A FRIEND IN NEED
COLONEL TRACY ill was altogether another man from Colonel Tracy well.
His brusquerie and independence were nowhere. His military carriage
vanished with the rust-red of his complexion. He had grown pale and
yellowish, limp and languid. He could not bear to be left alone,
depended meekly on Dorothea's judgment, and went in with praiseworthy
submission for any amount of semi-liquid invalid messes.
Nobody would have expected so vigorous a man to be so soon pulled down;
but people are always doing what would not be expected of them. When,
on the third day of the new year, Colonel Tracy tottered across from
his bedroom to the drawing-room, and dropped feebly into an arm-chair,
he might have been ill for months.
"Nervous, partly—of course," the doctor had remarked that morning to
Dorothea. "Don't encourage him to think too much about himself."
But that was the difficulty. Colonel Tracy wanted to talk about himself
and his symptoms all day long. He expected an inordinate amount of
sympathy. If Dorothea gave the sympathy, he talked about himself
continuously. If she did not, he waxed cross.
There was no mention of money affairs between them. Dorothea knew well
that such mention could not be long delayed; but for the moment delay
was necessary. The Colonel, if not so ill as he counted himself, was
too ill to be worried. Dorothea had to bide her time.
She was a little disappointed that no quick answer had come from
Colonel Erskine. The mention of her father's trouble and consequent
break-down would surely, she had thought, bring a few words of
sympathy. Dorothea had built upon this expectation, hoping thus to
bring together again the old long-parted comrades. But apparently
Colonel Erskine meant to wait a year, as usual, before sending back the
card. Dorothea felt that she would not have done so in his place, and
she allowed herself to judge him somewhat hardly for the same, thereby
laying up a little store of fuel for future remorse.
"What o'clock is it, my dear?" Colonel Tracy asked in a sunk piping
voice, not absolutely needful under the circumstances.
"Nearly time for lights," Dorothea answered cheerfully. "I can't see
my watch, I am afraid. What a dull afternoon! I shall be glad when the
curtains are drawn."
Colonel Tracy sighed lugubriously.
"Isn't it nice that you are able to come in here again? I hope you will
soon be able to have a short walk."
"My dear, I have no strength,—none whatever."
"Living on beef-tea and gruel makes anybody feel rather weak, I
suppose. Mrs. Stirring says so. You will be able to try a little piece
of chicken to-morrow."
"Mrs. Stirring's bread sauce!" The Colonel shuddered.
"Oh, she will do her best now you are not well. And when you are able
to get out of doors, you will be quite hungry again."
"I have no appetite. None whatever," groaned the Colonel.
"Perhaps a little starving does no harm," hazarded Dorothea. "If it
does not go on too long."
"My dear, you don't know what you are talking about. You don't
understand in the least. If Mrs. Stirring knew how to cook—but I have
such a sense of emptiness. I feel quite ill for want of food. It is a
most distressing sensation."
"He means that he is getting hungry again," thought Dorothea. "That is
a good thing."
But she knew that she must not venture to congratulate him.
"I dare say it will go off in a day or two, father," she suggested.
"The doctor says you are really pulled down."
"Really pulled down!" The Colonel quite forgot to speak in a piping
voice. "That man is a perfect ignoramus. He knows no more than an old
woman. I have about as much strength as an infant."
A pause. Dorothea could not assent, and would not contradict.
"And what we are to do next I cannot imagine. My head will not stand
money affairs. Everything will have to go."
If the Colonel had been a woman, Dorothea would have suspected sobs
as near at hand. Still, she was glad to hear an allusion to the money
difficulty. Anything rather than persistent silence.
"Father, don't you think it would be a help if you would tell me all
about it?"
"You, my dear! You! Women know nothing about business."
"Perhaps not very much; but I would try to understand. I would consult
somebody, Mr. Mordan, or—"
"No, no! Rubbish and nonsense," said the Colonel, speaking
energetically. "Nothing can be done. I shall be bankrupt. There's no
help for it. I'm done for."
This was not very cheerful, or very good for an invalid. Dorothea
wondered whether she had better turn to some other subject. Then she
heard the postman's rap, and stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"I'll be back directly, father."
"Mind you are not long," ordered the Colonel.
Dorothea smiled, and stepped away. She had not quite given up hope of a
line from Craye, though expectation was growing dim; but when the post
came she was still on the alert.
This afternoon, her hopes and expectations were rewarded. A registered
letter was handed in, addressed to herself. Dorothea signed the
receipt, and after a moment's hesitation went into the dining-room,
where she lit a candle.
Yes, there was the Craye postmark! Dorothea's first impulse was to rush
upstairs; but she resisted that impulse, and opened the envelope.
Within she found another envelope, addressed to her father, and also a
half-sheet of paper written across.
"MY DEAR MISS TRACY,—If you think your father well enough,
pray give him the enclosed. It may do him good by enabling him
to meet the difficulties you mention."
"I am very glad you wrote. Will not you and your father come
to see us here?—Yours sincerely,"
"J. ERSKINE."
Enable Colonel Tracy to meet his difficulties? What could it mean?
Dorothea flew upstairs, for once forgetting to move softly. She threw
open the drawing-room door, with glowing cheeks.
"O father—"
"My dear, I thought you were never coming," said the Colonel fretfully.
"Pray don't fluster me. I really am not equal—Do shut the door, there
is such a draught from downstairs. I am quite chilly, and—what? Who is
this from?"
"Your old friend, Colonel Erskine."
Dorothea clasped her hands with eager excitement and self-restraint.
She longed to tear the envelope open; but Colonel Tracy turned it round
dubiously.
"I suppose he thinks the Christmas card ought to have gone; I forgot
it, of course. A man cannot remember things when he is ill."
"I sent it—a few days ago."
"You did!"
"Yes,—I found it by accident. Was I wrong? I had to go to your desk
one day,—don't you remember?—and the card was there. I didn't like to
bother you with questions, and Colonel Erskine's address I happened to
know already, so I just sent it off, with a note explaining why it had
not gone sooner."
"How did this come? It has no stamp."
"Enclosed in an envelope to me, to be given to you, if you should be
well enough."
Colonel Tracy made way slowly into the envelope, pulled out what was
within, and jumped as if he had received an electric shock.
"What!" he shouted, in a voice which penetrated to kitchen regions, and
made Mrs. Stirring palpitate.
Dorothea was rather alarmed. "Yes, father?" she said inquiringly.
"What!" repeated the Colonel as loudly as before; and he held up before
his daughter's astonished eyes a cheque for one thousand pounds.
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
The Colonel sat and stared—first at the cheque, then at the overjoyed
Dorothea.
"Erskine!" he uttered at length.
"There is a letter! Won't you read it?" begged Dorothea. "Do see what
he says."
Colonel Tracy obeyed the suggestion. His face had regained its usual
colouring, and his eyes stared still in blank bewilderment. He read the
letter solemnly through, once, twice, thrice, without a word, though
not without some suspicious twitches about his nose and mouth.
Did he mean to read it a fourth time? Dorothea could not stand that.
"Do tell me! What does it mean? What does Colonel Erskine say?"
Colonel Tracy hesitated an instant, gazing at Dorothea over the top of
the sheet. Then he put it into her hand. It ran as follows:
"DEAR TRACY,—Your daughter tells me that you are ill, and speaks
of difficulties. Will you pardon me for venturing to send the
enclosed, and accept it for old friendship's sake? It may help
to put things straight; and I have enough and to spare besides.
I know—I feel sure—you will not distress me by a refusal."
"The card has reached me late this year, and I shall not send
it to you again. From this time, I shall keep it as one of my
greatest treasures.—Believe me, always and ever, your old friend
and comrade,"
"J. ERSKINE."
Dorothea's eyeglasses were wet before she reached the end. "O, what a
man he must be!" she said.
"Well, yes, he always was a fine fellow. But I say—I don't like
to be under this sort of obligation," said the Colonel, fingering
the thousand pound note, frowning, and sitting bolt upright, quite
forgetful of his extreme weakness.
"What do obligations matter? It only means that we shall love him, and
be grateful. Father, you can't really hesitate. You couldn't, couldn't
refuse! It would grieve him so terribly. And now you will be friends
again, just as you were years and years ago. Think how delightful that
will be! I do think it is quite lovely of Colonel Erskine!"
Dorothea dropped her face on her father's knee, and about equally
surprised herself and him by an uncontrollable sob.
"Hallo!"
"I didn't mean—I'm not going to be stupid," said Dorothea, starting up,
and trying to smile through her tears. "Only it is such a comfort to
feel that you can pay that nine hundred pounds; and I can't tell you
how I do admire dear old Colonel Erskine."
"Old! He's not old. Not two years my senior."
"Well, then,—that dear middle-aged Colonel Erskine," responded
Dorothea, with a joyous but rather choky laugh. "Father, you'll write
to him now—directly—won't you? And tell him how very very grateful you
are."
"I—really, my dear,—I don't quite know that I am equal to the
exertion," said the Colonel, suddenly recalling his invalid condition.
He leant back, and laid a hand across his forehead in the most approved
style of requesting sympathy. "I really think I must depute you—"
"O no, that would not do at all. I'll write, too, but you must send a
line," urged Dorothea gently, but with decision. "It would never do.
And, father, you will write warmly, won't you? I'm sure he deserves it.
See, I'm going to get your writing-case, and bring the little table to
your side. And I'll write my letter at the same time."
The Colonel gave in, though not without a protesting groan. Dorothea
accomplished her share of the thanks eagerly and fast, scarcely
hesitating a moment for a word; and when she had finished, she was
surprised to see Colonel Tracey still nibbling his pen-holder, while a
clean sheet lay before him.
"Why, father, not begun yet!"
"My dear, I really think—"
"It won't take you a minute when once you are started. When you have
done you shall see what I have said," Dorothea added, as if offering a
reward.
Thus pressed, the Colonel did at length put pen to paper, and actually
achieved a very tolerable composition, not gushingly grateful, but
on the whole responsive. A few doleful remarks about his own bodily
condition wound up the effort neatly, and served as an excuse for
shortness.
"Have you done? Now read mine, father."
Colonel Tracy obeyed, and towards the close, he exclaimed, "Hallo!
What's this? Going to Craye!"
"I forgot to show you Colonel Erskine's note to me. Won't it be lovely?
I shall like to see Craye."
"My dear, I couldn't possibly think of such a thing."
"But this doesn't bind you to anything. I only say what I think,—how
very very delightful it will be. And after such a present from
him—don't you think we shall feel inclined to do whatever he wants?
Now, if you will give me your note, I'll have them both posted
directly."
"Well," the Colonel said in resigned accents; and he resisted no more.
"Things certainly are better than they were a year ago," Dorothea
thought; but she did not think how much her own patience and
unselfishness had had to do with the change.
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