Chapter II: Things Not in the Colonel's Line

LONDON is commonly counted a lively place, with plenty to do, and abundance to see; even though it has its little drawbacks in the shape of noise, soot, and fog. But the compensating liveliness seemed unlikely to enter into Dorothea Tracy's town existence.

If a man wishes for freedom from society, he is as likely to get what he wants in London as in the tiniest village—perhaps more so. Colonel Tracy had never been a man of society. He detested the generality of human beings, hated company, abhorred teas, dinners, and conversation.

In earlier life, he had had one friend—the quondam comrade of the olive-leaf card!—and had lost that friend. He had also had a wife, and had lost that wife.

Thenceforward, habits of seclusion had grown upon him apace. As years went on, he troubled himself to see less and less of his child; though always looking forward, curiously, to the time when he would have her to live with him. Now that time was come, and it found him a confirmed hermit. He had no friends. He associated with no one, called upon no one. As a natural corollary, no one called upon, or associated with him. He did not even belong to a club, for a club means acquaintances, and the Colonel wanted no acquaintances. He lived in a huge overgrown parish, the work of which could never be overtaken by the toiling clergy. A call from one of the curates, some months earlier, had met with no gracious reception, and had not yet been repeated.

The manner of life which might suit the tastes of a retired veteran was not precisely fitted for a young girl. This as yet did not cause the Colonel concern; if indeed it occurred to him. He expected to go on as he had done hitherto, with merely the little addition of a silent and useful daughter. He expected Dorothea to conform unquestionably to his will.

She had come "home," as she called it—or rather, as she had called it beforehand—full of young hopes and dreams. At eighteen, one is apt to see future life through rosy spectacles. In one short week, the glasses had gained a leaden hue, borrowed from the leaden atmosphere around. The hopes were dying; the dreams were fading. Dorothea had had, and would have, some rebellious struggles before settling down to the dead level of existence which seemed inevitable. Thus far, the effect of her surroundings was rather to stupefy than to excite. Everything was so different from the previous expectations of the school-girl, that she did not know what to make of her own position.

A girl naturally wishes for companions. Beyond her father, Dorothea had none; and Colonel Tracy was far too self-absorbed a man to render satisfying companionship. Below the rugged surface, he was in the main kind-hearted; but he lacked the mighty gift of sympathy. He neither understood his daughter, nor troubled himself to be understood by her. Each was more or less of an enigma to the other.

He had his own notions of propriety, and after his own fashion, he was careful. "You are too young to walk out alone at present in London," he had said to Dorothea, the day following her arrival. "I always take my constitutional after breakfast, and you may accompany me. I hope you are a good walker. If it should be necessary for you to leave the house at any time when I am otherwise engaged, you must have Mrs. Stirring for a companion. She has promised me to attend to your wants."

Mrs. Stirring was the lodging-house keeper: a highly respectable little woman, "genteel" to a degree in her own estimation, but apt to be plaintive in tone and behindhand in work. So she was not always an available "companion," and when available she was not too cheerful.

The morning "constitutional" became a daily event, regular as breakfast itself when weather permitted. Happily, Dorothea was a very good walker. The Colonel went fast and far; and he never thought of asking whether pace or distance suited his daughter's capabilities. Dorothea enjoyed the rapid motion and the comparative freshness of the morning air. She would have enjoyed some conversation likewise; but the Colonel was seldom in a talkative mood. If she spoke, he grunted; if she asked a question, he answered it, and that was all.

How to fill the remaining hours of the day became, even in one week, something of a problem to Dorothea. She had work in hand, but it is dull, at the age of eighteen, to sit and work with no one to take any interest in the progress of the needle. She dearly loved reading, but the Colonel's books were such as to put that love to a pretty severe test. She could have spent hours happily any day in writing to Mrs. Kirkpatrick and her favourite schoolfellows; but her father's pet economy was in the matter of paper and stamps. So time threatened to hang upon Dorothea's hands.

Nine years had elapsed since the death of Dorothea's mother; and the greater part of those nine years had been spent by her in a small Yorkshire school, kept by Mrs. Kirkpatrick. That had grown to be Dorothea's real "home." She hardly realised the fact while there, loyally reserving the term for future life with her father, and sometimes counting it a little hard to spend so many of her holidays at school. But now that the long-expected life with her father had begun, she knew well enough which was the real home.

Through the nine years Colonel Tracy had lived more or less in London, often going abroad for a while. It had happened curiously often—almost regularly—that he had to go abroad just before Dorothea's holidays, so that he was "quite unable to receive her." Whether the more correct word would not have been "unwilling" may be doubted. He was a man who disliked trouble; and he had no notion of doing on principle that which he disliked, for the sake of others.

About once a year, he had commonly arranged to spend a fortnight at some northern watering-place with Dorothea: this being the least troublesome mode he could devise for amusing a school-girl. From the age of twelve to the age of eighteen, she had never been to London. "Too expensive a journey," the Colonel said, though he made nothing of going himself north or south, travelling first-class. He liked to have Dorothea always within easy reach of Mrs. Kirkpatrick, that he might get her off his hands without difficulty when he found the girlish spirits too much.

Dorothea's recollections of his manner of life in town, seen before her thirteenth birthday, had grown somewhat dim, and perhaps were embellished by distance. Moreover, he had often changed his headquarters since those days, so her recollections were the less important. Certainly she did not expect what she found. The first glimpse of the dingy apartments, which for more than a year, he had made his home, gave a shock. Had the Colonel been aware of her sensations, he would have counted them unreasonable. He had "done his duty by her" in the matter of education. He expected now that she should "do her duty by him" in the matter of submission and usefulness.

Dorothea was a girl of too much character not to be useful, of too much principle to indulge in discontent. Still, this week had been a week of "deadly dulness"; and what there was for her to do, she had, as yet, failed to discover.

The Colonel arranged everything, ordered dinner, interviewed the landlady, and undertook to procure fish and vegetables. He piqued himself upon his intimate acquaintance with household details. He needed neither advice nor help. Dorothea was a mere adjunct in his existence thus far, less important than the said fish, less necessary than the said vegetables. She felt like a stranded boat, cast upon a mudbank, out of reach of the tide of life which surged and roared around. This, in a London street, where cabs and hansoms dashed past, where the sound of the great human Babel never ceased.

* * * * * *

Christmas morning dawned.

"I shall hear from Mrs. Kirkpatrick to-day," thought Dorothea cheerily. "Will my father go to Church with me?"

He had excused himself the Sunday before on the plea of bad weather and "indigestion." "Bad weather" did not keep the Colonel in when he wanted to secure fresh fish for dinner; but Church was another matter. Dorothea had had to content herself with Mrs. Stirring's companionship. The Church was very near, so near that she meant soon to plead for leave to go alone.

"Good morning, father," she said, in her brightest tone, when he came into the dining-room. He was punctual to the moment, yet Dorothea was before him.

An indistinct grunt served for "good morning." The Colonel was exercised in mind, to think that Dorothea should have already made the tea. It was no small trial to give up his tea-making to her, which he had done as in duty bound, he being man and she woman; and he liked to stand close by, watching with critical eyes, as she measured out each spoonful. On the Colonel's plate lay a neat white package, tied round with blue ribbon. He was far too much absorbed in the tea-question to notice it.

"How many spoonfuls did you put in, my dear?"

"Three, father. One for you, one for me, and one for the teapot. Mrs. Kirkpatrick always said—"

"Full spoons, but not piled up?" demanded the Colonel, wrinkling anxiously the skin of his face.

"Yes; just as you showed me."

"And the teapot,—you made the teapot hot first?"

Dorothea nodded. She had to bite her lips to keep from laughing, as the Colonel lifted the lid and peered in.

"Too much water! A great deal too much water!" he said solemnly.

"No, I don't think so indeed. It will all come right," Dorothea assured him with audacious confidence. "O father, never mind the tea. See what Mrs. Kirkpatrick has sent me."

The Colonel did not wish to receive the article in question, but Dorothea put it resolutely in his hands. He found himself dangling helplessly a small blue satin pincushion, with "Happy Christmas" worked in white beads.

"Eh, what? yes. Very pretty," said the Colonel. "Yes, quite smart."

"And three Christmas cards, from my schoolfellows."

"Eh? Yes,—uncommonly pretty. What's the use of them all?" demanded the Colonel, merely because he was at a loss what else to say.

"The use, father! The use of Christmas cards?"

"Well,—yes. What's the use?" persisted the Colonel.

Dorothea stood opposite him, smiling; the light falling full upon her glasses, with the gentle light eyes behind.

"Don't they all do what yours did last night? Don't they all speak of 'peace and good-will'?"

This was a shade too personal, and the Colonel dropped Dorothea's pincushion in a hurry.

"Yes, yes, of course,—all right, no doubt. But such things are not in my line, I'm afraid. Too much trouble for a busy man to bother about a lot of cards."

Did Dorothea hear him? She was looking towards the window wistfully, dreamily; a moist glitter showing through her glasses.

"I'm not sure," she said as if to herself, "but I almost think Christmas cards are a sort of carrying on of the angels' song. A sort of echo of it. Don't you think so, father?"

"My dear, I'll trouble you to ring the bell. Mrs. Stirring will over-do the cutlets, and it's time the tea was poured out. Brewed long enough. You'd better take all that rubbish off the table. What's this?"

Any amount of notes of admiration might have been written after the question. Dorothea watched him, smiling, though she rebelled internally against the word "rubbish."

"Some mistake," said the Colonel gruffly.

"No, father; it is for you. It is from me."

Colonel Tracy looked extremely uncomfortable. He had had presents from Dorothea from time to time; but always as it happened by post; little bits of pretty handiwork, which he could smile over grimly, and consign to a lumber-drawer, only wishing that they would not come because he had to compose a sentence of thanks in his next letter. But for years he had received no present in public, so to speak,—with a witness to his manner of reception. That the giver should be seated opposite was embarrassing, and that he should be expected to show pleasure was more embarrassing still. His red rust complexion grew redder than usual, and an awkward laugh broke from him, as he took refuge in blowing his nose. Still Dorothea looked expectant, and the parcel had to be opened.

"I'm much obliged, I'm sure. But you see this sort of thing isn't in my line," said the Colonel.

"Don't you use shaving-tidies, father? Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought—"

"Well, well, of course I use—something," said the Colonel, shoving his new possession aside, to make room for cutlets and hot plates. "Yes, of course; but you had better not waste pretty things upon me in future, my dear. You see, they're not in my line. Other people appreciate them better."

"But I have nobody else," the girl said.

She was a little hurt and disappointed; no doubt more so than she would admit even to herself. It was evident that her well-meant effort merely bored the Colonel. "I hope you don't expect Christmas presents from me," the Colonel went on, helping himself vigorously. He noted her words, and was alarmed lest something sentimental should follow. "You see, I was not brought up to the sort of thing; and really I could not be troubled to choose. But if you would care to get something for yourself, I have no objection to give you five shillings."

Dorothea did not speak at once.

"That reminds me," pursued the Colonel, anxious to get away from a ticklish subject; "that reminds me! I intend to make you an allowance of twenty pounds for your clothes, beginning with five pounds on the first of January. I hope you will keep strictly to the amount, and on no account allow yourself to run into debt. Nothing worse than debt!"

"Thank you, father," Dorothea said slowly.

"Anything you'd care to do to-day? Take a 'bus and go into the country, if you like?" said the Colonel, meaning that they would do it together.

Dorothea looked surprised. "I am going to Church, of course," she said.

"Oh, ah,—yes, I forgot! No doubt,—quite correct. By-the-bye, I'm not sure about Mrs. Stirring, whether she can escort you, I mean. Turkey and plum-pudding, you know. Couldn't leave them, could she?" The Colonel was old-fashioned, and stuck to early dinner through all vicissitudes of fashion. "So I think you'll have to come out with me this morning, and be content to go to Church in the evening,—eh, my dear?"

"Father, I always go, morning and evening. I could not stay away. Won't you come too?"

"I—really, I should be happy to oblige you, but something at a distance requires my attention. Besides, week-days are not Sundays. Perhaps I'm not quite so much of a Church-goer as you. Now and then we will do it together,—on Sunday,—but I'm not so young as I was, and, in fact,—however, about this morning?"

"If Mrs. Stirring cannot go, I must go alone." She spoke in a resolute low voice. "It is so near; there cannot be any harm. I could not stay away on Christmas Day,—for no real reason."

"H—m!" her father said, in a dubious tone.

"I shall want to go often, when Mrs. Stirring is not free. Please don't make any difficulty. Let me have that one happiness," she pleaded. "Only two streets, and such quiet streets. And I look older than I am."

"Well, well!" the Colonel foresaw agitation, and feminine agitation was his abhorrence. "Well, well,—I suppose I must say yes. But mind, nowhere else, and never after dark. Not after dusk. The distance isn't much, as you say. Take another cutlet?"

The Colonel impaled one on a fork, and held it out.

"No? Why, you don't half eat." He landed the rejected article on his own plate, and disposed of the eatable portions in four mouthfuls. "Coming for a walk this morning?"

"No, I think not. I might be late for Church."

"You're like your mother. She was just such another Church-goer," said the Colonel, as if remarking on an idiosyncrasy of character.

Dorothea could be interested now. She felt relieved and free. "Was my mother like me in other ways?"

"Pretty well. Pretty well," said the Colonel, wiping his moustache.

"Did she know the Erskines?" This question came suddenly, almost surprising Dorothea herself.

"Well—yes. She and Mrs. Erskine were great friends—at one time."

"But not after you and Colonel Erskine quarrelled?"

"Well, not after our—little difference. No, we didn't keep up intercourse. What makes you bother about the Erskines?"

"I don't know. I like to think about them? Do tell me one thing, father,—are there any Erskine girls?"

"I'm sure I don't know. There was one, of course," said Colonel Tracy, getting up. "Done, my dear? For I have to be off. Why, of course! Same name, both of you."

"Dorothea?"

"Yes, Dorothea. Just ring the bell; I want to speak to Mrs. Stirring. She roasted the turkey to a rag last Christmas, and I can't have it happen again. Yes, you were both called Dorothea,—a fancy of the two mothers. Great nonsense, of course; but when women take a notion into their heads, there's an end of it. What a time that girl is! Ring again. The morning will be gone, before I am able to start."

"O! I should like to know if Dorothea Erskine is alive still," cried Dorothea.