Chapter IV: Mrs. Effingham

COMING out of Church, Dorothea found the hour later than she had expected. A very large number had stayed, and it was already past the Colonel's dinner-hour.

"I must make haste," Dorothea thought. As she said the words to herself, she dreamily noted the little old lady in mourning a few yards distant, in the act of crossing the road. "I wonder what her name is? Oh!"

Dorothea's "Oh!" was hardly audible; indeed she felt rather than said it. The old lady had stepped on a slippery spot, or slide, and went down in a helpless heap, just at the instant that a hansom dashed round the nearest corner.

Whether instinct or thought guided Dorothea, she could not afterwards have told. Before she knew what she meant to do, the deed was done.

Two or three ladies near shrieked; and two or three men not so near rushed towards the scene of action. But shrieks were useless, and the men could not be in time.

To everybody's amazement, a young placid-looking girl in spectacles, just leaving the gates, flung herself forward, and by an extraordinary exertion of strength dragged the helpless lady aside from almost under the horse's hoofs. There was not a half-second to spare.

"Did I hurt you? I hope not," said Dorothea, at the sound of a moan. She knelt in the road still, rather paler than usual, but not excited, trying to hold the other up.

"Oh, my dear!" and the old lady burst into tears.

"Hurt! You've saved her life, anyways!" a gruff voice said. "A pluckier thing I never seed!"

Dorothea glanced round, and became aware that her glasses were gone. She had a dim consciousness of a gathering crowd, but to her unaided eyes all beyond a distance of two or three inches was enveloped in mist.

"My spectacles!" she said.

There was a slight laugh, checked instantly, and a gentleman stood by her side, close enough for Dorothea to make out the clerical dress, and a grave rather colourless face.

"I am afraid they have been broken," he said. "Are you sure you are not, hurt yourself?"

"Hurt! Oh no!" Dorothea looked up, smiling. "Only I'm so dreadfully blind without glasses. I shouldn't know my own father."

Then a recollection flashed across her of the "turkey and plum-pudden," and of the Colonel's agony of mind if he had to wait.

"But I am afraid I must make haste home," she added. "Could somebody get a cab for—"

"For Mrs. Effingham," as she hesitated. "The hansom will take her home. And you?"

"I live close by—only two streets off. I do hope Mrs. Effingham isn't much hurt," Dorothea went on anxiously.

"My dear, I should have been but for you," said Mrs. Effingham.

The young clergyman had not been idle while speaking to Dorothea, but had gently lifted the little old lady to her feet. Though disorganised as to dress, and agitated still in manner, she was able to stand, with his help.

"No; not much hurt, I think," he said kindly.

"Things might have been very different but for your courage. Now, Mrs. Effingham, I think we had better help you into the hansom. What do you say to dropping this young lady at her door on your way?"

"O no, indeed; it is only three minutes' walk," protested Dorothea. "I wish I had time to see Mrs. Effingham home, but—my father—"

"My dear, I must know where you live. I must come to thank you again," said Mrs. Effingham, her face breaking into its sweet smile, tremulous still.

"I don't want thanks; but I should like to know that you are not the worse for this," said Dorothea. "My father and I live at 77 Willingdon Street."

"And your name, my dear? Miss—"

"Tracy."

"Miss Tracy, 77 Willingdon Street. Will you remember?" Mrs. Effingham asked, looking at the young clergyman, as he led her towards the hansom.

"Certainly," he answered. "I am going to see you home now, if Miss Tracy really prefers to walk."

"Oh, much!" Dorothea answered. She gave her hand girlishly to both of them, then set off at full speed homeward, not in the least upset by her adventure, only smiling to herself.

"Wasn't it curious—happening just after I had so wished to be of use to somebody? Such a dear old lady! I do hope I shall know her. There's an interest in life already. What will my father say? I'm afraid it's awfully late."

The Colonel stood at the dining-room window, looking out, and he reached the front door before Dorothea.

"Twelve minutes past our dinner-hour! Everything will be in rags," he said sepulchrally.

"Father, I couldn't help—"

"Hush: not a word—get ready at, once. Don't lose a moment," entreated the agonised Colonel.

Dorothea fled upstairs, two stops at a time, tore off jacket, hat, and gloves, brushed her hair, washed her hands, and was downstairs with amazing promptitude. But the Colonel's gloom did not lessen.

"Fifteen minutes late! Everything will be spoilt," was his greeting.

"Father, I'm so sorry; but, indeed I couldn't help it," cried Dorothea. She took her seat, for the turkey had appeared, and smiled across the table at him. "I should have been quite in time, but an old lady fell down in the road, and was nearly run over. I just pulled her on one side, and then I couldn't get away till she was safely off."

"Rags! Rags! Rags!" sighed the Colonel dolorously, shaking his head. "Have a slice of breast?"—in a mournful tone, as much as to say, "Nothing worth eating now!"

"Please, father. I'm ravenously hungry. It cuts as if it were tender, doesn't it?" hazarded Dorothea. "Your knife seems to go so easily."

"Tender! It's cooked to rags. All the goodness gone out of it," groaned the unhappy Colonel.

Dorothea judiciously kept silence for a minute or two. The Colonel passed her some delicate slices, helped himself abundantly, and began to eat.

"Father, do you know a Mrs. Effingham?"

"No—" in a preoccupied tone.

"She says she is coming to see me."

At any other time the Colonel would have taken fright. He really was too much absorbed just now with his dinner miseries to understand aught else.

"She is the dearest little old lady, with such a kind smile." A pause. "Father, this is a delicious turkey; and such nice stuffing."

"The turkey would be well enough—properly cooked. No goodness left in it now," said the Colonel. "What made you so late? The service ought to have been over an hour before."

"I stayed to Holy Communion," said Dorothea gently.

The Colonel grunted.

"If it had not been for the accident, I should have been back almost in time."

"Well, another day, pray remember," said the Colonel shortly. "I expect punctuality at meals, whatever else you choose to do. Have some more turkey?"

"No, thank you."

The Colonel gave himself a second bountiful supply, not without sundry muttered strictures, of which "rags" was the only word which reached Dorothea.

Even the "plum-pudden" failed to console him. It had fallen into three parts—the result, he contended, of the fifteen minutes' delay. Everything was spoilt, as he had predicted! The worst Christmas dinner he had had for years!

Dorothea could only listen patiently till dinner was over, and the Colonel took himself off.