THE omnium gatherum of friends and neighbours, tenants and retainers, had come. It was a warm, brilliant, autumn day. People thronged the house and grounds, the garden and the cricket-field. On this one day in the year, for three hours in the afternoon, all Lynnbrooke was welcome; and Lynnbrooke did not fail to make the most of its opportunity.
A slight shadow brooded over the usually light-hearted throng; for the Squire was unwell. He did not appear at the usual time; and it leaked out that he was lying down, much indisposed. Anxious inquiries made known the fact that his doctor had not been summoned, but was enjoying himself with the cricketers; so, of course, nothing could be seriously wrong.
Katherine was an enigma that day. She looked excessively pale, and had little to say; yet it could not be said that she seemed unhappy. Something of a small thunderbolt had indeed that morning fallen at her feet. But, to balance a piece of news which touched her most unpleasantly, was the fact that she had again her devoted knight in close attendance. The news had affected him even more acutely in one respect; and he still laboured under a sense of bewilderment at so complete a change in his worldly prospects. But he and Katherine comforted one another; and he hardly left her side. How then could she be really unhappy?
At four o'clock refreshments were served in the schoolrooms to tenants, retainers, and so many of the neighbours of whatsoever degree as chose to partake. There were few on these occasions who did not choose to partake. It had always been a day in which high and low mingled together in the happiest possible manner.
Generally the Squire was there among them, going from one to another, chatting with landowner, farmer, tradesman, cottager, exchanging kind and cordial words with each in turn, knowing everybody, forgetting nothing. To-day, for once, Katherine alone received guests, overlooked arrangements; and at half-past four he was still absent.
"Rather odd, isn't it?" Mrs. Brutt said in mysterious and suggestive tones. She had by this time told a good many acquaintances—in the strictest confidence—about Doris and the young surgeon; and, as she intended, people were beginning to talk. Mrs. Brutt had come across Dick Maurice himself that morning, and had passed him with the curtest of nods. She made a good deal of capital out of this encounter.
Doris, a winsome figure in white frock and shady hat, kept studiously in the background. She did not wish to come into contact with either Hamilton or Mrs. Brutt; and the latter seemed to pervade the place. Wherever the girl went, she was sure to see the agreeable widow bearing importantly down upon her.
Towards five o'clock, in common with many others, she found herself in the garden, outside the west front of the house. A general impression prevailed—how or whence, nobody knew—that Mr. Stirling was about to make his appearance here; and a surging movement hitherward took place. The terrace was soon crowded; the lawn and side-walks below were full. People pressed quietly together, closing their ranks, and drawing as near as might be to the bay-window of the great library, with an air of expectation.
Expectation soon to be fulfilled. Doris, having retreated to a quiet corner, glanced carelessly up—and saw something which took away her breath.
Mr. Stirling had at last shown himself. He stood at the opened window, looking down upon them all—pale, haggard, weary, unlike his ordinary self. A buzz of welcome broke out at the sight, quickly checked, for he made no response; and there was that in his look which portended that something was about to happen.
But it was not his face that startled and stirred Doris. It was the vision of another behind the Squire, following him closely, standing motionless when he stopped—a slim, broad-shouldered muscular man, with head well up, and clear, dark-grey eyes surveying the scene—eyes that searched till they found Doris, and rested there.
Dick—with Mr. Stirling! What could have happened? The girl's heart was beating furiously.
A breathless hush reigned; everybody waiting for what should come next. Mr. Stirling stood in silence—the crowded terrace at his feet; the velvet lawn, with its beds of variegated colour beyond; then a sombre background of trees, between which could be seen peeps of distant hills.
Of all this he saw nothing. He was conscious only of the presence of the people, his friends of a lifetime; neighbours, tenants, dependants; one and all known to him.
Those who were near enough could not but note the difficulty he had in controlling himself; in suppressing an agitation which all but gained the mastery. Dark shadows were under his eyes; drops stood upon the drawn and troubled brow. Twice he tried to speak, and failed. A slight swaying movement could be seen, as if he suffered from dizziness; and Maurice spoke earnestly, in a low voice. A few overheard the words—"I think you are not fit. Better put it off."
This was met by a gesture of refusal. The Squire stood firmly, and spoke in raised tones—
"Will you kindly all listen to me? I have something to say."
So abrupt was the resulting stillness, that one sound only broke it— an incautiously loud remark from Mrs. Brutt—"I wonder what next!" The Rector, who happened to stand near, put up his hand with an authoritative gesture, imposing silence. Mrs. Brutt fumed, but had to obey. The Squire began anew—
"I have something to say to you all. Many here are old and tried friends of mine; and to none of you am I a stranger. I have to ask your patient attention for a few minutes—your kindness—your indulgence. That which I am going to say has long been a great trouble, weighing on my mind. The time has come when I can no longer be content to keep it to myself."
"A quarter of a century ago, certain facts became known to me, which I had not before suspected—had not dreamt of, as even a possibility. My only brother, Maurice—some of you will remember what he and I were one to another!—after losing his wife, went abroad with his little child—my niece, Katherine. He took a trained nurse to look after her— Nurse Molly of Wyldd's Farm. He lived abroad several years; and when a summons came to me, telling that he was in great danger, I went at once—only to find him gone."
"I found also—not only my little orphaned niece, but—a widow and other children. My brother had secretly married Nurse Molly, telling no one of what he had done. Hush!" at the sound of a rising murmur. "Let me go on, please."
"It was a great trouble to me; and the question came up as to continued secrecy. I blame myself now for giving in to the temptation— and it was a very strong temptation!—to let nobody hear of this second marriage. At the time there were reasons against making it known, which to myself appeared overwhelmingly heavy. I need not enter into them fully."
"You must not misunderstand me here. I have the warmest respect and regard for Farmer Paine. I believe he is not here this afternoon. But, if he were, he would, I am certain, agree with me in admitting that there are, and that there must be, differences in birth and in position; and that those differences are apt to tell against happiness in married life. Farmer Paine is a better and nobler man than many a one in a higher social position. That, however, does not touch the question. My brother's marriage was, in my opinion, a grave mistake."
"Such considerations and others also weighed with me; and I decided— wrongly, as I see now—to insist on continued secrecy. The widow was left in extremely straitened circumstances. I made it my condition of helping her that she should remain in retirement, and that nothing should be said. She agreed to all that I proposed; and she has since carried out loyally all that she undertook to do."
"I do not suppose that she had any clear idea at the time of all that would be involved in this plan; and certainly I had not. But I cannot offer ignorance as any excuse for myself. If I did not realise, I ought to have done so. Nothing can be worse than to plunge headlong, not realising, into a course of deceit and wrong. And that was what I did."
"My little niece, Katherine, I adopted; and she has been to me since as a daughter."
"There were two other little girls and one boy. The boy, as my heir, I have kept as much as I could away from his own people, that he might be brought up in a manner suitable to his future position. This I believe to have been, on the whole, wise and necessary—yet it has been hard upon his mother."
"I have always hoped and intended that matters should continue thus through my own life. But of late it has been strongly impressed on my mind that the facts ought to be known, that my brother's wife and children have a right to open acknowledgment. It has been hard work, as you will believe, to make up my mind to speak. But having so resolved, all I can do is frankly to confess the whole. I trust that all who in any way have suffered through this long silence will pardon me, even as I hope to be forgiven by One above, Whom most sorely I have wronged."
He spoke haltingly, as if the words were difficult to utter; and then, with a slight turn, he laid a hand on Dick's arm.
"This is my nephew, the only son of my dear brother. His name is Richard Raye Maurice Stirling. Till to-day he was not aware of his parentage, or of his true surname. Now he knows! I present to you all— my heir!"
Dick stood, pale and grave, facing the throng of curious faces, without a word. Dead silence followed, broken only by subdued whispers. The Squire, having made his statement, remained upright, dignified and calm, gazing down upon his audience with a singular detachment of expression, as if he had little to do with them. Some present noted a look of intense relief, almost amounting to gladness, as of one who had just parted with a heavy burden.
No one knew what to say, or how to meet the situation. It was a perplexing position to handle on the spur of the moment.
Hamilton and Katherine were behind in the library, out of sight; both having heard all earlier in the day. Doris, with a rush of joy, recognised that Dick, her Dick, no longer ranked as a fatherless waif, without descent or standing, but that—though he still had an undesirable mother and an objectionable sister—he was nephew to a leading landowner, heir to a fine property, and possessor of a long line of ancestors. Her first sensation was of joy that she had effectually checked Hamilton, before this development, and had spoken frankly to Dick. Had it been otherwise, how could she now have given up the disinherited man in favour of a prospectively wealthy Dick?
Mrs. Brutt stared, open-mouthed. She felt actually angry that the Squire's courageous confession had taken the wind out of her sails, destroying her power to harm him.
The silence lasted only a few seconds, though to all concerned it seemed endless. Then the Rector came forward. It was one of those rare occasions when, taken suddenly and deeply stirred, he could lay aside his shyness, could cease to be dumb, could say and do precisely what was right.
Deliberately he pushed his way to the front, reached the open window, stepped over the sill, and faced round, standing beside the Squire, a gleam in his deep-set eyes. He held up a silencing hand, for murmurs were swelling, and his voice rang out.
"I don't know how you all feel, my friends. The Squire has taken us by surprise; and most of us want a little time to get used to what we have just heard. It is a new order of things; and at first we feel a little strange at the idea of this new heir—his nephew. But since he is the Squire's nephew, we will give him a welcome. I for one do so gladly. For though I have only seen him once before—as Mr. Maurice— I can assure you, from that interview, that he will not disgrace the name he bears."
"As I say, I don't know how it may be with you; but I know how it is with myself, in regard to the fact that Mr. Stirling should have come forward in this grand way, in the face of the county, as one may say, to confess his error—to tell of his own wrong-doing—and to set matters right. In so acting, he gives himself into our hands; he trusts us; and the least that we can do is to respond as old and tried friends should."
"He made once a grievous mistake. He has done wrongly. But who are we?—who are you? who am I?—that we should dare to pass judgment? Which of us has not done wrongly, has not made many a sad mistake, has not been overcome by temptation? And which of us, I wonder, would in his place have come forward with frank and open confession, as he has done?"
"The Squire has been my friend for many and many a year. I need not tell you that I have always esteemed, always trusted, always loved him. But I have never so esteemed him, never so loved him, never so honoured him, as at this moment."
"It could be no easy step for him—for one who has taken always a foremost place among us—no easy task, to stand up here, in the presence of you all, and to tell in plain terms of the long concealment, of the lack of right dealing, into which, under severe temptation, he allowed himself to be led. And—mark you!—to make no excuse for himself; to lay blame upon no other! I do say—though I offer no word in extenuation—I do say that he is acting grandly in the present; and I honour him for it. And very sure I am, my friends, that Divine grace alone could have made possible for him such a line of conduct."
Mr. Winton stopped, laying his broad hand almost caressingly upon the other's shoulder; and cheer after cheer, in gathering volume, rent the air. The Rector beamed approval. One or two county magnates, standing near, silently wrung the Squire's hand.
When a break came, he made a slight forward movement, and spoke again, pausing between the words—
"I thank you—one and all. You have made easier—what was, as Mr. Winton says—not easy! I thank you all—from the bottom of my heart!"
Katherine had stepped nearer, and now stood beside him, her arm in his. "Come," she whispered, "you must rest!" He obeyed, walking with a slow step, almost groping his way, as if unable to see.
The old family doctor had come forward, and Dick held back. He knew that he would not be wanted there. He sent one eager glance towards where Doris still waited; then, forgetting all else, and ignoring the crowd around, he turned to the Rector.
"This—will it make any difference?" he asked, in a low voice of concentrated eagerness. "Now that you know who my father was?"
Mr. Winton caught sight of his wife, laboriously threading her way through the throng, plainly bent upon being one of the first to congratulate the new heir. He gripped Dick's hand with a hearty shake.
"I rather think it will!" he said. "You'd better just ask—her!"
The gesture which indicated Mrs. Winton might almost equally have indicated Doris. Dick accepted it for both. Then the Rector, full of foreboding, made his escape to the study. He knew what the terrific strain of the last hour must have been to that proud and reserved nature. It did not surprise him to find on the sofa a prostrate and powerless form. But the changed face of the Squire wore a look of repose, to which it had long been a stranger.
"That was well done, my friend!" Mr. Winton said in stirred tones, by his side.
The old doctor watched in suspense, to see whether the words would reach their objective. Perhaps they did. A faint smile flickered; and the drawn lips murmured one word—"Mary!"
It was his last utterance. Unconsciousness supervened; and he never awoke from it. A severe paralytic stroke had fallen; and before next morning he had passed away.
"Ah—well!—better so!" the Rector said, much moved. "It is mercifully ordered. He is spared a great deal that would have sorely tried him. And when all's said and done—he was a noble fellow!"
Thus Dick entered at once upon his inheritance.
And "this" did make all the difference with regard to Doris. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Winton offered any further objections. True, there was still Mrs. Morris at the farm,—somehow, people persisted in calling her by that name, though she really was Mrs. Maurice Stirling,—and she could hardly fail to be a thorn in the side of Doris's mother. But Dick's own position, inclusive of his line of ancestors, was assured. The objectionable Jane had taken herself happily out of reach; and everybody liked the gentle Winnie, whose hospital treatment had proved entirely a success. Thenceforward she was in better health and spirits than ever before.
Hamilton met the reverse in his prospects like a man. He did not bemoan himself; he showed no resentment; and he treated the new heir with kind courtesy, recognising that Dick at least was not to blame. Moreover, he lost no time in bringing about an engagement between Katherine and himself, though she would not hear of being married till a year after her uncle's death.
Some delay, too, was necessary with Dick and Doris. The Wintons objected to parting with their child too soon; and Dick, entering upon a position of no small difficulty, as successor to, the beloved Squire, had an infinitude of business to claim his attention.
So it came to pass that the honeymoon was not until the following August. Dick then amply redeemed his promises, scaling two or three difficult peaks with his bride, and, one glorious day, landing her safely on the summit of the Glückhorn.
Printed by MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, Edinburgh