ON the way home Doris's barometrical conditions underwent a change. Excitement had vanished; chatter ceased.
The talkative mood over, she became conscious of having given vent to a good deal of nonsense. And people seldom talked nonsense at Lynnthorpe. The atmosphere was uncongenial; in fact, Lynnthorpe was the wrong place for nonsense of any sort, good, bad, or indifferent.
From earliest childhood the doctrine had been impressed upon Doris that, when with any of the Stirling family, she must be on her best behaviour, must speak in her gentlest tones, must use her mildest adjectives. Perhaps she had never before so flagrantly run in the teeth of these rules.
So far as regarded Hamilton she did not mind. She had meant to shock him—a little—and if she had succeeded, so much the better. But to shock Mr. Stirling and Katherine was like shocking Royalty; a thing not to be got over. She determined that, next time she went to Lynnthorpe, she would carefully wipe out to-day's impressions by an elderly decorum, better suited to the dignified surroundings. She loved Katherine with a mild and flameless affection; and she looked upon the Squire as the ne plus ultra—the ultima thule—of all that a man should be. He was in her girlish eyes the embodiment of masculine perfection; and from judgment in that direction existed no appeal.
Besides these uneasy recollections, she was annoyed with Hamilton for his insistence in seeing her home. It was an annoyance entirely due to her mother's action. Possibly she might have been disappointed had he not insisted.
He rode his bicycle as he did most things, too rigidly; while her lissom figure swayed with easy grace to each curve in the road; and she flew along at a speed which he tried to check by holding back. In vain; for she shot ahead, glanced back, and gave him a wicked little farewell nod. He had to put on speed to overtake her.
She was thinking hard. She knew that he objected to rapid bicycling for women; and she was bent still on crossing him. Mrs. Winton had seemed to take it for granted—or so Doris imagined—that he only had to speak to be accepted. Her pride was up in arms. Nobody should suppose that she sat meekly, with folded hands, awaiting permission to be his.
She might marry some day. She might even marry Hamilton Stirling. It was not an impossibility. All things considered, she rather favoured the notion, as a dim and distant prospect. She enjoyed feeling herself the object of somebody's attentions. It gave her a touch of prestige. Moreover, she had a supreme admiration for intellect in every form; and thus far Hamilton was about the best embodiment of intellect that she had come across.
Or if not, he appeared so to her; and at least he thoroughly believed in himself. Doris was not unwilling to accept him at his own valuation. He had graduated with moderate honours, and had elected to enter no profession, but to devote his life to the pursuit of science. Since he had enough to live on, he could do as he chose. His mother objected, but not strenuously, being glad to keep him at home. Friends opposed the decision; but Hamilton, with calm indifference, pursued the even tenor of his way.
He was not an energetic man, yet none could call him idle. He read a great deal, belonged to divers learned societies, and wrote much, with the avowed intention of becoming, one day, a scientific luminary. Doris decided that, if ever she did marry him, he should write something that would stir the world. She would be his helper, his inspirer. The idea was fascinating; and she failed to remember the disappointed ambitions of a certain "Dorothea," great in fiction,— aspirations like in kind.
While so cogitating she abstained from remark, waiting for him to begin. But he too was silent. He could not get over her conduct that afternoon, or the coldness with which she had so far received his confidential letter.
It dawned upon her that, if he had made up his mind not to take the initiative, no power on earth would make him. There was a spice of obstinacy in his composition.
"How nice it was of you to write and tell me about that article of yours being accepted!" she said approvingly.
He spoke in chilling accents. "I supposed that you felt no interest."
"But I do. Why, of course I do. I think it's most frightfully jolly that you are really going to get into print at last. Quite too delicious, I mean,"—as she recalled his dislike to girlish slang. Perhaps she had shocked him enough for one day. "And now they've taken one paper, they'll take lots more, of course. How soon is it coming out?"
"Probably in a month or two." Curt still.
"Odd—isn't it?— that when a heap of old bones are found in a cave, people can put them together—like a jig-saw puzzle—and settle all about the sort of creatures that used to live there?"
Hamilton smiled a superior smile; and Doris's long lashes twinkledan acknowledgment.
"But sometimes the very cleverest men do make mistakes—and call the old bones by wrong names."
This "drew" Hamilton, as she intended; and he launched into an elaborate defence of scientists in general. Very much to his surprise, he found her remark to be no random shaft. He had discovered before now a cheerful uncertainty about Doris's mental attributes, which kept him continually on the stretch. You never could foretell what she would produce next from her hidden laboratory. Any amount of feminine inconsequence might come to the fore; but, when least expected, she would send an arrow straight to the mark.
"Oh, yes, of course. Nobody makes mistakes on purpose. But there was a bone somewhere, which all the savants declared was a human bone. And they proved a heap of things from it, about how long man had been living on earth. And in the end it turned out to be only a bear's bone; so all the wonderful arguments went to smash. Father told me; and I think he was rather pleased. Only, he was afraid a great many people who heard of its being a man's bone, never were told that it was all a mistake. And he said we should never be in a hurry to draw conclusions of that sort, because Science is a structure built upon discarded blunders." She quoted the words with empressement.
Hamilton had intended to give, not to receive, information. He would not for the world confess that he had forgotten the incident in question; for a man whose cue it is to know everything naturally does not like to be caught napping. He was conscious of relief when she went back to his article.
"Would you care to read it in proof?" he asked.
"May I, really?" Her face flashed into brilliant interest. "I've never read proof-sheets. May I help you to correct the mistakes?"
His smile showed doubt of her powers. "I have it here," he remarked, and she was on the ground with a spring. Impetus carried him ahead; but he wheeled, came back, and dismounted.
"You should not jump off in that wild way. It is unsafe."
"Oh, I often do, going full speed. I always come down right way up. Do show me the proof. It's light enough."
Her eagerness gratified him. They stood at one side of the road, and red sunset gleams, shining through a thin veil of trees, found a reflection in her sunny face. He fished a small packet out of its retreat, and she scanned the long slip with delight, spotting instantly two slight printer's errors which had escaped his notice. He pencilled both; and then she pitched on another mistake, this time grammatical, not the printer's but Hamilton's own. He was chagrined, finding it impossible to deny the force of her contention; and—"I will consider it"—was all he could bring himself to say. He had expected praise, not criticism.
A motor car rushed by, covering them both with dust. Doris was too much absorbed to notice it.
"You couldn't let that stay. Think—how it would sound!" She read the sentence aloud with exaggerated emphasis. But the next instant she was soothing his ruffled sensibilities. "How you must love to see yourself in print! I should like it of all things. To feel that one has power over other people's minds—to feel that one may help them, and make them better! Don't you see?"
She met a non-comprehending glance. What Hamilton did see at that moment was Doris herself. He wondered that he had been so slow to realise her charm. Yes—she was the woman for him—with just a little shaping and manipulation. He was glad that he had spoken to Katherine.
"Don't you see?" she repeated, her hazel eyes deepening. "I think—I do really think—I would rather have that power than any other. Only, of course, one would have first to understand more of life."
But life in Hamilton's eyes wore a simple aspect, not in the least perplexing. He was always sure of his own standing, and he could look upon no landscape from his neighbour's position.
"People seem so oddly arranged for—so queerly placed!" She forgot the printed slip in her hand, as she gazed dreamily away from him and toward the reddening west. "Born artists set to darn socks; and born musicians set to sweep crossings; and born idiots set to govern nations. People having to live with just those others who go most frightfully against the grain,—and having to do just exactly the work that they most detest and can't—really can't—ever do well. Why mayn't people always be with those that suit them—and do the things they like doing?"
His slower mind followed her gyrations with difficulty. There was in him no gift of instant grip and swift response, that most valuable of assets in dealing with other minds. He could talk for an hour at a time, but always in certain grooves. He could not catch up another's line of thought, and make it for the time his own. Before he could decide what to say, she was off on a fresh tack.
"I'm so glad you're going to get this paper out. It's a beginning. But you won't stop there, will you? You won't only write articles on geology and that sort of thing—will you? Not only about the bones of poor old dead people, who lived such ages and ages ago. Can't you sometimes write what would help the people who are alive now—something that will tell them how to make the best of their lives? Do you see what I mean? You don't mind my saying it? So many people seem to be all wrong—put in the wrong place, and having the wrong sort of work to do. And if you can write, couldn't you help them—say something to show them how to get right?"
Her shining eyes were full upon him; and he had an uneasy consciousness that she was asking of him that which he was powerless to give. The feeling of incapacity was unwelcome; and he took refuge from it by beginning to quote in his measured tones—
"'The trivial round, the common task,Will furnish all—'"
"'The trivial round, the common task,Will furnish all—'"
"'The trivial round, the common task,Will furnish all—'"
"'The trivial round, the common task,
Will furnish all—'"
"But that has been said before," she interrupted hastily. "Everybody knows it; and I think now we want something new. Couldn't you give us something fresh? Couldn't you think it all out, and give it us in words that haven't been said before?"
She read displeasure in his look.
"Besides—the trivial round never does furnish me with all I want. I detest common everyday tasks. They are so stupendously dull. Well— it can't be helped. We had better go on."
She in her turn was vexed with his lack of sympathy. She had opened out a corner of her real self, and had met with a rebuff. She gave him back his proof, and was off like an arrow, sweeping down the long gentle incline. Hamilton kept pace with her, but he counted the speed unsafe for a woman; and at the bottom of the hill he told her so. She glowered all the rest of the way. But her anger was not unbecoming. Most people, out of temper, look their worst. Hamilton was fain to admit to himself that she looked her best—reticent, dignified, with a geranium-tint in her cheeks, and a smouldering glow in the deep-set eyes which turned them nearly black.
More and more he was conscious of a growing thraldom. At some future day he would certainly make this girl his wife. It did not occur to him to say "If!" But some training first was desirable; and he hoped great things from Katherine's gentle influence. He had never so distinctly disapproved of Doris as to-day; and he had never before found himself so definitely in love with her. The combination was a trial to his well-balanced mind.
AT a side-table in the morning-room, with its green carpet, faded green curtains, and air of general usefulness, Doris sat at work over the library books. Murmured interjections of disgust, on behalf of her dainty finger-tips, broke from her, as she handled covers which had passed through the "grubbiest" village grasps. She touched them gingerly.
Behind her, at the centre table, stood Mrs. Winton, cutting a roll of coarse flannel into lengths. No gingerly touches here, or wasted moments. Mrs. Winton was an expert with her scissors.
Neither had spoken for some time. Thus far, no more had been said on the vexed question of Hamilton Stirling's letter; but Doris knew that her refusal to show it was not forgiven. An atmospheric disturbance prevailed. More than once she had said to herself, "I'd rather have a good explosion, and have done with it!"
Yet somehow she had not named her encounter with Hamilton. In a general way she would have mentioned it freely. But Mrs. Winton's question had produced an uncomfortable consciousness; and she could not now talk of him quite naturally. So she took refuge in not speaking of him at all.
The silence came to an end.
"You did not tell me that you had seen Mr. Hamilton Stirling yesterday."
Doris pasted with diligence.
"No, I didn't. Why should I? He's always in and out there."
"You gave me the impression that you had seen only Mr. Stirling and Katherine."
"I never said so."
"One may convey a wrong impression without any actual untruth." Mrs. Winton did not speak unkindly, but she was troubled; and she found herself at a disadvantage, facing Doris's back. "It was not quite like you."
Doris turned hastily.
"Mother—I can't help people's impressions. I simply said nothing, because—"
Mrs. Winton waited in vain for the end of the sentence.
"He was not only there, but you and he bicycled back together. Mrs. Stirling came in an hour ago to speak to me. She was motoring back from a party with some friends; and they saw you and him in the road, standing and talking, as if—"
"As if—what?" proudly. For this sentence, too, remained unfinished.
"She was much surprised that I had heard nothing. Why did you not tell me?"
"Because I knew, if I did, I should be badgered half out of my senses." Doris returned to her work, pasting with hands that shook a little.
"You never used to speak to me in such a tone." Mrs. Winton was really hurt. "I cannot think what has come over you lately. Mrs. Stirling evidently thinks that you said or did something which Hamilton did not like. She wanted to know from me what had passed, since she could not get him to explain."
"I don't see that it is any business of hers."
"No business of his mother's!" Mrs. Winton moved two steps nearer, and examined the sleeve of Doris's blouse. "You should get out this grease-spot."
"It's not grease!" The girl quivered under Mrs. Winton's handsome but ponderous hand.
"Certainly it is grease. You must see to it. But about Hamilton Stirling—I want to give you a word of warning. If you go on as you are doing now, you will end by driving him away. He is not a man to stand rebuffs."
"Horrid man! Let him go, and welcome! I don't want him to come bothering me."
"I don't think you mean what you are saying."
"Yes, I do. He puts me out of all patience."
Doris had swung round, after a night's rest, to a mood many degrees less favourable to her admirer. "And I can't stand being worried about him, mother. If I liked him ever so much—and I don't—at least I think I don't—that would be enough to turn me against him. All I want is to be let alone."
She flung a book down tempestuously, and vanished from the room, leaving Mrs. Winton to uneasy reflections.
That the mother should be solicitous for her child's happiness was only natural; and she honestly believed that marriage with Hamilton would ensure that happiness. True, some people counted him a bore, and others reckoned him something of a prig; but he was always agreeable to Mrs. Winton herself. She had watched his attentions from the first with approval; but had been often exercised over her daughter's erratic changes of mood. One day Doris would be all smiles and graciousness; another day she would hardly vouchsafe a glance in his direction. One day she would welcome a letter from him with barely-veiled delight; another day she would toss it aside with a disdainful—"Old bones again! What a bother!"
To Mrs. Winton this meant real anxiety. How to set things right she did not know; and it never occurred to her that the sensible plan was to do nothing. She had yet to learn the wisdom, in such affairs, of holding patiently aloof.
Doris, meanwhile, catching up a garden hat, made her way to Clover Cottage. It was by no means the first time that she had fled for comfort, after a passage-at-arms, to her new crony, Mrs. Brutt. She did not mean to betray aught that had passed. She only wanted to be soothed and made happy again. But once in the power of that astute widow, she let slip a good deal more than she knew. Mrs. Brutt had a gift for worming things out of people, without their consent.
It was nice to sit on a low chair, close to the elder lady, beyond the region of home-worries; to feel kind and approving eyes bent on herself; to have no fear of fault-finding; to be listened to with affectionate attention; to be sympathised with compassionately.
"Poor dear child! Yes, I quite understand. You have been so busy, have you not? And you are quite tired—quite jaded—with it all."
Doris disclaimed fatigue. Yet a wonder crept over her—was this sense of discontent with her little world, this craving to get away and to live a different life, really tiredness? She began to pity herself.
"What with classes—meetings—district—shoe-club—library—parish accounts—errands—"
Truth compelled a protest. Some of these belonged to winter only; some not to her at all.
"So uncomplaining! Such a brave spirit! Not much leisure for your own concerns, poor dear child!"
"Well—of course—" admitted the girl.
"Yes, of course—I know. And I can so sympathise with you in your love of reading. I adore books."
"Mother seems to think it a waste of time to read much in the morning."
"Ah—true—yes—non-intellectual!" murmured the other, not inaudibly. "Poor dear child. But, really you know, it is most necessary that you should have some recreation—apart from the time for study, which— with your mind—is so needful!"
"I go to lots of tennis-parties and afternoon teas," Doris laughed. "No end of them. You mustn't think I don't have plenty of fun." Honesty again compelled this.
Mrs. Brutt surveyed her visitor with a meaning gaze.
"Tennis-parties! Yes. And afternoon teas! Yes. That sort of thing. Just the country round. Yes. My dear, I wonder if you half guess what a bewitching creature you are. Positively, neither more nor less than bewitching. Not at your best to-day, perhaps,—you have been worried, and that tells. But if you could see yourself—sometimes!"
Doris blushed with pleasure.
"Yours is a sylph of a figure. And there is the sweetest little dimple when you smile. Yes—just there—" with a touch. "Your play of feature is simply charming. And your eyes are a true hazel—a blending of green and yellow and brown and grey. Now I have made you laugh. I like to see you laugh. It suits you to get excited. You should let yourself go oftener—give the reins, you know, and not wait to think what anybody may say."
"But when I do, I'm always sorry afterwards. I'm sure to say the wrong thing."
Mrs. Brutt ignored this.
"I only wish I had you in London," she said pensively. "Or—better still—abroad. Meeting all sorts and kinds of people, and making no end of new friends. It would do you such good. And you would be a success, Doris."
"Should I?"—wistfully.
"No doubt of it—with your figure,—your eyes—your complexion. Such a pretty creamy-white, and such a delicate rose-carnation. And you hold yourself well—you have such a natural air and pose. And you talk well, too. Oh, you would take everybody by storm. I know!"
She launched into a detailed description of life in foreign towns; of going from hotel to hotel, finding always delightful people, meeting with the élite of society. Incidentally she gave her hearer to understand that her own past career had been one long series of social triumphs, and that her present retired existence formed a dismal contrast. She piled her colours massively; and Doris's "daily round" could hardly fail to wear a dingy hue, seen alongside.
"You should get your father to let you travel for a few months. Not, of course, alone, but with some older friend. Somebody who could take you about, and introduce you to the right people. Everything depends upon that."
"I should love to go with you," Doris said warmly. "But—no chance of such a thing!"
"My dear, I should love nothing better. Well—we shall see. Sometimes impossible things become possible. Who knows? Are you going to luncheon at Lynnthorpe on Friday? You had better drive there with me, unless you prefer your bike."
Doris thought she would prefer to drive. She was disinclined for another tête-à-tête with Hamilton quite so soon. She went home, elated at having been made much of, and having become in her own eyes something of a martyr.
Mrs. Brutt suffered from no twinges of conscience. On the contrary, she felt pleased with the progress made. Lynnbrooke was dull; and she was bent upon going abroad in August. She liked the notion of a young and pretty girl by way of companion; one whom she could show off, and who would have no voice in arrangements. An older person might be troublesome.
In a certain allegorical tale, published long ago, a pilgrim, named "Good-Intent," came across a company of men, groaning under the weight of heavy chains. They had not discovered their miserable condition, till some officious passer-by had taken the trouble to point it out; whereupon, cheerfulness gave place to melancholy. That the chains existed only in their fancy, as a result of "suggestion," did not lessen their actual unhappiness.
Mrs. Brutt was doing the work of that officious passer-by. She was pointing out to Doris fetters in her life, which till then had not seemed to be fetters.
Of course the girl had trials; who has not? Of course she had to do things which she did not enjoy doing; who, again, has not? But though the fetters might not be a matter of pure imagination, their weight could be very much exaggerated.
Mrs. Brutt gave to vague dissatisfaction a definite voice. She magnified small frictions into serious troubles. Doris was warm-hearted, impressionable, easily swayed; and the elder lady knew how to manipulate such materials.
Not that she meant to do harm. Few people do. All she wanted was to bring about her own ends; to amuse herself, to make time pass pleasantly. She was kind-hearted, and by fits and starts she would go out of her way to help others. But in the main hers was a self-seeking nature.
Theoretically she knew little about the force of suggestion; but practically she was an adept in the use of that weapon. This is always possible. A duck may be an excellent swimmer, with no understanding of the theory of swimming.
Probably few of us grasp the tremendous potency of "suggestion," as exercised by one mind over another. Half the temptations that meet us may be simply the whispered "suggestions" of evil spirits. Half the helpful and comforting thoughts which arise in our minds may be the murmured "suggestions" of angels.
FRIDAY'S luncheon was in full swing; and Mrs. Brutt felt miserable. She loved to be the best-got-up woman in a room. But to be wrongly got-up is another matter.
She had come in her most imposing grey silk, topped by a toque fit for Hyde Park in the month of May. And she found rural simplicity to be the order of the day.
That Doris, whom she brought with her, should wear a serge skirt and white blouse mattered nothing. But when she found Katherine Stirling hardly better dressed; and when little Mrs. Stirling, who always looked as dainty as a doll under a glass case, turned up in a black alpaca, and the most innocent of country hats, her heart sank.
A woman of more force would, after a moment's regret, have dismissed the subject. Mrs. Brutt could not so easily put it aside. She might have felt flattered at being asked to so informal a luncheon—"quite a family affair," as she told herself; but she was direfully troubled, none the less.
Somebody else's heart had sunk very low beforehand. This was Katherine's first sight of Hamilton, since her discovery that he had begun to care too much for Doris—too little for herself. But she was a perfect hostess; and no one could have guessed from her look or manner how she had dreaded the hour.
The little party of six dropped naturally into three couples; and Mrs. Stirling, who fell to Katherine's share, chatted without cessation.
Hamilton was talking also, not less continuously than his mother; and Katherine heard every word he uttered, even while her polite attention in other directions never failed. In his monotonous undertone he was pouring forth a stream of information; and Doris listened with an air of deferential interest, which brought to his mind the ideal Mrs. Hamilton Stirling, lately hidden from view. He became sure that at last he had found her.
Doris was a different being this day from the girl whom he had met last in the house. She held herself in; she did not chatter; her voice was low; her colour was normal; her eyes were not brilliant. Despite Mrs. Brutt's advice that she should "let herself go"—advice which she had not forgotten,—she was bent upon undoing the previous impression.
So she heard, smiled, and was gracious; and if a slight yawn had to be more than once suppressed, he did not see. That she could be charming in a reckless mood, he knew; but this self-restraint, this pretty girlish dignity, suited him far better. He decided that Katherine must already have used influence to bring about such an improvement; and he sent across a grateful glance, which set Katherine's pulse leaping. Then he reverted to Doris and the Stone Age, and forgot her.
Mrs. Brutt had the Squire to herself; and—despite the dress blunder— she was bent on making the most of her chance. By hook or by crook she dragged in two or three titled names, offering them as credentials for her own respectability. Then discussion of the neighbourhood followed. Presently, gliding into foreign travel, she conducted her polite listener through two or three galleries of pictures, and was just beginning to suggest anew the advantages of a trip abroad for Doris,—"So important for the development of a young mind! So widening, didn't he think?" —when a break occurred; one of those odd sudden breaks which sometimes come without apparent reason.
One instant all three couples were hard at work. The next—voices had stopped, as if by general consent.
"Farmer Paine—" had sounded clearly in Mrs. Stirling's little bird-like tones. And everybody waited to hear what would come next.
Afterwards Mrs. Brutt recalled that it was the Squire himself who first stopped; stopped in the middle of a sentence. He tried to catch it up, but in vain. Mrs. Brutt did not wish others to hear what she had to say about Doris; and her own attention was distracted by the farmer's name. Hamilton, having just arrived at the end of a lengthy statement, came likewise to a pause at the critical moment.
"Farmer Paine! Do you know him?" asked Mrs. Brutt, leaning forward. "Such an interesting old man! He told me all about his poor wife, and the niece that has come to live with him. A genuine son of the soil!— the real antique type, don't you know?"
Mrs. Stirling lifted her eyebrows. "He's a worthy old fellow," she said irreverently.
"I heard only yesterday," remarked Katherine, "about his widowed niece having come. Can that be Mrs. Morris—'Nurse Molly' that was?"
Mr. Stirling responded to her glance of inquiry. "Yes. She was your nurse for a short time." He spoke composedly, but his forehead was a mass of fine wrinkles,—a sure token of disquietude.
"It has always been said that she saved my life."
"You were in a delicate state, and she was a careful nurse. One must allow for some exaggeration in such statements."
"I must look her up one day soon."
"Quite unnecessary. You have no recollection of her—and she was well remunerated. No need to take further steps."
The unwonted sharpness of tone took them all by surprise, as well as the objection made to so simple and natural a course of action. In general the Squire was noted for his considerate and delicate kindness towards his tenantry.
"If I were Katherine, I should certainly make a point of going," Mrs. Stirling observed. She and her son were about the only people who ever contradicted the Squire. "But if you could remember her—" turning to Katherine—"you'd find her extraordinarily altered. Nurse Molly was a perfect picture; the prettiest creature, with smiling eyes, and little tendrils of curly hair, and exquisite colouring— really exquisite. You remember, Richard?"
"She was good-looking—" reluctantly.
"That's all gone. She is transmuted into a stout, commonplace, middle-aged person, with not a ghost of good looks, and as dull as ditchwater. Nothing to say for herself."
"Unlike her uncle, then," rippled Mrs. Brutt, who never could endure a talk in which she had no share. "Such an idyllic old man! I positively adore the real old yeoman farmer."
"Mrs. Morris is anything rather than idyllic. I never saw a more prosaic individual. She has two daughters—one rather like her old self, with a considerable difference. But the other—"
"As pretty as Mrs. Morris in her young days?" interjected Mrs. Brutt.
"Too sickly. One can't judge. Nurse Molly was a wild-rose beauty, in perfect health and high spirits. Winnie is gentle and refined— I can't think where she gets that refinement from. But the elder girl, Jane, is a most impossible person. She goes cycling about in a yellow blouse, with a voice that can be heard two streets off. You know—" to the Squire. "I was telling you."
The Squire answered by a disapproving glance, and Katherine tried to stem the tide.
"She is always carrying on a flirtation with somebody," pursued Mrs. Stirling. "Her mother must find her a handful. I believe she was sent to some very inferior school, which just did for her. Yes, Katherine,— I beg your pardon. No, nothing more, thanks."
Katherine looked at Mrs. Brutt, and a move followed.
"Would you rather go straight home, or would you like a longer round?" the hostess asked presently of Mrs. Brutt, who was to be taken back in the Lynnthorpe carriage. Katherine had had as much as she wanted both of the widow and of Doris; but she seldom thought of her own wishes.
Mrs. Brutt welcomed with avidity the idea of a longer round. She would be charmed. So excessively kind of Miss Stirling. And might she make a suggestion? Would Miss Stirling feel disposed to go in the direction of Wyldd's Farm? If that was not too far, she positively longed to see again that dear idyllic old farmer. She confessed also to a slight curiosity about the niece—the once-lovely Nurse Molly.
Privately, Katherine thought the request rather presumptuous; but she acquiesced. It mattered little either way. She meant to go some time; why not now?
When they were about to start, the Squire asked for a word with Katherine in his study. He shut the door, stood for a moment thoughtfully, facing the side-window which looked out upon a magnificent cedar of Lebanon; then, without preface, he said—
"I do not wish you to have anything to do with the Morris family. Since the subject has come up, I had better say so at once."
She did not ask why, but smiled gently.
"The elder daughter is a pushing forward person. You might find her troublesome."
That brought a smile of a different type. As Miss Stirling of Lynnthorpe she had had to do with pushing persons; and, despite her shy humility, she knew how to hold her own.
"I think there is no danger," she said.
"You have not seen the young woman. She is capable of a good deal. In any case, I wish you to keep her at a distance. The less you have to say to them, the better I shall be pleased." His forehead was all over wrinkles again; but he laid a kind hand on her arm. "My dear child, you do not look well to-day. What is the matter?"
She could bear up better against anything than sympathy, and her throat ached fiercely. "I'm a little—tired," she said.
"Try to have a good rest by-and-by. You must not get over-done."
But at present no respite was possible. Outside the study door she was seized on by Mrs. Stirling.
"Hamilton and I have to be off. He declares it is going to rain. My dear—" in a whisper—"do you like that widow? I don't. She's a mass of affectations. How in the world she managed to get hold of your father—but he is as soon deluded as most men. And after a fashion she is clever. What made you propose to take her for a round?"
"She seemed to expect it."
"You look much more fit to go to bed! If ever there was a Spartan, it's you—you poor dear!—with those white cheeks. Well,—we mustn't delay any longer. You'll have her on your hands for a good two hours yet, if you don't take care. How sweet Doris looks to-day! So much prettier than when she gets into one of her rattling moods!"
Katherine was wondering why she had not mentioned to her uncle that she might be calling at the farm that afternoon. She wondered also— would it be wiser on the whole to give up the plan?
But the call would have to be paid. That little attention was, she felt, only due to one to whom—it was said—she owed her life. Since Mrs. Brutt wished to see the farm again, the present was as good a time as any other.
She hardly gave a second thought to aught so unimportant as the manners of Jane Morris. And somehow she failed to gauge the force of Mr. Stirling's injunction. It did not occur to her—perhaps because her mind was preoccupied with Doris and Hamilton—that he had definitely meant her not to go at all.
"WELL, I never!" ejaculated Jane Morris. "If that isn't a sell!"
She had donned her yellow silk blouse and a gorgeous hat, and was about to cycle to a gathering of Lynnbrooke cronies, when checked by a sudden downpour of rain. Till within the last twenty minutes the sun had shone, and nothing had been farther from her thoughts than weather.
In a trice the outer scene was transformed. Beneath a blackened sky trees bent low before the gale, and water poured in sheets. Miles of cycling under such conditions would reduce her to the drowned-rat stage.
She stood at the window in disgust.
"Plague take it! Always the way! Just the very afternoon when I was most set on going!"
"Why this afternoon?" asked Winnie. Each change in the atmosphere affected her fragile frame, and she was full of aches from head to foot. The soft eyes looked out from dark rings of pain; and a thick shawl could not keep her warm. The two were alone.
"Why? I like that! Anything to get away from this beastly hole. Nothing to do, and nobody to see! That's why."
"But why to-day particularly?"
"Oh, because—because there's a tea-party. You needn't tell mother. She only bothers."
"A tea-party where?"
"Some people I've got to know. Doesn't matter who. You don't know one from another, always mewed up here. I can't think how you put up with it. The life would drive me crazy. Well, I don't mind if I tell, only you're not to blab." Since Jane could not escape, she felt the need for a confidante. "It's at the Sparks'—Mr. Andrew Sparks and his wife. They've got a dairy, and the Parkinses are their cousins. That's how I've got to know them."
"You said there was a young Parkins."
Jane giggled.
"Well, so there is. And a young Mr. Jones. I shouldn't wonder if they'd both be there."
"Jones is the butcher."
Jane nodded.
"And there's a Mr. Winter too. I like him best. He's as clever as anything."
"You know what the Squire said," murmured Winnie.
Jane snapped derisive fingers.
"I wouldn't give that for the Squire!" she declared. "I say!—here come folks. Caught in the storm, I suppose. Goodness me—it's Miss Stirling and Miss Winton, and that fine new widow-lady—Mrs. Brutt." Jane knew by sight pretty nearly everyone within a compass of ten miles.
A ring demanded admittance; and the three ladies crowded into the narrow passage, thankful to escape from a fresh downpour. They had left the carriage at the beginning of the grass-path; and when half-way through the meadow had been overtaken by such a pelt, that they had found shelter in a shed. A slight lessening had encouraged them to hurry on; and Mrs. Brutt was breathless with the final rush.
"What a deluge!" she panted, glancing ruefully down at her handsome silk. "Really, it is quite a mercy that we were so near the farm. We should have been soaked to the skin in the open carriage,—without even umbrellas."
"I hope Thomas will find shelter somewhere till the storm is over," Katherine said in her gentle indifferent voice, as she turned to meet a woman coming downstairs. "Mrs. Morris?" she asked.
Mrs. Morris's "Yes" was sufficiently curt.
Katherine held out a hand, with her distant graciousness, and it was taken slowly.
"I have only just heard of your being here. Once, long ago, you nursed me, I think, through a long illness, when I was a little child. You were—Nurse Molly."
"That's the name I went by."
"I came this way on purpose to see you—not thinking that we should be so glad to escape from the rain. It was fine when we started." Katherine smiled kindly; but no response was visible on the expressionless face. "I cannot of course remember you, but—" she hesitated, thrown back by the other's immobility—"I have always heard that I owed my life to your care; and I wished to thank you." As she said the words, Katherine silently wondered—was it a thing to be thankful for, this life which meant such a stretch of pain lying ahead, if things went as she feared? Then she rebuked herself for the thought.
"I suppose so." No look of pleasure lighted up the dull plain features; and Mrs. Brutt was deciding that reports of Nurse Morris's good looks were pure romance. "You'd like to come in," Mrs. Morris said, and she led the way into the long low sitting-room. Jane followed, and Winnie stood up, having thrown aside her shawl.
"Are these your daughters?" Katherine glanced from the freckled Jane to the delicately fair Winnie.
"Yes."
"I hope Farmer Paine is well."
"He's quite well."
Katherine's conversational powers, never great, were at an end. Doris, still in a retiring mood, had retreated to a window. Mrs. Brutt saw her opportunity, and came forward.
"What a perfectly charming spot this must be, when the sun shines! One always needs sunshine, doesn't one?—especially in the country." She beamed round upon them all. "Dear me, what glorious sunsets you must see from this window!"
"Looks east," stolidly remarked Mrs. Morris.
"Ah—sunrises, I should have said. And of course you are all up by sunrise. So different, farm-life from town-life, isn't it? Six o'clock in winter; four o'clock in summer. So deliciously primitive! So patriarchal! The Simple Life, in fact. Exactly what I should love to do myself." She breakfasted between half-past nine and ten; but that was a detail.
Katherine, relieved to have the burden of talk-making lifted from her shoulders, sat near in her attitude of gentle reserve, chiming in with an occasional murmur of assent. Mrs. Brutt was delighted to take the lead.
"You seem so out of the world here! So forgetting and forgot. A perfect Arcadia. Plenty of time for thought and study."
"Beastly dull," muttered Jane. For once the elder girl was under a curb; the curb of Miss Stirling's presence. She might snap her fingers at the Squire behind his back; but she could not do so at the Squire's niece. Katherine, despite shyness and humility, had it in her to abash others; and with no apparent effort on her part, but simply because she meant it, Jane was abashed.
Mrs. Brutt felt round for a fresh topic.
"Dear me, what a charming old cabinet!" She started up. "I really must look at it more closely. How interesting! Real old oak!—and such exquisite carving! Quite a treasure. At the very least two hundred years old, I should say."
"It isn't oak."
"Not oak!" Mrs. Brutt seemed rather taken aback. "But really I think you must be mistaken. Such a genuine piece of old work. It must have been in the family from time immemorial."
Mrs. Morris said "Yes" to this, perhaps misunderstanding. She added, "I saw it made, thirty years ago."
"Really! Not more than thirty years! Extraordinary! But one comes across such wonderfully clever imitations in these days. Quite deceptive." Mrs. Brutt quitted rather hastily the immemorial cabinet, moving towards Winnie. "Your daughter looks very delicate. Not lungs,I hope."
"Rheumatism." Mrs. Morris seemed bent on wasting no needless words.
"Is that all? Trying, no doubt, but not a thing to be anxious about. I have a remedy at home which never fails to cure rheumatism. It is most efficacious. I shall bring it with me the first day I can manage to get so far."
Winnie smiled. She had tried so many infallible remedies. Mrs. Brutt glanced from the one girl to the other. "And these are your only daughters, Mrs. Morris?"
"Yes."
"And no son?"
The indistinct response might have been either "Yes" or "No." Mrs. Brutt decided to accept it as a negative.
"But how nice for you to have two dear good girls, able to look after you, and to help in all the farm work. It must be so charming. Quite idyllic!" When Mrs. Brutt came across what she counted an impressive word, she was apt to work it to death; and for the time being "idyllic" was in the ascendant. "So interesting!—with all the animals about—dear dumb creatures! I dote on animals, don't you? So delightful to study their pretty little ways!"
Doris, recalling the speaker's dread of cattle, supposed that the pretty little ways of cows were not included.
Rain still poured without intermission, and Mrs. Brutt began to feel exhausted. Making conversation to an unresponsive world uses one's energies fast. Katherine, too, was tired of her present position, and both were glad when the footman appeared, in a dripping condition.
"Would Miss Stirling go home in the carriage—or would she prefer a closed fly from the village?"
"A fly certainly, and as soon as possible," decided Katherine.
THE atmosphere had become oppressive. Nobody had anything to say. Katherine was at the end of her ideas; Doris remained in the background; Jane was still subdued. Mrs. Brutt felt that it rested with her to keep the ball going. She walked across to the mantelpiece.
"What a remarkable picture! Quite realistic, isn't it, Miss Stirling?" Katherine went near. "Was that painted by yourself, Mrs. Morris? No?— oh, I see—" as she made out a scrawled "P. Morris" in one corner. "I see—her husband!" in a whisper to Katherine. "What wooden rollers!" Then aloud: "How interesting for you to have this. So touching! Was your poor dear husband a sailor?"
"No."
"He must have had a gift—quite a gift! An artist, I suppose."
"No."
"Not an artist! Then he occupied his leisure hours with painting. How nice! So good for a man to have some pursuit, apart from his regular work. It keeps him away from the public-house. It makes him love his home. And I suppose your younger daughter is like her father."
"No."
"Indeed. She does not take after you either."
"That's as may be."
Mrs. Brutt was at a loss how to meet this.
"I'm said to be like what mother was," Winnie observed timidly.
"Indeed." The notion was preposterous. Mrs. Brutt turned to a framed photograph. "Ah, this no doubt is Mr. Morris. Such a fine-looking young man! And was it in India that you lost him?"
"That's my uncle."
"You don't say so! Your uncle, Mr. Paine? But I ought to have guessed— quite the young farmer, leggings and all. And now I see—so like Farmer Paine! A perfectly charming old man!"
Mrs. Morris was silent.
"Now here is another, which I am sure must have been a triumph of skill. Do look, Miss Stirling. A painted photo, and really well done. Such a pretty creature—hair and complexion quite bewitching, and the sweetest roguish smile. The sort of face a man would fall in love with on the spot. Not a daughter of your own, Mrs. Morris! Though I see just a look of Winnie. A cousin, perhaps."
"That's me."
Mrs. Brutt looked from the picture to her, from her to the picture.
"Really!" she said. The information came as a shock. "Dear me! Really!" It was all she could bring herself to utter, with the utmost stretch of politeness. "Dear me—how very—how extremely—"
"People alter as they get older," jerked out Mrs. Morris.
Mrs. Brutt made no effort to combat a truth so self-evident; but the present application of it went beyond bounds. She took up a small closed frame of leather, not realising in her confusion that the act might be counted a liberty, and opened it with a—"May I?" Leave did not come, neither did she wait for it.
"Is this—oh, I see!" as again she read "Phil Morris" written below. "Ah, so this is your husband. Poor thing!"—with a sympathy which called forth no gratitude. "A painting, I see,—not a photo. Done by an amateur." To Katherine she whispered: "Do look! How awful!" Then aloud: "Quite a speaking likeness; and how you must value it!" She put her head on one side, studying the narrow low brow, the common illiterate face, the insipid simper.
Doris for the first time made a move, and had a clear view of the portrait, which impressed itself vividly on her mind. Little did she dream when, and under what circumstances, memory would one day haul it up for her startled inspection.
Mrs. Brutt flowed easily on. "But I see quite a resemblance to your elder daughter; a kind of expression, not features. And he died—how many years ago?" She was treating Mrs. Morris as she treated the women in her district, showing what she intended for a kindly interest. They liked to be asked questions, or she imagined that they did; and why should not this woman like it too?
Mrs. Morris muttered something which sounded rather like "Twenty."
"Twenty years do you say? Ah, a long time. But years mean nothing where the heart is concerned. Twenty years may be only as twenty days. And he was—how did it happen?"
Mrs. Morris jerked out one word—"Drowned."
"Really. But how sad! So sudden! So unexpected!"
A pause.
"I wonder how soon the fly will be here." Mrs. Brutt was conscious again of exhaustion. She put down the defunct husband, and tried a new notion.
"Wouldn't it be a capital plan, if we might see over the house? I love old farms. So full of curiosities, you know, and steps up and down. And farm-kitchens are too delightful for anything—the chimney-corners, and flitches of bacon, and saucepans that one can see one's face in. So idyllic! And I adore old beams. Such a history of the past written in them."
Mrs. Morris offered no objection. Perhaps she hoped thus to escape further questioning; a hope not destined to find fulfilment. The two ladies vanished, led by Mrs. Morris, and followed by Jane. Doris made a move towards Winnie.
"Are you ill? I think you ought to lie down." She had seen Winnie's start from the sofa when they arrived.
"By-and-by—" with a smile.
"You are shivering. Don't wait till by-and-by. I'll tell them I made you." With a pretty air of command she insisted, covering the girl well up. "What makes you feel so bad?"
"It's only rheumatism. I mustn't mind."
"Are you in pain now?"
Winnie whispered a "Yes," and lay as if worn out. The half-hour of sitting up had tried her severely. Doris examined the pale face, and felt a wish to know more of what lay beneath that serene white brow, with its clustering hair, its sweet patience. Winnie Morris, though perhaps not much older than herself, seemed to have lived a good deal longer.
"Where is the pain, Winnie,—if I may call you so?"
"Almost everywhere. But I mustn't mind," the girl repeated. "People often have worse things to bear than rheumatism."
"I should think that was quite bad enough. How long ago did it begin?"
"Oh, some years. I seem to have been in pain—almost always."
The words struck home. Doris saw the contrast between her own health and vigour, her powers of enjoyment, her free active life,—and this restrained suffering existence. The gentle pretty face filled her with pity.
"Always in pain! Every day. No end to it. That is frightfully hard to bear. Can't anything be done? At your age—"
"I'm twenty-five. People often take me for less. Only one year younger than Jane, and two younger than Raye."
"I shouldn't have guessed you to be more than eighteen. Don't you get desperately tired of being always ill—not able to go about and amuse yourself? Don't you feel cross sometimes?" Doris recalled her own late mood of discontent, her impatience under little home-worries, her half-imaginary grievances. What did they matter, compared with what Winnie had to bear?
"I try not—" very low. "It is what—what God chooses for me—so it is all right."
"Does that really help you, Winnie?"
"Yes; often. It ought—always." Doris's gaze drew her on. "Don't you know those lines by Trench—