Old Comrades
Copyright© 2026 by Agnes Giberne
Chapter 16: Dolly’s Journal Again
“CHRISTMAS EVE”
“AS I expected! Not one word more in my journal since that long prelim-statement! I don’t know what in the world I have taken it out for now—only one must do something, and I have nothing to do. And I feel so restless and stupid.”
“What a state of spirits I was in when I wrote last in this book!—all except the last few words. I’m not at all in spirits now. Everything seems dull, and I am prosy and tame.”
“Life does seem awfully made up of disappointments, sometimes. I wasn’t wrong there, at all events.”
“For instance, —that afternoon at the Park, weeks and weeks ago, —how I had been looking forward, and counting the hours! Yet, when the time came, there was nothing but disappointment all through. Nothing happened as I had expected, though I suppose nobody was to blame. I’ve gone over, scores of times since, all that I said and did, and all that he said and did; and I never can make up my mind what was really wrong, or how things happened as they did, or whether I might have done differently.”
“Only I wish—I wish—nobody would meddle and ask questions, and put ideas into one’s head. Poor old Issy! She didn’t mean any harm, of course; people never do! But if only she had just not interfered!”
“Well, it can’t be helped now. It couldn’t be helped then. Dear good stupid people, like Issy, do such a lot of harm, meddling and trying to give advice; and all the time it is meant so kindly, that I suppose one ought to be grateful. Only—”
“Anyhow, nobody was likely that day to accuse me of—of thinking too much about anybody in particular. I had plenty of Mervyn, and I don’t care for him one atom; and Edred kept out of my way, and I only saw him once again for five minutes, before he went to Scotland, and then we were like two icicles.”
“If only I didn’t mind! If I could make myself not care! If I could be as cool and indifferent as he is! But it is hard sometimes, oh, so hard not to show! All the life seems to have gone out of everything. Tennis had grown so dull—I was glad when cold weather put a stop to it; and now, skating is a trouble. The only thing I really feel inclined to do is to curl myself up in the corner of the sofa, and—no, not think! That’s the worst of giving in. It means more time for thinking.”
“I suppose one gets used in time to anything, even to—But I wish the days wouldn’t drag and seem so awfully long. And I wish Margot’s eyes wouldn’t look at me as they do. And I wish I didn’t always feel tired. And I wish I could stop thinking, and go to sleep for a whole year. How silly it is to have such a lot of impossible wishes!”
“Edred has not been to Craye once since October; and they say he can’t get away till after Christmas. If he could, what difference would it make to me? He has that other girl in London—Dorothea Tracy. Mervyn seems to think her nice, —not very pretty, but rather uncommon. And I’m such a commonplace little thing—not clever at all. So, no wonder Edred likes her best. But—”
“I wonder if it is really the same Dorothea who was Christened with me. The same time, the same font, the same name, the same age!—and our two fathers such friends, —and the two mothers wanting their two babies to grow up friends! So Margot says. She only told me the story lately. I did not know it before, —all about the friendship, and the quarrel, and the Christmas card going to and fro.”
“But, instead of being friends, Dorothea Tracy and I are strangers. Perhaps something else, too. Perhaps—rivals!”
“She does not know that; and it is not her fault. I must not let myself feel wrongly. Dorothea Tracy is not to blame. I have to tell myself that very often, to keep down something almost like anger. It is no fault of hers, if she is nicer than me, —if Edred cares for her most.”
“To-morrow is Christmas Day; so the card will come back from her father—if her father really is my father’s old friend. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt about that. Margot says he always sends it punctually, so that it arrives on Christmas morning; but I have always been a child till lately, so I was not told about it.”
“What an odd man the Colonel must be! Why doesn’t he write? Margot says he ought. She says Colonel Tracy was really the one to blame; and as my father took the first step, Colonel Tracy ought to take the second. If I were Dorothea Tracy, I would try to make him. Perhaps she has tried and has failed. After all, she is only my age, though Mervyn says she looks older.”
“Dec. 27th.”
“Christmas Day is over, and the card which we all expected has not come from Colonel Tracy. There were heaps of cards, of course, for everybody, but that was not among them.”
“Father looks quite sad and worried. He must have been very fond of this friend in old days. Margot says she can’t think why, because she knows the Colonel was not a favourite with most people. He was counted overbearing and ill-tempered, and fussy. But, somehow, my father and he suited one another. The friendship began when they were boys at school, and it went on when they were subalterns in the same regiment. I think they were both Captains when the quarrel came and divided them, but I am not sure. I know my father was senior.”
“Two such old friends, and comrades, and brothers-at-arms! It does seem melancholy that they should have been separated. Margot says the two wives—our mother and Mrs. Tracy—did all they could to smooth matters. But it was no use. Colonel Tracy had behaved so very badly to father, and he never would say one word of apology.”
“So for years and years they kept apart. Colonel Tracy exchanged into another regiment, and my father quite lost sight of him. It wasn’t till after we came to live here that he saw the death of Mrs. Tracy in the paper, and so learnt Colonel Tracy’s London address. That was close upon Christmas; and he sent the card as a peace-offering. He could not tell if the Colonel was willing to be friendly again; and of course the first move ought really to have been Colonel Tracy’s; but still, he put that aside, and did what he could. So like the dear father, I think he wrote just a word inside the envelope about ‘remembrance’ and ‘sympathy.’
“No answer came at all; and Margot says he was very much hurt and disappointed. But when a whole year had gone by, and Christmas Day came round again, the very same card arrived by the morning post, addressed to father in Colonel Tracy’s handwriting.”
“It was an odd way of meeting his kindness, I think; but Margot says my father took it kindly. He wasn’t offended, but said he would keep the card, and send it again next year. So he did; and the next year after it was returned.”
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