ONE hour more, and Richard Maurice would be off to Lynnbrooke,—to ask and claim his Doris. He had reached his London hotel the evening before; and two days after he was due in Edinburgh.
He was anxious and in suspense, of course; that goes without saying. But the tone of his mind was pitched in high hope and confidence; nay, certainty. He had no doubt of results.
His plan was to stay at Lynnbrooke Inn for a couple of nights; thus allowing as much time as possible for interviews with Doris and her parents,—also for seeing the Squire. He recognised that open speech with the latter had become a necessity. Mr. Stirling might be "only a friend," but he had been a most generous friend; and while Maurice was, without question, free to decide for himself, he was, also without question, indebted in no common degree to his benefactor. The past could not be ignored. His going at all to Lynnbrooke was an act of revolt; and though he did not intend to be prevented, he did intend to explain and apologise.
That he would meet with difficulties was only to be expected. Doris had prepared him for them.
Mr. Winton would probably be in opposition; and Mrs. Winton would inevitably be so. They would want for their only child a husband of unexceptionable parentage; and who could wonder? Not Maurice!—who saw the objections to himself almost as clearly as Mrs. Winton did. Like most people without "descent," he valued it less than do those who rejoice in a pedigree; yet he could estimate their side of the question.
But with regard to Doris herself he had no shadow of doubt. He loved her; she loved him; and, as he had said, they together might face a world in opposition. In his young strong confidence, he smiled at the thought. So long as each was true to the other, nothing could ultimately separate them.
His wish had been to reach Lynnbrooke as soon as she did; but she had begged for a day or two first. He gave in to her urgency, though it was hard to wait.
In his eagerness now he was ready an hour before he had to start; his bag packed, his gloves beside it. To fill up spare time, he ran downstairs for a newspaper, and found a letter, which had just come in. A letter from Doris! He had half wondered at not receiving a few lines on arrival.
The lift was at hand; and three seconds saw him back in his own room. A letter from her was not to be read in public. He sat down, and with careful fingers cut open the envelope. Then his eyes travelled down the page, as far as the signature.
Sight failed him for more. He remained sitting; silent and motionless; dizzied with the shock. London's roar had died out of his ears, which were filled with another roar, inward, not outward. Physical surroundings vanished; and he was alone upon the Glückhorn with Doris,—her dear face, flushed and radiant, turned towards him; her dear eyes, earnest and glowing, uplifted to his.
She!—his own!—his darling!—could write to him thus!
He was stunned at first, hardly knowing where he was. Gradually he rallied and came back to the present. He heard again the babel of street sounds, and realised what had happened. A dense fog which had filled the room faded out of it. He sat up, and read the note once more, dwelling upon each word, collecting the full force of each sentence, while a bitter smile curled his lips—till he reached the scrawled postscript. He had not seen that before.
"Ah—h!" came with a gasp. The bitter smile disappeared, and he spoke aloud, crushing the sheet in his hand. "Now I understand! It is not Doris!—not my darling! She has been made to do it. The words are not hers. She never wrote such a letter. How could I be taken in for one moment? Dictated all through—except the ending. That is her own beloved self. That only!—nothing else. My poor darling!"
He wondered, pityingly, what she might not have had to endure, before giving in to parental tyranny.
"But she trusts me. She knows I shall not be so soon conquered. I shall go still, and insist upon being heard. So much, at least, I have a right to demand. If she tells me herself—if she looks at me with those true eyes, and says it—then I will be convinced."
And he started for the terminus, clinging hard to the little postscript, as a drowning man clings to a straw.
About an hour before luncheon, this same day, Mrs. Winton in the morning-room was at work over household accounts. Between the adding-up of successive columns of figures, she cast divers glances of satisfaction at the present state of affairs.
Something drew her eyes to the window, and she became aware of a slim, alert figure, walking quickly towards the front door. A smart pull at the bell followed. Instantly she divined the truth, and whispered,—"What a mercy the child is not here!"
She did not know, though her husband did, that Doris was away on purpose,—knowing that Maurice might come, and not trusting herself to meet him.
"Please, 'm,"—the little between-maid came in, twisting her apron-strings,—"please, 'm, it's a gentleman wants to see the Rector. And his name's Mr. Maurice, please, 'm."
"Tell Mr. Maurice I am sorry that the Rector is engaged."
Rose went and came back.
"Please, 'm, Mr. Maurice says he can wait."
"Tell Mr. Maurice it is of no use, I am afraid."
A third appearance, round-eyed this time.
"Please, 'm, the gentleman says he's got to see the Rector, and he don't mind how long he waits, not if it's hours, 'm."
Mrs. Winton considered. Plainly this was a man with a will of his own. Since Doris was safely out of reach, it might be wise to yield.
"Very well—if it has to be," she said resignedly. "Take Mr. Maurice into the study."
The unwelcome caller being there installed, she made her way through the back-garden and along the lane,—for once, regardless of prying eyes behind muslin curtains. Mr. Winton had again fled for refuge to manual labour, from the pain of seeing his child suffer. When his wife entered, he was hammering with a vigour which relieved his feelings, but which made her put two hands to her ears. Whereupon he stopped.
"The man has come, Sylvester."
"Eh? Who?"
"The man himself!—Mr. Maurice. I told you we should have him here. I sent him word that you were engaged, but he refused to go. You must see him, and make things clear."
"Couldn't you tackle him, my dear?"
"Certainly not. That is your business. And remember, you have to be firm—firm! He is on no account to see Doris, and he is not to come again. You have to get rid of him, once and for all."
Mr. Winton knew the need, but he hated the task before him.
"Well, well," he muttered, and was going off as he was, till a scandalised forefinger pointed at his workaday apron. "Oh, ah!— I forgot!"—and he tossed it off.
Three minutes later he was in the study; a broad, ungainly figure, seamed and rugged in face, awkward in bearing; not the type of father pictured beforehand by the young fellow who stood awaiting him. Yet in those deep-set eyes was a gleam of something which found its way to Maurice's sore heart, and gave him a sense that at least he would be understood.
The Rector put out his hand, and it was gripped with a force which told of passion below.
Now that suspense was about to be ended, Maurice hardly knew how to hold himself in.
"Sit down, please," Mr. Winton said, and took the lead in doing so,— his gaze bent searchingly upon the other.
"You don't need to be told who I am, Mr. Winton,—or why I've come. My name is Richard Maurice; and I am here to ask for your daughter's hand." The burning dark-grey eyes looked full at him; and the Rector liked them, liked the good open brow above, liked the frank, manly carriage. If only it had been possible, he felt that he would have welcomed such a husband for his child.
"My daughter has written to you."
There was a short, scornful laugh.
"Yes. But it was not Doris. That letter was not written of her own free will."
Dumb though the Rector might be under normal conditions, he could sometimes forget his dumbness, could sometimes rise to the occasion, if the need were great and if it came suddenly. Both these conditions were now fulfilled. He had to slay the hopes of this young fellow; and the more merciless plan might well in the end be the more merciful.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Maurice. My daughter wrote of her own free will."
"I cannot believe it!"
The responding gesture spoke so strongly of sympathy, not anger, that it took instant effect.
"Forgive me! I ought not to have said that. You of course mean— believe—what you say. But you do not know! Doris never wrote that letter to me—herself!"
"The actual wording may have been suggested. She found it difficult, and asked for help. But she had made up her mind. The decision was her own."
A white curtain spread itself over the bronzed face.
"If she herself tells me so—with her own lips—"
"She is away for the day; and at her own suggestion. This ought to convince you. She guessed that you might come, and she thought it better to be absent."
"How am I to know what manner of influence has been used? I have a right to hear from her lips—"
"She has given you her answer in writing. That should be sufficient. I cannot have my child put to needless pain."
"You acknowledge—it is pain to her?"
"Yes."
"And you expect that she will forget me?"
"I hope so."
"What this means to me is—of course—nothing!"
A gesture again replied; a gesture so full of kindness, of regret, that Maurice was touched, even while reiterating—
"I can't and won't believe that this is really her wish! After all that passed between us—all our time together—"
"Mr. Maurice, I can only say that neither her mother nor I could consent to the engagement. If Doris had decided otherwise, we should still refuse. But she now is convinced that it cannot be. It grieves me to say this, for your sake,—yet surely you will allow that I must think first of my child's happiness."
"You do not believe that I could make her happy? I would die for her!"
"I believe it!"—and the Rector's broad hand came on his shoulder. "But many a man would give his life for a woman, whom yet he could not make happy as her husband. I do not know you, but I like your look. If other things were different, I would gladly consent to know you better—to consider possibilities. As things are,—the objections are insuperable."
"You mean—my mother being Mr. Paine's niece!"
"That has weight. I have the greatest respect and liking for Mr. Paine; but our positions in life are apart. But also—Mr. Maurice— who and what was your father?"
The strained white face hardened.
"Can you tell me anything at all about him?"
"No—except that he was not Phil Morris. So much we have just learnt. For some reason, my mother has shown—great reserve."
"A wife does not show such reserve without stringent reason."
Maurice flushed, only to whiten again.
"You see!" murmured the Rector. "It is impossible. And—Doris sees it to be so."
A relaxation of the tense muscles, a droop of the head, showed that at last Maurice saw it too, to some extent.
"Mr. Stirling—knows more!"
"If so—the reasons that silence your mother silence him also." After a break, Mr. Winton went on,—"It must, I fear, mean a measure of suffering for you both; not, I hope, lasting pain. Doris, I cannot doubt, would suffer more in the end if the engagement were allowed. I am very sorry to have to say it, but—you cannot have our child. You must forget her!"
"Forget Doris!" The words were wrung from him. Then he stood upright. "Of course, there is no more to be said—since she herself gives me up. I could not have believed her to be fickle, but—but—"
"You have known one another only a few weeks. The impression may soon pass."
"Thanks!"—satirically. "Women are sometimes made of such stuff, I believe!" He stopped, conscious that this was ungenerous. "It will never pass, with me. I cannot believe that it will—soon—with her. Mr. Winton—one word more. She knew how things were, when she accepted me."
"She realises now, as she did not then, all that would be involved." The Rector stood up, again offering his hand. "Try to meet this bravely," he urged. "Try to think of her happiness—not only of your own. Remember that a time might come when she would be tempted to repent having married you. Could you wish that?"
"If your daughter became my wife, she would marry me for myself, not for my relatives!"
Mr. Winton's troubled eyes noted the pose, the uplifted head, the proudly-confident air; and that which he saw came as a surprise. It was the reproduction of a manner to which he was accustomed.
"Tell Doris, please, that I have her letter, and that I accept her decision. I shall never come again,—and—I shall never forget her."
"You must not ask me to pass on that message."
"Why, pray?"
"If your love is real, you cannot wish to give her unnecessary distress."
Maurice's face changed, but he made no reply. He just touched the offered hand, and strode away, not looking back. Mr. Winton followed to open the front door, but he was already gone.
"So—that is what it really hangs upon!" Maurice said, as he walked rapidly through the garden. He saw nothing by the way. "That is the stumbling-block. Who was my father? What is the mystery? Why have I been kept in the dark, all these years? What possible reason can there be?"
He reached the gate, flung it open, and went through.
"Does Mr. Stirling know? If he does—I have a right to be told. I shall see him, and demand it, as a right."
Wounded pride and bitter wrath had him in their grip, mingled with overwhelming pain. His loving confidence in Doris lay shattered in the dust. His was a sunny-tempered nature in ordinary life; but it held cyclonic possibilities.
It had become plain to him that the question of his parentage was the real cause for which he had been thrown over; and upon this his mind was now concentrated. Why all the mystery? Why his mother's falsity? And who was his father?
He went to the cab-stand, and drove direct to Lynnthorpe, purposing to bring matters to a point between the Squire and himself. But when he asked for Mr. Stirling, the reply came promptly,—Away from home.
"Away for the day?"
"No, sir. Mr. Stirling went to London yesterday—quite unexpectedly,— and he said he would be away for a week or more."
"Can you give me his town address?"
"No, sir, I can't."
"Somebody must know where he is."
"Yes, sir,"—solemnly. "Miss Stirling has the address."
"Will you be so good as to ask her for it?"
"Miss Stirling has gone away this morning, for the week-end."
"Where has she gone?"
The stately butler disapproved of all this questioning. Or—was it that he had been warned?
"If any letter comes for Miss Stirling, sir, it shall be forwarded," he said.
One or two more vain attempts, and Maurice turned away, foiled. "This is not the end," he decided, as he drove off. "I shall come again,—and soon. I will have things out with him. There are facts that a man has a right to know."
But, recognising that at the present moment he was powerless, he returned to the inn, spoke of altered plans, paid his bill, and left for Edinburgh.
"EVERYTHING somehow seems so flat and stale; I begin to feel like a hundred years old," declared Doris, with a little laugh which had not much mirth in it.
More than a month had gone by since Maurice's brief visit; and to Doris it looked like six months. The days dragged, and all she had to do was a trouble. Under pressure, she had cycled over this afternoon to call upon Katherine,—and she found the way thither extraordinarily long.
On arrival she collapsed into one of the luxurious arm-chairs,— her pretty face laid against a crimson cushion; the cheeks less tinted than their wont; the mouth-corners dropped; the deep-set eyes dark and sad. Katherine, knowing nothing of the foreign entanglement, was puzzled by her present mood. Doris could not be ungraceful; and the outlines of her slender figure, relaxed and limp, were charming still; but the attitude would have been fatal with most figures.
"I don't think you need begin to talk about age yet," Katherine remarked. "Perhaps home is a little dull after foreign travel."
"Oh, I've been back long enough to forget all that; and—besides—"
"Is Mrs. Brutt at home?"
"Yes. I don't see much of her. She has turned so queer and stiff. Perhaps she was as sick of me as I was of her!"—with a laugh. "No—I don't care for her now."
There was a sigh; and Katherine watched with perplexed eyes. This depression, which she was sorry to see for the girl's sake, tended nevertheless to raise her own spirits. For if Doris had felt for Hamilton aught approaching to what she herself felt for him, coming home must have meant delight, not dulness. She knew that the two had not even met, so far; mainly because Hamilton had been absent most of the time, but partly also because Doris had shirked encounters.
"You will stay to luncheon with me," Katherine said.
The invitation was accepted listlessly, and was regretted almost as soon as given. For Hamilton Stirling walked in; and the look that came to his face at sight of her caller put an instant extinguisher on the little flame of hope in Katherine's heart. He went straight to the side of the younger girl,—for once almost impulsive in movement, while Doris received him with indifference.
"Why did you never answer the letter that I wrote, when you were in Switzerland?" he asked.
"Didn't I? Oh, I suppose I was busy—or forgot," she replied, with a backward cast of her mind to the little châlet and the leaping grasshoppers. "Was it about—mountain strata?"—and she laughed.
Katherine resented the laugh for Hamilton; but he only drew his chair near, and tried to lead the girl into a long talk. He asked where she had been, what she had done, how this and that had affected her; and for once he seemed really to wish to hear what she had to say. She guided him to the safe shelter of his pet subject; and he poured forth information with his usual slow volubility; while she listened—or made believe to listen—in submissive silence. He thought her wonderfully improved.
The Squire being absent, those three had luncheon together; and all through, Hamilton devoted himself to Doris, with only so much reference to his cousin as politeness demanded. Afterward it was the same. They returned to the hall; and he had eyes and ears for the Rector's daughter alone.
When she cycled back, he insisted on acting as her escort. She was in no wild mood to-day, but gentle and dreamy. She did not rush down hills, or try to leave him behind, but kept to a steady pace, and allowed him to take the lead. Hamilton was charmed. This was indeed the model future wife of his imaginings.
He found her altered and developed. Something had drawn her out. She was no longer the excitable school-girl, a victim to every passing breeze,—but a woman!
And Doris could not understand herself this hour. For she was conscious of enjoying his companionship. She liked to hear of his literary efforts; and it pleased her to be again asked to help in his proof-corrections. At the beginning he had impressed her with a sense of his stiffness and heaviness, in contrast with the slight and agile young mountaineer; but this impression faded as they talked.
She was realising his good social position; the absence with him of family mysteries and undesirable relatives. The difference brought a feeling of repose. No odd second-rate mother-in-law here!—if ever things came to that point. No vulgar, unbearable sister-in-law! A trifle too much of self-assertion, no doubt; and rather too great a love of improving and instructing others. But everybody has his faults. And whatever Hamilton's faults might be, he was refined, well-connected, with finished courtesy of manner. Nothing in him would ever shock her sense of what was correct, though a good deal might try her patience.
She did not say all this to herself definitely; but half-formed comparisons floated through her mind.
He was not Dick!—her dear Dick! A sharp pang shot through her with the name. But if Dick were impossible—utterly impossible!—must she also refuse Hamilton, who cared for her, who was good and kind, true and clever, who—taken as a whole—would be a not undesirable husband? If she could not have the best, might she not be content with the second-best?
Hamilton Stirling—to be reckoned second-best!!
She laughed quietly to herself at the idea.
But she liked his Stirling calm; his repose of bearing; his polish; his assurance. When she recalled Mrs. Morris and Jane, she positively basked in the aristocratic Stirling atmosphere.
With the coming of night, of darkness and solitude, a sharp reaction followed; and she hid her face in the pillow, with stifled sobbing gasps for—"Dick! Dick!"—and a feeling that she must almost die with longing for those grey eyes, those strong brown hands, that passionate enfolding devotion. Yet, when once asleep, she slept soundly; and with early sunlight there was a reverse swing of the pendulum, as she grasped anew the hopelessness of that, the possibilities of this.
Hamilton had made up his mind at last. He was plainly resolved for once not to let the grass grow under his feet. He came again and again to the Rectory. He brought flowers, fruit, proof-sheets, and— geological specimens!
Doris's reception of him and his offerings varied, as of old. Sometimes she was submissively sweet. Sometimes she contradicted and laughed at him. Sometimes she was dignified and indifferent. Sometimes she felt that she never, never could, never, never would, marry any man living except Dick Maurice. Sometimes she felt that in the future— not too soon!—Hamilton might really do quite nicely.
Though she did not know her own mind, she knew her mother's mind. Every power that Mrs. Winton possessed was bent to the furtherance of Hamilton's suit. For she and her husband were definitely aware of that which most people only conjectured, or had heard as a matter of report, that Lynnthorpe was strictly entailed upon the next male heir. Katherine would have her mother's money; an ample supply; but Hamilton stood in the position of "next male heir." Which meant that his wife would be the future mistress of the place.
Of Dick Maurice nothing further had been heard. Doris was told in brief outline of his interview with her father. She often wondered that no letter, no message, came,—feeling that she, in his place, would not have been so soon "choked off." Yet it was better for both that he should keep away.
She had not, of course, been near Wyldd's Farm. Her promise to Winnie troubled her; but she felt that a call there was for the present not to be thought of. Now and again she saw Jane Morris; and never without a throb of thankfulness at her own freedom from that tie. At other times recollections of Dick would rise with overwhelming power, making her crave to have him again at any cost.
But this was only occasional. In a general way she was caught, enveloped, held captive, in the old circle of interests, by the influences of her life. Appreciation of good birth, extreme particularity of taste, a passion for refinement and high breeding,—these were by nature and by training a part of her very self. In reverting to them, after a brief spell of dislocation, she reverted also to Hamilton Stirling as the embodiment of them.
"If it has to be, it must be, I suppose," she said one day to herself, as she stood in the hall, gazing out of the window. "I don't know what I really want. I wish I did. He really is a dear man—rather too fond of old bones and stones; but everybody is too fond of something. He might have worse likings. We shall get along all right, I dare say. Oh dear, what a difficult world it is! I hope Dick won't quite forget me! Shall I ever be able to forget him?"
The question came involuntarily, and it startled her. Then a step behind made her turn.
"Mother—Mrs. Stirling wants me to go to Deene to-morrow—for the day."
"Yes, I know, my dear. You will accept, of course."
This was going too far; and Doris drew back.
"I don't know. I'll think about it." She realised suddenly that a good deal might hang upon her answer.
"I can see no reason why you should hesitate."
Doris would not wait to discuss the question. She caught up a basket of flowers, just gathered, and went to put them in her father's study. He loved flowers, with the tenderness which underlay his rugged exterior. While she was there, standing by a little side-table, he came in and surprised her in the act of dropping quiet tears into a mass of blooms.
He had watched her of late with a growing sense of uneasiness; but it was not his way to interfere hastily. Silence with him was often wrongly supposed to mean non-observation.
"There!" Doris said cheerfully, when she heard his step; and she pushed the vase to its right position, then looked up with a smile. But two great drops, ready to fall, refused to be held back, and they splashed obtrusively upon a sheet of half-written paper. "Oh, what a duffer I am! I've spoilt a page of your sermon, daddy."
He shut the door, and went to his chair. Something in his look kept her when she would fain have fled. Instead of so doing, she drew nearer.
"Don't mind about me. I shall get all right in time."
She knelt on a stool in front of him, trying to smile.
"I wonder—will life always be so difficult!"
"As what?"
"It all seems one big tangle! One wants what one can't have,—and one doesn't take what one might have."
He waited for more; and she slowly pulled a late rose to pieces, making a little pile of the debris.
"Isn't that cruel? I've spoilt the rose's life. It might have lasted three days longer. What a number of spoilt lives there are in the world! I wonder if somebody is always to blame. Poor little rose. Dick and I one day counted the petals of a fine huge one, daddy, and we found—taking them all, big and little—hundreds. Would you have expected it?"
"No." He was thinking of her involuntary mention of Maurice; not of the rose-petals.
"It surprised us both. But about difficulties—I meant—in more ways than one. I used to fight so for liberty; just to have my own way. And I think Dick helped me to see that that isn't always the best thing." She was back in thought on the Glückhorn, listening to him.
The Rector made a slight sound of assent.
"I don't talk about him to other people, you know. I may sometimes to you—mayn't I?" Then she lifted her head higher. "Mrs. Stirling wants me to spend to-morrow at Deene."
Mr. Winton found speech.
"Are you sure of yourself, Doris?"
Her hand shook, and her cheek paled.
"No—" she said very low. "I'm not sure. I don't know what I want— or what I don't want."
The pause following seemed long. He said at length with emphasis,—"Whatever you do,—don't drift!"
"I think I am drifting."
"Then stop! Take time. Be cautious. Don't get yourself entangled, before you know your own mind."
She put both hands over her face, and bent forward, resting the backs of them upon his knee. His broad hand came on her head, with a strong and loving pressure.
"For your own sake—wait!—pray for guidance. Not for your own sake alone. Think of others too. You once asked me to consider Maurice's side of the question; and rightly. What now about Stirling's side of it?"
"You mean—should I be wronging him?"
"Not if you love him."
She lifted a flushed face.
"But—I don't. Not love, daddy. I love Dick. The two things are so different. I don't think—really—he would want that sort of love!"
"If you give yourself to him, he will want the whole of you—he will have a right to the whole. No man, worth calling a man, would be content with less. Loving one man, you cannot rightly marry another."
"People do sometimes, don't they?—and things get straight in the end."
"People do many foolish things. The question is not—what others do, but what you yourself ought to do. Could you truly and faithfully promise to 'love, honour, and obey' Hamilton Stirling? To LOVE him, child! You know what love means."
"Yes—" she whispered, her eyes brimming over again. "I love—Dick!"
"Then, to marry Stirling could only mean unhappiness for you both. For him as much as for you."
"I've often wondered what he would say—if he knew about Dick."
"He would have to know all."
Doris remained motionless, thinking.
"I'd better—not go to-morrow," she said at length.
"It seems more wise—under the circumstances."
"Then I'll write and say so. Mother won't like it."
"You must decide the question on its own merits."
"I'll write at once. But of course I shall see him on Friday."
"Why on Friday?"
"Mr. Stirling's birthday."
"Ah—true. That is nothing. You need not see more of him than you wish, in such a crowd. Besides—your note of to-day should make him understand. To accept for to-morrow might involve you in more than you intend."
"Yes—I see. It won't do."
A letter for herself was brought in, badly written, untidily folded. She opened it, and said in surprise: "From Mrs. Morris."
The Rector waited in some suspense, till she spoke again.
"It is to ask if I will go to Wyldd's farm, to-day or to-morrow. Winnie has been worse, and she is to be sent to a hospital for treatment,—and it may cure her, or she may not get through. She wants to see me before she leaves. Daddy, I can't refuse."
He took the offered sheet, and read it, noting the ill-spelt words, the badly expressed sentences.
"No. I am sorry, but I do not see that you can well get out of it. You had better have the pony-carriage directly after luncheon. I wish I were free to go with you." He stood up, and added: "Be wise, child. Don't get drawn into a talk about—the son."
THE Rectory pony was famed for choosing his own pace, and that not a rapid one. Through the long drive Doris—having for once given over the reins to the boy—found ample leisure for thought.
Again and again she recurred to her father's question—"Are you sure of yourself?" "No, I'm not!" she answered each time. Again and again she heard his emphatic—"Whatever you do, don't drift!"—and repeatedly, with growing earnestness, she murmured—"No, I won't."
She had started early after luncheon; and on their way through Deene, she stopped outside Mrs. Stirling's garden, sending the boy to the front door with her note; a brief little note, giving no reason, but stating only that she was sorry she could not accept. That was her first step towards "not drifting." She hoped Hamilton would understand.
At the beginning of the grass-path near Wyldd's Farm, she quitted the pony-carriage, bidding the boy wait for her, and proceeded on foot through the meadow. Mrs. Morris, stout and impassive as usual, opened the door. "I saw you coming," she said shortly.
Doris was conscious of a faint thrill, as her hand met that of Dick's mother, even while noting with distaste the woman's heavy ungracious look.
"I'm glad you sent for me, if Winnie wished it."
"She seems to have got her mind set on seeing you, somehow or other. I don't know what for. There was no pacifying of her, till I said I'd write."
Doris would have liked to put one or two questions as to Winnie's state, but no time was allowed. Mrs. Morris walked her into the sitting-room, and left her there, alone with the younger girl.
"Don't try to get up," Doris said kindly, reaching the sofa. "I am so sorry that you have been worse."
Winnie seemed at first voiceless. Her pale face flushed, and the blue eyes were very troubled. Doris had instantly a strong impression that Winnie knew something about herself and Dick. She thought of her father's injunction, and resolved to keep clear of that subject.
"Yes; I'd a lot of pain; and then—I suppose I got a chill at Jane's wedding."
"Your sister! Is she married?"
"Last week. Sam Blunt is American; and his father has got a big store out in Chicago. He's a friend of the Parkinses—you know—the drapers— and since he's been in England, he was always cycling over there, and seeing Jane. And he took a fancy to her. It all came in such a hurry; for he'd got to go back, and Jane wouldn't hear of putting off, as uncle wanted. She said she hated Wyldd's Farm, and everything to do with it; and she didn't care if she never set foot in the country again. Sam means to be a rich man some day; and that's what Jane likes."
Doris was at a loss whether to congratulate or condole. Jane must have been a household trial; and certainly Winnie showed no distress.
"I hope he will be a good husband to her. And you are to be in the hospital—to have something done."
"The doctor says, if I don't I cannot live long. And he says I ought. He hopes I shall be ever so much stronger afterwards—if I get through."
"You mustn't say 'if.' You must say 'when.'" This brought a smile. "I am sure you will get through."
"Perhaps—" came absently. Winnie's eyes kept searching her face, and the gentle lips moved nervously, as if she wanted to say something, and had not courage.
"You must have thought it unkind of me, Winnie, never to come again to see you," Doris said hastily, anxious to stave off remarks. "But— Wyldd's Farm is a long way off. I was abroad a good while; and since I came back—somehow it has not been possible."
"You've been too busy."
"Or perhaps too lazy. Anyhow, here I am at last—as soon as I knew that you really wanted me. How soon do you go?"
"On Friday."
"The day after to-morrow. And—you don't mind! You are not frightened?"
Winnie's smile was an embodiment of serenity.
"Why should I be frightened? No—I don't think I am. It will be all right—either way. And I'm trying to want to get over it."
"But of course you want that. Of course you want to be strong—able to work and do things."
"I suppose so—of course! But—"
"Just think how different your whole life will be, if only you can feel quite well, like other people."
"Yes—" gently. "Oh, it will be all right. I don't want to have to choose. I'd rather—leave it all in His hands."
"I shall think of you on Friday, Winnie."
"Please do. I shall like to know that."
Again the wistful look, as of something that the girl had to say. Doris talked on, keeping it steadily at bay. She was not entirely successful. Winnie submitted quietly; but when her visitor stood up, with kind parting words, there was a tight clutch of hands, and the girl whispered with trembling lips—
"I'm to see Raye. He has promised to come."
"Your brother!" Doris's colour changed slightly.
"He is coming. I know you met—in Switzerland. May I tell him I've seen you?"
"You tell him most things, don't you?" With a sudden impulse, Doris stooped and kissed the pale brow. "I am glad you will have that pleasure. Now, Winnie, you must be very careful, and not do anything to tire yourself. I shall ask to have word sent me, how you get on."
She made her exit quickly, trying not to see the tears of disappointment which filled the girl's eyes. What else could she have said? To discuss the affair with Winnie was out of the question.
To her relief she found the passage empty; and she went out alone, through the little garden, into the meadow beyond.
There she stood still, to recover herself. The sudden mention of Dick had set her heart beating. She was rather disposed to resent Winnie's attempt at interference. But, far more strongly, another thought had possession of her.
She followed the grass-path, looking towards the wind-driven hills, and came again to a pause, when only a few yards from the farther gate. As yet the pony-carriage was out of sight. Doris faced round, for another look at the old farm and its surroundings.
"And that is Dick's home! The home he is never allowed to come and see. It seems so strange. Why does Mr. Stirling want to keep him away? Why does he submit? Why doesn't he insist on coming? I do think it is all very hard on poor Dick. And whatever his father may have been, he himself is not to blame for it."
Then, after an interval, emphatically—
"Daddy is right. He is quite, quite right. I'm glad I wrote that note. Now I see! Now I know! Mr. Hamilton Stirling—oh, never! I can never, never, never marry him. If not Dick—then—nobody!"
She repeated aloud,—"Nobody! Nobody!"—and turned towards the gate through which she had to go.
The movement brought her face to face with Dick!
He stood like a statue, just beyond the gate; a stern, white-faced statue, sombre and still. Only that instant had he become aware of her presence; and the sight seemed to have frozen him. But with Doris a great rush of joy surged upward, bringing colour and radiance. The sudden encounter, following close upon her own vivid realisation of how things truly were with her, caused momentary forgetfulness of all else. She did not even notice that the boy and the pony-carriage had gone to a distance, and were still invisible. She knew only that she and Dick were together again.
"Dick!" she said, under her breath, and she went forward, through the gate, holding out both hands. "Dick!"
His dented and troubled forehead, even in that moment; impressed her curiously, bringing again the feeling which she had had on their first meeting, that surely she had known him in earlier years, or, at the least, that he strongly resembled some familiar face. But then, as now, she could not put a name to it. It was a subtle, elusive likeness; perhaps rather belonging to play of muscles than to actual form of feature.
"Dick!" she murmured, a third time. Then she awoke to his lack of response, and her hands dropped, her glow faded. She stood looking at him with something of wonder. "Have you come to see Winnie?"
Maurice was holding himself in fiercely; his lips pressed together; his hands clenched. He could not have told at that moment whether wrath or pain, anger or longing, was the stronger. He only knew that he was tempest-tossed.
Doris spoke gently.
"You won't be too much worried about her, will you? She will get through. I know—I am sure—she will get through. She is so sweet and brave. And afterwards—only think, if she is well and strong! Won't that be a joy to you?"
A wordless sound came hoarsely in reply; and she knew, from the blanched passion of his look, that he could not speak,—that he was thinking, not of Winnie, but only, solely, of herself.
He came a step nearer, his breathing hard and rapid, as he gripped the top bar of the gate.
"Why do you speak to me? Why not—pass me by?" The words were almost inaudible. "If—you meant—that letter!"
"How could I pass you by, when you are in such trouble about Winnie?"
There was a harsh laugh—almost a sob. "Winnie! Do I care? I suppose I do. Sometimes it seems to me—I care for nothing—nothing else—only for you. Tell me the truth now,—tell me plainly! Was it you— you yourself!—who gave me up?"
She looked at him sorrowfully, wondering if she had been wrong to stop.
He spoke again in the same hoarse faint voice. "Tell me—it was not you who wrote that letter!"
"I did write it, Dick!"—and he made a sharp turn as if to go; but her hand was on his arm. "Let me explain, please. I did write it. Mother helped me with the wording—but—I thought it had to be. I had just come across Jane—and I felt as if I never could endure to belong to—her."
"That was it, then!"
"Yes; that was it."
"And you never gave a thought to—what it would mean to me!"
Doris's hand still rested gravely on his arm. She said no more, and his face was set as if in iron. But the strain was too great, and his self-control broke. He seized her hand, and kissed it stormily. Twice again came that strange short laugh, almost like a sob.
"Is there no hope—none?" he struggled to say.
"My father will not allow it, Dick. And I never will marry without his consent. But—I can say so much as this, that I do know my own mind now. I know that at least I couldn't marry anybody else. If that is any comfort—"
His chest heaved convulsively. "Any comfort! To know that you—care still! To know that you—love me! My darling—"
She held him off firmly, with both hands.
"No, no! Nothing further. I've told you so much, because I can't bear to see you so unhappy. But things can only be like that. I know now that you love me, and you know that I love you. We are not engaged. You are free to marry to-morrow, if you like."
He exclaimed indignantly. "Yes; but you might change your mind. It might mean too long, the waiting."
"Too long for you—!" huskily.
"It doesn't seem to me now as if it could be," she replied.
"IS Mrs. Stirling at home?"
The caller, in her best toque and white kid gloves, put this question with a beaming smile.
Mrs. Stirling was at home, but would be engaged for the next quarter of an hour.
That did not matter in the very least. Mrs. Brutt was in no hurry. She would be most happy to wait. She stepped out, and trailed impressively after the maid. It was well for her peace of mind that she could not see and hear through brick walls.
"Mrs. Brutt!" The tone was significant. "Did you not tell her that I was engaged?"
"You said, ma'am, for a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Brutt doesn't mind waiting."
"If I'd known who it was, I would have been engaged altogether." This was an aside. No love had ever been lost between the two widow-ladies. Then to the maid—"You can bring tea in about twenty minutes." To herself again—"It shall be an elastic quarter of an hour!"
Which it certainly was. Mrs. Brutt, unconscious of her hostess' sensations, but much occupied with her own, stood poised in a graceful attitude at the exact centre of the room, conning over all that she meant to say. She had arrived with a definite purpose.
Unwittingly, the Squire had given her deep offence. It was almost inevitable that he should do so, sooner or later, since she ranked in her own eyes as a personage of high importance, while in his eyes she was nobody.
On her first return from abroad, he had called to thank her for the prompt response to his letter, shown in bringing Doris at once home; and he had also let her know that she was to keep to herself the story of Dick Maurice's suit. Mrs. Brutt had assured him that he might depend upon her discretion. She never talked! She never repeated things. "No one ever concerns themselves," she said, being often guilty of that most common of grammatical blunders, "less than I do, with other people's affairs!"
The Squire knew better, and smiled inwardly; but he believed that he had effectually shut her mouth. And it would have been so, had he followed the matter up, as he really at the moment had led her to expect, by personal attentions in the way of invitations to Lynnthorpe.
But he forgot to mention to Katherine that he wished such attentions to be paid; and Katherine disliked the talkative widow so thoroughly, that she was not likely to take steps on her own initiative. The Squire in fact forgot all about Mrs. Brutt from that day forward. He was harassed, worried, very far from well; and his mind was entirely taken up with his own secret conflict.
Katherine, though not a keenly observant person, began to notice with concern his unwonted languor, his frequent absence of mind, his oblivion of details. These things were new in him. He had been always prompt, business-like, never needing a reminder as to engagements or work. She often had to remind him now.
Weeks had passed, and Mrs. Brutt awaited still the expected invitations to Lynnthorpe—which she looked upon as the price of her silence about Doris and Maurice. But they did not come. Two large parties had taken place, and she was left out. Now the Squire's birthday was at hand, always a fête-day in the place; and she had set her heart on being included in the big dinner-party of relatives and intimate friends.
No such thing! She had a formal card of invitation to the mixed afternoon gathering, to which everybody went,—an omnium gatherum, of which she had often heard, and at which she turned up her nose.
That was enough. If she was to be slighted in such a fashion, after all her trouble in carrying out the Squire's plans, he should be sorry for it! She would follow her own devices, and would hold her tongue no longer.
It occurred to her that to let slip the fact of Doris's love-affair to the mother of Mr. Hamilton Stirling would be the most effective method of revenging herself, not upon the Squire only, but upon Mrs. Stirling, whom she cordially disliked, and upon Mrs. Winton. She was quite aware that the latter wanted to secure Mr. Hamilton Stirling for her daughter, and she had gathered that the Squire did not desire him to know about Dick Maurice. If so, he should have taken a little more trouble about her. She was not going to be shunted on one side in this fashion. People might be offended with her for speaking out,—but what then? She could easily shift her quarters again. Lynnbrooke was a fearfully dull place, and she had had nearly enough of it.
Standing in an elegant attitude was well enough for ten minutes, but the ten grew into fifteen, the fifteen into twenty, and she became both tired and annoyed. Tea was brought in, and still the hostess remained absent. She wandered round the room, paying a perfunctory attention to the pictures.
One in a shady corner drew closer interest. Two heads, side by side, were lightly sketched in French chalks; both of them bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Mr. Stirling, though the one was more delicate in feature, more refined, more really beautiful than the other. Both were young.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long," a voice said behind her. "How do you do? Will you have some tea?"
Mrs. Brutt turned to shake hands.
"I quite understand," she said, secretly wrathful at receiving so scant an apology. "You are always such a busy person. But we had not met for so long, I thought I might venture to say I would wait. I am rather struck with this pair of heads. So well sketched: such fine faces! Am I wrong in supposing that one of the two is Mr. Stirling?"
"He and his brother."
"Ah, to be sure—the father of Miss Stirling. He died, I believe, when she was quite a little child."
"Yes. Years ago. Will you come and sit down?"
"And—which of the two, may I ask, is our Mr. Stirling? This one, I suppose,—such a handsome face!"
"That was the brother—Maurice Stirling."
Mrs. Brutt echoed the word "Maurice!" with an intonation of surprise. Then she took a chair, and poured out a string of bland remarks on the weather, the neighbourhood, why she had come, whom she had seen lately, gradually edging her way in the direction that she wished. Switzerland had to be dragged in, neck and shoulders. Mountains, with their exquisite scenery, came next; and Doris followed.
"By-the-by"—playing with her bracelet—"I wonder whether you have happened to hear of the young surgeon, Mr. Richard Maurice, whom we happened to meet abroad. Curious how many Maurices there seem to be!"— reflectively. "Really, quite odd. I imagine that the Squire is acquainted with him."
"Not unlikely," Mrs. Stirling said carelessly. "Will you have some cake?"
"Thanks. Such delicious cake! Home-made, no doubt. We met Mr. Maurice first at Bex, and then in the mountains. A rather agreeable man; and clever too. He and Doris went no end of expeditions together. Girls do such odd things, you know, in these days. You and I, when we were girls, would no more have dreamt of going off for a day with a strange young man, than of flying to the moon. The one would have been as impossible as the other. But everything now is so different! Of course they were not strangers long. Very much the reverse, as you may imagine."
Mrs. Stirling, having received Doris's little note, and having been impressed by it, woke up to the fact that there was method in this outpouring. She handed more cakes.
"Thanks very much. I'm really ashamed—I am making quite a meal. And my appetite is generally so small—so precarious, you know. To tell the truth, I rather blamed myself for laxity, in allowing the two to be so much together—perhaps in trusting them too implicitly. Mine is a trustful nature, and one is so liable to be taken in. But pray count all this to be in the strictest confidence! You see—things really did go rather far. I quite thought something was coming of it. But even in modern days, the course of true love doesn't always run smooth."
"This may be only the second volume of the novel. Perhaps a third will follow," cheerfully suggested Mrs. Stirling.
"It may—of course. But something seems to have gone wrong. And when one sees Doris, one cannot help feeling very sorry for the poor girl. So very apparent—what she is feeling! But I ought not to have said so much. I—in a manner I almost promised! Only, you of course—being so intimate with them all—it seems as if you really ought to know. But unless you can assure me that it will go no farther, I must not say any more."
"It sounds an interesting tale. I can undertake that it will not travel beyond my son and myself."
Mrs. Brutt professed herself satisfied, and proceeded to pour forth the whole story—not to say, a good deal more than the whole. Mrs. Stirling listened with an air of placid detachment, smiling sympathetically. Whatever she felt for Hamilton's sake, she did not turn a hair; and Mrs. Brutt, who had meant her tidings to come as a blow, was disappointed.
"Quite a nice little one-volume love-affair!"
Mrs. Stirling remarked at the end. "It seems rather a pity, since he is such a pleasant young fellow, that he should not have her—even though he has not the sixteen quarterings!"
"Very far from that. There is something most hazy about his family history—his father, more especially—putting aside the Wyldd Farm relationships. And besides—between ourselves—I imagine that her parents have other views for Doris."
"Really! Are you sure? We are not too well off in this place for eligible men. Do, pray, tell me—who can it be?"
Mrs. Brutt could have shaken her; and the temptation proved irresistible.
"Of course I don't pretend to know. I am hardly more than a stranger—not in the Wintons' secrets. But I do happen to have heard, and on extremely good authority, that your own son has been paying a good deal of attention to Doris—and that her parents are more than willing."
Mrs. Stirling lay back in her chair, and laughed till tears ran down her cheeks.
"My son! Hamilton! After Doris Winton! My dear Mrs. Brutt!—where can you have picked up such a preposterous notion? Doris Winton! Hardly more than a child! A pretty girl, and a nice girl, but not in the least suited to Hamilton. He has known her all her life, and they are very good friends,—in fact, he is rather fond of instructing her in geology, and I have seen her unmistakably bored with it. He and I will have a good laugh over that report. Oh, I quite understand—you had it on the best authority! Did you ever hear any piece of impossible news which was not on the very best authority? I never did. I'm afraid somebody has been amusing herself at your expense. If you really wish to know the truth—quite between ourselves!—I can assure you that the one woman in the world for my son would be—Katherine Stirling! But at present she would never think of leaving her uncle. He so depends upon her; and she is a very embodiment of unselfishness."
Mrs. Brutt felt herself foiled. She had had distinctly the worst of the encounter; and she took herself off with a much offended air. When she was gone, Mrs. Stirling went straight to her son, and related what had passed.
"I've no doubt there is a modicum of truth in the woman's gossip," she said. "Though why she should have taken the trouble to tell me, I don't know. Mere love of talk, probably. All that about the farm people is, I dare say, pure imagination. But this explains Doris's note. She has been éprise by the young surgeon, and can't think definitely of anybody else."
Hamilton looked solemn. He was more amazed than distressed. He had never doubted that he only had to propose to be accepted. That Doris should prefer another to himself was almost inconceivable! But clearly it was the case.
"If you take my advice, my dear boy,"—she called him a "boy" still sometimes, as mothers do, long after boyhood is passed,—"you will give up thinking about Doris, and just go back to Katherine. And—I may be mistaken, but somehow I do think you are a good deal to Katherine. I think you might succeed in that direction. And I've made it easy for you now to prevent people from saying that you have been refused. You know what I have always wished. Doris is a charming girl. But Katherine—!"
That "But Katherine—!" with its unspoken suggestion, took hold of him. The thought of Katherine soothed his wounded pride. After all, nobody had been to him what Katherine always was. She, and not Doris, formed the embodiment of his typical wife. And if Doris really had taken up with somebody else, rather than himself—well, Hamilton was sorry for her!
He spent a restless night, and next morning went to Lynnthorpe, for two hours in Katherine's company.
IT was the morning of Mr. Stirling's birthday. Presents, letters, congratulations, had been showered upon him; and now at last he had an hour alone. Hamilton was with his niece; and Mr. Stirling's horse, brought round for a ride, was dismissed. Early though it still was, the Squire spoke of being tired; a rare admission on his part. No; he did not want Katherine; he did not want anybody. He only wished to be alone.
Shutting the door of his study, a lofty though not large room, well lined with bookcases, he sank back in the big arm-chair, close to his writing-table.
Many letters demanded attention; but he was in no mood to give it. A feeling of utter languor, almost of powerlessness, had possession of him. What mattered birthdays, friends, tokens of affection,—while this ever-pressing weight dragged him down? How much longer could he endure it? Was there no way of escape—no road to freedom?
"Yes,—one, and one only." So, with relentless calm, Conscience made answer. He looked that way in the face, and recoiled from it with a shudder. Nothing but confession, and putting right that which was wrong. Nothing but—the impossible!
Round and round the old weary circle his mind was working—almost like a personality, separate from himself. He could neither control nor hinder the treadmill of thought.
He pictured to himself, as he had done hundreds of times before, what Katherine would feel, what Hamilton would say, how the world— his world—would take it. He saw the looks of amazement, the silent contempt of some, the disdainful pity of others. He heard the comments, the whispers of wonderment; and again he felt that to meet all this was out of the question. It could not be. The thing had gone on too long. It had to go on still, during his lifetime. Afterwards, the truth would become known. That was inevitable. But men would be kind to the memory of the dead. They would make excuses —then—such excuses as they would not make while he lived.
Yet, if things were to go on—must he endure to the end this terrible weight, this ever-increasing sense of unpardoned guilt, this constant remorse? That was the crucial question.
His thoughts went again to Mary, his wife; to that scene, twenty-five years or more earlier, when the truth had burst upon him, and he had realised in an agony that to divulge it might lose him the woman he loved.
Vividly he recalled how, first for his love's sake, afterwards for his wife's sake, later for Katherine's sake, and all through for his own sake, he had insisted on silence as the price of his doing aught for Mrs. Morris and her children. And so between them—between him and her— the tissue of deceit was woven.
For she was left penniless, worse than penniless, with a mass of unpaid debts on her hands; debts, the existence of which Mr. Stirling had never known. They gave him a powerful handle, and he used it. She was helpless, for she had no resources; and the money which would one day come to Katherine was tied securely out of reach for many a long year.
As the price of her silence, Mr. Stirling paid all the debts, undertook the education of the little boy, and promised her an income of two hundred a year, so long as the secret should be faithfully guarded.
And she had kept it, even from her own children. She had never betrayed him. She had followed all his directions, had obeyed all his commands. She was a woman capable of loving, and she had loved her husband with utter devotion; but the whole tenderness that was in her seemed to have been expended in that one direction. It was as if the long deceit, and the separation from her son, had seared and hardened her nature, deadening other affections.
Yet in a way she did care greatly for this son, of whom she was allowed to see so little, between whom and herself so complete a separation of mind and heart had come about. She cared for his future; and she believed that his future depended on her strict observance of the conditions imposed. Uneducated and ignorant, she knew little beyond the circle of her own home-interests; and she had always believed that it was in the power of Mr. Stirling to leave his property where he chose;—only not to a woman, therefore not to Katherine. She had heard something of the "entail," and this was all that she supposed it to mean. The Squire had, perhaps, made no definite statements to her, but he had certainly implied that he had such power, and he had allowed her deliberately to remain under this delusion. Whereas, in point of fact, he had no power whatever to break the entail, without the consent of the next heir.
Thinking over these things, as he lay back in his study chair, with closed eyes and aching head, the deceit looked very black. Whether he had or had not actually said this or that, mattered little. It was enough that he had misled his sister-in-law, had allowed her to be deceived.
A knock at the door made him sit upright, opening a book, with an air of being occupied.
The butler came in.
"Somebody wishes to see you, sir."
"Who is it?"
"He didn't give any name, sir. He said he'd rather not. It's—" Forest lowered his voice—"it's the same gentleman that came when you were in town, sir, some weeks ago, and wanted your address."
"Tell him I am engaged, and he had better come another time. Ask his name, please."
The butler went, and returning said—"It is Mr. Maurice, sir."
"I decline to see Mr. Maurice." The Squire had gone strangely pale.
But in the doorway, behind the solid figure of the old butler, stood a younger and slighter figure, resolute in air.
"And I decline to be sent away," a voice said, stern as the Squire's own.
Forest glanced doubtfully from the one to the other. And the one thing which powerfully impressed him was—not the anger of his master, not the presumption of the caller, but a curious intangible likeness in those two faces; a likeness which could not be defined, but which was undeniable.
Mr. Stirling stood up slowly. The younger man's eyes met his, and there was a swift crossfire, a brief, silent passage-at-arms, which ended in victory for the newcomer. Mr. Stirling said—
"Very well. I will give you five minutes. You may go, Forest."
"I beg your pardon for insisting," Maurice said when the door was shut. "But insist I must. A few words with you are necessary."
He hesitated, noting the Squire's changed and haggard look.
"You are not well!"
The remark was put aside.
"What, pray, is the meaning of this?" Mr. Stirling demanded. "You know that in coming here, you break conditions—"
"Unreasonable conditions!"
"Allow me to finish, if you please. Conditions, upon which your mother's claim to a lifelong pension rest."
"I cannot help it! There are times when a man must judge for himself,— must put aside other considerations. I have a question to put; and I intend to have an answer."
"No doubt in reference to Doris Winton. I have heard of that folly."
"It is in reference to my love for Doris Winton. My life's happiness depends on marrying her; and one great obstacle stands in the way. Mr. Stirling—who was my father?"
No answer was vouchsafed.
"Is he living now?"
"No."
"When did he die?"
"Just after the birth of your sister Winnie."
"Was his name really Maurice?"
The Squire's face was set in a hard mask. He said—"Yes."
"What was his standing?"
"A gentleman of education,—and of good connections."
"How did he come to marry my mother?"
"He had been ill,—and she gained some sort of hold over him. I can only call it insanity. He deeply regretted his action later, there is no doubt,—and none of his own people knew of the marriage till after his death."
"Then he punished his wife for his own folly. The brute!" burst out Maurice.
A deep flush spread itself over the Squire's face. He sat down suddenly; and Maurice saw the shaking hands, the trembling underlip. He took a seat himself, unasked, and made an effort to speak calmly.
"I am sorry to distress you, but I can put off no longer. Things cannot go on like this. I must know more. One fact you have made clear to me. That is, that the man who married my mother was a cad at heart, though he may have been a gentleman by birth. How, otherwise, could he have visited his own weakness upon a woman—his wife!"
"You are speaking of your father—remember!"
"No father to be proud of!"
"He was good to her, I believe,—always—"
"I don't call that being good to her."
"It is not possible for you—knowing so little—to estimate his position. You pass judgment, not understanding."
"I hope I know the duty of a husband to his wife. To marry—and then be too much of a coward to acknowledge what he had done! Abominable!" After a pause, Maurice went on—"When he died, why did she not speak out? What possible cause could there have been then, for silence?" He turned upon the Squire. "Why have you insisted on this silence— made her income depend upon secrecy?"
"I am not able to explain fully. There were reasons!"
"I dare say! For the sake of his grand connections—no doubt!" Maurice all but gave expression to the thought which flamed up—"Perhaps you are one of them!" But the deep flush had come again, mounting to Mr. Stirling's forehead, and he held both hands there, murmuring with evident pain and difficulty—
"I cannot have any more of this. You must leave. I am suffering from a very severe headache."
Maurice gravely studied the crimsoned brow and its swelling veins.
"Yes, I see. You are not well. But I must see you again. I have a right to know more."
The Squire, leaning forward and breathing heavily, did not move. Maurice stood up, said "Good-bye" coldly, and walked to the door. There he hesitated, and glanced back.
A strained and troubled face the supporting hands—a face of beseeching appeal. It was as if the Squire were being impelled by some strong force to take action, against his own will.
"Don't go!" came slowly. "Wait! I have—something to say to you."