(And the Squire! How in the world had it come about that he should be mixed up with these third-rate Morrises?)
(In brief intervals of talk, she tried to puzzle out the mystery. Nurse Molly had been the attendant of his infant niece, during a time of serious delicacy lasting several months, up to the very time, no doubt, when she must have jilted Phil Morris and have taken up with the "other man." Perhaps the Squire knew all about it; perhaps the real husband might even have been a friend of his! This view of the question, however, she dismissed as improbable. On the whole, in her judgment, the only tenable theory was that Mr. Stirling had been as much deceived by "those dreadful Morrises" as everybody else.)
(She remembered with pride her own keenness of sight. "Didn't I tell Miss Stirling that there was something mysterious in the woman— something underneath in her history? I knew it! was sure of it! I couldn't be mistaken." She determined that, so soon as she should return home, she would thoroughly investigate the matter.)
Maurice was speaking again.
"Shall we go a little farther? Can you spare the time?"
"I can spare it,"—laughing. "But we must take care. Mrs. Brutt is awfully suspicious."
"It is not her concern."
("Thanks!"—voicelessly murmured the listener.)
"Only, if once she begins really to suspect, she will make frightful mischief, Dick."
"Well, we won't be more than half-an-hour. Perhaps she has forced an entry at last, and has been all this time entertaining them at the châlet. Imagine Pressford's state of mind!"
Another merry laugh from Doris, and the voices slowly receded. Mrs. Brutt waited, in a state of dire impatience, till she felt that she might venture out. Nobody was within sight. She peered in all directions, gliding with caution, and keeping the châlet between herself and the path they had followed. Her heart beat unpleasantly fast; for, despite her theory that she had every right to listen, the last thing she wished was to have her presence discovered.
Not till she regained the main road did she breathe freely. She walked some way down it, and took a seat by the roadside. The beauty of the scene was lost upon her. She had other things to think about.
Plainly now her duty was to write to Mrs. Winton,—not appearing to know of the engagement, but saying enough to alarm Doris's home-folks. It was no unwelcome duty; for the Rector-inn's importance at Lynnbrooke overshadowed her own, and she objected to be overshadowed. To give that importance a downward pull would be secretly enchanting.
Doris would be at once recalled. That was certain. Perhaps she would decide to go herself also. She was growing tired of this place. She would find it amusing to watch Lynnbrooke developments. The thought of her new knowledge brought a welcome sense of power.
Power that she proposed to exercise—not for the happiness of others, but as a relief to her own hurt and offended feelings. When she recalled the tone of Doris's allusions to herself, and the amused laugh which they had called forth from her companion, she was simply furious. Anything that touched her amour propre lay beyond forgiveness.
MRS. BRUTT'S self-control was limited; and, despite her best efforts, she failed to meet Doris as if nothing had happened. There was a constraint of manner, which set the girl studying her, and wondering what had happened.
Another letter to Mrs. Winton went off that afternoon. Mrs. Brutt explained wordily that, to her extreme distress, she had noted signs of a growing love-affair between Doris and the young surgeon,— no longer her "dear young doctor."
She regretted not having found it out earlier, and felt that she had trusted too implicitly. Mr. Maurice's conduct had been most reprehensible. She would not have believed him to be capable of anything so underhand,—or Doris either, with whom she felt sorely disappointed. However, though Doris had said nothing to her, she had doubtless kept her parents well informed. Mrs. Brutt certainly did feel hurt at having been left so completely in the dark; but her state of health had rendered her unusually blind. Some medical details followed.
All this and much more Mr. and Mrs. Winton were desired to look upon as in close confidence. Doris did not know that she was writing. She counted it her plain duty to send a word of warning, in case they had not yet heard.
They might, no doubt, fully approve of their daughter's lover. People viewed things so differently. The young doctor was on the whole quite presentable—quite well-behaved. And no doubt, too, he had principles, though in this affair he was to be blamed. He seemed clever, and might do well in his profession. So far as she could gather, there was something rather hazy about his parentage; but she had only found this out from observation and intuition,—she had really been told nothing definite. That was a matter about which some parents were particular; and she confessed to a sense of particularity herself as to people's antecedents. Still, in this democratic age, the most unlikely unions did take place, and not always unsuccessfully.
Two letters crossed this effusion, arriving next morning. One, from Mrs. Winton, desired her daughter to return without delay, giving no reason, except that she had been absent long enough. The other, from Mr. Stirling to Mrs. Brutt, intimated that an escort for the girl had to be immediately found. If any difficulty existed, might he—in a friendly spirit, and in strict secrecy—offer to frank the widow's return-journey, that she might bring Doris? He apologised and expressed himself gracefully. Mrs. Brutt at once decided that no escort save her own should be available.
She saw that her earlier letter to Mrs. Winton had brought this about, making the second unnecessary. Still, she did not regret launching that shaft. In her present mood it gratified her to trouble anyone belonging to Doris.
Since Mr. Stirling's letter meant urgency, she settled to start in two days, making the best terms she could with the hotel people. Doris offered no objections. She knew from her own letter that it had to be; and though she was sorry, she also felt relief. Things could not go on as they were. Conscience was worrying her a good deal.
The last day fled on wings, wrapped in a golden haze, mingled with pain. On the part of Maurice, there was strenuous hope; on the part of Doris, a restless disquiet. She could not fathom herself. In Dick's presence she was content, wanting nothing. He controlled her, satisfied her, filled her life. He was so dear—so good! He loved her so intensely.
And she loved him, clung to him, did not know how to think of life without him. As he had once said, it was with them—"Just you and I!" Nothing else, for the moment, signified. They had hours together; for Mrs. Brutt let them severely alone; and they made the most of the remaining time. Each had the other; and that was enough.
Yet Doris had a dim consciousness of questionings, somewhere far below, which would not be stilled; questionings intangible, unexpressed, but real. For her world consisted of more than just Dick and herself; and that which was enough at the present moment might not always be enough.
Late in the afternoon they found their way up the mountain to a quiet spot, away from everybody. It had been a day of dull weather, and the heights were heavily capped with clouds. One or two distant growls heralded a storm. Maurice sat beside her on the steep grass-slope, his stick across his knees, his brown hands grasping it. Ever and anon the honest grey eyes wandered towards Doris.
"I'm off too," he said.
"But you've got a day or two more."
"I can't stand this place without you."
"And then you come to Lynnbrooke."
"You've made me promise not to arrive till after yourself." Maurice shifted the stick. "Mr. Stirling won't approve."
"Won't approve of what?"
"My going to Lynnbrooke. He has always kept me away."
"But—why should he?"
"I can't explain. He has insisted."
"Mrs. Brutt won't say yet whether she means to stay more than one night in Paris. You will have to allow for that. Dick, I wonder whether she has been making mischief. She has seemed so queer and glum the last day or two. I can't make her out."
"She's looking rather blue at me too."
"If she has begun to suspect, it would be like her to meddle. I do wish now that you had written off the first thing."
"Do you, darling?"
"They will think it so wrong of me. I know exactly how they will feel. And—I'm afraid it was wrong—really wrong."
"In any case, they will blame me, not you. Don't worry your dear self. Things will come right."
"Will they? I'm not so sure. It doesn't seem to have been quite—quite straight of me, not to tell at once. And I have always prided myself on being straight."
"You see, darling, it was simply a question which to do,—whether to write, or to wait till I could see your father."
"Oh, I know. But it was wrong. I see that now. I ought to have written. It was quite, quite wrong not to write! Or else—if I didn't— I ought not to have been so much with you, these last days."
"Shall I write to your father now? Would you rather that I should?"
She considered gravely.
"Yes, I would. I don't like to go home, and to have to tell them. I'd rather find them knowing it."
"I'll write this evening." He held her hand to his lips.
"You might say you are travelling home, and will go to Lynnbrooke for your answer. Would that do?"
"It would be—diplomatic!" Dick was not a lover of diplomatic methods.
"If you give an address, they may write and stop you."
"Perhaps I wouldn't be quite so easily stopped. But I shall be travelling, as you say. And really, on second thoughts, I don't know what address to give for the next three or four nights. I've not settled which route to take, or where to sleep." Then he spoke earnestly,—"Remember, my darling, nothing can finally separate us against our will. Even if there are difficulties—oppositions—still we belong one to another. You to me!—I to you! Nothing can change that. Obstacles may be overcome. In the end our love will conquer."
She smiled, but only said—
"You will tell father all about yourself, when you write."
"In general terms. It is better to leave full details till we meet."
"But I must be free to tell mother about—" she flushed up—"about Mrs. Morris."
"You are free to say whatever you think right. Only, that must be in confidence. It must not get about Lynnbrooke, without permission from Mr. Stirling."
"I can't see why Mr. Stirling should mind—or what he has to do with it."
"He has had a good deal to do with me,—and he objects to my connections being known."
"Your—mother!" she murmured. "It seems so strange for a man not to be able to speak of his—mother!"
It was Maurice's turn to flush. He said only—"It is strange."
Another pause; and another far off thunder-growl. A sharp line of light traversed the sky.
"We've had a wonderful time here, Dick. I seem to have known you for years—oh, for fifty years."
"And I you—all my life. We must have been in touch long before we met at Bex."
"You don't mean—nonsense about previous existences."
"I don't mean nonsense of any sort. I don't think I know what I do mean. I only know what you are to me—my own. Life without you wouldn't be life."
"I've often thought of that day when we first met,—and I knew you to be an Englishman by your hand. Don't, please."
"My darling, how can I help it?"
"And then, the Glückhorn day! We shall never forget that. If only we could have gone up again! It is desperately disappointing not to have done one single peak."
"We'll do lots on our wedding tour."
"I seemed to myself to be another person that day."
"You were splendidly courageous."
"Oh, I don't think that. It just had to be done."
Rumbling thunder again and again made itself heard. By this time several storms were in progress, at varying distances. They ceased talking, to watch the strife of elements.
A flash far away to the right; a zigzag line to the left; a brilliant illumination from behind; an electric thrill to the fore. A low peal from the front; a deep mutter from one side; a clattering roll from the other side. This went on continuously. It was as if the mountains were holding solemn converse in a language not understanded of the common people,—murmuring one to another of the things of eternity, disregarding the little human pigmies planted in their midst.
The circle of storms drew no nearer. It was an evening discussion of Nature's forces; an adjustment of differences.
Then, as the two walked soberly downhill, Doris caught herself wondering—"What next?"
"WELL, child! So here you are. All right?" asked the Rector. He clipped his sentences nervously, squared his shoulders, and avoided looking in his daughter's face.
She was conscious of relief, to see him alone on the platform. It might be cowardice; but she welcomed any delay in the more formidable encounter. Ever since her arrival at Dover, she had been picturing what the latter would be like; conjuring up a stately and offended "Rectorinn," and imagining conversations enough to fill a small volume.
"Daddy, it's awfully nice to be back. What an age I've been away! You are glad to have me?"
"Glad" was not the word; but Mr. Winton could seldom say what he felt. He grunted an uncouth assent.
"Where's—she?" he demanded.
"Mrs. Brutt? She was bent on three days at Dover, and I was bent on getting home. So here I am."
"Had enough of her?"
"Quite!" expressively. "Oh, I must see to my luggage." She went swiftly along the platform, with smiling recognition of one well-known face after another, among guards and porters. "That is all done," she soon announced. "And now we can walk home, can't we?" She tucked a hand under her father's substantial arm. "What have you been working at lately, dad?"
Nothing more was needed to unloose her father's powers of speech. He could always talk on the subject of carpentry; and he quickened his stride, rolling characteristically from side to side, while Doris hung on as best she might, and he sketched his plans, past, present, and future, with enthusiasm.
She listened dreamily, finding it difficult to keep her attention fixed.
"Then you're going to do two more lecterns?"
"As soon as I can find time." He explained his scheme for the next, keeping it up all along the main street. She wondered whether this were of set purpose, to avoid more ticklish topics.
As they neared the Rectory, her mind had wandered elsewhere; and the Rector reverted into dumbness. His burly frame did not preclude mental sensitiveness; and he knew in a moment when she no longer listened.
"Daddy,"—and she stood still, just within the Rectory gate,—"did you get Dick Maurice's letter, and mine?"
"Yes, yes, child." He tried to hurry her on. "Come—mother is looking out."
"But I want to know. Does she mind?"
"Ask her, my dear. She'll tell you."
The girl hesitated, and he went ahead.
"Here she is," he called joyously, opening the front door.
At once became apparent the fallacy of previous imaginings. Mrs. Winton came forward with an anxious smile; and Doris was folded in large, outspread arms,—folded and held.
She had not expected this. The Rectorinn was far from demonstrative; and while Doris had braced herself to meet displeasure, the last thing she had expected was tenderness. For a moment neither spoke. Doris's head went down on her mother's shoulder; and she nestled into the welcoming grasp, feeling herself to be a child again,— or like a little bird, returning from a long wander into the warmth and shelter of the nest.
Could Mrs. Winton have realised it, she might at any time have controlled this daughter of hers by the slightest of silken threads. Stern opposition, severe management, always stiffened the young back; but Doris would succumb at once to the touch of love and gentleness.
Those clasping arms meant to her what she had known, but often had not realised, the strength of mother-love! She knew that the firm grip meant more than love. She read in it guardianship, exclusion, disapproval,—all these. But the tenderness made up for everything, made all of small importance by comparison; and she gave herself over to it, clinging fast—was it for protection from herself? She could not have told.
Neither saw the tears which glistened in another pair of eyes, under shaggy brows.
"Are you tired with your journey?"
"Not in the least, mother,"
She stood up, and adjusted her hat.
"How nice it all looks! So pretty and homelike! Why—you have put fresh flowers in all the vases. It's not the day."
"For you!" Mrs. Winton's face said.
"And the best china out!" She appreciated that honour. "And those little cakes that I like. And what is this?" She stopped before a small table, on which lay sundry packages, addressed to herself.
"Tea first," suggested Mr. Winton.
"I'm longing to open them. Well—I'll wait." She sat down, and her parents watched her with hardly-veiled anxiety and admiration. She had never looked fresher, prettier, more charming. Mrs. Winton was thinking how, at this phase, she would doubly attract Hamilton Stirling. The other undesirable young fellow had of course to be got rid of as fast as possible. She did not foresee grave difficulty, but she did recognise a need for tact; and though not commonly a tactful person, she was cautious now through fear of consequences. Doris, as she well knew, could be roused to obstinacy.
"No end of invitations," Mrs. Winton said. She ran through a list of forthcoming garden-parties in the neighbourhood; titled names included. She was much too sure of her own position to care for any bolstering up by acquaintances. She would have said that she left "that sort of thing" to "people like Mrs. Brutt." But to-day she was desirous to get Doris back into the old atmosphere; so, with a purpose, important names figured prominently.
"Now may I open these parcels, mother?" The note of submission was unusual. "A pincushion from my Sunday class. Dear little things! And a pair of vases from the maids. How kind of them. Ah, this is from you, mother—a new hat!—and what a beauty! How did you guess that I wanted one? Getting things for climbing cost such a lot,—I've no money left for clothes. And a dear little writing-case from father. Oh, thank you!"
She lifted a large bouquet of hothouse flowers, guessing the truth before she read—"From Hamilton Stirling."
"I don't think I ought to keep that."
"You could hardly send it back, my dear."
"I suppose—not. But I wish—"
The Rector bolted.
"Mother, we didn't write earlier, because we thought—I thought—it was better to wait. But just at last I changed my mind."
"There is a letter from a Mr. Maurice." Mrs. Winton's head became grenadier-like in pose, though she spoke still with studied kindness.
"What did father say?"
"He has not been able to answer it. No address was given."
"Oh, that was me—I mean, it was my doing. At least I wanted it; though really Dick had made no plans, and didn't know where he would be for two or three nights. I wanted you and father to see him. You couldn't say anything without seeing him."
"I think we will leave that question till to=morrow."
"Dick will be coming."
"Not for a day or two, I imagine. We will wait till to-morrow. You have your unpacking to attend to,—and I must write some letters."
"Oh yes,—and all my Swiss treasures to get out."
She ran off blithely, not sorry to defer the great discussion. Mrs. Winton smiled to herself.
The letters that had to be written made slow advance. Mrs. Winton leant back in her chair, and gave herself up to thought.
Mrs. Brutt's second effusion had not taken precisely that effect which it was meant to take. Like many mothers, Mrs. Winton could find unlimited fault with her daughter; but if an outsider ventured to do the same, she bristled into instant defence.
"I call it a very impertinent letter," she had said to her husband, after reading it. "Mrs. Brutt is out of temper; but, really, I do not see why she should have expected to be told. If she had done her duty, no such complication would have arisen. She has been disgracefully careless; just wrapped up in herself and her fancies. Mr. Maurice has behaved very ill; but his duty was to write to us, not to consult Mrs. Brutt."
"Poor little Doris!" the Rector said.
"Yes. I really do not see that the child has been so much to blame." This unlooked-for leniency gave immense relief to Mr. Winton. "She has fallen a victim between the two. Well, mercifully it is stopped now!" The Rector's lips formed a very dubious—"Is it?"—"And it will soon be over. The great thing at present is secrecy. Mr. Hamilton Stirling must certainly hear nothing."
The Rector asked how she meant to gag Mrs. Brutt.
"I must think what can be done. The woman is a perfect sieve, and if she is not checked, the whole tale will be over Lynnbrooke in a week. She will pour it all out to the Squire, the first thing. Perhaps, if she does, he will stop its going farther. She is setting her cap at him, so she will do what he wishes."
The bare idea of Mrs. Brutt at Lynnthorpe, in the capacity of Katherine's aunt, was enough to send Mr. Winton into a prolonged chuckle.
"Yes, of course. We see the absurdity, but she doesn't. She has an overweening notion of her own importance."
Mrs. Winton pondered these things as she sat at her davenport. It had been decided between herself and her husband that something should be said to the Squire, anticipating Mrs. Brutt's probable confidences. Since he had confessed to knowing this young doctor, he might give fuller information as to the latter's antecedents. He had been absent from home since the arrival of Mrs. Brutt's former letter; but he was expected to return this morning. And as she debated, her husband appeared, ushering in the Squire.
"I told Mr. Stirling, my dear, that we had a question to ask him. Perhaps we had better adjourn to the study. Doris may come in here any moment."
The move having been made, Mr. Winton spoke a few words of careful inquiry. They were anxious to know about the young Edinburgh surgeon, whom they had named to him before,—Mr. Maurice. Would he be willing kindly to give them further particulars?
The Squire was leaning back in an arm-chair, with the air of languor which had lately often characterised him. He did not stir, but asked—"Particulars as to what?"
"You mentioned that his connections were unsatisfactory."
"They would not satisfy you."
"His parents?"—inquiringly.
"I am not able to go into the matter fully. It should, I think, be sufficient to say—and I do say it emphatically—that you would disapprove of them."
"You mean," Mrs. Winton put in, "that we should disapprove of him as an acquaintance for Doris."
"If that is all you wish to know—yes."
The husband and wife exchanged glances. Mr. Stirling had spoken with an unwonted touch of sharpness; and he looked, the Rector thought, strangely pale.
"That is not all," Mr. Winton said, taking the matter into his own hands. "Mr. Maurice has proposed for Doris. And she wishes to accept him."
The Squire seemed to rouse himself with an effort. He sat upright, facing them both.
"Does this mean that you wish for advice,—that you will allow me to offer advice?"
"Yes—certainly!"
"Then, if I were you, Winton, I would write by the next post, and refuse consent."
"Unfortunately, I can't. He sends no address, but says he will call in person for his answer, to-morrow or next day."
"He does!—does he?" There was a lightning-flash of indignation, though the Squire still spoke restrainedly. "It would be of no use giving you his Edinburgh address. A letter sent there would not arrive in time."
"You know a good deal about him," Mr. Winton could not help saying. "What about the young fellow himself—his character?"
"There is no particular fault to be found. It is simply a question of his connections. I cannot give you particulars. I can only advise you—urgently—to act with decision."
"He will be here before we can take any steps."
"Apparently so. You will have to make him understand that nothing can come of it. I suppose you will keep this—episode—to yourselves."
"As far as possible," the Rector began, and his wife broke in—
"But Mrs. Brutt—"
"Does she know?"
"She has found it out somehow. She wrote to warn us."
The Squire stood up thoughtfully.
"Perhaps I may be able to give her a hint. Yes, I will remember. I have to see her on a small piece of business. It is desirable that people should not be set talking. Good-bye. I must be off. You will let me know how things turn out."
"Will you not stay and see Doris?" asked Mrs. Winton, surprised at so early a move.
"I think not now. I have a good deal to do. Another day."
They gazed after him as he went heavily down the garden. He seemed all at once aged and altered, almost feeble.
"Something is wrong with the Squire," Mrs. Winton remarked.
The Rector made no comment. Five minutes later he stood at his study-table, reading anew Maurice's letter. He liked the tone of it, the manly frankness, the ardent warmth, the devotion to his child.
His eyes rested, by no means for the first time, on the signature,—"Richard Raye Maurice."
"I don't understand that," he muttered. The puzzle had been in his mind ever since receiving the sheet. He wondered at his wife's having failed to remark the same. Then he recalled that the Squire's invariable signature was—"Richard R. Stirling." Few knew what the R. stood for; perhaps almost no one in the place except himself.
WALKING heavily, like an old man, Mr. Stirling passed through the Rectory garden, took the path which led across a small triangular field and entered the churchyard. A very quiet spot; at this hour entirely deserted.
The blow, long dreaded, had fallen at last. Difficulties, warded off through years, had suddenly arisen like granite walls, threatening to close him in. No way of escape lay open, except through the immediate crushing of Doris's new love-affair. If Maurice were at once and effectually dismissed, things might still go on as they had done. But what if Maurice refused to be summarily dismissed? What if Doris insisted on having her own way?
It seemed that the young fellow, after years of extraordinary submission, had at last taken the bit between his teeth. And he might, even if rejected, insist upon further explanations.
Strange that the Squire's own action, in trying to get Doris out of the way of the Morrises, should have actually thrown her into contact with Maurice, should have actually brought about this disastrous state of things! Disastrous from his point of view.
He went round to the farther and still more deserted side of the church. No human being could be seen; no human habitation even, though a town lay so near. Rooks cawing hoarsely in a group of elms alone broke the silence. Typically fair and peaceful the scene; but peace lay far from the heart of Richard Stirling.
He found his way to a handsome marble monument, surrounded by railings; the tomb of his wife. He had refused to lay her in the dismal family vault, below the church. Here he could come and be with her, so to speak; could imagine her close by; could hold converse with her in thought. Not a week passed that he did not come. He would stand and gaze at the solid carved mass of marble, surmounted by an exquisitely beautiful marble figure of an angel, modelled after the form and features which he had loved so passionately. Nobody ever came near this part of the churchyard, when he was seen to go there. His lifelong sorrow was deeply respected.
And generally the spot soothed him. To-day it brought only keener memories,—more intense realisation of his present position.
His true position. Not as men saw it,—the admired and beloved Squire, looked up to by all the country round; handsome, rich, popular, distinguished. In very truth his was a poverty-stricken spirit. His "cupboard" held a "skeleton" which none guessed at.
It was his own doing, and he knew this. None the easier to bear for that! The troubles which we have brought upon ourselves, through wrong-doing, are harder far to endure than those which come straight from the Hand of our Heavenly Father.
If he had been brave, if he had spoken out at the time, if he had accepted with courage and patience, a trying condition of things, he would, no doubt, long before this have lived down all that was unpleasant, have recovered completely from the nine-days' wonder.
Ah, but in so doing he might have lost her, his Mary! There was the crucial point! For when the truth came out, he had not won her. He had only been on the verge of proposing; full indeed of hope and joy, confident that she would be his. But, if this had become known, just at the critical moment, it might have turned the scale against him. Not perhaps by Lady Mary's own will, but by her parents' decision. And she, always gentle and yielding, would have submitted.
Except for that one possibility, he did see now how infinitely better and wiser it would have been to accept the inevitable, to let things take their natural course, much as he would have disliked that course. But — how could he?— when it might have meant—when at the time he believed that it did mean—the loss of her who was to him more than life itself!
Standing thus, deep in thought, he went through the past, recalling dates and events.
His mind reverted to boyish days, when he and his only brother were as one; a joyous, inseparable pair. Recollections leaped up of the gentle dreamy lad, always ready to follow his stronger guidance, always winning and easily led. Never a shadow had come between them when—thirty-two years before this date—the younger brother married, only to lose his wife less than two years later. A year later still the widower went abroad, seemingly still broken-hearted, taking with him his tiny fragile Katherine, and a trained nurse to look after her; Nurse Molly of the farm.
Then came long intervals of silence on the part of the younger brother, and constrained short letters, perplexing the elder. Once and once only the two met for a few days in Paris. Something of a drifting apart had come about between the two. Stirling, not understanding, would have been sorely troubled, but for the engrossing claims of his own love-affair, his intense devotion to the fair and sweet Lady Mary, at whose heart he was laying persistent siege. Wrapped up in this one aim, he hardly realised that his brother's absence from England had lasted between four and five years.
Just when he hoped he had won his love, just as he was about to speak, a telegram summoned him to a distant and obscure German village, where his brother lay dying. He went without an hour's delay, only to arrive when all was over; only to have his eyes startlingly opened. Then he understood the constraint, the prolonged absence, the silence, the shadow, of the last few years.
A hard fight followed, with much weighing of both sides; and in this fight Richard Stirling was beaten. At all hazards, he determined to ensure secrecy. He could not, would not, consent to that which might in all probability mean—the loss of Mary! Whatever might be involved in silence, Lady Mary should not know; her people should not know. He could not give her up. He could not live without her. Everything went down before this test.
No doubt the temptation was immense. He felt that he had been ill-treated, in not learning sooner how things were. But temptation is never excuse. To secure the woman whom he adored, he stooped to a course of elaborate and long-continued deceit,—a course also of definite and deliberate wrong to others.
He had his way, and he paid his price. A price, not only in money. He had been paying the price ever since, through twenty-five long years.
For the weight of this secret wrong had been always upon him. Not always to the fore. During the life of his wife he had kept it mainly out of sight; out of his own sight. He had borne himself proudly, courageously. He had looked upon it as a thing to which he was driven by circumstances beyond his own control. He had felt a kind of calm certainty that the thing had to be, that there was no escape out of the tangle.
Her death came as an awakening and crushing blow; almost, to his thinking at the time, as a direct judgment upon his past decision. Yet he had struggled back to a tentative composure, again regarding the position of affairs as inevitable, and determined that for Katherine's sake no question as to continued secrecy could exist.
But of late the burden had pressed with a strange new force; especially during the last few months, since the coming of the Morrises to the farm. He had realised, as never before, what the long concealment really meant; not only as regarded injustice to those concerned, but as viewed from a higher, a Divine, standpoint. A darkness lay upon him; a sense of guilt, of bitter unworthiness. For he had been always accounted—nay, by nature and training he was, except in this one direction—a man of stainless honour. The contrast between what others thought of him, and what he knew himself to have done, weighed heavily.
He felt now that the shadow had been always there, even when he refused to see it. He felt that it always would be there, till he should speak out, should make the truth known, should right that which was wrong.
But—how could he? He—the beloved and esteemed and honoured Squire— the foremost man in the neighbourhood—he to confess all! He—Richard Raye Stirling of Lynnthorpe!—so to lower himself in the eyes of men! He—to put these people into their rightful position before the sight of the world, his world, which meant so much to him! The thing was impossible. Wildly, madly impossible.
Nobody imagined aught of what he was going through. He had great self-control, never betraying what he felt. "He isn't quite the thing— looks worried!" one or another might remark. But none dreamt of the ceaseless inward strife, the long slow torture of spirit.
It had amounted to that of late, as he weighed and examined the question, viewing it from this side, from that side, ever striving to excuse his own action, to prove how out of the range of practical possibilities any other course had lain. And he did prove it, times without number, to his own satisfaction. He would feel settled and almost happy, for an hour or two. Then he would revert to the endless topic, the perpetual facing of what he had done, the terrible reality of those long years of deceit; and he would see again, vividly, the hopelessness that aught except confession could put matters right, together with the desperate blank impossibility of confessing.
So the circle of misery went on; and all the while he was the courteous host, the pleasant friend, the affectionate uncle, the busy Squire. But the pressure was wearing him out. He lay down at night with his burden; he rose in the morning with it. Gradually it was becoming an obsession.
Now this fresh stroke had fallen. Now, it might be, the choice was no longer his. Instead of being allowed to put things straight himself— as he had always purposed to do some day—it seemed that the wrong-doing was about to find him out, that the truth might become known without choice on his part.
"It was for your sake, my Mary!" he murmured, gazing at the lovely marble figure. "For your sake—my darling!"
The thought came—was it not conceivable that, even if he had lost her by right action, life without her, and without also this clogging weight on heart and conscience, might have been not only better, fairer, but actually happier?
And—he might not have lost her. At the time it seemed as if he must; but since then he had learned how she loved him from the first. What if she would have clung to him through all? What if the whole miserable tissue of guile and duplicity had been, not only wrong, but needless?
NOT a word about Dick Maurice was spoken that first evening.
Twice Doris tried to bring him forward, and was rebuffed,—very kindly, yet decidedly. She could not resolve to do it again. She seemed to be under a spell; able only to bask in the sunshine of home, in the loving welcome from all sides.
And though she thought of her lover continually, yet in a manner he was pushed to the background of her mind. Switzerland already began to look far off. Her feelings had become mixed and indefinite. She had almost the sensations of a naughty child, come back to be good.
Everybody and everything had to be seen,—servants, neighbours, friends, household pets. The hours slipped fast away; and while much talk went on, it was talk mainly of Lynnbrooke interests. Mrs. Winton left no space for aught else. Doris was amply posted in local news; and the name "Stirling" came up perpetually.
When she went to bed, it was to dream of Dick. They were on the Glückhorn together; just he and she. Once more she was trying to climb to the rescue. Details differed, as they are apt to do in a dream; and the rock-wall of her sleeping fancy would have been ludicrous in the eyes of an Alpinist; but to her it seemed natural enough. In dreamland nothing is absurd. She mounted the rocks, reached Maurice, and then, as he clasped her hand, she found him to be—not Dick, but Hamilton Stirling, in frock coat and kid gloves, solemn and dignified. The rocky height vanished; and he and she were on a high road; and he pulled a printed slip out of his pocket, offering it for her inspection.
She woke up, and had a laugh; yet she felt disgust with herself for having reverted in thought to the latter, even in slumber. "As if I had anything to do with him now! Oh, how curious life is! Everything seems such a muddle."
Further sleep proved impossible; and she lay long, thinking, thinking, about affairs in general, and about Maurice in particular. After breakfast she went into the garden, and enjoyed herself among the flowers, watching the bees at work, feeding her pigeons, anxious for and yet shrinking from the decisive talk, which could not be much longer delayed.
"Dick must be in such dreadful suspense," she thought. "I rather wish now that I had not asked him to wait. It is better to have things settled straight off. But anyhow, he won't be later than to-morrow. I know why mother will not speak in a hurry. She thinks she will give me time to get over my fancy. If it were no more than that—but it isn't. It is much, much more! My dear, dear Dick! If only his people were different! But that isn't his fault; and it doesn't alter in the least what he is in himself."
Sauntering indoors, she found Mrs. Winton in the morning-room, busy with needlework, but evidently on the look-out for her daughter. Doris sat down, slowly pulled off her garden gloves, and said—
"Mother, we've got to speak."
"Yes, dear." Mrs. Winton's was a heavy footfall; but she had in this case a wholesome dread of blundering, and she was doing her utmost to tread lightly.
"I've told you already—it was all my doing that we did not write sooner. You must not blame Dick for that."
A shake of the head responded.
"Don't you understand? How could you and father say anything, till you had seen him? How can you now? He is a perfect stranger to you both."
"He ought to have given his address."
"No; I settled that." The girl was instantly eager in his defence. "Even if he had known where he was going, I wouldn't have let him. He has to come here, before anything is done."
Silence met this; not an easy silence to Mrs. Winton, who could have said a good deal.
"I know I wasn't right in one thing. I ought to have said more about him in writing—when I began to see—but it was horribly difficult. Somehow, I couldn't. Till he spoke, I could never be sure how he really felt."
"The question is—had he a right to speak at all?"
"Why, mother!—of course. Any man has a right, I suppose."
"To ask any woman to marry him? No! There are limits."
"Well, yes, there are limits. A crossing-sweeper can't quite ask a duchess," admitted the girl hardily. "But—any gentleman—"
That brought matters to a point. Mrs. Winton put down her work, and looked steadily at the warm young face.
"We want you very much, my dear, not to do anything in a hurry. Remember, this is a question which involves your whole life's happiness. Of course there are things which your father and I could not possibly consent to—and we know you would obey. But we would so much rather that you should be sensible, and should see for yourself the need."
"If you and father forbid it—of course—" Doris said proudly. "I would wait—at all events. But it's not fair! You don't, either of you, know him."
"No, I know we don't. And I am sure he has managed to make himself agreeable. I dare say he is—handsome." This was a severe effort.
"I don't suppose you would call him handsome. I think he's awfully good-looking."
"And—pleasant too!"
"Oh, he's perfectly delightful—I can't tell you how delightful and dear he is."
"A great many men know how to make themselves liked by young girls, my dear,—men whose family connections"—Doris moved uneasily—"are not precisely what one could accept. You see, nice manners are not the only thing to be considered in marriage."
"But Dick is all right in himself. He is everything that you and father could possibly wish."
"How about his relatives?" calmly and mercilessly inquired Mrs. Winton.
"He has always said he is quite sure his father was a gentleman by birth."
"About the last thing he would ever think of saying, my dear,—if it really were so."
This thrust went deep, and Doris's face was flooded with colour.
"You see, it is not merely a question of the man himself. He may be all you think—personally delightful. But when you marry a man, you adopt your husband's family, whatever they are. His mother becomes your mother-in-law. His sisters become your sisters-in-law. That is inevitable."
"Then—you know!"
"Know what?"
"About his people."
"He speaks of his grandfather on his mother's side as a clerk in some house of business,—and of her uncle as a farmer. That at least is honest of him."
"It was frightfully hard for him to speak out; but he did it—quite openly. And we settled that I was free to tell you, before he came. He couldn't write the whole. But I have seen his mother. She is Mrs. Morris of Wyldd's Farm—Katherine's 'Nurse Molly.'"
Mrs. Winton's whole air was aghast. "Doris!"
"Yes, I know!"
"This is far worse than anything I have imagined. Of all impossible connections! Mrs. Morris. Farmer Paine's niece! The mother of that dreadful Jane! Are you mad?"
Doris stiffened instantly. Mrs. Winton saw her own mistake, but could not at once recover herself.
"Mrs. Morris!—of all people! And do you know—but of course you do not— all that has just happened? Do you know that her supposed husband has just come back, after being looked upon as dead for twenty years—and that he is not her husband at all, and she will not say who was? For all we know he may have been a convict—a murderer! Farmer Paine is in such distress. He came to see us only two days ago. And you— you would have that person for your mother-in-law!"
Doris was silent, and Mrs. Winton spoke again in a different tone.
"Of course—I understand. You saw him away from them all, and you did not realise what it would be. No doubt he is unlike the others—unlike that terrible young woman, Jane."
Another and longer break.
"He did not tell us this in writing."
"He couldn't. But of course he meant you to know. Mr. Stirling is an old friend of theirs, and he has always insisted on keeping Dick away from his people. He doesn't even like it to be known that Dick belongs to them—so you mustn't tell anyone, please, without his leave. It is only for you and father."
"I suppose you are aware that, when one marries, there are settlements, and lawyer's inquiries, and everything has to come out."
Doris looked puzzled.
"Perhaps that could be got over," she suggested, with pleasing vagueness. "Or—there might be no settlements. And Dick does intend to speak to Mr. Stirling, only not until he has seen father. Mr. Stirling won't like his coming here. But really, now that Dick is close upon twenty-seven years old, he surely has a right to decide for himself."
Mrs. Winton had again difficulty in holding back what she felt.
"All this ought to show you how utterly impossible the whole thing is," she said; and there was a fresh silence.
"But, mother, it is—Dick!" came at length. "It's not other people, and relations, and settlements. It is just—my Dick. If you only knew what he is, you would understand! It is—Dick himself."
She suddenly saw those pleading grey eyes, felt the grasp of those strong shapely hands, heard the tender musical voice,—and nothing else mattered. Mrs. Winton's touch came on hers, a trifle heavily, yet with real feeling.
"If you knew what he is to me, mother!"
"My dear, whatever he has been to you, he has not behaved rightly."
"He spoke out the truth about his people."
"Before he began trying to win you?"
"It wasn't long—after. I don't think he knew how much he cared—till that day on the Glückhorn."
"And then he explained all?"
Doris made no direct reply.
"It must be a little hard upon you, dear,—as well as upon him. You see, you have had your mind full of him. And he has been—attentive, and so on. But just think—if you married him—think of the position you would be in. Think of your father's cousins." The Rector, though eccentric, was well-connected. "Think of my people."
"One needn't bring all one's relatives together, I suppose."
"But the people that one would like to keep apart have an unfortunate knack of coming together, just at the wrong times," Mrs. Winton remarked dryly.
Doris sat upright.
"I know all that," she said. "But I promised. I have given myself to Dick. I did it with my eyes open."
"You could only promise conditionally—if we should consent."
"If you forbid it—" Every line in her attitude spoke resentment.
"If we do, it will be for your sake, darling."
Hardly three times in her life had Mrs. Winton used that endearing term. The girl's face softened.
"By-and-by you will be grateful to us for saving you from a lifetime of unhappiness."
"You don't know Dick, mother!"
"But whatever he may be in himself, that does not touch the question of what his people are." Doris murmured an unwilling half-assent.
"I was sure you would see that. Now, do you think you could go into the town for me, and order a few things?" Mrs. Winton wished her words to have time to work. "I will make out a list while you get ready, and leave it on the hall-table."
"Yes, but I must speak to father first."
WHEN Doris's tap sounded at the study door, it found Mr. Winton at his ever-recurring struggle to compose two sermons for the following Sunday. At week-day services he was content, usually, to use old compositions; but for Sunday he sternly compelled himself to make fresh ones. And the task was hard. Not that he did not know, did not feel, did not realise, did not love, the things about which he had to preach; but that the gift of expression was not his. He could be, and live, and do,—but he could not speak. And a clergyman has to speak. It is one main part of his work.
"Come in," he called.
"Father, I want to speak to you."
Doris shut the door, and stood on the other side of his writing-table, her head thrown back.
"Mother has been trying to make me say that I'll give up Dick."
"Yes."
"Ought I?"
Mr. Winton kept uneasy silence. His shaggy eyebrows drew together.
"He loves me, and I love him. Ought I to give him up now—only because his people are not exactly what one would choose?"
"There are a good many things to be considered."
"But I promised myself to him, daddy. I said I would—if you and mother were willing."
"Ah—yes."
"But if I'm forbidden—" She lifted from the table a large ivory paper-cutter of Swiss make, with a tiny carved châlet at the end. It brought back in a flash the little red-brown building, outside which she and Dick had sat and talked. Doris put it down with a decisive air. "It will just mean—waiting!"
"I think you will do what we wish, my child."
"I know what mother wishes. I want to know what you think—what you really, truly think!" She spoke impetuously. "Mother only sees my side of the question—and not all that. Daddy, you are a man. You can understand. You can see Dick's side. I want you to remember Dick. He is so dear, so true,—and he loves me—and we belong to one another. Should I be right—now!—to give him up, because of his relations? I didn't refuse him at first, when he told me about them. Ought I to throw him overboard, when nothing is changed? Wouldn't it be wronging him? Don't you see what I mean?"
"How much did he tell you about them?"
"I've just been explaining to mother." She hurriedly went over the ground again; and at the mention of Mrs. Morris, his lips drew together. "You see, Dick couldn't put all this in his letter; but he left me free to speak, only it mustn't go farther, without Mr. Stirling's leave. And I knew this when I accepted him. Wouldn't it be wronging him now, to throw him overboard?"
"You might wrong him more, by becoming his wife, if it should mean in the future—?"
She caught the meaning which underlay his slow utterance.
"Yes, I know. I see that. If I should be sorry by-and-by—if I should be ashamed. And I can't be sure. Things look so different at different times. Just now, all I seem to care for is to have him—Dick! And I know you will like him. He and you will just suit! Daddy—ought I to give him up?" Tears again filled her eyes. "Must I?"
The Rector never could bear to see his child in distress; but he realised all that was involved in the decision; and he knew now that the thing could not be. "Don't, my dear!" he entreated.
She knelt down, and laid her face against his knee.
"In any case, we should have to know about his father," Mr. Winton observed, looking down with grieved eyes upon the mass of soft dusky hair. "I do not understand this mystery."
"Dick doesn't either. It is queer, isn't it? But Mr. Stirling seems to know more than most people. You might ask him. He would tell you, daddy. I can't think why he should have made Dick spell his name differently from his mother and sisters. But Dick's is the right spelling, and Mrs. Morris's is the wrong. I don't understand how it comes to be Mr. Stirling's business at all; only, it was he who paid for Dick's schooling and college. So I suppose it has been real kindness, all through."
The rugged face, listening intently, had grown stern.
"Sometimes it seems as if such things didn't matter at all,—not in the very least. Other times—I almost feel as if I couldn't stand his people—Jane and his mother! But still—all that is not new to me. Ought I to give him up?"
"Yes!"—decisively.
She had not expected this; and her face paled. "It won't do, child!"
"I wish he had nobody belonging to him," she broke out passionately.
"That is not usual."
"And—you won't help me! I thought you would be sure to help me."
"It won't do," he said again. "It can't be." He added: "A few written words from yourself would be best; sent off at once, if you know where to reach him." The Rector shrewdly suspected that she did know. "It is far better to act at once—decisively—when a thing is impossible."
"Oh, I can't, daddy! I can't! I won't!"
She fled from the room, fighting against a rising storm of sobs, and escaped to her own room. Mr. Winton's sermon-making was spoilt for that day. He struggled for another half-hour, then gave up in despair, went to his workshop, and tried to forget troubles in woodcarving.
Not till a good hour later did Doris emerge from her retirement, once more self-controlled, though heavy-eyed. She found a list of purchases lying on the hall-table, according to promise, and set off to get them done. The outcome of her solitude was a renewed determination not to give in. If she might not at present reckon herself engaged, she would let Dick know that he only had to wait. He might count upon her later. Dear, dear Dick! How could she do otherwise?
Latest on her list came the butcher. This shop was in a side-street; and as she drew near, she heard a loud strident voice, which sent an unpleasant thrill through her. The younger Jones, blue-aproned, stood on the pavement, grinning broadly; and facing him might be seen a young woman in a staring blue silk blouse, shrieking with laughter.
"Oh, won't you, though? I know better, Mr. Jones. I know what I'm about! I say!—the Parkinses have promised they'll take me with them to the Show next week. You going too? Thought so! And the chap from Chicago—he'll be there! Somebody'll be jealous—I shouldn't wonder!"
"All right!" responded Jones, in a tone of familiarity, unknown to Doris. "I expect I'll manage to hold my own."
"You just try, that's all! He's uncommon sharp, that Chicago chap! Ain't easy taken in, I can tell you."
She went into a fresh fit of shrieking laughter, though there seemed to be nothing to laugh at. Then they both caught sight of Doris. The young butcher pushed up his cap, instantly quiet and respectful.
"Anything wanted, Miss?"
"Yes." She gave her order briefly. "Will you, please, see that it is sent early?"
"Goodness!—it's Miss Winton!" she heard from Jane, with a pert giggle, and that irrepressible young person bobbed her head in recognition.
Doris gazed straight through and beyond her, ignoring her existence. She neither flushed nor showed self-consciousness, but went slowly by; and not even the Rectorinn could have held her head higher.
"My! Ain't she proud?" reached her ears.
Another scene had presented itself vividly to her imagination. She saw herself standing again—in the future!—outside that same butcher's shop; the same young woman from the farm being on the pavement. She heard once more the loud screaming laughter; and with the laughter came unendurable words—
"I say!—that's my sister—Doris!"
More and more rapidly went the girl, as if driven by forces that she was powerless to resist. She reached the Rectory, and made her way, without hesitation, to the morning-room.
"Mother—"
"Yes, dear."
"You are right! I can't marry Dick!" There was a catch of her breath, but the tone was sternly resolute.
Mrs. Winton held down her joy.
"I was sure you would see it soon."
"I love him—dearly—but—I can't!"
She sat down with a reckless air, and opened her writing-case. "Father said I ought to write. I—suppose I must. He won't believe—if anybody else says it."
"You know his address—?" cautiously.
"He told me where he would be in town—to-morrow morning. I said I wouldn't let anybody else have it."
Mrs. Winton, with rare wisdom, kept silence. Ten minutes went by; and still Doris gazed upon a blank sheet.
"I don't know what to say," came at length. Mrs. Winton slowly approached. "Will you let me help you?"
"Yes—please." She scribbled the date and began—
"Dear Dick.'"
"It ought to be—'Dear Mr. Maurice.'"
"Ought it?" Doris seized a fresh sheet, wrote the words, and laughed— a heart-aching little laugh. "How horrid it looks!"
Mrs. Winton let that pass, and began to dictate—
"'Dear Mr. Maurice; I regret extremely having allowed you to indulge in hopes, during our short time together in Switzerland—'"
"It wasn't short, mother. It was a lifetime."
"You felt it so, perhaps. Only a few weeks, really."
Doris sighed. "Well—'in Switzerland'—what next?"
"As you are aware, I foresaw difficulties, and I was able only to give a conditional answer to your offer. That which I expected has come to pass. My parents are strongly opposed to anything of the kind. Their chief reason I need not specify. You will understand.'"
"Must I say that? It sounds—brutal."
"It would be better, if you could say plainly that you do not care for him."
"But I do care! I care for him—more than I can say!"
"You have to give something of a reason."
"I don't see why. He knows it all. There—'you will understand.' What next?"
"Will you read aloud what you have written?"
Doris obeyed. "It sounds so disgustingly stiff."
"I think the stiffness is necessary." Mrs. Winton carried on the last sentence—"'And I confess that, on consideration, I fully agree with them in regarding our engagement as impossible."
Doris wrote the words, then flung down her pen. "Oh, it is hateful! If you only knew all that we have been to one another!"
"That was very wrong. He ought to have asked your father's permission first. But the more completely you can put a stop to the whole thing, once and for all, the kinder it will be to him."
"Go on, please."
"In regarding our engagement as impossible.'" You have done that. "In any case, as my parents refuse their consent, all is at an end between us; and I can only beg of you to forget me as soon as possible. Yours truly, Doris Winton.'"
"No—'Yours sincerely.' And I must tell him how awfully sorry I am to have let him think—"
"Your letter begins with that. No more is needed. Put it up, dear, and I will have it posted."
"No,—I'll post it myself." Doris sat gazing at the half-dry page, and a maid came in.
"Please, 'm, you're wanted. A child has got badly hurt—and they don't know what to do."
Details followed, and Mrs. Winton stood up.
"Don't lose the next post," she urged in a low voice. "I'll be back soon."
A pair of dreamy eyes followed her exit, then returned to the letter. Again Doris heard Jane's strident tones and shrieking foolish laughter.
"It can't—can't—be!" she murmured. "I see now that it can't. I must have been mad to think it could. But, oh,—my poor, poor Dick! How will he take it?"
Yielding, as often, to the moment's impulse, she seized her pen, and wrote hurriedly—
"P.S.—Don't mind too much! I'm not worth it. I shall never, never forget our time together!"
Then she blotted the page, folded and thrust it in, addressed and stamped the envelope, and ran at her best speed to the nearest pillar-box.
Just in time! The postman was emptying it. She gave him the letter, and walked back with a dragging step.
"That is done!" she murmured, and she dropped into an arm-chair, suddenly nerveless. Nothing seemed left that was worth doing. Dick Maurice had passed out of her life; and all looked dead.
"How will he take it? Oh, how will he take it?" she asked again and again. "Will it break his heart? If only there wasn't that dreadful Jane! I think I could put up with other things. But—Jane!—Jane!"
Mrs. Winton presently found her thus, pale and listless.
"The letter is gone," was all Doris said.
Mrs. Winton stooped to kiss her forehead, and the girl moved restlessly aside.
"Don't, please!" she entreated. "I'm so tired! Mother, you won't like it, but I put a few more words. I asked him not to mind too much."
"Was that wise?"
"Yes. I'd rather he shouldn't hate me."
The words ended in a short catch of her breath.
"Dear Doris—by-and by—"
"Oh, please don't. Mother, please leave me alone. It is done; and I feel—horrid. It is Dick that I am miserable about. I know what it will mean to him. But I'd rather not talk—any more."