Old Comrades
Copyright© 2026 by Agnes Giberne
Chapter 15: The Something That Was Wrong
“NINE hundred and eighty pounds! That is a great deal,” said Dorothea slowly. “Nearly one thousand pounds.”
Then she drew a chair to his side, sat down, and laid one hand lightly on his knee. If he had been a more affectionate parent, she would have laid her head on his shoulder, partly to give and partly to receive comfort. For the threatening blow would fall upon her no less than upon him; though this was not Dorothea’s first thought. But any manner of caress was rare between the two. She only ventured on a touch.
“Father, don’t be unhappy. We shall manage—somehow. Things will not be so bad as you expect—perhaps.”
“Things could not be worse! It means—ruin,” groaned the Colonel. “I—I shall never hold up my head again.”
She stole a little closer to him.
“It isn’t quite a new trouble, is it? All the autumn, haven’t you been expecting—something of the kind?”
An inarticulate sound came in answer.
“Looking forward to a trouble is sometimes worse than bearing it when it really comes. Don’t you think so?”
Another indefinite sound, more like a groan than anything else.
“Won’t you tell me how it has happened?”
The Colonel shook himself roughly, and stood up.
“My dear, I can’t be bothered. Only let me alone.”
“And I can do nothing? I can’t help you in any way?”
“No, no—nothing. Only don’t plague. Leave me in peace.”
Dorothea was hurt—naturally—though she would not show it. Her one desire was to comfort him, and he repelled her with coldness. But she remembered how unhappy, he was, and she would not let her face cloud over.
“We shall have tea soon, That will do you good,” she said cheerfully.
“Tea” meant a somewhat heavy meal at seven o’clock. Till then the Colonel occupied himself with mysterious blue papers; reading and re-reading them, and sighing repeatedly. Now and again, in restless style, he got up to walk about the room. During one such peregrination, he remarked brusquely—
“We shall have to leave this.”
“Leave this house?”
“Of course.”
“Where shall we go?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause.
“Do you mind telling me—will you have anything at all left?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” said the Colonel sharply. He sat down, rested his face on his two hands, and remained thus until tea was ready.
“The fish will get cold,” Dorothea said, as he showed no signs of moving.
Colonel Tracy drew a heavy sigh, came to the table, mumbled the three syllables which were his usual apology for a grace, and sat down with a groan. Then he turned over the fried sole, and inspected it disgustedly.
“Not fresh,” he growled.
“You couldn’t go yourself to-day, —but Mrs. Stirring seemed quite sure.”
“My dear, Mrs. Stirring knows nothing about the matter. She takes whatever is given her. It’s uneatable.”
Nevertheless, he gave some to Dorothea and helped himself, not without a scowl or two.
“Bread isn’t properly baked. Been getting worse and worse the last month,” said the Colonel.
“O do you think so? It seems to me such nice light bread.”
“Women never know good food from bad, my dear.”
Dorothea thought silently of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and of her own struggles against daintiness.
“I declare they’ve not sent fresh butter. It’s absolutely—impregnated with salt.”
Dorothea could have laughed, if she had been less oppressed with the recent news. For some time past housekeeping arrangements had been slipping gradually out of the Colonel’s hands into hers; and though every item had to be referred to the Colonel, Mrs. Stirring usually came to Dorothea, thankful to have her for a “go-between.” So she was able to answer decisively—
“It is the very best fresh butter that can be got, father. Two shillings a pound! I suppose we shall not be able to afford that any longer. Ought we not to begin to make a difference at once?”
“I can’t eat salt butter, my dear! Never could.”
But if he could not afford fresh? That question presented itself strongly before Dorothea’s mind.
Tea over, the Colonel collapsed into his arm-chair once more. Collapsed attitudes are commonly ungraceful fur anybody; and especially they are not graceful where the individual is rather stout and not tall. Despite his rust-red complexion, the Colonel was not a bad-looking man when he held himself upright, and walked energetically, but his outlines at this moment were not attractive.
Dorothea wondered whether she might venture to say anything more on the subject of his losses, and decided that she had better wait. If he were not disposed to talk, further pressure would only excite him.
“It’s rather hard, and I should like to know all about it,” she told herself. “But perhaps that is just why I can’t yet, —because I’m so inclined to be impatient.”
Then she brought out her work, and sat stitching away quietly, near the one candle; her head a little bent, and the light falling on her pale face, with its neat glasses. Nobody, looking at her, would have counted Dorothea an impatient person; but doubtless she knew herself best. We do not often accuse ourselves of faults which are not ours, however apt to be blind to faults which are ours.
Not another word was uttered that evening on the subject of the Colonel’s impending bankruptcy. He sat moodily and gloomily apart, nursing his woes. Dorothea worked and thought. She made up her mind on one point, —that economy should begin immediately.
Next morning, the Colonel disappeared after breakfast, telling Dorothea that for once she could not have her walk. Business required him in the City, he said. Dorothea acquiesced; and finding dinner left entirely in her hands, she made a very simple affair of it. Mrs. Stirring stared and protested, but Dorothea was firm.
“Not no fish nor soup neither?”
“No, not to-day.”
“And only cold mutton, Miss?” Mrs. Stirring gasped.
“I think there is plenty of mutton over, —and it goes farther cold than minced. Yes, that will do perfectly well. You can make us a small bread-and-butter pudding.”
“And a tart. Just, an apple-tart, Miss, —and some boiled custard.”
“No, not a tart. Nothing except the bread-and-butter pudding.”
Mrs. Stirring looked dismay unutterable, but Dorothea’s quiet manner allowed no opposition. She retreated to the kitchen, murmuring to herself.
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