Chapter 17: A Friend in Need

COLONEL TRACY ill was altogether another man from Colonel Tracy well. His brusquerie and independence were nowhere. His military carriage vanished with the rust-red of his complexion. He had grown pale and yellowish, limp and languid. He could not bear to be left alone, depended meekly on Dorothea’s judgment, and went in with praiseworthy submission for any amount of semi-liquid invalid messes.

Nobody would have expected so vigorous a man to be so soon pulled down; but people are always doing what would not be expected of them. When, on the third day of the new year, Colonel Tracy tottered across from his bedroom to the drawing-room, and dropped feebly into an arm-chair, he might have been ill for months.

“Nervous, partly—of course,” the doctor had remarked that morning to Dorothea. “Don’t encourage him to think too much about himself.”

But that was the difficulty. Colonel Tracy wanted to talk about himself and his symptoms all day long. He expected an inordinate amount of sympathy. If Dorothea gave the sympathy, he talked about himself continuously. If she did not, he waxed cross.

There was no mention of money affairs between them. Dorothea knew well that such mention could not be long delayed; but for the moment delay was necessary. The Colonel, if not so ill as he counted himself, was too ill to be worried. Dorothea had to bide her time.

She was a little disappointed that no quick answer had come from Colonel Erskine. The mention of her father’s trouble and consequent break-down would surely, she had thought, bring a few words of sympathy. Dorothea had built upon this expectation, hoping thus to bring together again the old long-parted comrades. But apparently Colonel Erskine meant to wait a year, as usual, before sending back the card. Dorothea felt that she would not have done so in his place, and she allowed herself to judge him somewhat hardly for the same, thereby laying up a little store of fuel for future remorse.

“What o’clock is it, my dear?” Colonel Tracy asked in a sunk piping voice, not absolutely needful under the circumstances.

“Nearly time for lights,” Dorothea answered cheerfully. “I can’t see my watch, I am afraid. What a dull afternoon! I shall be glad when the curtains are drawn.”

Colonel Tracy sighed lugubriously.

“Isn’t it nice that you are able to come in here again? I hope you will soon be able to have a short walk.”

“My dear, I have no strength, —none whatever.”

“Living on beef-tea and gruel makes anybody feel rather weak, I suppose. Mrs. Stirring says so. You will be able to try a little piece of chicken to-morrow.”

“Mrs. Stirring’s bread sauce!” The Colonel shuddered.

“Oh, she will do her best now you are not well. And when you are able to get out of doors, you will be quite hungry again.”

“I have no appetite. None whatever,” groaned the Colonel.

“Perhaps a little starving does no harm,” hazarded Dorothea. “If it does not go on too long.”

“My dear, you don’t know what you are talking about. You don’t understand in the least. If Mrs. Stirring knew how to cook—but I have such a sense of emptiness. I feel quite ill for want of food. It is a most distressing sensation.”