Chapter 10: 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.”