Chapter X: A Park Encounter

IF Mrs. Effingham came to town in the spring, she omitted to let Dorothea know; so probably she did not come. Dorothea felt sure she had not.

Life no longer seemed purposeless and friendless to the young girl in her dull home. She had her Sunday class twice every Sunday, and her teachers' meeting in the week. Sometimes she could persuade Mrs. Stirring to pay a round of calls with her on the children's parents, which always meant a fresh supply of interests, in little attempts to help those who were needy. She had formed a speaking acquaintance with certain other teachers in the school, and one or two had even been to see her. The Rector and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Mordan, had called more than once, and were especially kind to Dorothea.

It was not an overpoweringly full and busy life, according to modern notions; but Dorothea could be easily cheered and contented. She no longer felt herself useless or solitary.

Now and then, Edred Claughton looked in on the two, for a call half pastoral, half friendly—always ostensibly with a particular reason. Dorothea hardly, perhaps, acknowledged to herself that she would have preferred to see Mervyn appear. Edred was so earnest and good and indefatigable in work, that no one could fail to esteem him highly: but he was very slow to relax. There was habitually a grave distance of demeanour, oddly like that of Emmeline, oddly unlike the lighter and more sparkling manner of Mervyn. Conversation ran almost entirely in Parish grooves. Edred never spoke of his home or his relatives; and Dorothea, from a something which might have been shyness, did not introduce more personal subjects. The only departure from Parish interests was in the direction of literature.

Edred Claughton was one of those very reserved people, whom Dolly Erskine counted herself unable to get on with. Only, as she could get on with him, she probably did not count him reserved.

All these months the Colonel had never avowed to Dorothea the existence of any particular cares. Yet Dorothea felt certain that some kind of heavy anxiety was weighing on him. She did not again find him lounging deplorably in his chair, or hear any more profound sighs; nevertheless she had not the slightest doubt that something was wrong. The more he grumbled over his dinner, the more he talked of after-indigestion, the more convinced she was of the truth of her surmise. There was often a worried expression in his face; and sometimes, he would sink into a troubled dream, forgetting to read or write. Yet what the "something wrong" might be, she could not even guess.

Plainly, he did not like being questioned, and Dorothea forbore to tease him. She only waited with patience, watching for every possible opportunity to make herself useful and pleasant to him. As time went by, she had some little measure of reward. The Colonel opened out gradually; he began to show gratification in her presence, and to dislike her too frequent absence; he talked more, and appealed to her occasionally for an opinion; he even displayed some manner of interest in her pursuits. Only, if he had troubles, he still did not mention them.

The first of August came, and London was emptying fast. It did not look empty to unaccustomed eyes, but no doubt there was a difference. Certain crossings were more easily passed than in the full height of the season; and Dorothea was conscious of this weighty fact.

She had persuaded Colonel Tracy to take her into the Park one sunny afternoon, and when there, she smiled at the idea of "emptiness."

"Comparative, my dear—all comparative. Everything is comparative in this life," declared the Colonel sententiously. "Besides, Parliament is sitting late. Members can't get away till next week."

"Poor things! I wish we could get away," said Dorothea. "Can't we, father?"

"Eh?—what, my dear?"

"Don't you mean to take me to the seaside or somewhere, as you used to do when I was at school?"

The Colonel was silent for a minute.

"Really, I don't know. Don't see the necessity."

"London is getting so hot and dusty. I should like a glimpse of the waves."

"Not Brighton!"

"O no; somewhere country-like. Some place where I could wander about, without the need of anybody to take care of me. Won't you?" begged Dorothea.

"Cost a lot!" growled the Colonel.

"Would it? Couldn't we do things very cheaply? Why, father—" in sudden surprise, "you never used to mind about spending money."

The look of care which Dorothea had often noted of late sat upon his forehead.

"Well, well, I'll think—I'll see about it. By-and-by, perhaps," he said moodily.

"That is the trouble," Dorothea murmured to herself, moving her lips, but uttering no sound. "Something to do with money! Why didn't I think of it before?"

Both were silent for some seconds.

"It doesn't matter," she said then. "I shouldn't like you to go to any expense that isn't right. And I am quite well; I don't need change. It is only a fancy. Father, we'll stay where we are all the summer, and economise—shall we?"

She was at very close quarters with the Colonel, and she watched him earnestly with her light eyes. Colonel Tracy reddened and fidgeted.

"We'll see, my dear, we'll see."

"But I shouldn't like you even to think of such a thing, for my sake, if you haven't plenty of money—if you can't perfectly well afford it. I never thought about that."

"Well, well, my dear, we'll see," reiterated the Colonel.

"Wouldn't you like to rest a little?" asked Dorothea, as they came upon an unoccupied seat.

Colonel Tracy agreed, but with an evident determination not to be catechised. One minute had not elapsed before he was nodding sleepily over his stick. Dorothea smiled, and turned her attention to other people.

This being a quiet side-path, there were no crowds, though a good many pedestrians came and went. The feigned sleep presently became genuine. Perhaps the Colonel really was tired; at all events, he showed no signs of an early awakening. Slight snores sounded, winning amused looks from those who were near. Dorothea did not think it mattered, or count herself obliged to rouse him.

Another snore: and a gentleman turned to glance in their direction. Immediately his hat came off, and Dorothea, having already noted a familiar outline, bowed. She took him for Edred Claughton, and was surprised at that busy young man having any leisure for the frivolities of the Park; but as he came across the path, she recognised the older brother.

"How do you do? So you are getting into swing," Mervyn said, as they shook hands; and the gleam of fun came which Dorothea always missed in Edred. "Have you found out yet what it is to have no time for anything or anybody? You see, I have not forgotten our last talk."

"Or Miss Henniker," added Dorothea. "My father," she said, indicating the sleeper. "He seems tired."

"Hot day," Mervyn answered, taking the empty seat on her other side. "So you don't find yourself in a whirlpool of engagements?"

"No, indeed. My only engagements are Church and Sunday-school, and teachers' meeting."

"Not even afternoon teas?"

Dorothea shook her head smilingly.

"But that must be awfully dull," the young man said, with a face of concern.

"I suppose it is,—rather. I should not mind going somewhere to afternoon tea now and then. I really did go once to Mrs. Mordan in the spring."

"Once in the spring!"

"Yes. That isn't getting into the whirlpool, is it?"

"Sounds more like Craye than London."

"Craye!" Dorothea repeated the word in a puzzled tone, wondering what connection she had with the word. "Is your home at Craye?"

"Hasn't Edred acquainted you with that fact?"

"I don't know. He has not said much about his home. And I have only seen your sister once,—that pretty sister of yours."

"Is Emmeline pretty?"

"I thought so,—if she had not been quite so grave."

"Ah, that you have to expect. Em and Edred are solemn individuals—far too busy doing good to everybody, to have time for laughing."

"It must be very delightful to be always doing good to people."

"Well, yes,—if it were not for the bother."

Dorothea glanced at him questioningly.

"But that is not your real self speaking," she said.

An odd expression came over Mervyn's face, half comical, half assenting.

"What makes you suppose so?"

"I am sure it is not. You are trying to seem different from what you are."

"I assure you, I don't always know which is my true self, and which is my false."

"Don't you—really?"

Mervyn laughed.

"If you put the question in that style—but after all, you are the first to suggest the idea."

"It is so easy to see. Your sister would say the same."

"Emmeline! She looks upon me as the most hopelessly frivolous of mortals."

"But—"

"I assure you she does. And as for Edred—"

"He is a Clergyman. He has to live a life apart."

"He is the best fellow I know," said Mervyn, with unexpected warmth, instantly relapsing into a tone of indifference. "Ready to sacrifice his life any day for the veriest riff-raff of the streets. He and Em can take nothing lightly. It's partly constitution,—not all principle. I am of different make, and I simply can't go through existence as they do. I should expire of dulness in a fortnight. If ever I do sacrifice myself for anybody, I shall do it with a joke—not at all with the correct air of dignity and martyrdom. It's a thousand pities Em can't be tied to a stake. She would do it so awfully well, and enjoy it any amount."

"O but—" protested Dorothea.

"Don't be horrified. You know, of course, exactly how much I mean and don't mean. But, seriously, if one could inoculate those two with a touch of fun from somebody else, it would do no harm."

"They would not need to be less in earnest."

"Only to have a little froth overlying the solid element."

"I am afraid I should laugh too often to suit your sister. One can't help sometimes seeing the droll side of things. But I was going to ask you to tell me about your home—Craye. Where have I heard that name?"

"Craye is a mere village. Nothing happens there."

"And you live in the village?"

"Outside it. Ancestral house and grounds, etcetera, only unfortunately the ancestors were none of my own. My grandfather made a lot of money, and bought the place."

"And is it—pretty?"

"Exquisite!"—in her own tone.

"I wonder whether you mean what you say, now."

"Of course I don't. Emmeline would tell you that I never mean anything I say."

Dorothea made a little movement of dissent.

"I don't believe that," she said.

"It really is a pretty place,—but ineffably slumberous. I'm there occasionally,—oftener than I wish, and not so often as others will."

"But of course you have a great many friends in the neighbourhood?"

"Acquaintances."

"Not more?"

"Well,—we know the Erskines pretty intimately."

"The Erskines!" A recollection of her father's Christmas card sprang up. "The Erskines—and Craye! Oh, I know now,—it was at Craye, he said they lived."

"You know them?"

"No; I have only heard—" Dorothea hesitated. She did not feel herself at liberty to tell the little story of the rift between the old comrades. "I have heard of a family of that name," she said. "There is a Colonel Erskine,—he used to be a friend of my father's. They have not met for years. I think my father said he lived at a place called Craye."

"The same, of course. Our friend is Colonel Erskine."

"Do tell me about him. What is he like?"

"Quite the old soldier,—straight as a dart. A great favourite with everybody."

"And he has a family? I want to know all about them."

"All,—in a dozen words! Yes, he has a family. Wife, elderly. Daughters, three. Sons, none. House, no particular architecture. Kitchen-garden, well stocked. Would you like an inventory of the drawing-room furniture?"

"I'm more interested in the daughters. What are their names?"

"Isabel—Margot—Dolly."

"Dolly!"

"Everybody calls her so. I believe 'Dorothea' is more strictly correct; but she is every inch 'Dolly!'"

"My name is Dorothea too."

"Curious coincidence," said Mervyn, looking down on Dorothea with his odd smile.

"What are the Miss Erskines like?"

"Exactly like other people. A perfect reproduction of all the Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons."

"No, but really—"

"Isabel is plain, if one may venture to say that of any lady. Margot is good-looking—would be beautiful, if she were not an invalid. The Colonel and she are particular friends of mine."

"And Dolly?"

"Dolly is a mere kitten, just out of the school-room,—a little creature always on the go. Not exactly pretty, but she has lovely hair, and there is any amount of fun and sparkle. Sure to be admired."

"And you like her—as much as Margot?"

"I!" expressively. "You had better go to Edred for information about Dolly. Ask him some day what he thinks of her. But of course, he won't betray himself."

"Do you mean that you think—"

"I don't profess to know. Wiser folks than I foretell something in that quarter."

"But if she is so full of fun—would she suit him?"

"Convex and concave!" Mervyn could say no more, for Colonel Tracy woke up.

"Hey! Hallo!—Why—Why—What's this? Hallo,—Dorothea!"

"Father, you have been sound asleep."

"Rubbish, my dear! Stuff and nonsense! Asleep, indeed! Just shut my eyes for half-a-minute on account of the glare."

Dorothea's face rippled with suppressed laughter, but she did not contest the point.

"Father, Mr. Claughton is here," she said.

"Hey,—what? Mr. Claughton! How do?" Colonel Tracy put out his hand, and, like Mrs. Effingham on a similar occasion, half drew it back. "Why—"

"Our Mr. Claughton's brother," explained Dorothea, and the two gentlemen bowed, Mervyn cordially, the Colonel stiffly.

"Hot day," the Colonel remarked. "Time we should get home."

"Perhaps you will allow me to call upon you some day, when I happen to be in town?" Mervyn said as the Colonel stood up resolutely.

The question was addressed to them both.

"O do!" Dorothea replied frankly, without a blush. She was longing to hear more about "Dolly."

Colonel Tracy growled out some sort of consent, and hurried his daughter away. Mervyn made no attempt to accompany them.

"My dear, you must be careful. Who is that young fellow?" demanded Colonel Tracy, when they were at a safe distance.

"Mervyn Claughton, father,—the brother of our Curate."

"Hum!—Ha!—Well, mind you're careful, my dear."

"I met him and his sister at Mrs. Effingham's. Don't you remember?"

"H'm—ha—"

"They seem such a nice family. I should like to know more of them. Their home is at a place called Craye. And isn't it curious,—a family named Erskine lives near them? The father is a Colonel, and one of the daughters is named Dorothea. I wonder if they are your Erskines?"

The Colonel made absolutely no answer to this. He hurried on at such a pace as to render conversation impossible, and the subject was not alluded to again.

Perhaps his very reluctant consent to a call from Mervyn had had the force of a rebuff: for time passed, and Mervyn did not appear. Dorothea ceased at length to expect him. Also, for a long while, Edred did not come near them. He was very much occupied while the Rector went away for a summer holiday; and when the Rector returned, Edred had his turn of absence.

Colonel Tracy and Dorothea remained through the summer in their lodgings. Nothing further was said about a change to the seaside.