Chapter IX: Was Something Wrong?

WITHIN ten minutes of the time fixed, Mrs. Stirring called at the door for "Miss Tracy," and Dorothea rose to go.

Miss Henniker still sat on perseveringly, doing her six calls in one, and the tête-à-tête on which Mrs. Effingham had set her heart never took place. Little conversation had passed between the elderly lady and the young girl; and each was conscious of disappointment.

"But we will meet again, my dear," Mrs. Effingham murmured, answering Dorothea's unspoken thought as they shook hands. "I don't quite know how long I may be absent, or whether I shall run up to town for a month in the spring. London never suits me for any length of time. But when I do return, I shall send for you. We will not forget one another meantime!"

So the longed-for call was over, and nothing had come of it: nothing was likely to come of it for the present. Dorothea, walking home in the dark beside the little lodging-house keeper, was conscious of feeling flat. She had had an amusing peep into a life which would have been very pleasant,—just enough of a peep to be tantalising and no more. It was all over now, at least for a good while to come. She would have to go back to her solitude and friendlessness. She could almost have echoed the words of Dolly Erskine, written not long before: "It does seem sometimes as if life were made up of disappointments."

Almost—not quite. Dorothea Tracy, with far less of outward brightness in her life than Dorothea Erskine, was far more disposed to look upon what brightness she had, and to turn her back upon the shadows. Also she had a more real and vivid belief in the Overshadowing Love which arranged every step of the path she had to tread,—even the disappointing steps.

"One thing is certain,—I have no business to grumble," she told herself cheerily. "It is all right, or it would be different; and if I am meant to be dull for a while, why, I just have to be dull, and to keep cheerful through it." Then she smiled at the opposition of ideas. "Mrs. Kirkpatrick would call that an Irishism. After all, it isn't outside things that make dulness. It just depends on what one is in oneself. I shall find interests—somehow. Perhaps by-and-by I shall even find that I can be of use to my father."

"And you had a nice party, I hope, Miss Tracy?" said Mrs. Stirring, curiosity getting the upper hand.

"Yes, very nice,—only it was not a party," Dorothea answered.

"There was folks to talk to, though, wasn't there? That's what you'd ought to have,—a young lady like you! Never going nowhere, nor seeing nobody,—it ain't natural. You do take it patient, and no mistake; but it ain't right, and if I was you, I'd tell your Pa, that I would!"

This little outburst, the culmination of much smothered pity, took Dorothea by surprise. She did not speak, and Mrs. Stirring went on—

"Gentlemen don't know what's fit for a young lady. If you had a Ma alive, it 'ud be a different life for you, Miss,—and I wish it was different, too."

"My father must decide for himself. That is only his business—and mine," Dorothea said with gentle decision.

Mrs. Stirring was silenced. She murmured something unintelligible, and no further words passed between them till the house was reached.

"I didn't mean to vex you, Miss," Mrs. Stirring said then, as she fumbled with her latch-key.

"I am not vexed. I quite understand. It is all right," Dorothea replied, with a smile.

"She is the nicest young lady," muttered Mrs. Stirring to herself, remaining behind in the hall. "I never saw a nicer. Always civil to everybody, and got a smile whenever she speaks. But if I was the Colonel, I'd be ashamed to keep her shut-up like he does. It's too bad, and I don't care who hears!" Nevertheless, Mrs. Stirring was careful to utter her protest in a tone which should not be overheard. She had no wish to lose a good lodger.

The drawing-room stood open when Dorothea reached it. She did not need to turn the handle, and her soft movements made no noise. One lighted candle stood as usual on the table. Dorothea had half crossed the room before she knew that it was not empty, and that her own entrance was unobserved.

Colonel Tracy sat in an easy-chair near the fireplace, not in his ordinary place beside the table. There was a look of trouble in the drooped head, and in the attitude of the broad hand covering his eyes. Colonel Tracy was not as a rule given to limp attitudes. Plainly, he counted himself alone still, and Dorothea stopped short, hesitating. Should she slip out and leave him, or—? A deep pulling sigh, almost a groan, broke from him; and with the instinct of sympathy, Dorothea moved forward.

"Father, is anything wrong?" she asked.

"Dorothea!" The Colonel's exclamation was almost a shout. He started up with an air of profound disgust and annoyance. "Why—why—what—how—you don't mean to say it's nearly half-past five! I didn't expect you for—for—another half-hour."

"I have just come home."

"Didn't hear you. Door not shut, of course. That wretched girl never will shut doors, and if I've told her once, I've told her five hundred times," declared the Colonel, looking askance, like a detected school-boy, his complexion the colour of a turkey-cock's comb. "She gets past bearing. I'll give it her by-and-by, and no mistake. Well,—seen your friends?"

"I have seen Mrs. Effingham. She is very kind and nice," said Dorothea. "Only it is such a pity,—she may be away for months."

The Colonel tried unsuccessfully to hide his gratification.

"No other old ladies, eh?"

"There was a caller—Miss Henniker; but I should not speak of her as old—only as very middle-aged," said Dorothea, and the Colonel gave vent to an awkward "Ha, ha!"

"Nobody else?" He was holding at bay the pending question, which he saw in his daughter's face.

"Yes, two others, but they were young: a Mr. and Miss Claughton,—Emmeline Claughton and her brother. You know the Curate, Mr. Claughton, who called the other day. Don't you remember? They are his brother and sister."

"Left my card on him to-day. Didn't think it needful to go in," said the Colonel.

"Was he at home?"

"Didn't ask, my dear. Blissful ignorance best in some cases, you know," said the Colonel, rather sheepishly still.

"What a pity! I should have liked to know the Claughtons."

Then Dorothea was silent, looking earnestly at her father, and the Colonel grew redder still.

"Well, well; now you've had your little jaunt, so perhaps you'll settle down for a while,—keep quiet, and try to be contented."

"Have I been discontented?" asked Dorothea. She came closer, and slipped a hand into her father's arm. "I should not like to be that. Discontent is so horrid. Father, if you and I could be more of friends, I shouldn't care so much about having outside friends. I don't think I should care at all," she said wistfully.

"Eh, my dear? Eh?"

"Couldn't we be friends? Won't you tell me when you are in trouble? I might not be able to do anything, but still—Something is worrying you now, isn't it? Do you mind my asking?"

The Colonel jerked his arm away from hers, not unkindly, but as if from an irresistible impulse. "Nonsense! Rubbish, my dear!" he said loudly. "Pray don't talk such nonsense."

"Is it nonsense?" Dorothea showed no sign of affront. It was not her way to be easily affronted. Standing so near to the Colonel, she was in a favourable position to examine him well with her shortsighted eyes, which were keen enough within a limited range; and she used the opportunity. "But something has happened,—I am sure of it," she said, recalling the distress of that big noisy sigh. "Are you—is it that you are not well?"

Colonel Tracy snatched at the suggestion with relief.

"Indigestion, my dear; indigestion the whole afternoon. Miserably cooked dinner to-day. You must have seen,—but women have no sense of taste—no sense of taste whatever. That creature knows no more how to make a sauce than—Why, it wasn't sauce!" pursued the Colonel, with lively disgust. "Sauce! It was liquid paste,—flour and water,—anything you like, except what it was called! And the beef—all the goodness drained out of it. Nothing left but rags. Pastry, enough to make anybody ill,—mere dough, nothing but dough. Can't think what Mrs. Stirring is about. If she doesn't look sharp, I'll move elsewhere. Arrant carelessness!"

This was hard, and Dorothea knew it. Mrs. Stirring might be slow, and not very brilliant, but her mistakes did not arise from carelessness. She was always painstaking, only sometimes rather dull. Remonstrance would have been useless, however.

"And nothing else is wrong except dinner?" said Dorothea. "Nothing of importance?"

"My dear, I hope that is of importance," said the Colonel grimly.

Dorothea was not satisfied. That an ill-cooked dinner—even if it had been ill-cooked, which was not strictly the case—could cause such a sigh as she had overheard, seemed to her young mind an impossibility. Questioning was not at an end yet, the Colonel knew. Perhaps he had never in his life before been glad of a caller.

"Mr. Claughton, sir, please," said Mrs. Stirring, putting her head round the door.

"Bring him in," the Colonel answered with alacrity. Anything—even a Curate—to check his daughter's too affectionate solicitude!

Not the Mr. Claughton whom Dorothea had seen that afternoon, but another, entered,—Edred Claughton, of course. Dorothea would have preferred perhaps to see Mervyn. The two were very much alike in outer seeming; only here were a clerical coat, some additional gravity, and a hard-worked air. Nobody could have accused Mervyn of appearing overworked.

"I am returning your call very quickly," Mr. Claughton said, as he bowed and shook hands. "You were so good as to come this afternoon, when I was out."

"Yes—er—I—I'm very glad to see you," the Colonel said, speaking truthfully. "Pray sit down."

"We have been unfortunate hitherto, always missing one another. I thought I would come late, in the hope of finding you. The fact is, I am anxious to enlist Miss Tracy's services in the Parish."

"That's not at all in my daughter's line," declared the Colonel promptly.

"O father, I should like nothing better!"

Dorothea's eager tones were unmistakable.

"My dear, I couldn't possibly allow it," the Colonel said, with a disgust equally unmistakable. "I couldn't possibly consent! Girls of your age have no business in back slums."

"Certainly not," assented Mr. Claughton. "But how about a class in the Sunday-school?"

"That would be delightful! Father, do say that I may."

Colonel Tracy was dubious. He asked a good many questions as to hours, modes, ways of management, and supposed perils. "I can't and I won't have Dorothea running in the way of infectious diseases," he said.

Dorothea, seated near the young clergyman, noted a movement at the sound of her name,—a sudden widening of the eyes, and an odd flash which might, perhaps, have done duty for a smile. Edred seemed less given to smiling than Mervyn.

"I can't and I won't have it!" repeated the Colonel irascibly. "Girls of eighteen are ripe to catch anything. I won't have her running after the school-children into filthy alleys, whenever they don't turn up. She's too young, and she's not used to London."

"But if I promise always to take Mrs. Stirring with me?" pleaded Dorothea. "I do so want some little work. I have nothing to do now, for anybody."

"One would wish, of course, that a Sunday-school teacher should sometimes see the children in their homes," said Mr. Claughton calmly, with a manner which recalled to Dorothea the stately Emmeline. "But I think I can arrange to give a class to Miss Tracy, consisting of children with respectable homes. If there are any exceptions, I undertake to warn her not to go. Will that do?"

"Well, well—I suppose I shall have to let her try," the Colonel said reluctantly. "School's close to the Church, you say? Well, I suppose she must try. She'll be tired of it in a month."

Dorothea smiled, and there was a decisive little shake of her head.

A faint answering smile hovered round the lips of the grave young clergyman.