Chapter XVI: Dolly's Journal Again

"CHRISTMAS EVE"

"AS I expected! Not one word more in my journal since that long prelim-statement! I don't know what in the world I have taken it out for now—only one must do something, and I have nothing to do. And I feel so restless and stupid."

"What a state of spirits I was in when I wrote last in this book!—all except the last few words. I'm not at all in spirits now. Everything seems dull, and I am prosy and tame."

"Life does seem awfully made up of disappointments, sometimes. I wasn't wrong there, at all events."

"For instance,—that afternoon at the Park, weeks and weeks ago,—how I had been looking forward, and counting the hours! Yet, when the time came, there was nothing but disappointment all through. Nothing happened as I had expected, though I suppose nobody was to blame. I've gone over, scores of times since, all that I said and did, and all that he said and did; and I never can make up my mind what was really wrong, or how things happened as they did, or whether I might have done differently."

"Only I wish—I wish—nobody would meddle and ask questions, and put ideas into one's head. Poor old Issy! She didn't mean any harm, of course; people never do! But if only she had just not interfered!"

"Well, it can't be helped now. It couldn't be helped then. Dear good stupid people, like Issy, do such a lot of harm, meddling and trying to give advice; and all the time it is meant so kindly, that I suppose one ought to be grateful. Only—"

"Anyhow, nobody was likely that day to accuse me of—of thinking too much about anybody in particular. I had plenty of Mervyn, and I don't care for him one atom; and Edred kept out of my way, and I only saw him once again for five minutes, before he went to Scotland, and then we were like two icicles."

"If only I didn't mind! If I could make myself not care! If I could be as cool and indifferent as he is! But it is hard sometimes, oh, so hard not to show! All the life seems to have gone out of everything. Tennis had grown so dull—I was glad when cold weather put a stop to it; and now, skating is a trouble. The only thing I really feel inclined to do is to curl myself up in the corner of the sofa, and—no, not think! That's the worst of giving in. It means more time for thinking."

"I suppose one gets used in time to anything, even to—But I wish the days wouldn't drag and seem so awfully long. And I wish Margot's eyes wouldn't look at me as they do. And I wish I didn't always feel tired. And I wish I could stop thinking, and go to sleep for a whole year. How silly it is to have such a lot of impossible wishes!"

"Edred has not been to Craye once since October; and they say he can't get away till after Christmas. If he could, what difference would it make to me? He has that other girl in London—Dorothea Tracy. Mervyn seems to think her nice,—not very pretty, but rather uncommon. And I'm such a commonplace little thing—not clever at all. So, no wonder Edred likes her best. But—"

"I wonder if it is really the same Dorothea who was Christened with me. The same time, the same font, the same name, the same age!—and our two fathers such friends,—and the two mothers wanting their two babies to grow up friends! So Margot says. She only told me the story lately. I did not know it before,—all about the friendship, and the quarrel, and the Christmas card going to and fro."

"But, instead of being friends, Dorothea Tracy and I are strangers. Perhaps something else, too. Perhaps—rivals!"

"She does not know that; and it is not her fault. I must not let myself feel wrongly. Dorothea Tracy is not to blame. I have to tell myself that very often, to keep down something almost like anger. It is no fault of hers, if she is nicer than me,—if Edred cares for her most."

"To-morrow is Christmas Day; so the card will come back from her father—if her father really is my father's old friend. There doesn't seem to be much doubt about that. Margot says he always sends it punctually, so that it arrives on Christmas morning; but I have always been a child till lately, so I was not told about it."

"What an odd man the Colonel must be! Why doesn't he write? Margot says he ought. She says Colonel Tracy was really the one to blame; and as my father took the first step, Colonel Tracy ought to take the second. If I were Dorothea Tracy, I would try to make him. Perhaps she has tried and has failed. After all, she is only my age, though Mervyn says she looks older."

"Dec. 27th."

"Christmas Day is over, and the card which we all expected has not come from Colonel Tracy. There were heaps of cards, of course, for everybody, but that was not among them."

"Father looks quite sad and worried. He must have been very fond of this friend in old days. Margot says she can't think why, because she knows the Colonel was not a favourite with most people. He was counted overbearing and ill-tempered, and fussy. But, somehow, my father and he suited one another. The friendship began when they were boys at school, and it went on when they were subalterns in the same regiment. I think they were both Captains when the quarrel came and divided them, but I am not sure. I know my father was senior."

"Two such old friends, and comrades, and brothers-at-arms! It does seem melancholy that they should have been separated. Margot says the two wives—our mother and Mrs. Tracy—did all they could to smooth matters. But it was no use. Colonel Tracy had behaved so very badly to father, and he never would say one word of apology."

"So for years and years they kept apart. Colonel Tracy exchanged into another regiment, and my father quite lost sight of him. It wasn't till after we came to live here that he saw the death of Mrs. Tracy in the paper, and so learnt Colonel Tracy's London address. That was close upon Christmas; and he sent the card as a peace-offering. He could not tell if the Colonel was willing to be friendly again; and of course the first move ought really to have been Colonel Tracy's; but still, he put that aside, and did what he could. So like the dear father, I think he wrote just a word inside the envelope about 'remembrance' and 'sympathy.'

"No answer came at all; and Margot says he was very much hurt and disappointed. But when a whole year had gone by, and Christmas Day came round again, the very same card arrived by the morning post, addressed to father in Colonel Tracy's handwriting."

"It was an odd way of meeting his kindness, I think; but Margot says my father took it kindly. He wasn't offended, but said he would keep the card, and send it again next year. So he did; and the next year after it was returned."

"That has gone on ever since, year after year. Colonel Tracy sent some address once which would always find him—his banker, Margot believes—and there hasn't been a word said besides. Only the card coming and going."

"This year it has failed for the first time, and father looks so mournful. Margot is sure he feels very much disappointed. She says he has always hoped that in the end the quarrel would somehow be made up; and now things look as if Colonel Tracy didn't care for the old friendship."

"Dec. 31st."

"It is all explained. Colonel Tracy is in trouble, and he has been ill for some days; so the card was forgotten. I do think dear father is the very best of men!"

"We were in the morning-room before lunch, when father came hurrying through the glass door, in a great state of excitement. I don't know when I have seen him so excited. He was holding up a card in one hand and a letter in the other; and he talked so fast, that none of us could make out at first what it was all about."

"Mother said in her gentle way, 'My dear, sit down and tell us quietly;' and my father sat down as she told him. Then he laughed, and very nearly cried too. Mother patted his hand, and I crept on his knee. I haven't quite left that off yet."

"'Well, Dolly! Well, Dolly!' he said in a husky voice, 'What do you think? I've got the card. Yes, the old card, mother,—the old card, girls! But something else besides. I've got a letter; guess who from?' But he was too impatient to wait. 'From this child's namesake,' he said before anybody could make a guess."

"'Dorothea Tracy!' exclaimed Issy."

"'Dorothea Tracy, herself. As nice a letter as ever you read. Poor Tracy is ill,—knocked down by money troubles. And that child all alone with him,—not a soul to help! Think, mother, if it were our Dolly!'"

"He showed me the card,—a queer old-fashioned blue thing, with a hideous bird sprawling across it. But if it had been the most perfect specimen of high art ever seen, my father couldn't have been more delighted. He tried to read Dorothea's letter aloud, and broke down over the first six lines; so then he gave it over to mother to read, and took to hugging me instead. And we all listened."

"It is a very simple and girlish sort of letter,—touching, my father said, but perhaps I am hard, for it didn't touch me. I kept thinking—But never mind about my thoughts."

"The letter began by saying that Colonel Tracy had been ill all the week; so ill that the Christmas card was forgotten. Dorothea had to go to his desk for something, and she came across an envelope with my father's name outside. So then, she says, she 'remembered'; and she thought she had better send it straight off, without asking her father, as the doctor wished him not to be excited."

"Next came a few words about having heard of the old friendship; and the sentence after I think I can write down from memory: 'Perhaps I shall not be wrong to tell you that the cause of my father's illness is money anxiety. I do not understand all about it; but I know that he is in debt for over nine hundred pounds, and he does not know how to meet it. I would not say this if you were not such a very old friend of his. I think he could not mind. We shall have to leave London soon; and I do not know yet where we shall go.' Then there was something more about how sorry she was that the card had not been sent earlier, and then,—'I have heard something about you all, not only from my father, but from Mr. Claughton and his brother.'"

"'There!' father said, while I was wondering whether she meant Mervyn or Edred by Mr. Claughton,' for she has seen them both. 'There! What do you all think of that?'"

"'Poor things! What is to be done?' mother asked."

"'I'll tell you what I should like to do,' my father said slowly,—not in a hurry now. He sat bolt upright, and looked round at each of us. 'I'll tell you what I have it in my mind to do. I should like to send Tracy a cheque for one thousand pounds, to put him straight.'"

"Mother didn't speak at once. She seemed to be thinking in her quiet way. Isabel opened her eyes very wide, with a sort of astonished look, and Margot smiled. I don't know how I felt. I tried to keep from thinking anything—except how dear and beautiful it was of my father!"

"'Well?' he said."

"'Can you afford it, my dear?' asked mother."

"'Yes—I can afford it. I can do it. But it's a big sum, and I don't say it will be no loss. It won't mean a serious diminution of income, but it will mean somewhere about forty pounds a year less for all of us now, and for the girls by-and-by. I haven't a thousand pounds of loose money lying at my banker's. If I do this—for the sake of old days—it must be with your consent, mother, and the girls' too.'"

"'I am willing,' Margot said."

"'Father gave her such a look. I shouldn't think she would ever forget it. I wished I had been the first to speak.'"

"'And so am I,' Issy added."

"'My dear, you are much the best judge,' mother said. 'I always leave money affairs in your hands. Colonel Tracy does not deserve it, but if you are inclined—'"

"'And Dolly?'"

"I won't say it was not a struggle. It ought not to have been, of course. I ought to have been glad for Dorothea Tracy, and not to have thought about myself. Only it seemed as if she were to have so much. I didn't grudge her the money for a moment, but I did feel as if I could not be interested or glad."

"Then my father turned to me with those two words—'And Dolly?' And they were all waiting for my answer. And it came over me, in a moment, how ready father was to make the peace, even if it cost him something, and how one word from me might hinder the peace-making."

"'I think it would be worth more than a thousand pounds to end a quarrel between such old old friends,' I found myself saying."

"Father put his arm round me, and gave me a kiss."

"'Thanks, Dolly, and thanks to you all,' he said. 'I'll see about it at once. If my letter is met as I hope it will be, we'll see about getting Tracy and his daughter down here for a change.'"

"Should I like that?"

"I have written all this down, while it is fresh in my mind, because I want to remember how it came about, and how nobly my father has acted. But—to have Colonel and Miss Tracy down at Woodlands—"

"What does it matter about my liking? There's no surer sign of a spoilt child than always thinking whether one 'likes' or 'dislikes' what is going to happen. I have only woke up to that fact lately. And I do think it is time I should buckle to, and try to be different,—try to think more of other people's likings, and less of my own. It's plain enough, one can't always have one's own way in life."