THE SOMETHING THAT WAS WRONG
"NINE hundred and eighty pounds! That is a great deal," said Dorothea
slowly. "Nearly one thousand pounds."
Then she drew a chair to his side, sat down, and laid one hand lightly
on his knee. If he had been a more affectionate parent, she would have
laid her head on his shoulder, partly to give and partly to receive
comfort. For the threatening blow would fall upon her no less than upon
him; though this was not Dorothea's first thought. But any manner of
caress was rare between the two. She only ventured on a touch.
"Father, don't be unhappy. We shall manage—somehow. Things will not be
so bad as you expect—perhaps."
"Things could not be worse! It means—ruin," groaned the Colonel. "I—I
shall never hold up my head again."
She stole a little closer to him.
"It isn't quite a new trouble, is it? All the autumn, haven't you been
expecting—something of the kind?"
An inarticulate sound came in answer.
"Looking forward to a trouble is sometimes worse than bearing it when
it really comes. Don't you think so?"
Another indefinite sound, more like a groan than anything else.
"Won't you tell me how it has happened?"
The Colonel shook himself roughly, and stood up.
"My dear, I can't be bothered. Only let me alone."
"And I can do nothing? I can't help you in any way?"
"No, no—nothing. Only don't plague. Leave me in peace."
Dorothea was hurt—naturally—though she would not show it. Her one
desire was to comfort him, and he repelled her with coldness. But she
remembered how unhappy, he was, and she would not let her face cloud
over.
"We shall have tea soon, That will do you good," she said cheerfully.
"Tea" meant a somewhat heavy meal at seven o'clock. Till then the
Colonel occupied himself with mysterious blue papers; reading and
re-reading them, and sighing repeatedly. Now and again, in restless
style, he got up to walk about the room. During one such peregrination,
he remarked brusquely—
"We shall have to leave this."
"Leave this house?"
"Of course."
"Where shall we go?"
"I don't know."
A pause.
"Do you mind telling me—will you have anything at all left?"
"You'll know soon enough," said the Colonel sharply. He sat down,
rested his face on his two hands, and remained thus until tea was ready.
"The fish will get cold," Dorothea said, as he showed no signs of
moving.
Colonel Tracy drew a heavy sigh, came to the table, mumbled the three
syllables which were his usual apology for a grace, and sat down with a
groan. Then he turned over the fried sole, and inspected it disgustedly.
"Not fresh," he growled.
"You couldn't go yourself to-day,—but Mrs. Stirring seemed quite sure."
"My dear, Mrs. Stirring knows nothing about the matter. She takes
whatever is given her. It's uneatable."
Nevertheless, he gave some to Dorothea and helped himself, not without
a scowl or two.
"Bread isn't properly baked. Been getting worse and worse the last
month," said the Colonel.
"O do you think so? It seems to me such nice light bread."
"Women never know good food from bad, my dear."
Dorothea thought silently of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and of her own struggles
against daintiness.
"I declare they've not sent fresh butter. It's absolutely—impregnated
with salt."
Dorothea could have laughed, if she had been less oppressed with the
recent news. For some time past housekeeping arrangements had been
slipping gradually out of the Colonel's hands into hers; and though
every item had to be referred to the Colonel, Mrs. Stirring usually
came to Dorothea, thankful to have her for a "go-between." So she was
able to answer decisively—
"It is the very best fresh butter that can be got, father. Two
shillings a pound! I suppose we shall not be able to afford that any
longer. Ought we not to begin to make a difference at once?"
"I can't eat salt butter, my dear! Never could."
But if he could not afford fresh? That question presented itself
strongly before Dorothea's mind.
Tea over, the Colonel collapsed into his arm-chair once more. Collapsed
attitudes are commonly ungraceful fur anybody; and especially they are
not graceful where the individual is rather stout and not tall. Despite
his rust-red complexion, the Colonel was not a bad-looking man when he
held himself upright, and walked energetically, but his outlines at
this moment were not attractive.
Dorothea wondered whether she might venture to say anything more on the
subject of his losses, and decided that she had better wait. If he were
not disposed to talk, further pressure would only excite him.
"It's rather hard, and I should like to know all about it," she told
herself. "But perhaps that is just why I can't yet,—because I'm so
inclined to be impatient."
Then she brought out her work, and sat stitching away quietly, near the
one candle; her head a little bent, and the light falling on her pale
face, with its neat glasses. Nobody, looking at her, would have counted
Dorothea an impatient person; but doubtless she knew herself best. We
do not often accuse ourselves of faults which are not ours, however apt
to be blind to faults which are ours.
Not another word was uttered that evening on the subject of the
Colonel's impending bankruptcy. He sat moodily and gloomily apart,
nursing his woes. Dorothea worked and thought. She made up her mind on
one point,—that economy should begin immediately.
Next morning, the Colonel disappeared after breakfast, telling Dorothea
that for once she could not have her walk. Business required him in the
City, he said. Dorothea acquiesced; and finding dinner left entirely in
her hands, she made a very simple affair of it. Mrs. Stirring stared
and protested, but Dorothea was firm.
"Not no fish nor soup neither?"
"No, not to-day."
"And only cold mutton, Miss?" Mrs. Stirring gasped.
"I think there is plenty of mutton over,—and it goes farther cold than
minced. Yes, that will do perfectly well. You can make us a small
bread-and-butter pudding."
"And a tart. Just, an apple-tart, Miss,—and some boiled custard."
"No, not a tart. Nothing except the bread-and-butter pudding."
Mrs. Stirring looked dismay unutterable, but Dorothea's quiet manner
allowed no opposition. She retreated to the kitchen, murmuring to
herself.
At dinner-time, punctual to the moment, Colonel Tracy returned. While
no less gloomy than the evening before, he was evidently in a state of
hunger. That became apparent at once, by the manner in which he took a
seat at the table, and looked round.
No soup! No fish! No hot joint! Only cold mutton, potatoes, and pickle.
Dorothea would have counted pickle an extravagance, had they not had it
in the house.
"Hallo!" uttered the Colonel, and his jaw fell. The girl, putting a
plate on the sideboard, fled, rather to Dorothea's relief.
"I thought we ought to begin to economise at once, father, after what
you told me yesterday evening," said Dorothea in her gentlest manner.
"My dear, you don't suppose I can live on cold mutton!"
"But if you are bankrupt—"
"My dear, you talk rubbish! It's all very well for—you!" said the
Colonel, not exactly knowing what he said, perhaps. "I couldn't do it!
Impossible! Pray, have you nothing else in the house than—this!" in a
tone of intense disdain.
"I didn't think it would be right to get anything more, as we had
enough. You were out, so I could not ask you."
The Colonel sliced away in solemn silence, helped Dorothea, helped
himself, and ate without a word. If Dorothea spoke, he made no answer.
When the meat was taken away, he looked out eagerly and his jaw dropped
anew at the sight of one small pudding.
"I can't stand this sort of thing," he said, when the girl was gone
again.
"But if we can't afford more," pleaded Dorothea. "Is it right to spend
more money than we can reckon on?"
Growing silence again. The Colonel ate his portion, then left the table
abruptly, and flung himself into the arm-chair, with a disappointed and
martyred air. Dorothea had taken the most effective means in her power
to do away with some of his reserve, and to make him speak out; but she
did not know it. She had not acted with that intention.
"The fact is—" he said.
Dorothea looked up earnestly.
"The fact is, my dear—"
"Yes, father."
"You had better ask me—another time—before you make any changes. You
understand?"
"I thought, if your money affairs were in such a bad state—"
"I have had losses, and I am in difficulties. That need not mean
absolute starvation."
Dorothea could not help smiling. She bit her lip, and endeavoured to
be grave. After all, it was no laughing matter. If the Colonel could
have looked into some of the rooms where certain of her Sunday-scholars
lived, and could have seen their scanty meals, even his fastidious
palate would hardly have counted this day's meal "starvation." But she
might not say so to him.
"I will do whatever you tell me—whatever is right—of course. But,
father, don't you think that if I knew just a little more, it would
save me from making mistakes. I don't want to bother you; but I am not
a child now, and perhaps—Will you be very poor indeed? Must you leave
London?"
The Colonel's "Yes" probably referred to the last question. Dorothea
accepted it thus.
"And where shall we go?"
"I haven't an idea."
"Then things really are bad. It is not merely a little passing loss."
"If I can't get close upon a thousand pounds early in January, my dear—"
"Yes," she said.
The Colonel made a despairing movement with both hands. "Everything
will go," he said.
"But I don't quite understand. I thought a Colonel's pension was so
good. Mrs. Kirkpatrick once said—"
"Mrs. Kirkpatrick knows nothing about it. I've only brevet rank as
Colonel."
"Then you were not 'Colonel' when you retired?"
"No."
"But still—" and a pause. "There are only us two. And you always have
your pension to count on."
An impatient jerk came in answer. "My dear, you don't know or
understand anything about the matter. What is the use of talk?"
demanded the Colonel. "If I had the command of my whole pension—but the
fact is, I was in difficulties many years ago—had to borrow heavy sums
at a heavy rate of interest. It doesn't matter how or why. You don't
understand, of course. I have been closely run for years. And now this
thousand pounds has to be paid—or—of course, I've known it would have
to be paid, but one doesn't realise long before. I always hoped to lay
by, and somehow—it hasn't been possible."
"I wish I had known. I would have helped. We might have spent less in
so many ways."
"Well, well—it can't be helped now. But mind you take warning. Don't
you ever run into debt, or—or put your name to bills."
"Won't the people that you owe the money to wait a little longer?"
The Colonel shook his head.
"Or—couldn't you—" Dorothea hesitated.
"I shall either have to borrow again, at a rate of interest that will
pretty well deprive me of the yearly pittance I have now,—or else let
things go, and become bankrupt," he said gloomily.
Dorothea did not feel herself competent to give advice on either of
those dire alternatives. She only said gently, after a pause—"But at
least, ought we not to economise?"
Another jerk came. "Economise as much as you like, my dear," he said,
"only pray don't expect me to live on cold mutton; for I can't do it."
"But—" Dorothea felt hopeless. How was she to know what was right?
"I can't and won't! That's flat," said the Colonel. Then, with a
forlorn attempt to pull himself together, "But there's a month yet!
Something may happen. One never knows what will turn up."
If the Colonel found comfort in such a vague calculation on chances,
Dorothea did not. She had better comfort; nevertheless, it was hard, as
the days went by, not to feel anxious. She had no one to confide in,
and the future wore a burdened look.
Nothing would induce the Colonel to submit to simpler and less
expensive meals. Yet Dorothea could see in him a growing pain and
oppression. Week by week the threatened trouble weighed more heavily.
Till within a few days of Christmas, he bore up, walking, sleeping,
eating, as usual; but then there was a change, sudden enough to be
marked, though Dorothea hardly knew how it began. The red of his
complexion was changing into a sickly grey; strength failed, when
he would have gone fast and far; he had no appetite, and complained
bitterly of everything on table.
Did this mean coming illness? Dorothea watched with a sinking heart,
unable to decide. She had very little experience. All recollection of
the Erskines was driven from her mind for the time by these pressing
troubles.
[Illustration]