, named Tracy."
"And Miss Tracy said something about a former friend of her father's,
named Erskine."
"What is Miss Tracy like?"
"About Dolly's age, I imagine, but she looks older. May be the
effect of wearing glasses; and nobody would take Dolly for more than
fifteen,—I beg your pardon, Dolly! Miss Tracy's name is Dorothea."
The look of recognition came again to Margot's eyes.
"Ah!" said Mervyn.
"Is she one of a family,—or an only daughter?"
"She has a father,—that is all. No brothers or sisters. He seems to be
a cantankerous old fellow. I stumbled upon them in the Park—the Colonel
snoring, and his daughter keeping guard over him. We had a little
private confab, not a word of which he heard, after which he solemnly
avowed that he hadn't been to sleep. Miss Tracy's manner of taking the
fiction was perfect. He knows nobody and goes nowhere; so the young
lady's round of spring gaieties consisted of one afternoon tea."
"What is she like? Pretty?"
"Rather hard to say. She is pretty and not pretty. Sometimes the one
and sometimes the other. Curiously self-possessed, for a girl who
has never been into society; and simplicity itself. With a spice
of keenness and oddity. Oh, she is uncommon, and decidedly taking.
Improves on acquaintance. You must have heard of her, by-the-bye! She
is the heroine who saved old Mrs. Effingham last Christmas from being
run over. Edred was on the spot."
Dolly's interest, languid hitherto, was wide awake now.
"We never heard," she said. "Mrs. Effingham?"
"A friend of Edred's. I know her name," observed Margot.
"Edred had better give you the facts himself. There he is!"
Mervyn stood up, and after some vigorous signals from him, Edred
approached,—not too willingly, it would seem from his manner.
"I say, I want you to describe that little scene last Christmas, when
Miss Tracy saved Mrs. Effingham from being run over. Margot and Dolly
have never heard of it."
Edred looked reluctant.
"Yes, I remember," he said.
"How did it happen?" inquired Margot, while Dolly sat motionless, rigid
with the effort not to tremble.
"Mrs. Effingham slipped down on a slide, after leaving the church. A
hansom cab would have been upon her, but Miss Tracy pulled her away in
time. No one else was within reach."
A drier statement could hardly have been made, but all who knew Edred
knew that any amount of unexpressed admiration might lie below.
"How plucky of her!" exclaimed Margot.
Edred merely said, "Yes."
"And you were there?"
"I was there—not near enough to act, unhappily."
"Ah, that is why nobody has heard the story. Men don't like to be
outdone by a girl. But it was not your fault."
"No."
"And the old lady was not hurt?"
"No."
"She was infinitely grateful," said Mervyn. "Em and I called upon her
one day, and found her in a state of gush. Miss Tracy was there also;
so we had an opportunity to inspect the heroine."
"Did she bear her honours meekly?" asked Dolly, in an odd constrained
voice.
"She didn't seem aware of their existence. Em acted the icicle as
usual, and Miss Tracy studied her—rather amused, I thought. She has a
piquant way of looking at one through her glasses; unlike the rest of
the world. Mrs. Effingham was unutterably grateful to me for doing the
polite."
"And you saw her in the Park—afterwards, I suppose?" Margot asked.
"Months after. August."
Mervyn made a movement, as if to go.
"What is she like?" inquired Dolly, in the same stiff voice, as if she
had not heard all that passed before.
"I've given my view of the matter. Ask Edred! He's quite intimate in
the house; and I haven't so much as ventured to call. I did propose it,
and had a snubbing from the gallant Colonel. But black cloth may go
anywhere."
Mervyn was gone, and Edred lingered in an uncertain manner, showing an
evident inclination to decamp also.
"So you see a good deal of Miss Tracy?" said Margot.
"She teaches in our Sunday-school."
"Ali, that would bring you together, of course."
Margot paused, with a sudden thought of Dolly; but she would not even
look in her sister's direction, for fear the glance should be noticed.
She knew, without looking, that the usually restless Dolly was seated
like a small statue, white and motionless.
"Yes, sometimes."
"Does she teach well?"
"Very well."
"The fact is, I am interested about her. My father, once upon a time,
knew some Tracys very well. But that was years ago—a good many years."
"I could find out—anything you wish. I shall be seeing Miss Tracy."
"I don't think it matters. All intercourse has been dropped for so
long; and after all—" Margot hesitated. "Dolly, I am thinking of going
home. Will you come with me, or shall I leave you behind?"
"I'll go home."
"Would you not like another game of tennis?" asked Edred.
The tone was unmistakably cold, and he hardly looked at Dolly; or if he
looked, his eyes did not meet hers.
"No; I'd rather not," she answered, as coldly.
"I fancy the pony-carriage is here by this time," Margot observed.
She rose, and found her way to Mrs. Claughton, Dolly following, like
one in a dream.
"I must say good-bye early to-day," she said to the stout lady.
"Yes, quite right. You had no business to come at all, Margot,—with
your spine," said Mrs. Claughton, careless of the fact that Margot
hated remarks in public upon her health.
"I couldn't well come with somebody else's spine," murmured Margot,
finding relief in the small witticism, which she took care that Mrs.
Claughton should not hear.
"However, Dolly of course will stay another hour or two. Dolly need not
go yet."
"Dolly seems tired to-day."
"Dolly tired! She wants another game of tennis; that is all," said Mrs.
Claughton energetically. "Nonsense, Dolly!" as a little hand came out.
"My dear, I am not going to say good-bye to you yet. Where is Edred?"
Dolly dropped her hand, and turned away, keeping close to Margot.
Outside the group, she said pitifully, in an undertone, "I must go! I
can't stay!"
"Yes, dear,—if you are quite sure."
"Please take me home. And don't tell Issy."
Margot made no answer beyond an indefinite sound of assent. She knew
that Dolly had reached her utmost extent of endurance. A word more
might prove too much.
The pony-chaise waited at the front door, so there was no delay in
getting off. Neither spoke on the way home—a short distance, though
often too much for Margot to walk. Near Woodlands, Margot leant
forward, and said to the boy—
"You need not go up to the door. Stop at the little side-gate."
The boy obeyed, and Margot stepped out.
"Take the chaise round to the yard," she said. "Now, Dolly."
Dolly too obeyed, wordlessly. Margot led her to the back garden-door of
the house, which they entered unobserved. Dolly's room was at the top
of the house, a story higher than Margot's, and Margot toiled up the
stairs, regardless of her aching back, till the sunny little room was
reached. Then she shut the door, sat down, and held out her arms. Still
without a word, Dolly subsided into them.
Two or three minutes passed, and then—
"Poor little Dolly!" Margot said tenderly.
"Margot, did I show—"
"Show what, dear?"
"That I—I—that I—minded?"
"You didn't manage to look quite like yourself. What was it that you
minded so much?"
"Didn't you see?"
"I thought you gave Edred an unnecessarily cold shoulder; and he seemed
rather vexed. I'm not sure that he had not reason."
"O no; it wasn't that. He didn't care. And I mustn't care," said Dolly,
lifting her face, which had one white and one red cheek. "I don't mean
anybody to see. Only I felt so—so stupid—I was so afraid I should do or
say something wrong."
"Then perhaps it was best for you to come away."
Dolly hid her face again.
"Margot, didn't you see—about Miss Tracy?"
"Yes."
"He—likes her."
Margot was silent, passing her hand over the soft hair.
Dolly's self-command broke down, though she struggled hard to hold the
sobs in check.
"Good Dolly! Wise child!" Margot whispered. "You'll be brave, won't
you?"
"I'm not good—I'm not wise or brave," Dolly broke out. "It is so
hard to bear. I never thought—never knew before. Margot, hold me
tight. Margot, I'm not brave," she sobbed. "It's only pride. I
couldn't—couldn't—let anybody know—but oh, I do feel as if I could hate
that girl."
"You must not."
"No, no, I know; but how am I to help it?"
"There's only the one way. Nothing is ever too hard to be overcome. And
after all we don't know—we don't know anything really. It may be all a
mistake. I mean, as to his caring in the least for her."
"But you thought—"
"I fancied his look a little suspicious,—that shut-up manner that he
puts on, when he minds particularly about anything. And Mervyn's way of
speaking too. Still, it may be all a mistake, all nonsense."
"Only—"
"Only it may not be. And meantime you are right to be careful. Don't
be hard and cold to Edred, Dolly; no need for that. Only be simple and
dignified."
"I can't be dignified. It isn't in me. I'm all one way or all the
other."
"Then you have to learn. If you are too cold, you will drive him away;
and if you are too warm—" Dolly shuddered. "Yes, you see. Just be
natural."
Dolly drew a long breath. "O if only Issy hadn't said anything!"
Margot could not truthfully say, "Issy meant nothing."
"I think I must lie down now," she remarked presently.
Dolly started up from her clinging posture. "Margot, is your back bad?"
"It has been bad all day." Margot seldom admitted so much, but she was
anxious to lead Dolly's mind on a fresh tack. "Suppose you come and
settle me on the couch in my room. And then—I wonder if you could read
me a story, and help me to forget the aching."
"I'll do anything. I'm so sorry. It is all my fault."
An hour passed in attending to Margot did Dolly more good than any
amount of brooding over her own woes. Margot really was in very bad
pain—so severe, that when she had reached her room, she turned faint
with it. She would not have Isabel called, however, but insisted that
Dolly should do all that was requisite.
"Now I hear Issy coming, so you can go," Margot said at length. "Kiss
me, Dolly, and take a run in the garden. Don't let yourself sit and
think."
Dolly promised, then fled, and Isabel entered, remarking, "We did not
know till just now that you had both come in. Margot, what made you go
this afternoon?"
"I thought I ought."
"Mother is quite worried. You will just make yourself ill." Isabel was
settling the pillows which Dolly had not placed rightly.
"Then I must bear it. Issy!"
"Well?"
"Don't say one word more, please, about Edred to Dolly, or before her!"
"Why? She didn't surely suspect—?"
"I'm afraid she saw through your questions. She was as stiff as a poker
to him."
"Dolly always goes to such ridiculous extremes. All one wishes is that
she should not look too gushingly delighted whenever he turns up."
"She didn't look gushingly delighted to-day by any means."
"Did Edred seem to notice?"
"He was equally stiff to her."
"Well—perhaps—after all, that is safer than—"
"Not safer to have him driven off, if they care for one another."
"Dolly may care for him."
"I have an idea that he cares for Dolly; only his is such a curious
temperament."
"Proud as a pikestaff."
"No, no, not proud. At least, if he is, it is the sort of pride which
always looks to its owner like humility. He would never give in
knowingly to pride. There's any amount of shyness, and if once he has a
serious check—"
"Oh, well, I shall have to explain to Emmeline that Dolly's manner is
all my fault."
"Issy, don't! No, on no account! What are you thinking of?" exclaimed
the dismayed Margot. "Fancy Dolly's position, if it came to Edred's
ears. Dear old Issy, don't you see—you only have to let things alone?
If ever you had had a love affair yourself—"
"Which happily I never had!" asserted Isabel, as if congratulating
herself on escape from an epidemic.
"No, I know; but if you had, you would understand. Issy dear, do pray
make up your mind not to breathe a word to anybody. Things will settle
themselves one way or another. All we have to do is not to interfere.
If Dolly went to you for advice, then of course—"
"She won't. That isn't Dolly's style."
"I would wait till she does."
Isabel looked rather doleful. "You mean that I have been stupid and
done harm," she said. "I am stupid, I know, but really I didn't
intend—I never thought—Yes, I'll be good, I promise you. I'll never
mention Edred's name again in Dolly's hearing."
"My dear Issy! As if that would be possible!"
"Well, I mean—unnecessarily."
Then Margot, secure of having made a sufficient impression, told about
the Tracys, omitting only the possibility which had occurred to Dolly
and herself, that Edred might be peculiarly taken by the other Dorothea.
"Very curious! How odd! Really!" interjected Isabel at intervals. "A
Colonel and a Dorothea! It sounds like the same people. I don't know
why they shouldn't be. My father's Colonel Tracy lives in London, I
believe."
"So I fancied. I know he used; but my father so seldom mentions his
name."
"Except at Christmas. I wonder what sort of daughter he has?"
"Nice, I fancy. But, Issy, don't say anything to mother. She is always
so grieved about that unfortunate quarrel. Some day perhaps I may tell
my father."
"I wouldn't rake things up. It would only bother him," said Isabel,
acting counsellor in her turn.
"Well, you have taken my advice, so it is only fair that I should take
yours," laughed Margot.
"I wouldn't," repeated Isabel. "Father took the first stop towards a
reconciliation—sending that card, I mean,—and it is Colonel Tracy's
turn next. He ought to do something more than just to send back the
card after waiting a whole year. He was the one in the wrong,—most in
the wrong, at all events. If Mrs. Tracy were alive—but she isn't, and
we don't know anything about that Dorothea girl."
[Illustration]