Chapter 18: A Mistake

“THE twelfth of February,” said Emmeline Claughton. She spoke in a slow considering tone, gazing at the Woodlands’ drawing-room fireplace, and surrounded by the Woodlands quartette of ladies.

“Nearly a fortnight off,” remarked Margot.

“Yes.”

“My father was bent upon getting the Tracys down here on the earliest possible day; but nothing will induce Colonel Tracy to stir sooner.”

“No.”

“So February the twelfth has been definitely settled?”

“Yes.”

“Have you anything against it?” asked Isabel abruptly, speaking out what the others only thought.

“Why should I?”

“Well—you looked—”

“Colonel Erskine is naturally anxious to see his old friend. I would not have a hand in putting off such a meeting for a single hour. If it had happened to be a week later—”

“But why? What difference could that make?”

“Oh, none really. Only Mervyn is coming home on the seventh for two or three weeks; and we have just heard that Edred means to run down on the twelfth for a couple of nights or so. Mother thought some of you would come to dinner on the thirteenth, —Colonel Erskine, and perhaps Margot and Dolly. You don’t care for dinner parties, I know.”

“I detest them. But why shouldn’t they all go still, and the Tracys too?” asked blundering Isabel.

Emmeline met the suggestion by silence.

“My dear, that would not do,” said Mrs. Erskine. “We can’t inflict utter strangers upon Mrs. Claughton.”

“But couldn’t—” Isabel hesitated, and looked at Dolly with a meaning glance, which Dolly did not see, but felt. A swift flush rose to the girl’s pale cheeks.

“My father would not think of leaving Colonel Tracy,” said Margot, purposely misunderstanding the question. “It is unfortunate, but I am afraid the thing can’t be.”

“If the Tracys could be put off for two days,” said Isabel.

Dolly spoke up suddenly. “O no; my father would be so disappointed. Very likely, that would mean they’re not coming at all. It can’t be helped.”

“It is very unfortunate,” said Emmeline.

“Things won’t always fit in just as one wishes,” said Dolly. Then she left her seat and went towards the door. “Margot, I quite forgot to see to those Christmas roses in your room. I’ll do it now.”

Margot simply said, “Thank you.”

Isabel exclaimed, “Why, Dolly, there is no hurry. You needn’t run away while Emmeline is here.”

“I may not have time by-and-by,” said Dolly, and she escaped without saying good-bye.

Twenty minutes later Margot went upstairs, and found Dolly, as she expected, in her bedroom. The supply of Christmas roses had been turned out upon a small table, and the vase had been filled with fresh water. Dolly stood with her back to the door, snipping at the ends of the stalks in most businesslike style; but the next moment Margot saw tears running fast down her cheeks.

“My dear Dolly!” she said gently.

“I haven’t—quite done,” Dolly murmured.

Margot stood for a few seconds watching; but the tears streamed on. Dolly’s lips quivered unmanageably, and it was evident that she could not see what she was doing. Margot drew the scissors out of her hand, sat down, and took Dolly into her arms. There was a momentary of effort at resistance; and then Dolly gave in, hid her face, and broke into bitter sobbing.

“Poor little Dolly! Dear little Dolly! Never mind! A good cry will make you feel better.”

“O Margot! It is so hard. I don’t know how to bear it!”

So much and no more reached Margot’s ears. She attempted no answer at first, but stroked the fair hair and kissed the hot brow over and over again, with comforting whispers. Presently, when the sobs lessened, she asked—

“What is it that seems so hard?”

“I don’t know. Everything.”

“Not only this disappointment about the evening at the Park?”

“Oh, —that and—everything.”

“I’m so sorry. It is very unfortunate, as Emmeline says. After you were gone, I tried to feel my way to some other arrangement; but Emmeline did not help me. If Mrs. Claughton has set her mind on having my father, she would not care to have you and me without him, —two ladies at a dinner are not very welcome, you know. And I don’t quite think we both ought to leave Miss Tracy under the circumstances. Colonel Tracy must be a touchy man, and he might take offence. And, Dolly, I don’t think it would do for you to go alone, well as we know the Claughtons. Even if Emmeline had proposed it, and she didn’t—”

“No,” whispered Dolly.

“But we are sure to see Mervyn and Edred somehow.”

Dolly sighed heavily.

“Perhaps Edred may stay longer than he intends.”

“Yes,” murmured Dolly; “when he knows that—that—she will be here.”

“Dorothea Tracy? It may be only our fancy about him and her. Still—”

“Margot, I feel so wicked about her sometimes.”

“Or rather, you are tempted to feel wickedly.”

“Is that all? I think I do feel it—now and then. I’m trying not to give in. But when she comes—if I should hate her—if I should see that she—”

Margot was silent, considering what to say. Then she spoke out gently.

“If you should see Edred loving and seeking Dorothea Tracy, you know that one happiness which you wish for is not to be yours. You would know that the life you could choose is not to be your life. Dolly, some of us have to go through that pain, and, hard as it may seem, I think we are not the worse for it in the end; at least, we need not be. One has to learn, somehow, to fight and endure: and that may be as good a way as any other. I can’t tell yet if that is to be your discipline; but if it is, you will not hate Dorothea Tracy. She has a right to be loved: and she would not be to blame. Whether he would be to blame is another question. I do not know if he has ever given any reason—”