Dorrie. A novel

Front matter

DORRIE a DORRIE A NOVEL BY WILLIAM TIREBUCK AUTHOR OF "SAINT MARGARET," ETC. LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16* STREET 1891 [Ail rights reserved] To thee, Dear Mother, do I dedicate This book — this mutely-breathing child of mine Conceived in love and borne, beloved, in pain And fed as from the bosom of the brain : 'Tis with thy sacred name that I enshrine Its advent to the crowded World and — Fate. CONTENTS. CHArTER FAQE I. A Public Character 1 II. A Birthday 8 III. A Delicate Operation 17 IV. Discharged with a Caution 34 V. Blind — that he might see the More 45 VI. The Call 48 VII. A Crisis 56 VIII. Hot Water 60 IX. At the Monument 65 X. In the Cab 75 XI. The Hand 87 XII. Katharine's Decision 96 XIII. Nathan's Plight 113 XIV. A New World 118 XV. Mr. Franklin's Project 128 XVI.

Dorrie's Lodging 135 XVn. A.N Eventful Sunday Morning 146 XVHI. At Last 164 XIX. Dorrie's Next New Lodging 171 XX. Seeking an Engagement 176 XXI. An Old Friend 191 XXII. " Which Way are you going ? " 199 XXIII. A New Friend 209 XXIV. The Old Friend and the New 216 XXV. All for Dorrie 222 XXVI. A Bit of Business 233 XXVH. Fresh Ground 238 XXVHI. Between Life and Death CONTENTS. VIII PAGE CHArTER XXIX. A Behearsal 262 XXX. The Infants' School 268 XXXI. At Work 276 XXXII. "Wanted— A Number of Young Ladies, etc." . . . 281 XXXHI. At Play 291 XXXIV. Begie's Good Fortune— and Bad 296 XXXV. A Narrow Escape 304 XXXVI. The Compromise 310 XXXVII. Working and Waiting 316 XXXVIH. Besults 328 XXXIX. Progress 331 XL. Ehoda's Dread 346 XLI. The Cottage 358 XLII. That Night 368 XLIII. Between Country and Town 370 XLIV.

Illusions 377 XLV. Between Mansion and Cottage 382 XLVI. Dolly's Bise and Fall 392 XL VII. A Message from the Town 399 XLVni. To the Bescue 410 XLIX. Mr. Franklin's View 420 L. " As you wish " 428 LI. Another Bescue 435 LH. Too much Kindness 442 LHI. An Important Engagement 449 LIV. A New Phase 456 LV. Au Important Announcement 461 LVI. Two Bequests DORRIE.

Chapter I

A PUBLIC CHARACTER. The noblest and widest thoroughfare in Liverpool is the tri angular space fronting St. George's Hall, and known all the world over as Lime Street. Brown's Library and Museum, the Picton Reading Room, the Walker Art Gallery, and the County Courts form the basis of this triangular space to-day. But we have to do with days when Brown's Library stood alone, with a look of incomplete abruptness, when the ground on which the Picton Reading Room and the Walker Art Gallery now stand was roughly paved and used as a weekly vegetable market, and for the annual sojourn of Manders' Menagerie, shooting-galleries, penny shows, and Cheap Jacks. At that time there was a snug corner in the balcony-like wall in front of Brown's Library, formed by the projecting base of a built-in stone column ; and in that quiet corner, when weather permitted, a young man sat on a folding-up seat, with a large opened book on his knee.

He was blind, and about twenty-six years of age, but he looked younger because of his close-shaven face and a young though not youthful expression. Like most blind people, he was heedless about his appearance. Even what weather-worn and sun-burnt clothes he had were very carelessly treated. He did not concern himself about them. The fact is, his keenest sensation in this direction was the comfort of being warmly covered. Of the pleasure of being seen in our brightest and best, he had a very vague idea indeed, and even that vague idea was second-hand, transplanted into him from a feminine source, of which we must speak later on. And yet that poor blind fellow's unconscious carelessness was far more effective than many a seeing man's conscious care. B DOBEIE. Beneath the surface of his even needy appearance he had the demeanour of an uncommon nature.

Whichever way the broad brimmed, soft-felt hat was cast on Ms head, it always looked right. His clusters of wavy, brown hair, his broad well-marked brow, and the clear firm outline of his narrowing face from his brow to his full chin, seemed to adapt themselves to anything he donned. Yes, there was an assimilating power in the firmly curved line of his very nose which virtually defied the fellow to put even that weather-worn, broad-brimmed hat on without producing a pleasing result. It was the same with his loosely-hanging coat — originally navy blue, but with shades of browning greens where the suns of several summers had caught it most ; it was the same with his ample vest of an old-fashioned figured bluish material, devoid of several of the original round glass buttons, but with two or three odd ones sewn with his own hands to at least keep the vest in its place ; it was the same with his slack, turned-down collar, and with his plenteous, old ribbed-silk tie, of an indefinite browny hue, looped in an equally indefinite sailor's knot, the ends of which were left to find their own way in or out (it didn't matter which) of the top part of his vest ; the same heedlessness prevailed even down to his shoes, where it was a rare thing to see both laces of the same material and in precisely similar bows at precisely the same time.

This public character had not the unsearchable beauty of sight, but Providence had endowed him in every other respect with the outward beauty of an inward grace. His personality imparted a meditative and sometimes a pathetic dignity to everything about him. His insignificant trappings became significant because he was inside them. The surprise was not, how very much he was improved by clothes, but how very much commonplace clothes were improved by him. Even the frayed collar (always snow clean), or a fringed coat sleeve, or a worn pair of shoes, did not appear on him to have the usual air of humiliating seediness. The simple fact that he had them on, legitimatized them, made them in perfect keeping. The mere fact that he wore them, somehow translated tatters into perfect propriety— at least for him.

Men and women became aware of this silent quality of his. Merchants, tradesmen, brokers, and clerks, passing that way to business, noted him ; the policeman regarded him as a feature of his beat ; children were attracted by him — so, indeed, were mis chievous office-boys and errand-lads, who dropped buttons and pebbles into his tin box ; town cousins pointed him out to country cousins as one of the sights ; and, perhaps most significant of all, A PUBLIC CHAEACTEE. 3 certain young ladies, when shopping in town, were known to take an extra circuit to hear him read, and for the satisfaction of seeing him ; while, in millinery and dressmaking rooms, young appren tices were frequently plagued by the older hands about hovering around him, as if they had fallen head over heels in love with him ; to which charge some of the apprentices quite as playfully replied — " Well, and what if we have ?

" The name of the blind reader was Nathan Brant. He did not read like a biblical automaton, set going by the sound of an approaching foot or of a coin dropped into his box. As a rule, he only read when some strong feeling impelled him. When silent. he was musing ; and when his musing was very absorbing, his brown eyes appeared to be flawless — they looked, in fact, as if they could see. And so they could ; but only with an inward vision of tranquil spiritual fancy and emotion. One warm afternoon in June, Nathan Brant's dreamy mood was more persistent than usual. His thoughts wandered to a small house in a dingy and decaying street off Islington, behind London Road, to a kitchen in that house, and in particular to two sisters there — Katharine anxiously finishing a black dress, a funeral order ; and Dorrie, otherwise Dorinda, trying to read a penny journal that had a good deal of sentiment in the pictures, but a great deal more in the print.

This was how Nathan Brant saw the sisters in his mind's eye. This was how he knew they were when he left them in the morning. And his fancy wandered there, and with increasing vividness stayed there, as if his fancy knew something more about Katharine and Dorrie at that hour than he, the mere material man, did, but would not reveal exactly what. Now, Katharine and Dorrie Holt were Nathan Brant's land ladies. He lodged with them. He boarded off their little round table in the kitchen as he had boarded off the same table when it was their mother's. During the mother's sudden and brief illness the poor woman's anxiety about her girls became a mania. Her mind wandered on the subject. She hoped this and she hoped that ; she hoped all manner of strange things ; but her principal and sane hopes were that Katharine would get plenty of work, that Dorrie would be good and able to turn her hand to something — though it was a thousand pities that she had never taken to anything or learned something — and that between them they would never come to want ; that, in fact, they would manage to live.

The wearied and bewildered mother's anxiety at last resolved itself into a private appeal to Nathan Brant, that when she had gone he DOEEIE. should go on lodging in the house like one of themselves, as if she were still there. She was sure Katharine could manage ; she was certain Dorrie would help to make him feel at home. It would be such a blessing if he would stay on and keep his lodgings, just as if nothing had happened to interfere with the girls keeping a shelter over their heads. Nathan Brant promised that he would stay on, and so it came about that even more than ever the blind reader lived with Katharine and Dorrie Holt like a brother with two sisters. In the mother's time he had known Katharine as a hardworking maker of other people's dresses ; but he had now also come to know her as the busy housekeeper, the preparer of the meals, the handy contriver of comforts in a humble way, and, on rare occasions, as the reader of a paper or a book to him at night.

But beneath all this everyday knowledge of her there were indefinite depths of something else — of character, power, goodnature, and reserve — which he could only very vaguely attempt to fathom with the subtle plummet of his blind instinct. He could only vaguely attempt to fathom these unknown depths, because from the first her quiet reserve had always held him at bay. Though he had lived in the same kitchen with her (including the six months when her mother lived) for about a year, he did not feel that he thoroughly knew her, any more than we thoroughly know what may be beyond a mist even in a half familiar landscape. He knew nothing about her physique except that she was thin and tall — thin, by report, and tall by the altitude of her voice when she stood. Not once had he in any way touched her ; not even the hem of her garment.

The nearest approach to touching was to hear her pass near his chair with a lithe easy movement, resulting in a sound that only escaped beingsilence— a sound, indeed, that seemed to have surreptitiously escaped from silence for an instant, and then returned to it, afraid of the strange world where movements are audible. His conjecture as to Katharine Holt being tall, was right. She was tall. Her figure had a nun-like spareness, her pale face a nun-like gentle severity, and her movements a nun-like quietness ; and dressmaker though she was, living in a dingy and decaying street, she lived among her grim surroundings with something of the quiet distinction of a crescent in the breach of a murky sky. She had, indeed, throughout, the pale shining crescent-like character of a nature passing through phases of development, serenely reflecting more and more a brighter light than its own — reflecting as best she could the spiritual light which she quietly sought day by day.

A PUBLIC CHAEACTEE. 5 Katharine was notably dark, with straight hair almost black, and large, seeking, ungratified eyes, blackness itself, looking from under her square, dark brow. Of these outward and visible signs, of course, Nathan Brant knew nothing. He knew Katharine Holt as an invisible, intangible, but very practical presence — an embodi ment of noble industry, and of industrious nobility, for she was never weary of doing, and of doing everything well. On the other hand, Nathan Brant knew Dorrie Holt by touch as well as by sound. Dorrie herself — especially of late — had taken very good care that he did. She had neither a spareness, a severity, nor a silence. As Katharine had the quiet lunar vitality, so Dorrie had much of the erratic rush of the comet, tail and all, for she loved a skirt with a wag.

Her full nature could not even breathe quietly. It breathed as if she drew a physical gratifica tion out of mere breath — as, indeed, in a still wider sense she did, for she revelled in a walk against a strong wind, solely because, as she frankly admitted, it made her skirts clip her so. This creature, a head shorter than Katharine, was seventeen. Her complexion was florid. In fact her entire nature was florid ; so much so that when she stood or sat near Nathan, she threw off an atmospheric warmth that sometimes made his flesh tingle. Her abundant hair in certain lights had a shade of dark reddish brown, like the mane of a chestnut horse, and her large roguish eyes, with plenty of " roll " in them, had circles within circles of ■changing dark and light brown with a small sparkling spot, as bright as a bead, in the centre.

Her brows were slightly arched and dark, while her long curving lashes gave a shadowy depth that enhanced the brightness of her luring and irresistible glance — yes, irresistible glance — a glance so bright, so present, so much a fact in her face, that though you were not looking direct at her eyes, you could not help but be aware of their silent gleaming play. By gradual stages of encouraged playfulness, Nathan had come to know the bonny breadth of Dorrie's fine shoulders, the round ness of her cheeks, the abundance of her loose hair, the firmness of her arm, the dainty plumpness of her small hand, the oval shape of her long nails ; yes, and the freakish viciousness of her much too friendly pinch, for there was no reticence in Dorrie Holt, either in thought, word, or deed, and she desired none in anybody else.

She expected something more than mere speech from Nathan Brant ; she looked for what she called fun along with it. Katharine, by the divine right of queenly character, received from Brant a prompt and respectful Yes and No to any enquiry ; but Dorrie was rarely answered by Nathan without the DOEEIE. addition of a playful twist of his words, sometimes even with a playful twist of her body — just to please her. At times he felt himself playing two distinct parts : courtier to Katharine and court fool to Dorrie, and extremely happy in both. As for impulsive Dorrie, if her sister were not in sight, she no more hesitated to give Brant a pinch or a punch, or to ruffle his hair, or to box his ears, or even to pull his Roman nose into a Grecian cr press it into a pug, if the whim tickled her fancy, than she hesitated to tell him that he wanted shaving, or that he was in great need of a new pair of trousers or boots.

Dorrie, in fact, liked to live with the small, almost atomic facts of the most commonplace moments passing there and then before her ; of the larger facts of a day or a week or of a lifetime she took no heed. The two sisters in this way acted upon Nathan Brant by contraries, and yet the general result — that is, his life with them — was most harmonious, for his nature having something of each of theirs in it, received an influence from both. Two Dorries, he sometimes reflected, would not have brought about such a complete result ; neither, he also admitted, would two Katherines. As blind Nathan sat musing in the sunlight of that afternoon in June, many of these facts flitted to and fro in retrospective reveries. He dreamily mused until, in a momentary lapse of fixed thought about them, he became self-conscious.

Why did he think so much about them just then ? Was something wrong at home ? And he dwelt upon a sharp word or two that had passed from Dorrie to Katharine at breakfast. Thought asked — Had they quarrelled ? Thought further enquired — Had they ? and then suggested that he ought to go home and see. But he resisted the suggestion, and began to read. Bother it ! — he detested perversity. Perversity just then was indifference, a selfish wish to let an impulse drift. He would not let it drift. If anything had happened, what good was he doing there ? He closed the Bible, folded up his cross-legged canvas seat, tied them together, and took his stick from the comer. A policeman who was on weather-wise, familiar terms with Nathan, seeing his preparations, remarked — " You're off uncommon early to-day !

" " Yes," replied Nathan, already half ashamed of his uneasiness ; " rather early ; but I want to get home." He started off along the edge of the parapet and poked his way in a very knowing fashion up William Brown Street and Islington, until he reached the dingy and decaying street — a street of high houses, and low cellars, slatternly women on doorsteps, neglected children left to themselves and the dirt, men with their A PUBLIC CHAEACTEE. hands in their pockets at court corners, and young women with the dull, dirty, tattered, and patched look of a free library book in great demand — a dreary street, a dejected street, as if bricks and mortar, windows and doors, pavements and paving-stones, were melancholy with the indifferent and inactive dirtiness and dulness of the people about them. DORRIE.

Chapter II

A BIRTHDAY. As soon as Nathan Brant had turned the round iron knob of the front door, and had taken a step into the narrow lobby, he realized that his anxiety was quite a mistake. He heard Dorrie Holt whistling — whistling in a low, solilo quial tone — in the kitchen at the end of the lobby ; and he stood and listened. The tune was one that had been made very familiar at that time by music-hall singers, pantomimes, and street-organs, and was known as " Mouse-traps." Nevertheless, though " Mouse traps " was only a music-hall ditty, a " character song," the tune had the begging, appealing plaintiveness of a street ballad, which, indeed, it was supposed to be. Dorrie had picked it up, as the phrase goes, in the street, from organs, concertinas, whistling and singing errand-boys. But mere whistling did not satisfy Dorrie now, and she glided from whistling into full song with the words of the chorus — '• Mouse-traps ! — a penny — Who'll buy ?

Mouse-traps — a penny — Who'll buy ? A house for a mouse — a penny ! — Who'll try ? Mouse-traps ! Oh, please, will you buy ! " She sang those words as if she veritably had a trap in her hand, and only wanted one solitary penny to keep her from starving. Her fervour surprised Nathan. " That is not singing for singing's sake," he mused. "A girl cannot surely sing like that unless she wants something. She cannot pretend so well as that." The fervour, however, did not last long. As soon as she had sung the chorus twice — and the second time was not quite as appealing as the first— she glided while singing, into dancinoa waltz to the tune. Donie quickened the time considerably, and went tripping among the chairs in the confined space of the kitchen until a bump against the round table in the centre shook the tea things, and brought her to a stand.

But she continued to sing, and with scant breath — " Mouse-traps ! — a penny — Who'll buy ? Mouse-traps — a penny — Who'll buy? A house for a mouse — a penny ! — Who'll try? Mouse-traps ! Oh, please, will you buy ! " Nathan stealthily went along the lobby, took a penny from his vest pocket, and for fun slyly threw it into the kitchen. It bounced and rolled ou the flagged floor. " Good oceans ! " exclaimed Dorrie, in her spontaneous way of combining any two words that sounded well. She leapt aside and eyed the rolling penny as if it were a mouse. " Good gracious ! who — who's — there ? " she called, half -afraid, in the direction of the lobby. There was no answer. " Who's — there ? " she repeated. There was no reply. "I know ! " she called as if inspired ; but not at all inspired enough to have confidence in herself, she sidled with misgivings to the back door leading from the kitchen to the yard.

" You needn't hide there — you might as well come in — I know who it is." Nevertheless Brant did not speak. He knew by her voice that she was uncertain. He knew too, that all this would mean a hearty laugh when it was over. Dorrie called again, but he did not answer. He was as quiet as a mouse — she as anxious as a cat, and between the two the whole house to Dorrie was unpleasantly quiet. In fact, she became afraid, and called " Brant ? Brant \—is it you ? Brant ! " He continued without a sound ; though it was difficult to suppress a betraying laugh when she added, " You soft thing ! Can't you speak ? What's the use of going on like that ! Do you hear ! If you won't come then — I'll go." And she lifted the latch of the back door. Nathan knew she was . a creature of her word in that respect, and thought of revealing himself.

Before he did so, however, Dorrie was fired with a new idea— she picked up a " buffet " and hurled it at the lobby entrance. It missed the entrance, but made such a ponderous ominous bang against the open door between the lobby and the kitchen, just as Nathan was about to DORRIE. come forward, that he jumped backward with fright, bumping his head against the wall ; but soon recovering himself, he good humouredly yielded a laugh that betrayed him. " I knew it was you," she cried, springing forward very much relieved, as he turned into the kitchen. " I knew it all the time — all the time," she repeated in a tone of crowing bravado, now that the doubt was over. " Not all the time," he replied. " All," she answered, taking the tied-up Bible and seat from under his arm to place them in their usual corner.

" Didn't you get doubtful when I kept so quiet ? " " Me ? No ! " " You did a little— I could tell by " " Not a bit. Not a bit. Doubtful ? Not me ! " " Dorrie Holt ! " he said accusingly. " No, I didn't— I didn't at all— I'm— I'm sure I didn't." " Not when you went to the back door ? " " N — o," she replied, turning the Bible restlessly in her arms. " Then what did you go to the door for ? " " Oh — eh — to try and see you, of course. Of course ! — it was to try and see — to try and see you in the lobby." " And did you see me ? " he asked, pained that he was forced to ask it. " Y — es," she answered. The cracked sound of damaged truth in her usually clear voice spoke against her, and if Nathan had had sight, he would have seen that her flushed cheeks and blinking gaze also declared against her, for even a lie tells the truth of itself when it gets into a face.

" You did ? " he asked, tempted entirely for her own sake to give her one more chance. " Yes ! " she answered more boldly than ever. He bit his lip. That was worse and worse. As a fact, as soon as he had thrown the penny, thinking Dorrie would rush to the lobby and discover him, he slipped into the parlour on his right, and remained there all the time. He now wished he had stayed in the lobby, to save her and himself from the pain of that moment. He shrank from distressing her ; and yet he could not let that falsehood pass. He could not. Something greater than himself, greater than Dorrie, would be dishonoured if he did. " Come, Dorrie, be candid with me," he said. " You did not really know that I was there ? You did not see me. I know you could not." "I did, I did, I did!" " Be careful ! For your own sake, Dorrie Holt, be careful.

Remember, you have the Bible in your hand ! " " Oh, you and your Bible ! " she cried out passionately, and flung the bundle on the floor near its customary corner. " Leave me alone ! I did know it was you — there ! " All the earnestness of her singing, all the joyousness of her dancing, all the playfulness of the situation were utterly crushed out of him. He was face to face with a spirit called up from her worst depths. He did not think she could have been so deceptive and obstinate with him, they were on such open terms of frolic some good-will with each other. With quite a new pang, a new consciousness of his blindness sank into him. Because he was blind, Dorrie had fancied she could deceive him ; and because he was blind, he felt the attempted deception the more. A certain frank and affectionate ideal Dorrie was blotted out.

One candid word — the little word No, instead of Yes — and all would have been right. But girlish, playful, and trusted Dorrie had kept the right word out — she had lied to him ; she had dishonoured his old Bible ; she had flung it aside — and practically she flung him aside with it. Nevertheless — such was Nathan Brant — in his pity for her, cornered, silent, and sulky in her guilt, he felt a deeper concern for her than ever. It was of no use, however, pushing the subject further. Her spirit was obstinate. He should only drive her deeper into the very wrong he desired to set right. He resolved to let the subject drop ; and he groped about for liis armchair. He found it on the right of the fireplace, and, injured and dejected, he sank into it. He had the aggravating wish that he had remained at his post at the Library wall.

So as not to let the awkward silence get the mastery of them, Nathan asked Dorrie where her sister was. Dome did not hear the question. She was standing turned away from him with her brow bent into her palms. She wanted to speak but she could not. She had all the yearning of repentance without the relief of confession. , All her thoughts and feelings condemned her. It was cruel and bad of her to tell blind Nat Brant, good Nat Brant, playful Nat Brant a lie ; and yet she stood isolated, lonely, spellbound in her own obstinacy. "Dorrie !," — called Nathan, just to break the ice. She heard that ; but the ice was still too firm, and she stood imprisoned in the thick of it. Tears were readier than words, but not quite ready enough. Abortive wrords and abortive tears struggled with each other, the tears threatening to choke her if she spoke.

She pinched herself, torturing herself with her own DORRIE. thumb-screw, to force the truth out ; and at last, at last, the obstinate tears flooded up, she twisted round, ran to the side of his chair, and cried between her sobs — " I— I— didn't know it was you, Brant ; and — and — I didn't see you at all; and — and — it's my birthday to-day, it is ; and — and — 1 didn't want to have fibs on a — on a birthday ; it'll be bad luck." Nathan simply muttered, " Dorrie — Dorrie — good Dorrie ; " and moaning and crying, she sank over him with her head help lessly cast down near his. Then she pulled and hugged him ; her gratitude actually laughed through her weeping, and Nathan felt something soft and warm against his lips. It was Dorrie's pressing cheek, and lo — his gratitude formed his lips there in a thought-of, but arrested, kiss.