Chapter V: Business Worries

EDMUND did not throw off his cold so quickly as I had hoped he would. It clung to him for weeks, for when I fancied it was about to depart, he would be sure to increase it by some act of imprudence. I do not think I was more anxious than other girls would have been, but I remember well how, sometimes, when I heard his cough sounding through the house in the stillness of the night, my heart would almost stand still in my agony of dread as I asked myself, was it possible that Salome's fears could be well-found, and my brother be consumptive?

But these fears always vanished with the night. When Edmund came down to breakfast, and I saw the merry light in his eyes, and listened to his droll talk, it was easy to persuade myself that there was nothing much the matter with him. My fears seemed absurd and fanciful then, and I forgot them as easily as we forget the ridiculous things we dream.

Why should I be anxious when no one, excepting Salome, who was given to croaking, seemed to have any notion that there was cause for fear on Edmund's account? Once, when I hinted at my fears to Mabel, she laughed at me, and declared that Edmund was as strong as possible; it was absurd to talk of consumption in connection with a tall, manly fellow like him. Tall and manly Edmund certainly was, but as for his being strong, I could not feel so sure of that. However, in the warm days of August, he ceased to cough, and my heart was comforted.

Ralph Dugdale spent some weeks in our neighbourhood, but I did not see him again. He drove over from Cotsford one day to see Edmund, but I happened to have gone to New Burford that morning, and so missed him, rather to my disappointment. He took Edmund back with him to spend a day or two at Cotsford Manor, a change which Edmund much enjoyed.

Mabel came back from her wedding trip looking as pretty and charming as a bride could look. She appeared to have greatly enjoyed her stay abroad.

"You must go to Switzerland some day, Dorothy," she said to me. "Living here amidst such flat, tame scenery you can have no conception of the grandeur and loveliness of the mountains till you actually behold them."

"What is the use of talking to me about going?" I said, rather ungraciously. "You know very well that I shall never be able to do so."

"Indeed, I do not know that," said Mabel, playfully; "there is no telling whither our steps may tend in the future. I am sure I little thought a year ago that I should so soon go abroad."

True, indeed; and as little did I then think of the many associations of joy and sorrow, gain and loss, which were hereafter to link my head to the land of Switzerland.

I was constantly at The Towers during the first weeks Mabel spent in her new home. She wanted me to keep her in countenance when she was receiving visitors, she said, but in truth Mabel needed no such support from me; it was I who was the shy and embarrassed one. Mabel received her callers with perfect self-possession, and I could see that her prettiness and grace made a great impression on some of the county people who condescended to call on Mr. Steinthorpe's bride.

The days I spent with Mabel were pleasant ones on the whole. I was not insensible to the pleasure of living in wide and lofty rooms, where everything was in faultless taste, and the pictures and ornaments such that their equal could not be found nearer than London. It was not strange that Mabel should be proud of her mansion. She appeared to carry her little form with more and more dignity from day to day as she moved through her stately rooms, and she had the air of a duchess, Salome said, when she drove through Burford in the brougham her husband had bought for her use.

The presence of a bride at The Towers galvanised our social life at Burford, dull enough at most times, into unusual gaiety. Several evening parties were given in honour of the wedded pair, at which Mabel condescended to appear in bridal white, and I kept her company in my bridesmaid's gown.

Mabel's manner towards her old friends was very winning on these occasions, so much so, that I wondered whether she was trying to atone for her husband's coldness and stolidity; for Howard Steinthorpe, whilst punctilious in observing every form of courtesy, was often frigid and taciturn, and hardly concealed from his entertainers that he thought their party a bore. Yet, when in company that he cared to please, he could talk well, for he had travelled in many countries, and aspired to be somewhat of an art critic and connoisseur.

During those weeks my father had little of my company; but as he never appeared to miss me when I was absent from home, I left him without compunction, although Edmund had cut short his stay at home and gone on a walking tour with his friend, Ralph Dugdale. I saw enough of father, however, to know that he was anxious and careworn. I wondered at this, for he had talked more and been altogether more cheerful in his manner during the weeks that followed Mabel's wedding than I had known him for some time.

Had Howard Steinthorpe's return anything to do with the increase of gloom which I now observed? I could not tell, but I knew that few days passed without Howard Steinthorpe paying a visit to my father in his office. Sometimes he would come into the house to speak to me and deliver some message from Mabel. But more often, he forgot the message entrusted to him, till Mabel ceased to trouble her husband in this way, and found other means of communicating with me.

But I knew that he still came constantly to the place, for from the side window in father's room I used often to catch sight of him passing in or out of the tan-yard.

"Have you taken Howard in as a partner?" I asked my father one day.

"No, but he seems to have made himself my partner," returned my father, with a bitterness of tone at which I wondered.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

But father relapsed into silence, and gave me no explanation. Apparently, the words had escaped him under the pressure of secret irritation, and he had made an admission which he would now have recalled if he could.

I said no more; but I pondered my father's words, and made many guesses as to what he had meant in saying that Howard Steinthorpe had made himself a partner in his business.

Other things occurred to make me wonder. One day father asked me if I thought I could manage without one of the servants.

"Perhaps—if it were absolutely necessary," I said, my amazed looks inquiring why such a question had been put.

"I want to curtail our expenditure," said my father. "You must be more careful about the housekeeping, my dear. We spend too much; we do, indeed."

"But we spend very little, father," I said; "certainly, not more than we have always done. Are you poorer than you used to be?"

"These are hard times, Dorothy," he answered, evasively; "all business is bad."

"Business cannot be bad with Howard Steinthorpe, to judge by the way in which they live," I answered, rather bitterly.

"Oh, Howard is a wealthy man. He has plenty of capital to keep him afloat in bad times," was my father's reply.

So our younger servant was dismissed, and I did as best I could with the one who remained. But I should have got into dire confusion often enough but for Salome, who seemed to know by instinct when we wanted a helping hand in some domestic strait, and was sure to appear at the right time. She gave me many useful hints; and I might have profited by them more than I did, but I hated the trouble of housekeeping, and soon grew careless again.

Mabel was willing to help me as far as reproof and advice went, but she gave me little help of a more practical kind, and by a curious fatality, it happened that when anything went wrong in the household, or we had a poor sort of dinner, she would be sure to drop in to spend a few hours with me, and make our dinner her luncheon. Of course, she did not fail to point out to me how much better she would have managed. Indeed, she was constantly drawing my attention to something wrong in the house, or the cooking, or my own appearance, and it need hardly be said that her sisterly criticisms had no soothing effect on my temper. I resented her rebukes the more because I knew that they were not uncalled for. My conscience told me that I might have managed better, and made things more comfortable for my father if I had taken greater pains to do so. Ah, how often, when it was too late, did I wish that I had been wiser and more considerate for others in those days!

My father's health did not improve as the summer wore on. He fell a victim to dyspepsia, and not infrequently I had to take my dinner alone, my father sending me word from his office that he could take nothing but a little gruel, which would like to have there.

Yet still I did not disturb myself. I knew so little of illness, that when my father said he had only a fit of indigestion, I concluded that there was no cause for fear.

But late in September, something happened which roused me from my selfish indifference.

It was a lovely warm day. The month had set in wet and chill. We thought the summer had fled, and prepared ourselves to meet the keen winds of autumn, when lo! capricious summer shone forth upon us again in full splendour, and one would fancy that, like a playful maiden, she enjoyed the pleasant surprise she was giving us. I revelled in the glowing sunshine of that day, making the most of it, since I knew that the bright weather could not be of long duration. All the morning I was in the garden, ostensibly assisting Luke to strip the apple and pear trees of their ripe fruit, but in reality doing little more than feast upon the pears, and romp with my newest pets, three deserted kittens whom I had discovered in an empty shed in the tan-yard, and with some difficulty reared by hand. They were now three of the sleekest, prettiest, and most audacious of kittens, and I was never tired of playing with them, allowing them the greatest liberty, though their gambols were alike destructive of my gowns and of the furniture of the rooms in which I allowed them to riot.

I wasted my time sadly in those days. I had begun the course of reading recommended by Miss Carefull, but, although several months had gone by since I left school, I had not read more than half of the first volume of Macaulay's history, and the marker put to keep the place where I had left off had now been unmoved for weeks.

I was quite oblivious of time as I stood beneath the fruit trees, rolling apples across the grass for the kittens to run after, when Martha came to tell me that dinner was ready.

"Dinner-time!" I exclaimed. "Surely it is not so late?"

"Why, yes, miss, it's after one. Master has sent to say that he cannot come yet, and you must not wait for him."

"All right," I said, and slowly I made my way towards the house, followed by the kittens, who kept springing at my flounces, and then falling back and tumbling over each other in a general "mélée."

Having so freely lunched on fruit, I sat down to dinner without much appetite. I allowed the kittens still to play about me—I had fallen into shocking habits since Mabel left home—and every now and then I treated them to a tit-bit from the dish before me. All four of us found this a pleasant diversion, and I sat at the table a long time, although I ate little. When I rose, I was surprised to see how late it was. Why did not father come to dinner? Did he want gruel? I wondered, and forthwith started off to the office to ask him the question.

Running across the yard, I tapped lightly on the office door. There was no response, and I opened the door and looked in. For a moment, I imagined the place to be empty. The ledger lay open on my father's desk, but his chair was vacant. I half turned to seek him elsewhere, when my eyes fell on my father lying prostrate on the floor, midway between the table and window.

For an instant, I could hardly believe my eyes, then, with a cry, I sprang to his side and tried to rouse him to consciousness. He lay with his eyes closed, his face wearing such an ashen hue that the awful fear that he was dead seized me. With trembling hands, I loosened his neckcloth, and laid bare his throat and chest. A bottle filled with water stood upon the table; I snatched it up, scarce knowing what I did, and, soaking my handkerchief, bathed freely his head and face.

My rough and ready treatment was not without result. To my joy, I saw my father's lips move, his eyelids quivered, and he turned a little on his side. The next moment, I heard one of the men whistling as he passed along the yard. Instantly I called to him, bade him send Martha to me, and then, with all speed, hasten to fetch the doctor.

Ere the doctor came, my father had regained consciousness; but he appeared bewildered, and could give no account of how he had been taken ill. When good old Dr. Perrow arrived, father questioned him rather anxiously.

"They tell me I fell down," he said. "I suppose it was only a fainting fit?"

"Very likely," said the doctor, cheerily, and proceeded to his questioning.

But later, after he had persuaded my father to go to bed, Dr. Perrow said to me, privately, that he hoped it was only a fainting fit, and hinted that there were symptoms he did not like.

"Your father has evidently let himself run down of late," he said; "he has been keeping too closely to business, I fear. Is it not so?"

I said that my father had seemed very busy, and I feared he had been worried in business.

"Ah, that is it," said the old doctor, gravely, nodding his head; "there is nothing so wearing to the constitution as worry. Mr. Carmichael has evidently fallen below par—considerably below par. Well, good-day, Miss Dorothy. Don't be uneasy about your father; he will be better to-morrow, I trust."

He had said enough, however, to render me very uneasy. But when I repeated his words to Mabel the next day, she would not attach much importance to them.

"Dr. Perrow always looks on the dark side," she said. "Of course, father only fainted; he will be all right in a day or two."

"I don't know," I said, "I can't help feeling anxious, and I have not much confidence in Dr. Perrow. He may be very well for old women and children, but I don't believe he is good for much in a really serious case. Father has been out of health, suffering from indigestion and headache for a long time. I wish he would go to London and have advice from some clever physician."

"Really, how you talk, Dorothy!" exclaimed Mabel. "Dr. Perrow is a very good doctor, and has had great experience. You forget what the physician's fees would probably amount to. How could father bear that expense? And it is no wonder he has indigestion with such cooking as you give him. I shall not soon forget how hard that hash was when last I dined with you."

"Oh, that was an accident," I exclaimed, angrily; "but of course you will blame me. I suppose it is my fault that father is ill?"

"I did not say that," replied Mabel, evidently thinking me very unreasonable.

But her words had hurt me, and I felt it hard, too, that she, who never had to curtail her own expenditure, should always be the first to point out what expenses father and I must avoid.

But it appeared as if Mabel were right in taking a light view of father's illness. In a few days, he was down stairs, and, according to his own account, as well as usual. But Dr. Perrow still urged him to keep away from the office. What he needed, the medical man said, was perfect rest.

"Can you not persuade your father to go away for awhile, Miss Dorothy?" Dr. Perrow asked me one day. "Get him to take you to the seashore, or, better still to the Continent. Nothing would do him so much good as a complete change."

I promised to try what I could do, though without much hope of success. When I mooted the idea to my father, he said at once that it was out of the question, and begged me, almost sharply, not to mention such a thing again.

One day, ere my father had resumed his post in the office, Howard Steinthorpe came in to see him. He arrived when we had not long finished dinner. Father was still in the dining-room, but I had wandered into the summer parlour, which, as has been described, opened out of the larger room.

Hearing Howard's voice greeting father, I remained where I was, thinking that they would like to talk alone. I sat down and began to cut the pages of a magazine, which I had bought at New Burford on the previous day. I plunged into the serial story in which I was interested, and for some time forgot all else. The murmur of voices earnestly talking in the next room formed an accompaniment to which I paid no heed. Suddenly, however, I was roused by hearing my father say in tones that, though low, were so charged with feeling as to be peculiarly penetrative.

"For God's sake, do not be hard on me. It was no fault of my own that brought me into these straits. If you press for payment, there is nothing before me but ruin."

That word ruin thrilled me like an electric shock. What could my father mean?

The magazine fell into my lap! I sat up erect, every sense on the alert, and listened eagerly to hear what would follow.

"What is the good of trying to escape the inevitable?" Howard asked, not in the smooth, bland tones he was wont to use in society, but with a cold, hard, incisiveness which revealed his true character. "You have employed expedients enough without result, save increased embarrassment. Surely it is time to give up the vain attempt, and make it known that you can go on no longer."

My father murmured something that I could not hear.

Howard replied at some length, but in tones so cautiously lowered that I could only distinguish a word now and then, although the door of communication between the two rooms stood slightly open. Then my father seemed to be imploring him to be patient or asking help of him. Whatever it was for which he pleaded, Howard responded with some suggestion from which my father appeared to shrink.

"There is no alternative," I heard Howard say, in his hard, metallic tone. "In no other way can I help you. I have a right to demand such security."

"But the children," I heard my father say, in a voice so broken and feeble that I knew he must be sorely troubled; "I cannot bear to make things hard for the children."

I could not catch the reply that Howard made. I fancied he said that father could have no anxiety about Mabel, and he added something about "the others" that escaped me.

"But Dorothy—poor child?" I heard father say.

With that I started up, my cheeks flaming, as I remembered how wrong it was of me thus to listen to what was obviously not meant for my hearing.

What should I do? Father had evidently forgotten my presence in that room, and Howard Steinthorpe did not suspect it.

I pushed my chair back rather noisily, and moved to and fro once or twice, hoping thus to attract their attention. But, apparently, they were too absorbed in their talk to heed the sounds I thus made.

Presently solicitude for my father prompted me to adopt a bold course of action. I would show myself in the dining-room, for I hoped that thus I should bring to an end the interview which I knew must be sadly worrying to father. I waited till my excitement had subsided somewhat, and then, stepping firmly across the room, I pushed back the door and passed into the dining-room.

Father was seated at the table with a pen in his hand and some papers before him. He was writing when I entered; his face looked grey and worn, and his hand trembled visibly. Steinthorpe was bending over him; but he started up, flushing hotly, as I appeared.

For a moment he could not conceal the annoyance he felt at my intrusion; but he quickly regained self-control, and said, in his usual, nonchalant way, as he held out his hand to me—

"Ah, Dorothy, how are you? Your father and I are just arranging a little matter of business."

Though he spoke so carelessly, his eyes searched my countenance with a keen, suspicious air. Then he glanced at the magazine which I carried. He knew my love for reading stories, and, I doubt not, assured himself that I had been too absorbed in my book to hear anything that had passed between him and father.

"Father is hardly strong enough yet to be troubled with business," I said; "I hope you will not keep him long over it."

"Certainly not; we have just done," said Howard, quickly. "I quite understand how desirable it is that Mr. Carmichael should not over-tax his strength."

My father said nothing, but I fancied there was a helpless, beseeching look in his eyes as he raised them to mine for a moment. I quitted the room. Ten minutes later, I heard Howard leave the house; then I went back to my father.

He was still seated at the table; but now his elbows were resting on it, and his face was hidden in his hands. He raised it, however, as I approached him, and looked up at me with a sad, weary expression.

"Oh, father!" I said. "You should not have let Howard worry you with business matters."

"There is no escape from worry for me," he said, wearily; "there will never be anything but worry for me in this world."

"Father," I said, impulsively, "is Howard as kind to you as he should be in business affairs?"

"Business and kindness, Dorothy, are words that have no connection," father said, drily.

"Perhaps not, generally speaking," I returned; "but between you and Howard it should be different. He ought to look upon you as a father."

Father did not reply, but he laughed to himself as I spoke—a feeble laugh, with no mirth in it, a laugh which it pained me to hear.

"Dorothy," he said, sadly, after a pause, "I have been a very unfortunate man. Remember that, if ever you feel disposed to blame me. I always meant to do well by my children, but I have been very unfortunate."

My affection for my father was never demonstrative. As a child I had stood greatly in awe of him, and up to the present time, there had been an impassable barrier of reserve between us. But now there was such a pathetic expression on his face as he looked up at me, that my whole heart went out in a desire to give him comfort.

"Whatever happened, I could never blame you," I cried; "that is impossible."

And I threw my arm about his neck and laid my cheek fondly against his. It was the first and the last purely spontaneous caress that I gave him. There came a time when I was deeply thankful to remember that on one occasion, at least, I had shown my father that I loved him.

He seemed touched by my impetuosity, much as it startled him.

"You are a good child, Dorothy," he said, gently, and kissed me.

Then he rose and went off to his own room, whither I did not follow him.

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