A MISTAKE
"THE twelfth of February," said Emmeline Claughton. She spoke in a slow
considering tone, gazing at the Woodlands' drawing-room fireplace, and
surrounded by the Woodlands quartette of ladies.
"Nearly a fortnight off," remarked Margot.
"Yes."
"My father was bent upon getting the Tracys down here on the earliest
possible day; but nothing will induce Colonel Tracy to stir sooner."
"No."
"So February the twelfth has been definitely settled?"
"Yes."
"Have you anything against it?" asked Isabel abruptly, speaking out
what the others only thought.
"Why should I?"
"Well—you looked—"
"Colonel Erskine is naturally anxious to see his old friend. I would
not have a hand in putting off such a meeting for a single hour. If it
had happened to be a week later—"
"But why? What difference could that make?"
"Oh, none really. Only Mervyn is coming home on the seventh for two or
three weeks; and we have just heard that Edred means to run down on the
twelfth for a couple of nights or so. Mother thought some of you would
come to dinner on the thirteenth,—Colonel Erskine, and perhaps Margot
and Dolly. You don't care for dinner parties, I know."
"I detest them. But why shouldn't they all go still, and the Tracys
too?" asked blundering Isabel.
Emmeline met the suggestion by silence.
"My dear, that would not do," said Mrs. Erskine. "We can't inflict
utter strangers upon Mrs. Claughton."
"But couldn't—" Isabel hesitated, and looked at Dolly with a meaning
glance, which Dolly did not see, but felt. A swift flush rose to the
girl's pale cheeks.
"My father would not think of leaving Colonel Tracy," said Margot,
purposely misunderstanding the question. "It is unfortunate, but I am
afraid the thing can't be."
"If the Tracys could be put off for two days," said Isabel.
Dolly spoke up suddenly. "O no; my father would be so disappointed.
Very likely, that would mean they're not coming at all. It can't be
helped."
"It is very unfortunate," said Emmeline.
"Things won't always fit in just as one wishes," said Dolly. Then she
left her seat and went towards the door. "Margot, I quite forgot to see
to those Christmas roses in your room. I'll do it now."
Margot simply said, "Thank you."
Isabel exclaimed, "Why, Dolly, there is no hurry. You needn't run away
while Emmeline is here."
"I may not have time by-and-by," said Dolly, and she escaped without
saying good-bye.
Twenty minutes later Margot went upstairs, and found Dolly, as she
expected, in her bedroom. The supply of Christmas roses had been turned
out upon a small table, and the vase had been filled with fresh water.
Dolly stood with her back to the door, snipping at the ends of the
stalks in most businesslike style; but the next moment Margot saw tears
running fast down her cheeks.
"My dear Dolly!" she said gently.
"I haven't—quite done," Dolly murmured.
Margot stood for a few seconds watching; but the tears streamed on.
Dolly's lips quivered unmanageably, and it was evident that she could
not see what she was doing. Margot drew the scissors out of her hand,
sat down, and took Dolly into her arms. There was a momentary of effort
at resistance; and then Dolly gave in, hid her face, and broke into
bitter sobbing.
"Poor little Dolly! Dear little Dolly! Never mind! A good cry will make
you feel better."
"O Margot! It is so hard. I don't know how to bear it!"
So much and no more reached Margot's ears. She attempted no answer at
first, but stroked the fair hair and kissed the hot brow over and over
again, with comforting whispers. Presently, when the sobs lessened, she
asked—
"What is it that seems so hard?"
"I don't know. Everything."
"Not only this disappointment about the evening at the Park?"
"Oh,—that and—everything."
"I'm so sorry. It is very unfortunate, as Emmeline says. After you were
gone, I tried to feel my way to some other arrangement; but Emmeline
did not help me. If Mrs. Claughton has set her mind on having my
father, she would not care to have you and me without him,—two ladies
at a dinner are not very welcome, you know. And I don't quite think we
both ought to leave Miss Tracy under the circumstances. Colonel Tracy
must be a touchy man, and he might take offence. And, Dolly, I don't
think it would do for you to go alone, well as we know the Claughtons.
Even if Emmeline had proposed it, and she didn't—"
"No," whispered Dolly.
"But we are sure to see Mervyn and Edred somehow."
Dolly sighed heavily.
"Perhaps Edred may stay longer than he intends."
"Yes," murmured Dolly; "when he knows that—that—she will be here."
"Dorothea Tracy? It may be only our fancy about him and her. Still—"
"Margot, I feel so wicked about her sometimes."
"Or rather, you are tempted to feel wickedly."
"Is that all? I think I do feel it—now and then. I'm trying not to give
in. But when she comes—if I should hate her—if I should see that she—"
Margot was silent, considering what to say. Then she spoke out gently.
"If you should see Edred loving and seeking Dorothea Tracy, you know
that one happiness which you wish for is not to be yours. You would
know that the life you could choose is not to be your life. Dolly, some
of us have to go through that pain, and, hard as it may seem, I think
we are not the worse for it in the end; at least, we need not be. One
has to learn, somehow, to fight and endure: and that may be as good a
way as any other. I can't tell yet if that is to be your discipline;
but if it is, you will not hate Dorothea Tracy. She has a right to be
loved: and she would not be to blame. Whether he would be to blame is
another question. I do not know if he has ever given any reason—"
Margot hesitated, but she had no answer to the half-spoken question.
"One thing I do know," she said; "whatever may be the ending of all
this, the last few months have done our Dolly no harm."
"O Margot!"
"I don't think you can judge. Perhaps an outsider can tell better.
I had a fear at one time that yours was to be only a kitten life,
Dolly—nothing in it but amusement and self-pleasing. Lately, I do see a
difference."
"I am afraid it is only, partly, because I haven't cared; because
everything has seemed not worth doing."
"And that has made you give more time to things that are worth
doing—partly because you haven't cared. But, dear, you have cared, and
you do care. Do you think I have not seen the fight going on?"
"Margot, you are such a comfort!" said Dolly, sighing.
If Dolly Erskine looked forward to the twelfth of February with
doubtful sensations, Dorothea Tracy's expectations were of unmixed
delight.
For a while it had seemed very uncertain whether the visit to Craye was
a thing to be or not to be. Colonel Erskine's invitation was pressed
cordially, but Colonel Tracy held back. A trickling correspondence
went on for three weeks, before the one veteran gave in to the other.
Colonel Tracy at length yielded, partly to his old friend's desire,
partly to his daughter's insistence, and consented to name the twelfth
of February. Thereafter he was hold to his word.
The twelfth of February came—a mild grey day, more like autumn than
winter. Dolly had hoped and longed-for a frost which might mean skating
at the Park, but no frost rewarded her expectations. The roads were
muddy; the air was saturated with moisture.
At four o'clock the train, fifteen minutes overdue, drew up at the
small platform, where two elderly porters loitered about. Colonel
Erskine stood talking to the station-master, with Dolly by his side. He
would have no one but his Dolly to welcome the other Dorothea.
A red face came out of one carriage window, and a voice called—
"Hi! Is this Craye?"
"Yes, yes. All right!" Colonel Erskine moved swiftly forward, beckoning
to a porter. "See to this gentleman's luggage," he said.
Colonel Tracy jumped out, and the hands of the long-separated comrades
met in a hasty clasp—stirred and warm on the one side, shy and
uncomfortable on the other. "Welcome—" Colonel Erskine tried to say,
and it was as much as he could do to bring the word out. His voice
was husky, and something like a tear shone in each eye, while Colonel
Tracy's face was at its reddest, and he had not an idea at command.
Then Dolly followed suit, shaking hands with the Colonel, and privately
thinking what an ugly man he was. Colonel Erskine helped Dorothea to
descend, and as she sprang on the platform, she squeezed his hand,
saying eagerly, "How good you are to us!"
"No, no—it is you who are good to come," Colonel Erskine answered,
returning the warm pressure. "Here is my Dolly—your namesake. You
have met before;" and he tried to laugh, though there was still a wet
glitter in his eyes, as he brought the girls together, with a hand on
the arm of each.
"At our Christening," Dorothea said at once. Dolly was very quiet,
putting out her gloved hand with one shy glance; and a curious
tenderness crept into Dorothea's eyes. "What a little darling! How I
shall love her!" she was saying to herself; but Dolly could not guess
the thought.
Colonel Tracy muttered something about "luggage," and careered away
down the platform, only to find his trunks already landed. The other
three followed, Colonel Erskine saying—"So your father is quite well
again?"
"Oh, quite!" Dorothea's bright glance said plainly. "Thanks to you!"
"You are very like your mother," said Colonel Erskine, a touch of
sadness in the tone.
"Am I? It is nice to be told that."
"Doesn't your father say the same?"
"I don't know. Yes—perhaps—something of the kind."
Colonel Tracy awaited their arrival, not yet at his ease. "What's to be
done with these?" he asked gruffly as they approached.
"Do you object to a short walk? It is not far," said Colonel Erskine.
"That's right. Then Miss Tracy and Dolly will go in the pony-carriage.
The trunks are all right. A porter will bring them presently. This way."
Dolly did not approve of the arrangement. She shrank from being
alone with Dorothea; yet it was manifestly a good plan. The two old
friends might well wish for a few minutes together, after their long
estrangement. Whether Colonel Tracy desired it, might indeed be a
matter for doubt, though he offered no protest; but Colonel Erskine's
face showed unmitigated pleasure, and Dolly submitted.
"Take the lower road, Fred," were her father's parting words to the
boy. Dolly had meant to give a contrary order. The "lower road" was
less steep, but much longer than the more direct route, and she did not
care for a lengthened tête-à-tête. However, it had to be. Jack, the
plump pony, trotted leisurely off along the village street, and the two
Colonels turned up a side lane.
"Craye seems a very pretty place," said Dorothea.
"Yes—I suppose it is."
"And you have lived here a long while?"
"Yes; ever since I was quite little."
"It must be nice to have a settled home."
"Yes," Dolly answered dreamily.
"I wonder," Dorothea said, after a break, "I wonder whether you care
half as much about seeing me as I do about seeing you."
Dolly made a quick movement. "O yes," she began, "I am very glad."
"But of course, it can't be the same. You have so many belonging to
you,—so many friends; and I have nobody except my father."
Had she not Edred too? That thought darted through Dolly's mind with
the force and pain of an actual stab. It seemed to take away her
breath, and to turn her pale.
"People in London generally have more friends than people in the
country," she said.
"Do they? Ah—so Mr. Claughton says—Mr. Mervyn Claughton, I mean," with
a half smile. Dorothea hesitated for a second, noting Dolly's faint
blush. Then was it Mervyn, not Edred, who might hope to win Dolly?
"Poor man!" Dorothea said to herself, thinking of Edred, and there was
a little sigh, not wholly on his account. She went on talking quietly,
while so thinking: "But I am not in the swing of London society, for my
father goes nowhere."
"Doesn't he?"
The indifferent tone hardly called for a response; and a pause followed.
"I wonder whether I may say one thing about—" began Dorothea, and
again there came to Dolly the question, which was like a stab—was it
something about Edred? But—"about your father," were the next words,
and Dolly's strained attention lessened. "We owe him so much. You know,
of course, how good he has been—how kind and noble. One can't explain
feeling," Dorothea added with a little laugh; "but if I could—Do you
know, I almost think there can't be another man like him in the world."
"I am sure he is very glad," said Dolly, feeling her own words and
manner to be horribly cold. "And it is nice for them to be together
again."
"Yes," Dorothea murmured. "It must be more to me than to you, of
course." Then she abruptly changed the subject by asking, "Is the Park
far from your house?"
Dolly grow rigid. "No," she said.
"You know, I have seen something of your friends, the Claughtons."
Dorothea coloured faintly, and Dolly saw it; but she did not see how
much of the blush was on her own account, in sympathy with her supposed
feelings. "I was surprised to hear that Mr. Claughton—our curate—would
be down here just now."
"Only for two nights."
"I believe he hopes to stay for a week. He called on us the day before
yesterday, and said so."
Dolly twisted herself round to lean over the back, her face turned
away. "That shawl—it seems to be slipping," came in rather smothered
accents. "O never mind—all right. Yes, and the eldest brother is here
too—Mervyn, I mean." Dolly straightened herself, and Dorothea could not
but notice her brilliant blush, could not but connect it with the last
uttered name.
"Then it is Mr. Mervyn Claughton— not the other," she said to herself
decisively. "Well, I have not come here to step in the way of Dolly's
happiness, even supposing I had the power. If any choice is left to me,
I must keep clear of Mr. Mervyn Claughton."
"You know him too, don't you?" said Dolly, looking ahead, with burning
cheeks.
"The eldest Mr. Claughton. Yes; and he seems very pleasant," said
Dorothea. "I know them both—a little."
"He has a great deal the most fun in him of the two."
Dorothea smiled. "Yes: a great deal." She could hardly think of the
word "fun" in connection with Edred Claughton.
"And he skates beautifully. I only wish we had a frost while he is
here."
"Does Mr. Edred Claughton skate too?"
"Not much. He is clumsy compared with his brother."
Dorothea made no immediate answer. The pony was walking slowly uphill,
and Dolly seemed to sink into a dream. She woke from it after a while,
to find Dorothea attentively studying her.
"I forgot! How stupid of me not to talk!"
"Why?"
"Why, you have only just come."
"But I have not come to be a trouble. I should not like you to feel any
'ought' about talking to me."
"I didn't mean it exactly in that way."
Dolly pulled herself upright, and endeavoured to put on an air of
polite interest. "It is such a dull day," she said. "You should see
Craye in sunshine."
Dorothea was still studying Dolly: and her next words were unexpected—
"I don't think you ought to have come to the station to meet me. You
are tired—or something—are you not?"
"Tiredness doesn't matter," said Dolly, with a short laugh.
"What makes you so?"
"Nothing particular,—at least, nothing that can be helped. Please don't
say a word about it at home."
Dolly glanced up as she spoke, and the pitying tenderness of Dorothea's
look almost upset her self-command. Dorothea could see the muscles in
her throat working painfully.
"No, of course I will not. But I know so well that feeling of wanting
to cry about nothing when one is overdone."
"Thank you," murmured Dolly, glad of any respectable excuse to let two
or three tears drop. "Only, it is awfully stupid," she added, trying to
smile. "One has no business to be so ridiculous. You will be sure not
to tell."
The short and steep cut from Craye to Woodlands was supposed to take
not more than fifteen minutes up, and ten minutes down of quick
walking. The two Colonels, however, managed to spend an hour on the
road. Tea was cold before they appeared. Colonel Tracy had by that time
parted with the last remnants of embarrassment. Dorothea had never in
her life seen him so much at his ease, or so full of talk.
The old comrades were inseparable all that evening. They fought old
battles over again, lived old days over again, told old regimental
stories over again, discussed the histories of brother veterans over
again,—only about the long quarrel, now happily ended, a discreet
silence was kept. If anything had had to be said on that subject, it
was doubtless said in the tête-à-tête walk.
Dorothea was greatly taken with Mrs. Erskine; also she liked Isabel,
and found Margot charming. But her chief admiration was for Colonel
Erskine, and her chief interest centred itself in Dolly.
Without seeming to do so, she watched Dolly closely, noted every change
of colour, observed every sign of depression. A quick instinct had
told her at once that some kind of trouble lay below Dolly's physical
listlessness; but, from lack of experience, she was too easily taken in
as to Dolly's feelings. That Edred loved Dolly, and that Dolly cared
for Mervyn, she felt now little doubt. But—did Mervyn care for Dolly?
Did the clue to Dolly's trouble lie in that direction?
Dolly had her wish, after all. The world awoke next morning to a
frost-decked landscape.
She did not skip with delight, as she would have done a year earlier,
but only stood soberly looking out.
"Will it be hard enough for skating? And will the Claughtons ask us?"
she murmured.
"Splendid frost, Dolly," greeted her downstairs.
"Just the weather for you."
"For skating, father?"
"Ah, ha,—that's what she always thinks of," laughed Colonel Erskine,
who was in high spirits. "Dolly is a first-rate skater. But you don't
look quite the thing this morning, child. What is wrong?"—as he kissed
her.
"Oh, nothing. I'm only cold," said Dolly, trying to believe what she
said. It would never do to give in and be lazy,—if an invitation should
come from the Claughtons.
A good part of the morning passed without any sign, and Dolly's languor
could not but be noticed. Nothing would induce her to leave the house,
and she seemed unable to settle to any occupation.
"I don't suppose the pond is safe yet," Isabel said repeatedly.
"Emmeline would be sure to send us word. She always does."
Dorothea had already been for a brisk turn with her father and Colonel
Erskine. She now sat contentedly near a window, work in hand, ready
for talk or silence as others might wish. There were no signs about
Dorothea of a mind ill at ease: yet she had fought a fight in the past
night, and had come off conqueror. Whatever pain might be involved to
herself in the resolution, she was utterly determined not to stand in
the way of Dolly's happiness. If Dolly cared for Mervyn Claughton,
the less Dorothea had to do with him, the better. She was not without
a certain consciousness of power over him; and a young man hovering
between two girls is often easily swayed by a touch either way.
Dorothea would not, if she might, give that touch.
The resolution was not taken without a sigh, perhaps not without a
tear; for Dorothea liked Mervyn. She was conscious that she could
have liked him very much indeed. But if Dolly's happiness were at
stake,—"No, no, no!" Dorothea cried in her heart twenty times that
morning. "After what we owe to Dolly's father—oh, no, never! I will
never be the one to come between."
Nobody looking at Dorothea's placid face would have dreamt of any such
thoughts below. She did not hang about listlessly, like Dolly, or
change colour at the sound of every bell.
Suddenly a boy passed the window, and the hitherto inert Dolly darted
from the room. She came back brilliant.
"It's all right,—all right, Issy! Ice as hard as possible. We are to
go directly after lunch, as many as like. Emmeline particularly asks
Colonel Tracy and Dorothea. Do you skate?"—to Dorothea.
"Yes; only I have no skates here."
"Oh, that doesn't matter. We'll fit you with a pair. Past
twelve,—nearly an hour to lunch. Where is father? I must tell him."
Dolly flitted off, and Isabel stood gazing after her.
"What a child it is still. Who would guess her to be not far from
twenty?"
"She doesn't seem so old as I am," said Dorothea.
"No, indeed. I am afraid Margot and I can't go," continued Isabel.
"Margot can't stand about, and I have so many things to see to. Will
you think it very neglectful if we don't? My father and Dolly will be
there."
Dorothea managed to set Isabel's mind at rest. She was a little excited
herself at the prospect of the Park gathering, and wondered silently,
would the elder Mr. Claughton be as pleasant to her as when they had
last met? Would both the brothers pursue Dolly with anxious attentions?
Would Dolly smile upon Mervyn, and turn a cold shoulder to Edred?
[Illustration]