Chapter VII: Introductions

MRS. EFFINGHAM had set her heart on a comfortable tête-à-tête with her "young preserver," as she called Dorothea. But things do not always turn out according to our previous planning; and a little before four o'clock, the front door bell sounded vigorously.

"Dear me! How tiresome! Now I know who that is," murmured the old lady,—not so very old either, for she was only sixty-five; and as everybody knows, sixty-five in the present age of hygiene is not at all advanced. She was very well kept too; little and slender, with a soft pale skin which had not forgotten how to blush, and brown hair only streaked with silver, and brown eyes capable of sparkling still, though not so large as they once had been. She wore a dainty cap of real lace, and a black lace shawl over a dress of black satin. The elderly style of attire gave her a look of greater youth.

"I know who that is," repeated Mrs. Effingham, sighing. Like many people who live alone, she had a habit of talking to herself half-aloud. "Nobody rings like Miss Henniker, and she said she would come before I left. But I wish she had waited till to-morrow."

"Miss Henniker," announced the trim parlour-maid. Mrs. Effingham kept no men-servants, though well able to do so in point of worldly goods. She did not like the responsibility, she said, and "men wanted men to manage them."

Despite her little soliloquy, Mrs. Effingham came forward in a cordial manner to welcome the caller,—a spare middle-aged single lady, of the "usual age," sharp-featured, and conspicuously fashionable in dress.

"My dear Miss Henniker! How do you do? How good of you to come! So busy as you always are," the elder lady's soft voice said, not untruthfully, for she really did count it "good"; only she suppressed the fact that some other afternoon would have been preferable. If Miss Henniker's visits were, like those of angels, few and far between, they were unlike angels' visits in duration. Miss Henniker was a careful economiser of time; and when she did get to a friend's house, she commonly paid six calls in one, thereby saving herself ten walks to and from that house. The reasoning will be found, on examination, unimpeachable.

"How do you do? Quite well, thanks. I have been planning for weeks to see you, but—thanks, this will do nicely," said Miss Henniker, planting herself in the chair which Mrs. Effingham had destined for Dorothea. She did it with the air of one not lightly to be dislodged. "Extremely busy lately, but I have contrived for once an hour's leisure. Really, it is quite dreadful, the way one's time gets filled up. I am told that you are leaving town directly. And you have had an accident! Nothing serious, I hope."

"O no; but it might have been," said Mrs. Effingham. She was aware that, if she did not wish to lengthen Miss Henniker's visit, it would be wiser not to speak of Dorothea; only the temptation was irresistible. "I slipped down coming out of Church on Christmas Day. Oh, I really was not hurt—" in answer to a commiserating sound,—"but I might have been. A hansom drove round the corner, and was almost upon me. I could not possibly move in time, and I must have been run over—killed, most likely—if a young lady had not darted forward and pulled me out of the way. Yes, quite a stranger, and such a nice-looking lady-like girl. I have not seen her since, but she is coming to tea this afternoon,—at least, I hope so. You will stay and see her too, of course," pursued the gentle old lady, vanquished by Miss Henniker's energetic signs of sympathy. "My young preserver, I call her: and really, you know, it was a most courageous thing to do. She might have been killed in saving me. We might both have been killed."

"It was most frightful," said Miss Henniker earnestly, while her busy eyes could not resist a little voyage of discovery round the room. Mrs. Effingham was always buying new pictures, new ornaments, new antimacassars and vases, for her pretty drawing-room; and Miss Henniker was always on the lookout for new ideas. "Yes, really quite terrible," she repeated, after noting with interest a dainty arrangement of grasses and scarves upon a side-table, Mrs. Effingham being addicted to combinations of Liberty's silks with Nature. "You might, as you say, so easily have been killed. It was most distressing. Christmas Day, too."

"Yes, indeed. I felt that I could not be sufficiently thankful. I meant to see Miss Tracy and to tell her how grateful I was, long before this; but I had a cold and could not go out. And she has been long returning my call. However, I hope we shall have her here presently."

"Miss Tracy! Is that her name? Where does she live?"

"O only in Willingdon Street,—in lodgings. It is not a very delightful part," Mrs. Effingham said apologetically for her heroine, as Miss Henniker's look of interest faded. "But that will not affect Miss Tracy herself—and, after all, there is nothing in the street—it is respectable enough, only, of course—well, I fancied that the family might be in town only for a short time; but when I went to call, I found that they actually lived there,—in lodgings. Just Colonel Tracy and his daughter; nobody else. It must be very dull for the poor girl."

"But you know nothing about them. I would not be drawn into an intimacy," said Miss Henniker.

"I assure you, they do not show any inclination to push; the difficulty is to get hold of Miss Tracy. Ah, here I hope she—no,—it is not."

"Mr. and Miss Claughton," announced the maid.

"Emmeline Claughton!" exclaimed Mrs. Effingham. "The sweetest girl!" she paused to whisper hurriedly to Miss Henniker. "Sister to the curate, you know. She stayed with him nearly a month last year, and I quite fell in love with her."

"Ah!" Miss Henniker murmured, privately thinking that Mrs. Effingham was apt to fall in love rather easily.

A tall, pale, dark-haired young lady entered, followed by a tall, pale, fair-haired young man. Neither could be called exactly handsome, but both were more than good-looking, and both had a certain distinguished air. Mrs. Effingham hurried forward with genuine delight, unalloyed this time. She threw her arms affectionately round the girl, holding out both hands the next moment to the brother, and then recoiling with a little start of surprise.

"Why it is not—" she exclaimed.

"Not Edred, but Mervyn. My eldest brother," explained Emmeline, and the delicate elderly hand went out again, though less enthusiastically. "We are spending two nights in town, and I promised Edred to see you."

"My dear, I am so glad. Pray sit down," said Mrs. Effingham. "Yes, indeed—delighted to make your brother's acquaintance. Of course, I was quite well aware that you had another brother. But I must introduce you both to my friend,—Miss Henniker, Mr. and Miss Claughton. Miss Henniker knows your other brother well, my dear."

Emmeline's bow was rather distant.

"You will have a cup of tea with me, of course," Mrs. Effingham said, as the tray appeared. Emmeline looked dubiously at her brother, but Mervyn offered no objection. "Somebody else will come directly, I hope," pursued the hostess, turning from one to another, in the anxious endeavour to blend her little circle into one harmonious whole. "Such a very charming girl—a Miss Tracy. She saved me from being run over on Christmas Day. I dare say your brother told you. He was on the spot and saw it all, only not near enough to be in time himself. Did he really not mention it?"

Mrs. Effingham looked disappointed.

"I should have thought,—he seemed so surprised at her action—her promptitude, you know. And I assure you, it was dangerous for herself. She might have been killed. Your brother seemed so much impressed at the moment, that I should have expected—"

"He has been extremely busy," said Emmeline, aware that silence on Edred's part might mean more than speech. "There is always so much going on at Christmas in a London Parish. And one of the curates has fallen ill, so they are short of hands."

"Ah, that explains," Mrs. Effingham said, her glances fluttering round to the silent brother and the attentive Miss Henniker; "that explains why he has not been to see me. He promised to call on Miss Tracy's father—an old Colonel, I believe, living in lodgings. Odd that he should not make a nice home somewhere for his daughter. However, we shall know more about them soon. I am so glad you have both come, my dear Emmeline. So glad you should be here to make acquaintance with—"

"Miss Tracy!" was announced.

The Colonel had brought his daughter to the front door, and there had left her. She was feeling a little shy by this time; but shyness did not mean awkwardness in her case. Dorothea's entrance was all that it should have been; quiet, unobtrusive and self-possessed—not self-conscious. Even when wearing her glasses, she could not see far across the large drawing-room; and her first impression was of an indefinite crowd of people. For a moment she hesitated, not knowing whom to accost; and impulsive Mrs. Effingham hurried towards her.

"My dear, you have come at last. My dear, how do you do? I am so glad. I have been longing to meet you,—to thank you. Yes, indeed, you know well that you saved my life that day at the risk of your own. It was a perfect marvel that we were not both killed," Mrs. Effingham went on, with eager gratification in the idea. To have passed through a peril and come out unhurt is particularly gratifying to some minds, and the greater the peril, the more eminent becomes the position of the individual who has escaped.

"It was very kind of you to call. I would have come sooner if I had been able," Dorothea said in her soft, quiet voice.

"The kindness was all the other way, my dear Miss Tracy. I assure you, I have been telling my friends about it,—telling them they must welcome you as a heroine. I can never thank you enough, but I shall never forget! We must always be friends. Now you will let me introduce you. Of course introductions are not the fashion; but sometimes, you know—" apologised Mrs. Effingham, who never could resist naming everybody to everybody. "And we are all friends here, or, at least, I am sure we shall be. This is Miss Henniker, a very old friend of mine. Miss Claughton and Mr. Claughton You saw the other Mr. Claughton on Christmas Day,—the clergyman who helped me up, after you had rescued me so bravely, my dear. This is his brother—and sister. I think you and Emmeline Claughton will exactly suit one another. I should like you to be friends."

Dorothea found all this rather embarrassing, while Emmeline looked unapproachably calm and dignified. Mr. Claughton, under his polite demeanour, highly enjoyed the scene. Mrs. Effingham's beaming face clouded over faintly, as she glanced from one to another.