THEY had followed the circuit of the landscape, standing up to look each way in turn; then resuming their seats. A break in the talk came. Doris twisted round, to gaze over the abrupt descent behind them—then looked again admiringly towards the wonderful Oberland dream-vision. She had anew the feeling that Maurice wanted to say something; and waited for him to say it.
Her sense spoke truly. All the morning he had been pondering how to lead up to this something—how to produce it; and conjecturing how she would take it.
He dreaded coming to the point. It might make all the difference with her; with his hopes of winning her. But the thing had to be said. And he could hope for no better opportunity. When he spoke, there was a sound of strain in his voice.
"You were asking one day—not long ago—how it was that I took to my present work."
"Yes, I remember. You said it wouldn't have been your own choice. I suppose that means that you don't care for doctoring—or rather, for surgery."
"It is a life with no end of openings."
"Openings for what?"
"Helping others. Being of use."
"But you would have liked something else."
"My real bent was for the army."
"And why didn't you—?"
"The friend who paid for my education refused his consent."
She wondered why this brought a disagreeable sensation.
"What made him refuse?"
"He gave no reason."
"And you are sorry—still!"
"Nothing is more foolish than to be a slave to useless regrets. My line is marked out for me; and I have to make the best of it."
"That is brave—anyway," she murmured.
"It is my simple duty."
He had not yet said what had to be said. It was difficult to come to the point. He was sorely tempted to put off.
"But your friend who—had he a right to forbid the army?"
"I suppose he had—in a way. He made it a condition of giving the help that I—we—needed."
"I see," she said. But she felt that she did not see. "Was he a near relative?"
"No. A friend." Doris kept uneasy silence. He added, "My mother enforced his wish."
She repeated, "Your mother?" with a note of inquiry.
"I have meant to tell you more about her. It is right that I should. Her father, my grandfather, was, I have always heard, a very superior man; head-clerk in a large house of business in Manchester. But he married beneath him—one of the mill-hands. I don't know how it came about. My mother was left an orphan very young; and her home was with an uncle—a farmer. She is not well educated. She was sent to school, I know, for two or three years—but perhaps she did not care to learn."
Doris was taken acutely by surprise. She did not know what to say; and she waited in silence for more.
"My father," he went on in a low voice, "died when I was a little child. I have no remembrance of him. But my mother once told me that he was well-born—well-connected. And I know—apart from what she said— I know, from what is in me, that he must have been of gentle birth. You understand, do you not? I have all the instincts of gentle blood. That at least I may claim, without hesitation. I have them—not from training only, but by inheritance."
Another pause. Doris had not stirred.
"Still—I must tell you frankly—I am afraid there may have been about him something not satisfactory. I only conjecture this, for my mother has said nothing of the kind. She is by nature extraordinarily reserved; and she scarcely ever mentions him. He may, possibly, have done something which she does not like to tell. But that my father was a gentleman, I have no doubt."
Doris made an indistinct sound.
"By the wish of this friend, who undertook my education, I have been very little with my mother and sisters. He has insisted on keeping me as much as possible away from them."
She managed to say, "That must make things difficult."
"It makes things very difficult. When we do meet, there is a gulf which nothing can bridge over. Our lives, our aims, our whole outlook— are different. I suppose the separation was wrong. But I had no responsibility there. Nothing now can undo the past."
"And this friend—does he still wish you to keep away from them?"
"The same as ever. And though he has no real control over me, we owe him much. Besides—he makes other things depend upon—this!"—in a lower tone.
Another break. "You have sisters," Doris observed.
"Two. One of them has inherited—as I hope I have—the instincts of gentle blood. Poor little Winnie! But—Jane—"
He stopped short. Doris had started to her feet, crimson and half choked, hardly able to believe her own ears.
Winnie!—and Jane! Morris!—and Maurice!—the same name, differently spelt.
His father—a gentleman! In a flash she recalled the portrait, found and opened by Mrs. Brutt; the narrow, low-browed bad face, the worse than vulgar look. That—his father! And his mother—the heavy, blunt, silent woman, Mrs. Morris! And his sister—the impossible Jane, in yellow blouse and furious fringe and cheap gorgeous hat!
It was like an abyss opening before her! This new sweet world of happiness, in which for days she had lived, underwent eclipse.
In a flash she saw it all; and she forgot where she was. She forgot everything, except the dire discovery that Dick Maurice, the man to whom she had lost her heart, was the son of Phil Morris and Nurse Molly, and—the brother of Jane!
Her first impulse was to spring to her feet, to put a space between herself and him. She obeyed the impulse unthinkingly, with a hasty backward movement.
One step, and she was on the verge of that tremendous depth, which separated this lofty headland from the valley, far far below. Dominated by the one overwhelming thought, she did not dream of danger. A second step—and her foot was over the edge, in empty air.
She tottered—staggered—flung out her hands. Maurice, springing to save her, believed for one awful hundredth of a second that he was too late; that she had surmounted the perils of a dangerous rock-climb, to perish from off this grassy mount. The shock of her staggering clutch at the air, as she swayed backwards, drove every vestige of colour from his face; and any less instantaneous leap to the rescue must have failed of its object. She was in the very act of falling, when gripped by his hand and dragged away.
"How—could you?"
She saw that he was ghastly.
"I—don't know. Did I slip?"
"What made you?"
She tried to withdraw her hand, but he kept a firm grip, led her to the edge, and bade her look over. Where they stood, it seemed that nothing lay between them and the level of the Rhone Valley, thousands of feet below. From the contemplation of that sheer depth, her eyes sought his.
"I see! I—had forgotten. And you—you saved me." She gave a shudder. "How quick you were! I can't thank you. It has given you rather a fright."
Rather a fright! He drew her to a safe distance, made her sit down, and did the same himself—his face still as white as chalk. She submitted in bewildered silence, conscious that her escapade was being commented on by two or three strangers present, though no one ventured to accost the pair.
As she sat by his side, it dawned upon her what her death would have meant to Maurice, had she been thus, in one moment, swept out of his life. Then, reverting to what had gone before, she felt a great wave of pity for him. She could see that he was unnerved, shaken, hardly able to hold himself together. If things were as he said, it was not his fault. He could not be blamed for his parentage.
"But I ought to have known sooner," she said to herself.
Maurice at length broke the silence.
"Was it—what I said? Did that startle you?"
Her reply was indistinct.
"For days I have felt that I must explain. Especially since your mention of Mr. Stirling. Don't you see?" as she looked puzzled. "It is he who paid for my education."
"Oh," vaguely. "Did I speak of him? He is a great friend of ours."
"It—has not been easy," Maurice went on, very low. "The temptation to put off has been—tremendous. More than I can explain! But I knew it had to be said. And I thought—if I could get you alone for this walk—"
"Yes. I understand."
He clenched his fingers upon his stick, till they whitened through their tan.
"Was it—what I said about my mother that startled you? Or was it—?"
"I have seen your sister Jane," was all she said; and Maurice needed to ask no more.
Doris sighed quietly.
"I suppose it is about time for us to start," she said. She spoke as one in a maze; and still to herself she kept repeating—
"The son of Nurse Molly! The brother of Jane Morris!"
Yet still Dick Maurice!—the man who was becoming so much to her!— the man by whom she could be sure she was beloved! Her eyes fell upon the strong, finely-formed brown hand, clutching his stick, the hand which had drawn her attention when first they met as strangers; and a wave of tenderness rolled through her. How hard it was for him!
"I meant to take you to the Lac des Chavonnes. It is part of the show. Perhaps you'd rather not—now."
His face was wistful; and a reckless fit carried her away. Everything was different, she told herself. This might be their last, their very last, walk together. Why cut it short? Why not make the most of it? He had been so brave, so good, speaking out the distasteful truth! This one little treat, surely, she might allow—whether to him or to herself, she did not mentally specify.
Nor did she pause to consider whether it was wise—whether, for his sake, if everything now would be different, she ought not at once to end their intercourse? The wish assailed her powerfully, and she gave in to it.
"I suppose I ought just to see the lake. It is not far off, is it?"
"Not half-an-hour's walk from Bretaye."
His face brightened, and they went at a rapid pace down the steep grass-slope, each trying to put aside the prevailing thought, and to chat lightly. If Doris succeeded, Maurice did not.
Reaching the small blue-grey piece of water, with its framework of jagged rocks and slender pines, they climbed to a shady spot, and sat long in silence, which neither was in haste to interrupt. Upon each stole a strong consciousness that, shared with the other, life offered the best that it had to give, little besides being essential for happiness. But, while this consciousness pervaded the whole being of the man, dominating his every faculty, it rested rather as a ray of brightness upon the surface of the girl's mind; not less genuine, but less deep.
"DOES it matter so very much?" Maurice asked at length, a thrill of intense feeling in his voice.
"I'm afraid it does." Her eyes were full.
"It was wrong of me not to tell you sooner. You forgive?"
"Oh, it isn't—forgiveness," she said, with difficulty. "It means so many things."
"Tell me—what things."
She shook her head.
"I can't. How can I?"
"No need," he said.
Then he explained how fully he knew; how deeply he felt his own position; how in college days he had suffered—always in silence—from the impossibility of asking his college chums to his home, as other men did. How he had fought the battle out, had accepted those conditions of life which were his, had determined to make his own standing, had found friends, had hoped that the worst was over. And then—how he had seen her, and had discovered, with a new and terrible poignancy, what his position indeed meant.
Not at the beginning; not when they first met; but day by day as they grew more intimate. Then the old battle had to be fought over again; only far worse, far harder, than ever before. Even when he had seemed to be at his best and gayest, he never could forget, and the strife had gone on. For all through he had known that, sooner or later, he must tell her everything; and time after time he had striven to bring out the words, which he feared would dash his hopes to the ground.
"For I love you!—love you!" he said, with a concentration of passion. "I love you with all my heart—with all my soul. No one ever has been— no one ever can be—what you have become. Doris, do you care ever so little for me? Could you love me? Could you be mine—my own!—my very own?"
He caught her hands, and rained kisses upon them. She let them lie in his grasp, neither responding nor checking.
"Tell me—do you care? Sometimes I hope that you do. In spite of all this—do you love me, just a little? Am I nothing to you—nothing at all?"
"No!" she whispered. The monosyllable seemed to be dragged from her.
"You do—you do love! My own! My darling!"
The rapture of look and tone awoke a sense of prudence.
"Yes, but—no, stop, please. It can't be. It is impossible. It can never be."
"But if you love me, Doris, sweetest!—if you feel for me only one- hundredth part of what I feel for you—is this to keep us apart? This, that I cannot help—this, for which I am not responsible!—this, that does not change me, does not make me in myself unfit for you? Is the question of my forbears so tremendous a thing, that it must spoil my life—must spoil, perhaps, both our lives? If other things do not stand in the way, and if you know that I could make you happy—Doris, my darling, does it not seem that we are made for one another? I have felt it so from the first. Have not you? I love you—and you do not deny that you love me. Is not that enough, my darling—my own?"
He was beside her on the grass, his eyes on a level with hers, searching into them, full of pleading, full of vehement appeal; his face white with feeling.
"If we truly love, can anything keep us long apart? Shall any lesser thing be allowed? Would it be right—reasonable? I do not minimise the difficulty. It is real, I know. But think!—think!—dear one. Could you choose to live your life apart from mine?—would you choose it, if the choice is yours? Are we not one already in mind and heart? If you love—would you consent to separation for life, only for this?—only that yours is bluer blood than mine! You shall make of me what you will! My people shall not trouble you—that I can promise. It is you and I who love—just you and I! What has the rest of the world to do with us? Just you and I!—my Doris!—my darling!"
His passionate energy swept her along, carried her away, and she burst into tears.
"I don't know. Oh, I don't know," was all she could say; and his arms were round her.
"My own! My Doris!"
"Oh, don't! Please don't! It is so hard. I can't tell what mother will say. And—there is Mr. Stirling."
"He is only a friend. He has no real authority over me." Maurice laughed joyously, holding her fast. "My own! My own!" he repeated, with a radiance of delight which infected her and bore her, metaphorically, off her feet. It was like being carried along on a whirlwind. "I am of an age to decide for myself. And you—my darling—"
"If—mother—" she faltered. "But I'm afraid—I'm afraid—she won't—"
"Don't be afraid. Why should you? Now we know that we love, all else is nothing. We may face the world without a doubt."
This was all very well; but he did not know Mrs. Winton.
"Even if obstacles do arise, it will only be for a time. You are mine now—mine absolutely. While you and I are true one to another, nothing can finally separate us."
He had his way. He had won a confession of her love; and his ardour awoke a reflection in her. For the moment, doubts were mastered, and she consented to put them aside, to yield herself to him. Nothing—just then!—seemed of importance, beyond the fact that each loved the other.
Time fled on wings as they talked; and they had the place to themselves.
They compared notes as to the beginnings of love on either side. Maurice told her what lovely eyes she had, and how she had taken him captive with her first glance, her first smile. Doris more cautiously admitted that he from the first had seemed unlike other men. They laughed over some recollections; and they lived through once more the crucial hour of her difficult rock-climb.
Then they reverted to his early life; and he told her many things connected with his past,—how seldom he had been allowed to see his own people; how his holidays had been spent with comparative strangers, or else at school. Doris said how she had taken to the gentle Winnie; and he replied earnestly that she should see Winnie as often as she chose,—but not Jane! She was silent, knowing that he could not, even for her sake, repudiate the relationship. And there was his mother too. A chill crept through her at the thought that she, some day, would be Mrs. Morris' daughter-in-law,—and Jane's sister-in-law! And what—oh, what—would her mother say? It was Mrs. Winton—not the Rector— whom she feared; and still more, opposition in herself.
She began to wonder how she could have so completely, given in to his urgency. At the first she had felt everything to be changed by this discovery; she had looked upon him as impossible. And now — here was she already engaged to marry him! Subject, no doubt, to her parents' consent; yet provisionally engaged.
Had she been too impulsive, too easily carried away? Would it not have been wiser, more sensible, at least to have insisted on time for consideration?
These doubts suggested themselves; and then again she met his ardent gaze, his glowing smile; and she could think of nothing else. He stole another kiss; and while she protested, she did feel that it was very sweet to be so loved.
"I don't understand about your name," she said later, having for a while lost sight of these questionings. "Why is it different from your mother's?"
"Mine is, I believe, the right spelling. Mr. Stirling settled the question for me in boyhood, and gave no reason. Sometimes I have fancied that my father may have wished to disguise his name, when he went to Canada. But I know so little—beyond that one fact that he was by birth and education a gentleman. My mother only spoke of it once; but she was quite definite."
Doris could not resist saying—
"But I saw his likeness."
"We have no likeness of him."
"Yes; it was on the table, at the farm. Mrs. Brutt took it up, and his name was written—'Phil Morris.'"
"My mother has never shown it to me."
"It was there," repeated Doris, reading unbelief in the tone. "And— Dick—it was not the face of a gentleman."
He smiled. "Rather difficult to judge from a photograph."
"It was painted."
"Still less to go upon, unless the artist were first-rate. Would you like to be labelled from all your likenesses?"
She was silent; not convinced.
"And after all, my darling,—don't you think that the real question is— not, what my father was, but what I am? I don't mean that that is without weight; but surely—it has lesser weight."
"You don't know my mother, Dick, or how much she thinks of that sort of thing."
"She is—a little particular!"—fondly.
"Oh, very!—very!"
Doris heard her own voice speaking to the Squire, as she stood with head thrown back,—"I'm not the very least afraid of being taken for one of Jane Morris's friends!" She added faintly—
"I'm afraid—I'm a little particular too."
He looked at her with admiration, ready to believe that she was so in the abstract, and failing to see the present application.
"You shall be as particular as you like with me, my darling. Whatever you wish shall be done."
She sighed, but did not explain; and again he poured out loving words, till he had once more the upper hand, and her doubts waned before his fervour. After a while she reverted to them sufficiently to observe—
"I wonder why Mr. Stirling has never spoken of you to us—or of your mother. We know him so well."
"He would hardly go about talking of his own generosity. I don't think that would be his way. Besides—" Maurice stopped.
"Yes. Besides—?"
"I have never felt that I could fathom him. His is a perplexing character—a curious mixture of opposites. My sister, Winnie, half worships him. But, with all his kindness to us, he has somehow never managed to win my affection."
"You don't care for him!"—wonderingly.
"No."
"But—why?"
He laughed, and quoted,—"'The reason why I cannot tell—but this I do know very well—'"
"We all think so much of him. Why, Dick,—he always seems to me just perfect. I've never known him do a wrong thing."
"He has been a most generous friend to us. Won't that do?"
They walked back slowly, neither of them in haste to end the day. Recurring waves of doubt assailed Doris from time to time; but she put aside each in turn. The future would have to be met. The present she would make the most of. Still, she could not feel quite easy.
When they reached the last piece of steep downhill, leading to the village, they found that they would be late for table d'hôte, and also that they were in for a grand "after-glow."
Not upon snow, but upon rocks, the nearer heights being at this time of the year almost free from snow. All the vast rocky barrier, extending from the Diablerets to the Dent du Morcles, was transformed as by the touch of a magician's wand from its ordinary cold grey to an extraordinary radiance, like molten copper shining with its own intensity of heat. Between the red-gold of the Diablerets and the rich orange of the Argentiere many varieties of tints might be seen; but all were brilliant, burnished, metallic, wonderful! It was hard to believe that the gorgeous wealth of colouring was a loan, not intrinsic. The splendour lasted long, and faded gradually.
Neither spoke. They stood and gazed.
Doris saw vividly how, but a short time back, she had been at the parting of two ways. A single step—and she hung in the very arms of death—she was actually falling over an awful abyss. One instant of hesitation on the part of Maurice must have sealed her fate; and she would now be in that other world, beyond the veil which shrouds our senses; a world as real, as actual, as this; a world prefigured to the imagination by such a scene as that on which she was looking.
A vision came of what that fall would have meant,—the fearful downward rush through yielding air; the clear consciousness of time; the lightning realisation of past and present, of squandered hours and wasted opportunities; the shock of terrific contact with mother-earth; and then—the entrance on that other world.
But she had not gone. She was still on this side of the dividing veil. She had still to live this lower life of preparation, with its duties, its overvalued littlenesses, its undervalued greatnesses. And she was glad to be here; glad to be not yet called away; glad to feel that it was still in her power to make a better and nobler thing of her life than in the past.
She glanced towards Maurice, and found his eyes bent steadily—not on the glowing rock-mountains, but upon herself.
"Dick—I needn't tell Mrs. Brutt?"
"I don't think it is her business."
"But—my people must know."
"Yes. The question is—shall I write to your father at once? Or, shall I wait till I go home next week, and travel straight to Lynnbrooke?"
"Will you do that? Oh, Dick, it will be best—much, much best. If they see you, that will make just all the difference."
"I'm not so sure! But it does seem the wiser plan. One can say so much more—verbally."
"Only of course we can't count it really an engagement, till they know."
"I'm afraid I count it very real indeed."
"You don't know what mother will think."
Her face shadowed over, and a chill query shot through his mind. Had he brought trouble upon her by his impulsive action? He was not in the main a selfish man; far from it; but this day he had been completely carried away by passion.
In the morning he had intended to let her know about his parentage; but since she had never named the Morrises, he had no idea that she had ever come across them. He felt only that she had a right to know all; and he meant to enlighten her.
Now he had gone far beyond mere enlightenment. He had taken irrevocable steps. Whether their engagement should or should not be permitted to stand, he had called into active life longings, hitherto vague, now definite, which would not be easily laid to rest.
Was she to pay a penalty of suffering for his failure in self-control?
"LETTERS. One for you, Sylvester, from Doris. And another for me, from Mrs. Brutt."
The burly Rector sat at one end of the breakfast-table; and at the other Mrs. Winton presided, with her usual air of state. She never forgot that a Peer of the Realm was her distant cousin. They studied their missives in silence.
"What a woman it is!" came presently. "The amount of talk! What does Doris say?"
"Wants to climb another mountain. Mrs. Brutt refuses consent."
"She shows some sense—for once!"
"So the child appeals to us."
Mr. Winton read on, smiling to himself.
"Mrs. Brutt says she has been ill—and her English doctor has done 'wonders' for her. Is that the one who went up the peak with Doris?"
"Probably."
"Mrs. Brutt seems full of him. 'A delightful young fellow,' she calls him. 'Young!'" Mrs. Winton scented mischief. She had pictured the doctor in question as a comfortable, middle-aged practitioner, father of a family.
"'Young,' Sylvester. You heard!"
"Yes, my dear."
"And Doris has been rampaging over the mountains with this young doctor! Just listen—"
"'Such a dear young doctor—so gifted!—with quite distinguished manners. Really, I never came across a medical man with keener insight. I assure you, he read my constitution at a glance which must mean absolute genius on his part, for I am not a person easily understood—so very complex, you know!—as my dear old doctor used often to say—"Yours is such a highly-strung organisation, my dear lady; it needs acute observation—"'"
Mrs. Winton came to a bored pause.
"I don't believe any doctor alive would say anything so supremely absurd—unless by way of flattery."
"But about Doris?"
"I'm trying to find out. It is all about the woman herself. Ah, here we are. 'Doris is writing to Mr. Winton about her new craze for climbing. She went partly up one peak with Mr. Maurice and Mr. Pressford.' Now, which of them is the doctor? 'And Mr. Pressford had a bad fall, and was stunned. Such a mercy that they had a doctor in their party!' So Mr. Maurice is the individual. 'Doris will tell you all that happened. She seems to have helped the others out of their difficulty really most cleverly.'"
Mrs. Winton was scandalised.
"I never heard anything like it! Two full-grown men!—and a girl having to get them out of their difficulties. What next, I wonder?"
"Mr. Maurice was supporting his friend on the rope, and he was unable to move. Doris explains."
"Then he had no business to support his friend! They ought both to have been looking after her."
Mrs. Winton reverted to her letter.
"'He is such an agile young fellow. But if an experienced climber like Mr. Pressford can have a fall, one feels that anything might happen; and really I must refuse any more responsibility in the matter.' I see she says later that Mr. Maurice is beginning to practise in Edinburgh— and is 'extremely well thought of!' I suppose he told her so himself! I wonder what Mr. Hamilton Stirling would say to all this!"
The Rector grunted. He did not want anybody to carry off his pretty Doris; but it was conceivable that a lively young Alpinist might be better than a human Encyclopaedia.
"I don't know what you think, Sylvester, but I consider that it is time for Doris to come home."
"Here's the Squire. Ask him."
Mr. Stirling walked in, apologising for the hour. He had ridden over before breakfast, secure of supplying his needs at the Rectory and hardly was he seated before Mrs. Winton had launched into the subject of the two letters. The Rector, studying him, decided that something was out of gear. He looked worn, almost old; and at first he seemed abstracted. Something in a sentence from Doris's letter called up his full attention with a jump.
"A new accomplishment for Doris," was his first remark, and it was said with a forced smile. Then he asked carelessly how the young doctor's name was spelt.
Extracts from the elder lady came next, with emendations from Mrs. Winton.
"I dislike this sort of thing for Doris—extremely. Mrs. Brutt ought to have known better than to allow it. She seems infatuated. I dare say the young doctor is well enough in his way; but I do not choose that Doris should be mixed up with all sorts of people."
The Squire had ceased eating, and was lost in thought.
"On the whole," he remarked, "I am disposed to advise a recall. You will be wise to have Doris home."
Mr. Winton was again conscious of a perplexing element in tone and manner. Mrs. Winton, taken up with her own view of matters, noticed nothing.
"I happen to know something of a young Maurice, living in Edinburgh,— probably the same." His words came slowly, and Mrs. Winton threw up alarmed hands.
"You mean that he is an improper acquaintance."
"I have nothing to say against him personally. But his connections are unsatisfactory."
"You mean—if there were any danger of an attachment! No fear of that. Doris is too well trained; and she is as particular as I am myself. Not the slightest danger of such a thing. But the intercourse is undesirable. We had certainly better have her back as quickly as possible,—and this is the last time she shall be trusted with Mrs. Brutt. Quite the last time! I never did feel any confidence in that woman. She thinks of nothing but herself. But about Doris's return— if necessary, I suppose I must go myself."
"No need," the Squire said. "Your wiser plan, if I may suggest it, will be to write and say that you cannot spare Doris any longer. If Mrs. Brutt does not wish to return yet, an escort can be found." He was already planning a letter which would bring the elder lady home also. It was not his wish that either of the two should remain in close touch with Maurice.
A few minutes later he rode away, resolving to call at Wyldd's Farm. Some necessary business had to come first; but that should follow. He had not once been there since his rebuke to Winnie.
FARMER PAINE in his garden was whistling softly, while he plucked a bunch of rosebuds for Winnie. She had drooped a good deal of late; and he was very fond of the girl. Big strong man that he was, her gentleness appealed to him, and he had a tender heart.
The niece "Molly" had disappointed him a good deal; she was so changed from the winsome maiden of earlier years, so "shut-up" and nonresponsive. And Jane was a trial. But he clung to Winnie.
As he stood in his rough coat and gaiters, putting the buds together with large careful fingers, a man came through the field, and stopped at the gate. Not a gentleman; not a farmer; not an ordinary labourer; hardly a beggar. Mr. Paine was at a loss how to label him.
He was short and knock-kneed, with toes that turned in, and a heavy narrow-browed face, a contrast to the fine old farmer. He might have been fifty or more, and he slouched along with an uncertain gait. Not the easy powerful swing of a sailor, or the characteristic roll of the Rector; but hesitating, dubious, wanting in aim.
"Good morning," he said. "Farmer Paine, I s'pose. I'd know you agen, anywhere. Fine figure of a man you was—and you're that still. You dunno me—easy to see!"
Farmer Paine looked up and down the sorry face, the backboneless, shambling figure.
"No. I don't know you, my man. Perhaps I ought."
A short laugh came in response.
"Didn't much s'pose you would—not expectin'. It's hard on twenty-seven years since you and me met. And you wasn't over-much perlite to me then, neither. You and your missus didn't think I was fit for your pretty Molly. Nor I wasn't. But all the same—"
The farmer fell back a step.
"Yes—I'm him. You know me now."
"Phil—Morris!"
"Same!" He held out his hand.
"But—but I say!—we thought you'd been dead, years and years ago."
"Well, I wasn't—that's all. I'm alive now."
"Molly said you'd been drowned—out in South America."
"Told that, was she? Wonder however she heard! Did she mind?" He showed interest.
"Why, of course she minded."
"Glad to hear it. Didn't think she'd have cared. No—I didn't."
"And you're here—alive! All these years after."
"I'm alive. I aint much more. And I've got about what's on my back—and nothin' beyond. I can tell 'ee that."
Paine hesitated. Was this unlooked-for return good for Molly—for the girls? A penniless failure, for husband and father! He had not liked Morris in the past, and he had strenuously opposed the engagement; but Molly had been wilful, and had taken her own way in this as in other matters. He liked the man even less now. Lines in the face told of a life of dissipation. Still—here he was!
"To think that Molly isn't a widow, after all! And hasn't been, all this while."
Morris stared in his turn.
"Dunno what you're after now. She married—of course."
"No, no,—never."
"Eh? Then she must ha' cared a lot more for me than ever I thought."
"Of course she did. Molly ain't one of the talkin' sort. Leastways, she ain't now. Different when she was a girl. But of course she cared. Wouldn't be natural-like, if she didn't."
"And never married, after all. I wonder what became of the chap that was after her. And she's kep' her own name. Whatever did you mean, farmer,—talkin' as if you'd thought she was a widow?"
They were at cross purposes still. Farmer Paine turned towards the house. He had not taken in the sense of the last words.
"Come along. Come in," he said heartily. "She'll give you a welcome, Molly will. It'll startle her, maybe, just at first,—but you'll have a welcome, man. Care. Of course she cared."
With great strides the farmer reached the door, opened it, and called in lusty tones—
"Molly! Molly! Here's one come back, that we thought never to see again." A voice within him murmured—"And didn't wish to see again!"— but he put that down. "Now, don't you be taken aback," he called energetically. "Where's Jane? Where's Winnie? Here's your father, girls,—come back from the grave, as one may say. Never drowned at all, Molly. It's all a mistake."
"Their father! No, no!" Morris tried to interpose, as the nature of the farmer's error dawned upon him. But Mr. Paine, all the more because of that protesting voice within, pressed forward, talking eagerly—
"Here you are, girls. Aint this a bit of news? Your father's come back. Wasn't drowned at all, and never wrote. But he's back at last. Here, Jane,—Winnie—Molly—come along. It's your husband, Molly."
The two were confronted. Farmer Paine dragged forward the wanderer, a sheepish, puzzled figure; and Mrs. Morris moved to meet him.
She was imperturbable even now, though her face showed that she was startled. Jane stared with round eyes. Winnie trembled like a leaf.
"Molly, my dear, it's your husband. Him as you thought was dead."
Mrs. Morris stood stock still, one hand folded over the other, after the style of the superior housekeeper receiving orders from her mistress.
"Some mistake or other," muttered Morris, holding back.
"Yes, it's a mistake," she agreed. She looked at the farmer. "That aint my husband."
"Not!" The farmer's jaw fell.
"And Molly she never was my wife, though she was to have been, if she hadn't gone and jilted me."
"Well, I never!" uttered Mr. Paine. "And if you're not Phil Morris, who are you, man?"
"I'm Phil Morris, sure enough. But I aint Molly's husband—worse luck." He turned to the girls. "Nor I aint their father. Wish I was!"
"Never been married!" The farmer was all astray still.
"Well, I did marry, and she's dead, and I've come back. I'd no luck out there, and I thought I'd try the old country agen. And a sort of a wish corned over me, to see if Molly was alive." He turned to Mrs. Morris. "And you married that other chap, did you?" She nodded, and his gaze went to Mr. Paine. "Whatever did you mean—saying she wasn't married?"
The farmer seemed dazed, and he spoke slowly.
"I thought she was your widow. I meant—she'd never married again."
"Well, she never was my wife, though she'd promised to be. She was comin' out to me in Canada; and all of a sudden she wrote and chucked me. Said she was goin' to marry another feller, and I shouldn't never hear from her agen. That hit hard, I can tell 'ee— it did, farmer. I cared a lot for Molly."
Other questions were thronging on Farmer Paine.
"Molly went to Canada," he said; and his fine rugged face had grown hard. "If she didn't go to you, what did she go for?"
A moment's silence.
"Who was it you married, Molly,—if it wasn't Phil Morris?"
Mrs. Morris spoke stolidly, one hand still folded neatly over the other.
"It was another man," she said. "I came across him; and I found I didn't care for Phil. I'd thought I did, and I didn't. It was the other I cared for—not him. He was a bit above me—a gentlemen out and out—and he didn't want his folks to know about me being his wife— he didn't want the fuss there'd be. So I just kept it secret, and let nobody know. It didn't matter to other people."
"It mattered to me," the farmer said, his voice grieved and hoarse. "It mattered to me and my wife. And you took us in too."
"Yes. It had to be, uncle."
"And you went to Canada with the other man."
"No, I didn't go to Canada—not at all. That was all a make-up, just to stop talk. We stopped a good bit where we were after we were married."
"Where was it?"
"We stopped abroad—all the time till my husband died. And then I went to Norfolk."
"And all these years you've been deceivin' me. And I thought you true, Molly. Whatever your faults might be, I've judged you true."
"I couldn't help it," she said. "There was reasons why I couldn't say more; and there's reasons now."
Morris was staring about the room.
"There's the picture I painted and gev to you, Molly," he remarked. "I gev it you when I went off to Canada—thinkin' as you'd come after me."
"I didn't know my own mind then."
"And they told you I was drowned. Who said it?"
"I heard it. And after that, I wrote to uncle here. I'd never been sure before that you wouldn't turn up, and say I wasn't your wife."
Jane broke in with a jarring laugh.
"And this—" she said, taking up the shut frame which Mrs. Brutt had noticed,—"we thought it was our father, and it isn't. Mother never showed it to us, till we came to Wyldd's Farm. We couldn't think why."
Mrs. Morris offered no explanation.
"It's me, anyway," said Morris. "But I ain't your father, my dear. Shouldn't mind if I was."
Jane giggled, and Winnie shivered.
Farmer Paine could not get over the blow. His straightforward nature recoiled at the thought of this long deliberate deceit. He had trusted Molly utterly; and at one blow his trust was shattered. With him, to doubt once was to doubt always. He would never again, after this, put confidence in her. Besides, he recognised that she had not told him all. She was shuffling; hiding something still.
Questionings thronged upon him. Why should she have pretended that she had been married to this man, when she had not? Why should she have passed all these years under his name? Why should she have displayed his painting, his likeness, as of her husband? Why should she have made believe to have gone to Canada? Why should she never have revealed her whereabouts, even to her nearest relatives, till years after her husband's death? The whole tissue of lies seemed so needless, so foolish, over and above the actual wrong-doing. Each new aspect increased the mystery of her conduct. The more he thought, the more his spirit was stirred within him.
It was at this juncture that Mr. Stirling, on his way from the Rectory, arrived at the farm. Finding doors open, and his ring unnoticed, he walked into the midst of them.
"How do you do?" were his first words. His glance passed carelessly over the stranger.
"This is Phil Morris, sir," spoke the farmer. "That we all thought dead. That we thought was her husband!" He indicated his niece with a backward twist of his thumb.
Jane laughed once more, and the man snickered feebly.
"Eh? What do you say?" Mr. Stirling turned sharply, and his eyes sent forth a lightning-flash.
"It's Phil Morris, sir,—that we thought was Molly's husband, drowned twenty years agone. And he wasn't drowned. And she and he they both has it that they wasn't ever husband and wife. She jilted him for another man; and she never went to Canada. And all these years that I've thought her true, she's been deceivin' me—takin' me in right and left. Livin' a lie, as the sayin' is. And it beats me, it does, to know what all the tellin' of lies has been for."
The Squire's face was set rigidly; his forehead dented and lined; his eyes bent, as in stern demand, upon Mrs. Morris. She came two steps forward, looking straight at him, with no sign of fear.
"It's Phil Morris that I was once engaged to," she said composedly. "And that I was to have married, as soon as I'd done nursing little Miss Katherine. I was to have gone out to him in Canada. And I let folks think I'd done it. But I didn't." She breathed a trifle harder, and seemed thinking what to say next. Her eyes and the Squire's met during this pause. "He wrote to say he was going to South America, and I was to make haste, and we'd be married before he left Canada."
"And you did not go."
"No. I'd met another by that time, that I liked a lot better. And I married him, and jilted Phil. And their names was pretty much the same, leastways in sound; and he didn't want his home-folks to know. And I didn't care. I'd got him, and that was all I wanted." The impassive face changed, just a little, with these words. "So I promised him I'd keep it dark; and I did."
Mr. Stirling listened thus far in silence. "A singular tale!" he said then thoughtfully.
"I'd got my reasons. They didn't matter to anybody else. If my husband wanted it, I'd got to do what he wanted."
"And after he died—why didn't you speak out then?" demanded the farmer.
"I couldn't!" was all she said. Her eyes sought the Squire still, oddly, as if asking his approval.
"And the painting—and the likeness—and the name—and the peck o' lies!" groaned Farmer Paine.
"That was all of a piece, uncle. It's no use to half do things. I'm no story-teller, not in a common way. But if a thing's got to be done, I do it thorough. And this had got to be done."
She folded one hand again over the other, and was silent. Mr. Stirling seemed lost in consideration.
"Could you ever have thought it of our Molly, sir?" the farmer asked.
"I should like a few words with Mrs. Morris in another room." The speaker glanced towards Morris, who muttered—
"I'd best be off. Don't see as I'm wanted here. I've got to look for work."
The Squire paused.
"What kind?"
"I ain't particular. Any sort of odd job 'ud do. I've got to live."
"Wait for me in the field. I can probably help you, if you do not mind going to a distance."
Morris signified his readiness, and disappeared one way, Mr. Stirling and Mrs. Morris going another way. The farmer dropped heavily into his chair.
"Who'd have thought it? Whoever would have thought it?" he groaned.
"But oh, I'm glad that man isn't—father!" whispered Winnie.
"THERE she is again!" uttered Pressford in dismay, as a familiar figure sailed up the garden. "For pity's sake, keep her off."
Mrs. Pressford being out, Amy had to throw herself into the breach. She was rather in awe of Mrs. Brutt.
"I've brought a few flowers for your poor invalids. Just to cheer them up, you know. So dull to be kept indoors this lovely weather! I have been thinking—could you not make a little more use of me, now they are better? If you would allow me to sit with your husband for an hour, while you get out with Mrs. Pressford, I should be delighted."
Mrs. Ramsay's childlike eyes widened with dismay.
"It would be no trouble—none whatever. So I hope you will not hesitate. Invalids need to be amused; and I would do my best. A little cheerful talk, you know—"
If she had known how Pressford loathed "talk."
"Thanks! It is most kind. Oh, what pretty flowers!"
"Then you will let me appear, some time this afternoon."
"I'm afraid not yet. They have to be kept so quiet."
"I assure you, my dear, I am most quiet. I know so well the need. The least stir—the smallest creak—in certain states become agonising. Simply agonising! I know too well from experience. But you may depend upon me. So if I might look in this afternoon—"
"I'm afraid we must not think of it at present. Thanks very much, all the same."
"Really! I am sorry. It would give you a short rest. Well,—if it must not be—By the bye, is dear Doris with you this morning?"
"I've not seen her to-day."
"Then she does not always come directly after breakfast?"
Mrs. Ramsay said—"Oh no,"—not seeing whither the question tended.
"Ah,—she gets a little walk first. And Mr. Maurice?"
"He generally comes in about eleven or twelve."
"I see. Yes, I see. And you are quite sure you cannot make any use of me. I should have been charmed."
Mrs. Brutt withdrew, sweetly smiling; her mind busy.
"Now I wonder where they are," she said to herself, as she sauntered away; for by this time she was in a state of highly-strung alertness with regard to the lovers, besides being eaten up with curiosity.
From a worldly-wise point of view, if they wished to secure secrecy, Maurice and Doris would have been wise to take the widow into their confidence. Had they done so, she would have fussed and protested, but the being told would have gratified her sense of importance, and she would have arrayed her forces on their side.
To be made acquainted with the affair before even the Rector and the Squire, would have meant a degree of distinction, which she would thoroughly have appreciated. Despite her love of talk, she could keep a secret entrusted to her care; and she loved to be confided in.
But the mere fact of anything being hidden from herself aroused another side of her nature, calling into play a spirit of self-assertive inquisitiveness. The secret and all who were concerned in it became at once in her eyes "fair game;" and she could know no rest till, by hook or by crook, she had discovered that which was hidden. Towards this end she would strain every nerve; nor would she be scrupulous in her methods. Not to be told what another might know, amounted to a personal grievance.
Until the evening of the Petit Chamossaire expedition, she had looked upon Maurice as her own property. She was not so clear-sighted as she imagined. "Nothing ever escapes me!" was a pet phrase with her; yet a good deal did escape her. Once aroused, however, she could be sagacious enough.
On the return of the two that evening, towards the close of table d'hôte, fresh from their day of intercourse, he must indeed have been nonobservant who should have seen nothing unusual in Maurice's look, however carefully repressed,—who should not have detected an unwonted brightness in Doris's eyes, and noted her soft brilliancy of colouring.
The girl looked lovely,—no less! It was useless for them to expatiate on their ramble, on the views they had enjoyed, on the wondrous after-glow. No sunset hues on rocky heights had brought that look!
"I know better!" Mrs. Brutt said to herself, and she waited to be informed.
But she was not informed. It dawned upon her that, whatever might have passed, she was not to be told. Then she became angry. Since they did not choose to confide in her, she would find out for herself. With newly-quickened attention, she became aware of Maurice's absorption in Doris; of Doris's dreamy abstraction when he was absent; and also, not seldom, of a troubled expression in the girl's face. She observed too how each would quietly slip away after breakfast,—no doubt for a tête-à-tête elsewhere.
"So very deceitful!" she said to herself. "So wrong of them!"
All had happened rapidly, in few days. On this morning it occurred to her that, by an early call at the châlet, she might learn something. Before starting, she had seen Doris go down the village street, and perhaps the two might meet at the châlet. Finding her theory wrong, she had to hunt elsewhere.
"Really, so underhand!" she repeated.
Meeting on the road one of her new cronies, an English-speaking German lady, she expressed a wish to find her young charge; and the German lady pointed to a narrow path, ascending slantwise. "I haf seen her go dere sometimes."
Mrs. Brutt thanked her, and proceeded to investigate.
Using her eyes in all directions, she followed the path, seeing nought of beauty in mountain or valley; for her mind was taken up with one idea,—to find out whether Maurice and Doris had gone this way.
And she had her wish. After some fifteen or twenty minutes of slow progress, she caught sight of a small red-brown châlet, somewhat above the path. In front of it, side by side, two figures were seated,—a man and a girl—deep in talk.
She drew instantly back out of sight. They had not noticed her, and they should not!
"So—that is it!" she ejaculated. And again—"Really, how deceitful! One would have thought they knew better. Above all things, I do detest underhand ways." She felt that, for the unearthing of such a conspiracy, any methods were admissible.
The dear young doctor had become many degrees less delightful, though she was disposed to lay chief blame on Doris.
When the girl rejoined her an hour later, she asked no questions, made no remarks. But next morning, having risen with unusual promptitude, she was the first to vanish, making her way briskly to the small châlet.
Did they always come here? Was it a daily trysting-place? If not, her trouble might be thrown away. If they did come — she hardly knew what she would do. Her first idea was to seat herself on the farther side of the châlet, where she would be hidden as they approached, and then casually to walk out on them. But as she debated, she noticed the châlet-door to be ajar; and she went in.
Rough flooring under her feet; rough beams overhead; some upright beams also, supporting the roof; and at one side what she took for a manger. That was all. Not a bad place in which to sit, and quietly to hear what might go on outside. This thought came; and she put the door quickly to. She had not quite made up her mind; but she dwelt upon the possibility. And if a little voice whispered the words which she had been using about others,—"deceitful," and "underhand,"—she put them aside. Doris was in her charge, and surely it was her duty to find out what the girl was after.
Voices sounded, drawing near. Too late now for the other plan. She could wait here, however, just for a minute—and then make her presence known. She moved softly close to the wall, on the other side of which they would sit, if they did not pass on.
And they did not. It was a lovely spot. They believed themselves to be alone, beyond sight and hearing of all other human beings.
Thirty or forty yards below lay a fringe of shrubs and low trees; and the Rhone valley beyond was nearly hidden. Just in front stood boldly forth the great sweep of rocky heights, hard and grey, jagged and seamed. Lines of strata might there be studied, upright and horizontal, curved and twisted, telling of long-past pressure and moulding, perhaps also of great cataclysmic upheavals, in the shaping of these mountains. The vast rock-range, one of Nature's "out crops," rose high above softer grass-green alps, dotted with hay-châlets.
The Grand Muveran, as seen from this position, was still robed in morning shadow; and sunlight fell on the small glacier to the left just below the summit. The Petit Muveran, standing pertly up to his gigantic neighbour, also cast a shadow downward.
Across the fore-shortened Rhone valley, the Dent du Midi flung his stately head aloft, no longer reduced to insignificance, as when seen from the Chamossaire summit, by the greater aristocracy of the mountain-world. Yet some fair aristocrats were visible, huddled together in the distance,—rounded and snow-clad heights of the Valaisian range, above the Glacier de Trient.
The Dent du Midi, wide-spreading, solid, substantial, with great saddle-back ridges extending outward and downward, was all blue with a different blue from that of the sky. And soft cotton-wool masses of cloud lay in the ravines, not yet dispersed by the sun's power. All around was stillness, unbroken except by the continuous murmur of insects, the click of grasshoppers, the rough caw of a crow, and two alternating human voices.
Little dreamt Doris or Maurice who was on the other side of the châlet wall!
Mrs. Brutt had meant to stay where she was "only a minute." She had an uneasy consciousness that her position was far from dignified.
So she would only just listen to a word or two. Then, with scathing apologies, she would step forth upon the guilty pair.
But she stayed much longer than a minute; and she heard much more than a word or two.
ONE or two murmurs; and then—
"Dick, I don't think you are well."
(Mrs. Brutt pricked up her ears. "Dick" indeed! Had it gone so far already? She felt that she was amply justified in listening. No one could blame her for carrying out so patent a duty.)
"I'm fit enough. Only worried."
"What about? Tell me."
"I've had a letter."
"From your mother? From one of your sisters? Try to forget it just now. Dick, I didn't half think we should get off this morning. I believe Mrs. Brutt has begun to suspect. She's an awful hand at ferreting out things."
"I should imagine she had a gift that way."
"Oh, she's awful! If once she suspects, we shall have no more peace. Her 'dear young doctor' will be in her bad graces at once. However, she vanished in a hurry after breakfast—perhaps to pester them at the châlet. She does so 'love cheering up invalids,' you know."
(The outraged lady held her breath. That Doris should dare to mimic her! The insolence of it! The impertinence!)
"Mrs. Pressford will probably be equal to the occasion," laughed Maurice.
(The "dear young doctor" had done for himself now. Mrs. Brutt reverted on the spot to her earlier opinion. Had she not known him by instinct as a "sinister" individual? She bristled with wrath.)
"Tell me what worries you, Dick."
"One must have bothers sometimes, darling. It's a letter from the farm."
("Darling" indeed!)
"A most extraordinary thing has happened."
"Yes. Tell me all about it."
"Of course I will. My own, how sweet you look to-day."
("His own!" Atrocious! Scandalous! And she never to have been informed!)
"Take off your hat. I want to see you without it. Look at me, Doris. Those dear eyes! I never saw such expressive eyes as yours. They say everything you think."
"I'm always trying to keep them from doing it. Now, Dick,—what is it that bothers you?"
"Phil Morris has turned up at the farm. Such a scene. Winnie describes it all."
(Phil Morris. The farm! Winnie! Mrs. Brutt became excited. What could Mr. Maurice know about them? Her nostrils quivered, scenting prey. Doris's slight mimicry, Maurice's laughter, had turned her there and then into their bitter enemy. Kind-hearted though she was in the main, inordinate vanity was a leading feature of her character; and she could neither endure nor forgive aught of a personal slight.)
"Phil Morris"—slowly. "Your—" and a pause. "But he was drowned."
"That must have been a false report. He made his appearance without warning. Walked in upon them suddenly."
Doris took one flashing survey of the situation. She recalled the relationship, the portrait she had seen,—and she realised what this must mean.
"Phil Morris! Dick!—your father!"
(Through châlet walls the word had an electrical effect. Mrs. Brutt thrilled with the joy of a seeker after treasure, finding more than he has bargained for. She dismissed for the moment her personal injury, to give undivided attention. Here was a cache indeed, disentombed! Dick Maurice—no longer her beloved young doctor,—actually the son of Nurse Molly, and of that disreputable creature, Phil Morris, hitherto supposed to be dead. Oh yes—she knew—she remembered! She had since hunted out various facts about him, and had learnt to a certainty that he was disreputable. And to think that he should be Mr. Maurice's father! No marvel that, in her brilliant perspicacity, she should at first sight have turned against the young fellow. Within the limits of two seconds, the whole thing became clear; and she crept some inches closer to the wall, that she might not lose a syllable.)
"Then, after all, he didn't die, all those years ago."
"He did not die. It was a mistake. Phil Morris is alive still. But, darling, he is not my father."
"Not!"
"No. That has come out now."
"Oh, I am glad. Are you sure? I'm so thankful. I never could bear to think of you as the son of that man. It would have been too frightful."
"You did not admire the portrait."
"Oh, I couldn't endure it. I may say so now. Such a horrid face!—weak and common and low! It was that which startled me so dreadfully on the top of the Petit Chamossaire—remembering the picture and—That, and—you know, I told you how I came to see it. Mrs. Brutt was ferreting round, and she fished that up."
(Mrs. Brutt set this and the resulting laugh down to the debit side of Doris's account. She put her lips together, and formed one word—"Vixen!")
"I can't tell how far the present position of things is an improvement. I'm in utter ignorance still who my father really was. My mother seems to have admitted that he was above her in birth,— and that that was the reason for secrecy. He did not want his people to know."
"What a coward he must have been! But, anyhow, we can be thankful that it is not that dreadful Phil Morris. You have always been sure that your father was a gentleman; and perhaps this will prove it. Don't you see?"
"I see that I've won a rare treasure."
(Mrs. Brutt heard something suspiciously like a kiss.)
"Don't, please. You know it's not a real engagement, till my father consents." In her heart she said "mother."
"Nothing in life was ever more real to me."
"But tell me more. I want to know how it happened."
"I'll read you Winnie's letter"—and a masculine rumble followed.
First came the description of Phil Morris's sudden appearance, of the farmer's excited announcement, of Mrs. Morris's cold disavowal; well and graphically told, for Winnie was a clever girl, with natural ease of expression, and far better educated than her mother and sister. Then followed the coming of the Squire, Mrs. Morris's explanations, and the farmer's distress.
"And," the writer continued, "I felt I must let you know it all. Mother is sure not to, and Jane says she doesn't mean to meddle and get her fingers burnt."
(Mrs. Brutt nodded a sagacious head at the word "Jane," which clenched the truth of her surmises.)
"I always tell you everything, and mother hasn't said that I must not now. It all seems so strange, Raye. So very, very strange! To know nothing about our father, except just his name,—and not even his Christian name! I asked mother what that was, and she told me I needn't chatter."
"Uncle looks so unhappy; just as he did when we first came. Almost more, I think; for he is so good and true, and he hates deceit. He doesn't know what to think of it all. Jane seems not to care. She is full of her own affairs. But uncle and I care."
"Mr. Stirling looked so stern to-day. It frightened me to see how very stern he can be. I am sure he felt, as uncle does, how mother has deceived us all. He wouldn't say much before others, but he asked to see her alone; and then, I suppose, he told her what he really thought."
"We fancied he would make her confess more; but he didn't. At least, if he did, he kept it to himself. He only said to uncle—when he came out alone—that he understood mother's position, and that it was a very difficult one. Uncle said something about wishing to see her marriage-certificate. And—we were so surprised!—Mr. Stirling said he had seen it, and it was all right; only, he would say nothing more. Uncle had to be content; but he and I did think it odd. Why couldn't she have shown it to uncle, just as much as to Mr. Stirling? Of course he is a very, very old and kind friend; and we owe a great, great deal to him. But it does seem queer. It is all so worrying; and I don't find it easy to be brave. I suppose things are harder to bear, when one is ill and weak."
"Poor Winnie!" murmured Doris. Then, unexpectedly,—"Why does she call you 'Raye?'"
"My name is 'Richard Raye.' I've always been called 'Raye' by my mother and sisters."
"And not by your friends?"
"No."
"Dick—do you remember how I fancied, when first we met, that I had seen you before? I wonder if it is that you are a little like Winnie."
"I have never been counted like any of them. But of course there might be a look."
(Mrs. Brutt, listening to all this, could hardly restrain her eagerness. Something worth knowing had indeed come to hand. Not only that Maurice and Doris were, if not strictly engaged, at least conditionally promised one to another; but that Maurice, the would-be fiancé of Doris, was the son of Mrs. Morris of Wyldd's Farm, and of some unknown individual, who might have been—anything! She realised to the full what a bitter pill this would prove to the stately "Rectorinn.")