Chapter XIV: Dorothea's Letter

"I HAVE been very nearly a year at home now," wrote Dorothea Tracy to her friend, Mrs. Kirkpatrick, one dull December afternoon.

"Nearly a whole year! What a long time a year is! I feel ages older than when I saw you last. Quite middle-aged and experienced."

"It has not been an unhappy year. Need one ever be unhappy, I wonder, merely because things are not exactly as one would choose? Or rather,—no, I don't wonder, because I am perfectly sure one need not."

"I want to tell you that I really have tried hard to follow the advice you gave me that last evening,—you will remember it, though perhaps not as clearly as I do. Trying to do doesn't always mean doing; but indeed I have tried."

"You said that I must always live steadily by rule, not let myself be a victim to impulses; and above all, that I was not to be indulgent to self in little matters, because that always means self-indulgence in greater matters too. And I was always to hold myself ready to do whatever might come to hand, and yet not to be discontented if very little came to hand. So you see I have not forgotten."

"It was a hard battle at first not to be discontented. Everything was so different from what I had fancied beforehand. And for a time there seemed really nothing to do, except to run up or down stairs for my father, and to be kind to little Minnie. But one thing after another turned up; and I have found, as you said I should, that one always may be busy and useful, if only one will."

"As for self-discipline, I shouldn't think one ever need be in any difficulty."

"At first, of course, I was in the swing of school habits; and I kept on doing as you had taught me, half in a mechanical way. But there came a time when I began to realise that I was free to please myself in little things, and that there was nobody to control me, and somehow I began to give in."

"I wonder whether you ever did that, and found out how dreadfully self-indulgent one can grow in a very little while."

"I didn't see it at all at first. The change wasn't slow, but it was so gliding. I never had an idea before how easily one can slip and slide into a sort of small slavery to one's body, if once one relaxes guard! You won't believe it, perhaps, but I was getting quite lazy—always lounging about in easy-chairs, and lying in bed too late in the morning, and indulging myself in story reading when I ought to have been doing some other thing, and fancying myself tired when I only wanted rousing, and even getting fanciful and fussy about food—which you know was an old trouble, but I really did think I had quite got over it."

"My father got vexed one morning, when I was down rather late for breakfast, and he told me I was indolent. That helped me to see, first. And then Lent came; and on the first Sunday evening we had a sermon from Mr. Mordan, on 'bringing the body into subjection,' and 'using such abstinence,'—in the Collect, you know."

"He did speak plainly! He warned us to take care of just those very things that I had been growing careless about. He mentioned a good many ways in which one might fail; and amongst them were too much lying in bed, and daintiness in eating, and self-indulgence in reading. And he advised us to make particular use of Lent by going right in the face of any habits that were getting a mastery over us—for yielding in one thing would be yielding in all, and every time one is beaten, one gets weaker. 'But mind,' he said, 'you must not think that when Lent is over, you are free to revert to your bad habits.' That did so remind me of you, and how you used to say, 'Don't slacken because Lent is ended.'"

"It was a hard fight after that, but I did begin to get up earlier, and not to let myself lounge about or read stories in the morning, and to make myself sometimes eat things I didn't like. After a while it grew easier; and then I felt how much I had owed to you. But somehow I never felt inclined to write this all until now."

"Soon after I came home, my father subscribed to a library near for me, and that has been a great delight. Mr. and Mrs. Mordan lend me books too, now and then. I make it a rule to have some volume of solid reading always in hand, and a good sensible story besides for the evening—not a trashy sort."

"And only think! My father goes to Church with me now, at least once every Sunday. Isn't that a change? I could so seldom persuade him at first."

"One thing has disappointed me. For a time he was so much brighter and more chatty. He used to tell stories of his Army life, and he really seemed to like me to chat to him. But that is over now. He has been getting more and more silent through the autumn—even gloomy. Some days, he hardly speaks at all, and when he does, he speaks sharply. I feel almost sure that some trouble or worry is weighing on his mind; and I have an idea that it has to do with money."

"I don't think it can be wrong of me to say all this to you, because you have always been—"

Dorothea came to a pause, and sat, pen in hand, considering.

"Am I wrong?" she murmured. "Ought I to say so much? Mrs. Kirkpatrick is my oldest and dearest friend—but she is not my father's friend. He calls her 'an estimable old lady'—and that is all. Is it quite honourable of me to tell her about his affairs? He would not tell her himself. Have I the right, without his leave?"

She sat thoughtfully, gazing towards the lighted candle.

"Perhaps he is waiting till he is sure that I am trustworthy, and not a gossip, before he speaks out. After all, his affairs are not the concern of other people—not even of my dear Mrs. Kirkpatrick. If I were at a loss to know what to do, perhaps my right plan would be to go to Mr. Mordan for advice, but I don't see that advice would help me just now. I have no right to press for my father's secrets; and unless he speaks to me himself, I cannot do anything."

Another break. Dorothea ran her eyes through the letter.

"What a lot I have written about myself. It is I—I—I all through! How horrid! I don't think I will send it off to-day. Perhaps I will re-write part to-morrow. That is the worst of living so much alone. One gets into such a narrow circle of ideas, and self grows so important. To be sure Mrs. Kirkpatrick begs to be told everything, but still—No, I'll wait."

Dorothea put pen and paper away, and peeped through the venetian into the lamp-lit street.

"Why doesn't my father come in? He is not often so late. However, there is not enough fog to hinder anybody; so I dare say he has some good reason."

She had hardly settled down to her book before the door was whisked open.

"Beg pardon, Miss; I thought your Pa was at home," Mrs. Stirring exclaimed. "Mr. Claughton wants to see the Colonel."

"My father will be in directly," said Dorothea; while, "Which Mr. Claughton?" flashed through her mind.

One candle does not make a room light, and for a moment she was in uncertainty; but before the newcomer's features were discernible, she knew his walk. "How do you do? I am expecting my father every moment," she said. "Will you sit down? He cannot be long now."

"Thanks." And Edred took a seat.

He looked pale, Dorothea thought, and his air was alike preoccupied and depressed.

"We have not seen you for a long while. Hardly since the summer."

"No; I have been remiss, I know. There has been so much to do, especially since my holiday."

"You were away all October, were you not? But you don't seem much the better for your month's rest," said Dorothea, suddenly conscious that her old shyness of Edred existed no longer. She could hardly have told why. He had perhaps never been less cordial in manner; yet she had never felt less afraid of him. It occurred to her mind that here was an opportunity to find out more about the Erskines of Craye—about Dolly, in particular. Why not? If she could ask questions of Mervyn, what should keep her from putting queries to Edred?

"And I will," she told herself smilingly, "if my father leaves me time."

"There is nothing wrong with me," came stiffly in answer; and then, as if the word were extorted by conscience,—"Except—"

"Except that you have rather too much to do, I suppose."

"Thanks, no; not in the least."

"Did you spend your month at home?"

"Three days of it. The rest in Scotland. No, I have not been home since."

"That was a very scanty allowance for your sister."

"My sister went to Scotland with me."

"Ah, Scotland is delightful. But I know Scotland, and I don't know Craye. I am more interested in Craye," said Dorothea. "You know I have seen your sister once, and your brother more than once. He is so like you."

"Mervyn! We are opposites."

"In character, are you? But not in face."

The frank simplicity of Dorothea's manner was taking effect. Mr. Claughton glanced up with more of attention than he had vouchsafed hitherto.

"Likeness is surely a matter of expression, at least, as much as of feature. However, one cannot be a judge of oneself."

"I don't think you are alike in expression; but nobody could help seeing that you are brothers."

"And yet," Dorothea was astonished to hear him say after a break, "we have scarcely one interest or subject in common."

"Is that a necessary state of things?" Dorothea did not question his assertion, as he perhaps expected.

"Perhaps not, if either could enter into the other's feelings." Dorothea thought of Mervyn's words in the Park. "Don't misunderstand me," he added, "I am not complaining of Mervyn. It is of myself that I complain."

"Isn't that the first step towards a change?"

"No. The difficulty is in our temperaments. He is all sunshine and merriment, hardly able to look at anything seriously for five minutes together. I am—" and a pause. "Hardly necessary to tell you. I have no sparkle or lightness in my composition. Sometimes I wish I had. Not to the extent that—" and another pause.

"But he is not all merriment. He does take things seriously—below. The froth is only on the surface, you know."

"I don't know. I should be glad to believe it."

"And—I think—" hesitatingly—"I am quite sure there must be some sparkle and lightness in everybody. Only it wants cultivating, doesn't it?"

"That may be a suggestion worth attending to," Edred said, with a rather melancholy smile. "We have got into an odd personal talk, Miss Tracy. I don't often indulge in remarks about myself; but since we are on the subject, I do not mind saying that I am conscious of a certain want. Too grave a manner is taken for moodiness by some people, and perhaps it repels them, when a little more of sunshine—a manner mere like Mervyn's—would attract."

Dorothea had never liked Edred so well, even while she began to fear that she had spoken too freely. It certainly was not her business to tell him of his failures, whether in manner or aught else; and the instinctive wish to defend Mervyn, which had lain below her utterances, was not even acknowledged to herself, much less could it be allowed to appear to Edred.

"It always seems to me that manner is the hardest thing in the world to manage," she said. "One is told to be perfectly natural, and then one finds that what is natural is wrong; and if one tries to change, one is called affected. At least, that is a girl's difficulty sometimes—at school. But you were going to tell me about Craye. There is a Colonel Erskine living near your home?"

"Yes—" Edred shrank suddenly into his shell.

Dorothea saw the change, thought of Mervyn's remarks about "Dolly," and mischievously resolved to persevere.

"And he has a wife and three daughters?"

"Yes."

"Named Miss Erskine, Miss Margot Erskine, and Miss Dolly Erskine?"

"Yes," for the third time.

"I want very much to know more about them. I can't tell you altogether why; only it is partly that I think my father and he must once have known one another. I believe they were in the same regiment; but they have not met now for years. There was a disagreement of some kind." Dorothea hesitated, for this was rather at variance with her resolution not to divulge her father's secret. She had spoken impulsively. "Perhaps my father might not like me to say so much."

"It would be a good thing that they should come together again."

"I wish they could; but I am not sure that my father would be willing. He hardly over speaks about Colonel Erskine." She was greatly tempted to mention the Christmas card, but refrained. "Some day, perhaps, it will come about. I am not even perfectly sure that they are the same Erskines; but there isn't much doubt. My father's friend had a little girl about my age, named Dorothea. And there is a Dorothea Erskine at Craye, is there not? The one called 'Dolly.'"

"Yes."

"Do tell me what she is like. It seems as if we ought to know something about each other."

Edred was silent.

"Is she in the least like me?"

"No."

"Please describe her. I want to be able to picture her face."

Thus driven, Edred had no choice. There was no getting out of it. Dorothea waited expectantly. The information was slow in coming, but patience was at length rewarded.

"She is—she is—little," Edred said desperately. "And fair."

"Blue eyes and golden hair?"

"Yes."

"Oh, go on. I don't see her yet. Is she very pretty?"

Edred's "Yes" was gruff; and a certain couplet darted through Dorothea's mind—

"If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be?"

Was that the state of affairs between the two? "No, no!" cried Dorothea to herself; "I hope not! I do hope not! If he is in love with her, can't she care for him? But perhaps this is all put on."

"People's opinions differ about a pretty face," said Edred curtly.

"Yes, of course. Does your brother admire Dolly very much?"

The question was unpremeditated; it flashed up, and was spoken out. But Dorothea had hit the mark now. Not only so, for the weapon which she flung bounded back and inflicted at least a scratch upon herself. She was startled first to see Edred's usually impassive face flush and grow pale; then she was still more startled to feel herself becoming just a degree more colourless than usual. It was not enough to strike a careless observer—only enough to rouse her own anger. What utter nonsense!

"Ah! I see!" she said.

Edred made no response whatever, and before Dorothea could decide what she would say next, the door was thrown open.

"Father, Mr. Claughton is waiting to speak to you."

The Colonel, entering roughly, stopped short and bowed. He looked very much out of temper, Edred Claughton thought; while Dorothea, bettor used to the Colonel's varieties of expression, read more truly the signs of trouble.

Edred had risen, and the Colonel did not sit down; so the two remained upright, each facing the other.

"I shall not take up many minutes of your time," said Edred apologetically, putting away as it were all remnants of his talk with Dorothea, and becoming instantly the polite Curate, intent on business. "You are probably busy."

"I am—very busy indeed," said Colonel Tracy, with sharpness.

"I have merely called to inquire—"

"Well?" thrust in the impatient Colonel.

"We are badly off just now for teachers in the night-school. Mr. Mordan thought it just possible, that you might be kindly willing now and then to take a class."

"No, sir! I am not kindly willing," shouted the Colonel, like a man goaded into sudden fury.

Edred stood, silent and gentlemanly. This did not cause a change of colour, like Dorothea's words.

"I've borne enough of this sort of thing! Interference and meddling! I'll not take a class in the night-school, or any other school!" declared the angry Colonel, in a voice which might be heard across the street.

Dorothea grow white again; but she came forward, close to her father, as if to restrain him.

"And if there's any more of it, I'll—I'll—I'll keep Dorothea at home too," spluttered the Colonel.

"Father, there is no harm in being asked. It is so easy to say No," observed Dorothea gently.

"I have said No! I'll say it again if needful."

"Hardly necessary. I am sorry to have even made the suggestion, since it is so unpleasant to you," said Edred, with cold courtesy. "Pray excuse me. Some day when you are not so busy—"

The Colonel began to splutter anew.

"No, do not misunderstand me. I was merely going to say that I would call again—not about the night-school."

The Colonel was silent, with a manifest effort. Edred bowed to him, and shook hands with Dorothea.

"Please come again. He will not mind—another time. Something must have happened," she murmured, almost inaudibly. If the Colonel heard, he made no sign. Edred's face broke into a slight smile.

"Pray don't think about it again," he said.

The door was hold open for him in grim style by the Colonel, and in his rear it was shut with a bang.

"Thank goodness that's over! Night-school, indeed! I wonder what next! The conceit of these young fellows!"

"Was there any need to be so vexed?" asked Dorothea sorrowfully.

No answer came at first. Colonel Tracy was tossing over some books with unsteady hands. Dorothea watched him in growing fear. She had never seen him so flushed and excited, so entirely off his balance. Though a fussy man about his food, he was abstemious in taking wine; yet a dread darted through her mind. Could he for once have taken too much? She had heard and read of such things.

Suddenly he dropped the books, let himself heavily into the arm-chair, and covered his heated face with two broad hands. Groan after groan burst from him.

"Father!" said Dorothea. She stood by his side, anxious yet quiet. "Tell me what is the matter."

"Nothing. Everything, I mean," groaned the Colonel. "No use. It's all up with us."

"It! What?"

No answer.

"I had better know. What is the use of hiding things from me?" asked Dorothea's gentle voice. "Perhaps I could help—somehow. Won't you tell me?"

"Nobody can do anything. My dear—I'm ruined. That's all. If I can't get nine hundred and eighty pounds by this day month,—I'm—I'm bankrupt!"