Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: HER LISSOM FIGURE SWAYED WITH EASY GRACE.]


                     THE DOINGS OF DORIS

                             BY
                       AGNES GIBERNE

 Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "Life's Little Stage,"
  "Stories of the Abbey Precincts," "This Wonder-World,"
                        etc., etc.



              "A MAID IN HER EARLY BLOOM."
                              — J. Whyte-Melville.



                        LONDON
              THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
   4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE OWNER OF CLOVER COTTAGE

II. BAITING THE GROUND

III. DORIS REBELS

IV. THE MORRIS'S

V. A SECRET AGREEMENT

VI. DORIS LETS HERSELF GO

VII. THE CYCLE RIDE

VIII. MRS. BRUTT SUGGESTS

IX. SUDDEN SILENCE

X. A SURPRISE VISIT

XI. THE PORTRAIT

XII. A LITTLE PLOT

XIII. HAVE I DONE WRONG?

XIV. THE STRANGER

XV. R. R. MAURICE

XVI. THE CRY FROM THE CHÂLET

XVII. A GREAT EFFORT

XVIII. ON THE MOUNTAIN

XIX. A ROTTEN PIECE OF ROCK

XX. ONLY A GIRL!

XXI. A SUPERB RESCUE

XXII. TWO HEARTS DRAWING NEARER

XXIII. ALMOST OVER

XXIV. "BUT I'M AFRAID"

XXV. THE SQUIRE'S ADVICE

XXVI. NOT HER HUSBAND

XXVII. THE EAVESDROPPER

XXVIII. WHAT MRS. BRUTT HEARD

XXIX. WHAT NEXT?

XXX. THE SQUIRE IS MYSTERIOUS

XXXI. THE SQUIRE'S DARK HOUR

XXXII. "YOU DON'T KNOW DICK"

XXXIII. "HOW WILL HE TAKE IT?"

XXXIV. FOILED!

XXXV. WOULD HAMILTON DO?

XXXVI. A SURPRISE MEETING

XXXVII. THE MISCHIEF-MAKER AGAIN

XXXVIII. "WHO WAS MY FATHER?"

XXXIX. "THAT WAS WELL DONE!"



THE DOINGS OF DORIS

CHAPTER I

The Owner of Clover Cottage

"A DELIGHTFUL man!" Mrs. Brutt declared. "Absolutely charming!
Handsome—accomplished—clever—fascinating!" She hung impressively
upon each adjective in turn. "Fortune has showered her gifts upon
him. Has simply showered them."

Mrs. Brutt viewed her present companion as the reverse of charming.
But to one who hated solitude, anybody was better than nobody; and
she had seized a chance to inveigle him indoors, much against his
will.

"Showered—gifts—" he repeated vaguely, his one thought being how to
escape from durance vile.

"Ah, your masculine mind is occupied with weightier matters!" —and
she rippled into laughter. She had a habit, not agreeable to all
hearers, of interlarding her speech with ripples.

"I was speaking of the Squire. As I say—a most attractive character.
So good of him to come and take tea with me in my humble cot!
Overwhelmed as he must be with engagements! I assure you,
I appreciate the compliment."

Mr. Winton's grunt might or might not have spelt acquiescence.

"And his niece—such an attractive woman! So distinguée! That word
does just exactly describe her. Not that I have seen so much of her
as of her uncle." She had met Mr. Stirling three times, and Miss
Stirling once. "But enough to realise what a perfectly unusual
character hers is."

The Rector grunted anew. He never discussed one parishioner with
another; and he hated gossip with a deadly hatred.

"So touching to see his devotion to her—really quite beautiful! I am
told that she has been everything to him since his poor wife's death—
ten years ago, wasn't it? A great sufferer she must have been—and
such a sweet woman. Everybody says so. And now he just leans on his
dear niece. So touching, isn't it?"

No reply. Grim silence.

"Then, too, there is Mr. Hamilton Stirling—a most interesting man.
So full of information. Really, it is a privilege to come across a
mind like his. Do tell me—is it true that he is the heir to all this
property—supposing, of course, that the Squire never marries again?"
She rippled anew. "First-cousin once removed, isn't he?"

"Yes," was the least that the Rector could say.

Mrs. Brutt understood that she would get nothing out of him, and she
resented the fact. Her eyes surveyed with veiled criticism
his ungainly figure, broad and heavy in make, thrown as a blur
against a background of dainty colouring. He wore a rough workaday
apron, suggestive of carpentering, over an ancient coat; both being,
under supposition, never seen outside his shed. But when pressed
for time, he would steal across for a word with his friend the
carpenter; and more than once Mrs. Brutt had captured him en route
in this unclerical guise. He had begun ruefully to see his own lost
liberty, now that a talkative lady, with leisure for everybody's
concerns, had chosen to plant herself within a stone's throw of the
Rectory back-garden gate.

Hitherto the back lane had been little frequented, and he could do as
he chose, with small fear of detection. Though Lynnbrooke had become
a town, its growth had been mainly towards other points of the
compass, leaving the old parish church and the original village
almost untouched.

But Mrs. Brutt, coming for a week's change to the Inn, took a fancy
to a couple of low-rented cottages, standing empty, and decided
to make them her home. She had them transformed into a cosy dwelling,
sent for her furniture, and settled down therein, with much flourish
of trumpets.

For a while she was too busy to give heed to aught beyond the process
of settling in. That ended, she found herself with superabundant time
at her disposal, and during the last two months her presence had been
in the Rector's eyes a standing grievance. He never could pass down
the lane without a risk of being waylaid. Whatever else Mrs. Brutt
might be doing, she seemed to have one eye permanently glued to her
front window.

Capture on Monday afternoon was an aggravated offence. He counted
Monday his own, free for the dear delights of his carpentering shed.
So, though he came in because she insisted, he chafed under the
necessity. Where she put him he remained, watching for the first
chance to get away. Deep-set eyes under shaggy eyebrows rebelled;
and the solid cogitative nose, broad at the tip with a dent in the
middle, twitched impatiently. When she made a pause, he heaved
himself to his feet, capsizing a fragile table.

"Sorry! I hope nothing is damaged." He picked it up gingerly.
"I can't stay longer, I'm afraid. Sermon to write."

"Ah, were you going home to write your next Sunday's sermon?"
The dulcet tones held a sting of unbelief, and naturally, since his
face had been turned the other way. "You don't leave your choice of a
subject till the last moment. So wise of you!"

A twinkle in the deep-set eyes showed appreciation of this. She stood
up slowly.

"And your daughter, Mr. Winton,—the sweet Doris. Do tell me about
her. We have not met for days. I am so interested in that dear girl.
She is so unusual—so charming—so clever and bewitching!"

It was hardly in father-nature not to respond to this,—even though
he did not believe that she meant what she said. He and she had been
antagonistic from the moment of their first meeting. None the less,
he paused in his retreat, that he might hear more.

"I assure you, she has quite taken hold of me. Quite fascinated me.
Such a charming face—hers! I adore hazel eyes, and hers are true
hazel—positive orbs of light." The Rector uttered a silent "Bosh!"
to this. "Now that I am unpacked and arranged, I hope to see a great
deal of that dear child. Tell her so, please, with my love. We are
such near neighbours—" "Much too near!" silently commented the
Rector— "that I hope she will be always in and out. Tell Doris—may I
call her so?—that it will be a real charity, if she will come as
often as possible to my little cot."

Why couldn't she say "cottage" like a sensible being? Mr. Winton
hated being humbugged, and he abhorred gush. Praise of his Doris
was sweet; but he could not quite swallow all this.

Mrs. Brutt studied through draped curtains his swinging stride down
the little pathway.

"Of all uncouth beings! The contrast!" murmured she, setting
alongside a mental picture of the Squire.

"And his wife. Not so uncouth, certainly, but really more
unendurable. The girl's life, under such a regime, must be no joke.
I wonder how she stands it, for my part."

Mrs. Brutt strolled round the room, which was crowded with furniture,
with pictures, and with bric-a-brac ornaments, many of them old and
valuable. She altered the position of one or two, thinking still
about Doris Winton.

"A pretty girl," she murmured,—"and with pretty ways. She might make
a sensation, away from this poky place. I wonder whether, some day,
I could bring her forward. Not an impossible plan. What if I were
to offer to take her abroad? I doubt if the Rector would approve.
He likes me as little as I like him. But if I can get hold of the
girl somehow—" She clapped her hands and laughed aloud. "I have it!
I'll suggest the idea to the Squire. That will do. He simply rules
the neighbourhood."

A ring at the front door took her by surprise. She glided to the
window, just in time for a glimpse. Actually!—it was the Squire
himself. Again—already! The impression she had made on him must have
been agreeable. This flashed through her mind as she fled to the
mantelpiece and anxiously surveyed herself. Although past forty,
she knew that no grey lines had begun to appear in her well-dressed
dark hair; and while she was a plain woman, so far as features were
concerned, she also knew that her figure was good, and that she could
carry herself with the air of being a somebody.

"Mr. Stirling" was announced. He found the lady engrossed in a book,
which she put aside with a dreamy air, before beaming into a
surprised welcome.

"This is a pleasure indeed. A most unexpected pleasure. How kind—how
very kind! Pray sit down."

The Squire had called in passing, to leave a small volume on
architecture which she had said she wished to read. He came in only
to point out a passage bearing on the structure of the parish church;
and he had not meant to stay. But protests proved useless. He, like
the Rector, found that once inside Clover Cottage, it was not easy
to get away.



CHAPTER II

Baiting the Ground

"You remembered what I said. How thoughtful!" Mrs. Brutt turned over
one or two leaves of the book. "It looks absolutely fascinating.
I adore reading. After the society of friends—" and she sighed—"it is
the chief solace of my lonely hours."

"I hope you will not be lonely here." The speaker was in age over
fifty, and in looks singularly young, with few grey hairs and a spare
alert figure. His features were good, and his expression in repose
rather severe; but the smile brought irradiation. People thought much
of him, both for his unfailing kindness and courtesy, and for the
fact that his forbears had owned the land round about since the days
of the early Henrys. He was perhaps the most popular man among rich
and poor in the county.

Mrs. Brutt presently alluded with a smile to her last caller. "Such a
dear good man and so deliciously unconventional. Don't you delight in
that sort of moral sublimity? And dear Mrs. Winton—the busiest of
rectorinns! That word just describes her. So useful! So efficient!
She seems to understand everybody, and to think of everything. Quite
delightful, is it not! Positively, I envy her. Such a soul for doing
good."

The Squire hated gossip at least as much as the Rector; but he was
not so quick to detect its presence. Still, an uneasy bend appeared
in his smooth forehead, which acted as a danger-signal to the astute
Mrs. Brutt, before he was himself aware of uneasiness. She dropped
the dear good Rector and his wife like a pair of hot potatoes, and
skated in a new direction.

What charming country it was! Such lovely scenery! Such numbers, too,
of sweet farms within reach. Didn't Mr. Stirling look upon English
farm-life as a perfectly ideal existence?

"I had a drive yesterday afternoon, to return the call of your
sister-in-law at Deene,—I beg your pardon, your cousin I ought to
have said. Such a charming woman! I'm really quite in love with her
already. And her son—one of the best-informed men I ever came across.
One longs to sit at his feet and learn."

The Squire failed to echo this aspiration. Mrs. Brutt, noting his
look, resolved to be in future more sparing in her praise of Mr.
Hamilton Stirling.

"Then the driver took me a long round by the loveliest spot
imaginable—'Wyldd's Farm'—such an appropriate name. One of your
farm's, he told me; as of course I might have guessed. I walked
through a large field to get a nearer view; and the farmer himself
came out for a chat. Not the new-fangled sort, but the real
old-fashioned type—quite idyllic!—a genuine old yeoman. He simply
charmed me. So respectful. So self-respecting. I hoped he would ask
me to go in, for I saw the sweetest little face of a girl looking out
of the window, and I wanted to know her. He didn't—but I shall go
again, and perhaps next time he will."

Surely she had not "put her foot in it" this time! The Squire's
forehead was puckered all over, fine lines ruffling its surface.
She racked her brain to discover wherein the blunder had consisted,
while glissading off into fresh paths. Her exertions met with
success, and gradually his look of annoyance faded.

"The real delight of country is, after all, in long walks," she
remarked. "I can't afford many drives. But walks—with a companion—
are delightful. Real long rambles, I mean."

"Miss Winton is a good walker," he said, as he stood up.

Mrs. Brutt caught at the suggestion. She did so admire Doris Winton;
a captivating creature, pretty, graceful, full of life, "the dearest
of girls." And wasn't it touching to see one, so fitted to adorn
society, devoting herself to parish drudgery? So good and useful!
But rather melancholy—didn't the Squire think?

"Of course one knows that the work has to be done. And the Rector's
daughter has to take her share. But there are limits. And she is so
young—so taking! For my part, I do like young folks to have a merry
time—not to wear themselves out before they've had their swing."

Mr. Stirling's attention was arrested.

"Does Miss Winton work too hard?"

"Pray don't count me meddlesome." Mrs. Brutt put on a deprecating
smile. "As a stranger, I have no right to speak. But sometimes—don't
you think—sometimes strangers see more than friends? I can't help
being abominably clear-sighted. It isn't my fault. I suppose I'm made
so. And—I'm speaking now in strict confidence—" she lowered her voice
to a mysterious murmur,—"I do feel sorry for the girl."

"For Doris Winton!" His manner showed surprise.

"Oh, you men!—you see nothing. You never do. She is bright enough
in a general way. She doesn't give in. A brave spirit, you know—
that's what it is. She makes the best of things, and people don't
notice. Not that she meant to betray anything to me,—poor little
dear. Oh, she is thoroughly loyal,—never dreams of complaining. But
one cannot help seeing; that's all. I always do see—somehow. And I
confess, I positively ache to get that dear child right away out of
the treadmill, if only for a few weeks. To take her abroad, I mean,
and to give her a really good time. It would mean everything to her—
to health and character and—everything. However, at present I don't
see my way. What with building and settling in, I have run to the
utmost extent of my tether. Poor dear little Doris. It must wait.
But it would mean fresh life to her."

Mr. Stirling said good-bye, and departed thoughtfully. Mrs. Brutt
felt that she had scored a point. He would not forget.

She went back to her peregrinations about the room, indulging in
dreams. Switzerland offered itself in tempting colours. She did not
care to go without a companion. But a young bright girl, such as
Doris—pleasant, and also submissive—would be the very thing. More
especially if she could bring it about that somebody else should
undertake all Doris's expenses; and perhaps not Doris's only!



CHAPTER III

Doris Rebels

MR. STIRLING had many miles to ride before turning homeward, but he
showed no signs of haste, walking slowly from Clover Cottage.
His face fell into a somewhat severe set, till a slight bend in the
lane brought him almost within touch of Mrs. Brutt's "dearest of
girls," the Rector's daughter.

She stood just within the back gate of the Rectory garden, the centre
of a flock of pigeons. One white-plumed beauty was perched on her
shoulder; another sat on her wrist. She was of good height, slender
and supple in make, with long lissom arms and fingers. Small dainty
ears, a pear-shaped outline of cheek, pencilled dark brows over
deep-set eyes, and a pretty warmth of colouring, made an attractive
picture. A broad low brow, with eyes well apart, spoke of intellect.

"Pets as usual!"

The swish of fluttering wings responded. Doris turned with a smile
of welcome.

"I'm afraid I have frightened them off."

"It doesn't matter. The dear things are so shy. Won't you come
indoors?"

"Not to-day, I think. Your neighbour down the lane has kept me longer
than I intended."

"Is your horse in the yard? Shall we go through the garden?" It was
a common practice of the Squire to leave his horse in the Rectory
stables, when he had business in the village. She walked by his side
with lithe free grace, carrying her head like a young princess.
"So you've been to the Cottage. Isn't she nice? I like her awfully."
Doris's cheeks dimpled. "But father doesn't. He can't forgive her
for being there. If he ventures out in his beloved old coat, she is
sure to catch him."

Mr. Stirling stooped to pick up a snail, which he flung far over the
wall. Then he admitted that he found Mrs. Brutt pleasant—something of
an acquisition.

"When are you coming to see Katherine?"

"I did think of this afternoon—but I'm not sure."

He recollected what Mrs. Brutt had said. "Too much to do?"

Her face took a rebellious set.

"I don't like being made to do things."

"Even if you don't mind the things themselves?"

She laughed, but the rebellious note was still audible.

"I'd rather be free to choose for myself. I hate to have my whole
life parcelled out for me by—other people!"

This was a new sound in his ears. Subterranean gases of discontent
had been at work; but till this moment the imprisoned forces had
found no vent in his hearing.

"Spirit of the Age!" he murmured to himself. Aloud he made a slight
encouraging sound, and her words came in a rush.

"I don't see why I should have to do it all. I can't help being a
Rector's daughter. If I were a clergyman, or a clergyman's wife,
it would be by my own choice. Not because I couldn't help myself.
Doesn't it seem rather unfair that I should have to spend my time
doing things that I detest, and having none for what I love?—well,
not very much, at all events. Oh, I didn't mind so much at first.
One likes variety, and it was a change from school. But—lately—"

"Yes—lately—?"

"It has begun to seem—horrid. I've felt horrid sometimes. Don't you
know—?" appealingly.

"Perhaps I do. What sort of things is it that you want to do?"

"Oh just heaps! I love music, and I could spend hours over it
every day. And hours more over Italian and German. I'm rather good
at languages. And I want to read—any amount. And then I should
like—" and she paused—"more go—for fun!"

"You are asked to a good many tennis-parties, I believe."

"Heaps of them. But that is the same thing, over and over. The same
houses, and the same friends. I should like things to be different.
I want to go about, and to see fresh people." Her face flashed into
brightness. "If only I could go abroad! That would be too delicious.
Not keep on always and for ever in the same old ruts."

She sent a quick glance into her companion's face, and was sure that
he understood, though he made no remark.

"I don't mean to grumble. But I do so detest handling dirty old
library books, and running the Shoe-Club, and going in and out of
stuffy cottages, and hearing all about the old women's complaints.
I suppose, if I were really good, I should dote on that sort of life.
But I'm not!—and I don't! I do love things to be nice and clean and
dainty. And—perhaps it is conceited of me—I sometimes think I could
really do something with my music, if only—but there is never any
time. Mother likes me to practise every day; but as soon as I begin
to get into it, and forget the whole world, I'm morally certain to be
called off, and sent to take some wretched note somewhere."

"That must be a little trying."

"It's just horribly trying, and it makes me so cross. Ought I to say
all this? Of course mother doesn't mean—but you see, she's not
musical. And when interruptions come again and again, I get out of
heart, and it doesn't seem worth while to go on. Sometimes I feel as
if I must chuck it all, and get right away!—as if I couldn't go on!"

Her face flushed. He questioned—had the elder lady acted as suggester
to the girl, or the girl to the elder lady? Some collusion of ideas
evidently existed.

"But you like to be useful."

The corners of her mouth curled upward in a protesting smile.

"Ye—es—I suppose so. Not always. And I'd rather be useful in my own
fashion. Not in other people's fashion."

No more could be said, for on their way to the stable they skirted
the glass door which opened from the Rector's study upon a side-lawn.
There stood the Rector himself, in an attitude of bored endurance.
There also was the rectorinn,—so named, and not inappropriately,
by Mrs. Brutt,—large and comfortable in figure, calm and positive
in manner. Though she never spoke loudly, her voice had a penetrative
quality.

"Really, Sylvester, with that woman always about you must be more
careful. Only last week you promised me never to be seen in this
coat. I shall have to give it away."

"Drastic measure!" muttered the Rector.

"I don't see what else can be done. You never remember to change it;
and positively I cannot have you going about in rags. She will gossip
about you all over the place. If the husband goes shabby, it is
always the wife who is blamed."

"Well, well, my dear, I'll be careful."

"You won't. You never are. When once you get to your tools,
everything else goes out of your head—promises included. Nothing will
cure you but getting rid of the coat altogether."

"The consent of the owner is generally supposed—"

"Not in the case of husband and wife, I hope."

The Rector wondered what his wife would say, if he proceeded to
dispose, without her consent, of her best black silk. But he was not
a lover of what the Scots call "argle-bargle."

"Hallo!—here's Stirling!"

The Squire made believe to have heard nothing; and the grateful
Rector carried him off. Doris was not allowed to follow. Mrs. Winton
beckoned her indoors.

"It is a disgrace to us all to have your father seen in such a coat.
Absolutely in tatters. Past all mending."

"Everybody knows father, and nobody minds what he does."

"That is precisely why his own people have to mind. Otherwise, there
is no check upon him. Doris, those library books are not covered
yet."

"I didn't feel inclined yesterday."

"The things that one doesn't feel inclined to do are generally just
those that ought to come first."

She spoke positively; not unkindly; but voice and manner jarred,
and the girl moved in a restive fashion.

"I want to cycle over to see Katherine."

"You will hardly have time to-day."

Mrs. Winton held out her hand, as the maid brought a note on a tray.
Susan hesitated, with a glance towards Doris, but the gesture had to
be obeyed. Doris in her turn held out a hand.

"Mother—that is for me."

"Yes. I see that it is from Hamilton Stirling."

Doris flushed with vexation, and retreated to the bow-window. There
she stood and read in leisurely style four pages of neat small
handwriting. Getting to the end, she smiled, put the sheet into her
pocket, and stood gazing out on the lawn. They were still in the
study. Mrs. Winton waited two or three minutes, then said—

"I think you should allow me to see your letter, my dear. You cannot
have secrets of that sort from me."

Doris faced round, her combative instincts awake.

"What sort?"

"I'm sure you understand what I mean."

Doris seemed embarrassed, though a smile lingered round her lips, and
her eyes had a sparkle in them.

"It's—not meant to be shown."

"If you will tell me what it is about, I can judge."

The girl stood, slender and upright, against a dark maroon curtain.

"He says I am not to tell anyone."

"Mr. Hamilton Stirling would certainly make an exception in my case.
He would not wish you to hide anything from me."

"He says—nobody!"

"Then I think he is wrong. And I do not think you are bound to follow
such an injunction."

Doris's head went up.

"He advises me to read some books on geology."

"That cannot be what he does not wish you to repeat."

"No."

"And at your age—"

"I'm nineteen."

"Doris, you force me to ask you a plain question. Has he made you
an offer of marriage?"

"Mother!" The girl crimsoned, and threw out her hands with a movement
as of indignant repudiation. "Of course not! Why should he? It is
absurd to ask such a thing. But you always spoil everything for me—
always!"

Mrs. Winton was vaguely conscious, as the Squire had been, of some
new element. She failed to analyse it, and the line she took was
unfortunate. A word of loving sympathy would have brought submission;
but she straightened her shoulders, and remarked coldly—

"That is not the way in which you ought to speak to me. Are you going
to show me the letter?"

Doris caught her breath, said—"I can't!"—and fled.



CHAPTER IV

The Morris's

LYNNTHORPE, Mr. Stirling's home, a large house in a park, lay about
two miles from the parish church end of Lynnbrooke. But Mr. Stirling,
instead of riding thitherward, shaped his course in the opposite
direction, straight through the town. On quitting the latter,
he followed a broad Roman road for some two miles, passing then the
village of Deene, where lived his cousin's widow, Mrs. John Stirling,
with her only son, Hamilton—commonly regarded as probable heir to the
Stirling property, since it was believed to be entailed in the male
line.

Instead of pursuing the high road, he turned off into a lane, three
miles of which brought him to another, very narrow and winding, whence
at length he emerged within sight of a lonely farm, upon a bleak
hillside.

It was a neighbourhood far from town traffic, far from even the gentle
stir of village life. The lane here ceased to exist; and his trot
slackened to a walk, as he rode through a large meadow, on a
grass-path. Fields of young corn grew near; and the "bent" of some
stunted trees showed the force of prevailing westerly winds.

Distant lines of hills were pretty; and there was a healthful
breeziness about the situation; but Mrs. Brutt's description of it
as "the loveliest spot imaginable" was overdrawn, as her descriptions
were wont to be.

Apart from the group of farm buildings stood the dwelling-house, with
lattice windows and creeper-grown porch. The grunting of pigs
alternated with cawings from a rookery not far off. Mr. Stirling,
a fine-looking man on horseback, noted neither, his mind being
otherwise engaged.

Somebody came striding through the gate; older by many years than the
Squire; bigger and broader; roughly clad, with gaiters and heavy
boots. His face, red-brown like a Ribstone pippin, was lighted by the
bluest of eyes; his hands, large and muscular, were unused to gloves;
his bearing, though blunt and unpolished, was respectful. Yeoman
farmer, every inch of him, as Mrs. Brutt had said. For once she had
spoken correctly. He smiled at sight of the Squire.

"Fine weather, sir. Good for the crops."

"How are you, Mr. Paine?"

"I'm right enough, sir. I've nought to complain of. And having my
niece and her girls here, it do make a lot of difference to me."

"No doubt!"—with a touch of curtness.

"Yes, sir,—a lot of difference it do make. The place was that lonesome
with her gone." He had lost his wife some months earlier, and he
pushed his cap back with a reverent gesture. "I just put it so
to Molly when I wrote; and she wouldn't say 'No,'—bless her!—though it
did mean giving up of her Norfolk home. I'd hardly have known Molly,
that I wouldn't—she's that changed from the pretty girl she used
to be."

"People generally do alter as they grow older." The Squire spoke in a
constrained tone.

"Ay, sir,—'tis true. But she's more changed than I'd have thought
possible. Twenty-seven years it is now since she went to furrin parts
with little Miss Katherine and her father,—and she was a right-down
pretty creature, and no mistake, was our Molly. And if so be, as folks
said, that she saved little Miss Katherine's life, sir, I'm glad it
was so. All the same, it did go agin the grain with me—uncommon agin
the grain it went!—Molly getting herself trained for a nurse, when
this might have been her home all along. And then going off as she
did, all of a suddent, to Canada, without ever seeing of us agen.
I misdoubt but Phil Morris wasn't the best of husbands. She's seen
a lot of trouble, she has—judgin' from her look."

The Squire was silent and motionless.

"But it seems like as if she couldn't abear now to speak to me of the
past,—no, not yet of her husband, Phil Morris. Nor she won't hear him
blamed. 'Let bygones be bygones,' says she. Only she's told how good
you've been, sir, all these years, letting her have that house in
Norfolk, dirt-cheap. I'm sure, if ever I'd guessed—but there!—how was
I to know, when she'd never so much as wrote word to me that she was
a widow, nor was back in Old England? Nor you never spoke of her to me
neither, sir!" There was a note of inquiry, a suggestion of reproach,
in the last words.

Mr. Stirling dismounted.

"It was hardly my place to inform you, if she did not wish to do so
herself," he said gravely. "I was not likely to forget her care of my
niece; and she has been welcome to any help I could give. Would you
call someone to hold my horse? Thanks,"—as the farmer took the
reins,—"I'll find my way in."

He walked up the narrow flagged path, bordered by such homely flowers
as double daisies, pinks, and sweet-williams. Before he could ring the
door opened, and a girl stood there—fair-skinned and grey-eyed, with
short brown hair curling closely over her head. She had a fragile
look; and the small hands were almost transparent. A shy upward glance
welcomed him.

"How do you do, Winnie? Better than you used to be? You don't seem
quite at your best."

"I'm much the same, thank you, sir."

"Rheumatism bad still?"

He gazed down on her with kind concern.

"Yes, sir. It's no good me minding. Mother's in."

She led him to a long narrow sitting-room, crowded with old-fashioned
heavy furniture. Oak-beams crossed at intervals the low-pitched
ceiling; and an aged spinnet stood in one corner.

The woman who rose to meet him must have been at least fifty, perhaps
more. She was stout, unsmiling, blunt in manner, with features which
might in girlhood have been well-shaped. But the complexion was muddy;
the face was hard and deeply lined; she dressed badly; and the
frizzling of her iron-grey hair into a fringe gave a tinge of
commonness, which found its echo in the timbre of her voice.

"How do you do, Mrs. Morris?"

"How do you do, Mr. Stirling?"

The Squire was famed for his frank ease of manner among friends and
tenants of whatsoever degree; but he seemed now cold and constrained.
A look of displeasure was stamped on his brow; and it grew into a
frown at the sight of a second girl, who had followed him in. With her
the mother's hardness and commonness were reproduced, and the fringe
was obtrusively prominent.

"Good morning," he said curtly to her, and then turned to the mother.
"Winnie is not looking well."

"Not likely in this dismal hole," declared the last corner. Jane
Morris was sure to thrust in a word, if she had the chance.
"The Norfolk doctor said she never ought to be in a cold climate; and
this is going to be cold enough in all conscience. He said she ought
to go to the sea before next winter."

"It's dry and healthy here," Mrs. Morris put in.

Mr. Stirling turned from Jane. "How is Raye getting on?"

"Like a house on fire, he says," declared the irrepressible Jane.

Mr. Stirling put up one hand with a dignified gesture.

"Will you please allow your mother to speak for herself. Can you give
me a few minutes in another room, Mrs. Morris?"

"There!" Winnie said with a sigh, as they disappeared. She went to the
stiff old-fashioned sofa, from which she was seldom long absent.
"Now you have driven him off!"

"Rubbish!" shortly answered Jane. "He and mother always have a
business talk."

"What made you say that about the climate,—and about my going to the
sea? It was like asking him to send me."

"Well, why shouldn't he? I wish he'd send you and me together.
Anything to get away from this hole."

"We have no right to expect him to do things for us."

"I think we have. Mother saved Miss Stirling's life by her nursing.
And everybody says he just lives for Miss Stirling."

"All those years and years ago!"

"That makes no difference. If it wasn't for mother he'd have no niece
now. I think he ought to be grateful; and I don't see that he can do
too much in return. He might just as well send you and me to Brighton
for a month."

"Jane!—don't!—how can you? Don't speak so loud! And I can't think how
you can talk so." The small delicate face flushed with feeling. "It is
just because he has been so good to us—such a real friend—that I can't
bear to think of asking him to do anything more."

Jane mumbled something. "I only know I can't abide the place,"
she added. "I'm sick of it."

"Why, we've not been here six weeks."

"It feels like six months," Jane yawned vociferously.

"You are always going into Lynnbrooke."

"Couldn't exist if I didn't. I just hate this farm."

Winnie lifted an entreating finger; and Jane sank into sullen silence.
Beyond a shut door two voices alternated.

"I believe they're talking about us," muttered Jane. And she was not
mistaken.



CHAPTER V

A Secret Agreement

MR. STIRLING had placed himself in the farmer's high-backed chair; and
Mrs. Morris occupied one of cane, exactly opposite. Their positions
seemed to be opposed, as well mentally as bodily. A displeased dent
still marked the Squire's forehead; and his gaze was bent moodily
downward. Mrs. Morris, looking not at him but at the wall, with hands
resolutely folded, heard what he had to say. An odour of stale tobacco
filled the air; for this was the farmer's "den."

"You see what I mean?"

"Yes—I see," she replied.

"For my niece's sake, I will allow no risks to be run." She knew that
he might have added, "And for my own sake!"—and her lip curled.
"Remember!—I am quite decided about this. If, through any
carelessness, you allow suspicions to be awakened, you know the
consequences."

"Yes," she stolidly repeated.

"I have been a good friend to Raye." He spoke in unconscious echo
of Winnie's words.

"Yes, you have," she admitted. "But—"

"You must be content with that. I will go on being a good friend
to him, so long as our agreement is strictly kept to. Once break it—
and you know the consequences."

He was gazing at her, and her expressionless eyes met his.

"Yes, I know," she assented in a dull tone.

"Your income stops, and I have no more to do with Raye. You understand
what that means—for the future."

"Yes, I know," she repeated.

"One item in our agreement was—that Raye should never come to this
neighbourhood, without my express permission."

"You mean—he's never to see me?"

"I mean what I say. He is not to come here. If you wish to see him,
you go elsewhere."

"Not even—once in the year! I've always had that."

"Not even once in the year. It is your own doing. If you had stayed
in Norfolk, as I desired, you could have had him as before. Now you
cannot."

"It's a bit hard on Raye—if he mayn't ever come to his own home."

"That is your affair. You have chosen."

Her face took an obstinate set.

"I couldn't help coming. I'm wanted here. I just felt I had to come."

"Under the circumstances, you ought to have felt that you had to stay
away, considering—though I would rather not say this—all that I have
done for you and yours. Remember—but for me you were penniless.
Remember, too, that I was not bound. You had from the first no real
claim upon me."

"I don't know as I see that," she muttered.

"Whether you see it or not, it is true."

"Anyway, when I promised I'd do as you wanted, I did say I might some
day have to come here and look after my uncle. I don't forget that
you've done a lot for us. But all the same, I had to come."

"Then you have to accept the consequences. When you wish to see Raye,
it must be elsewhere. That is decided. I need not again remind you
how much in Raye's future may hang upon this. One more point. You must
keep Jane in order."

"I'm sure I don't know whatever I'm to do. She's off on her bike for
hours together. I can't stop her. She aint like Winnie, always happy
with a book. Jane likes lots of friends, and she don't trouble to tell
me where she goes, nor what she does with herself."

The Squire's look was uncompromising.

"She's for ever on the go, wanting amusements. I don't know what's
come over the girls nowadays. It's always amusement that they
want,—not work."

"You must control her."

"I never could manage Jane, and that's the truth. She just goes where
she chooses, and picks up whoever she comes across. It's her way."

"It is a great deal too much her way. She is becoming talked about.
In Norfolk, however objectionable such behaviour might be, it did not
matter to me personally. I will not allow it here."

"I don't see how I'm to stop her."

"You must find a way. Jane has to be kept in order." In a lower tone
he added: "Do not make it necessary for me to take next year a step
which I should be most reluctant to take—to refuse the renewal of your
uncle's lease."

She was startled out of her stolid unconcern. "You wouldn't! It would
kill him."

"I should regret extremely having to do it. But—he might have to
choose between that and sending you all away,—or rather, sending Jane
away. At any cost, I intend to guard my niece's happiness."

He could see that she swelled resentfully, and he stood up to say
good-bye. No one, noting those two faces, contrasted and antagonistic,
would have imagined how in the past their lives had been intertwined;
not through any action of his own. The fact was known to themselves
only; not even to her children.

They watched him from the sitting-room window, as he passed down
the garden, and paused for a chat with the farmer; and Mrs. Morris
observed—

"He's been making a lot of complaints of you, Jane. You've got to mend
your ways."

"Much obliged!" Jane tossed her head.

"He says you're getting talked about in Lynnbrooke. You're always
in and out there; and you're a deal too free and noisy with folks.
He don't like that sort of thing."

Jane tossed her head again. She was extraordinarily unlike Winnie;
not only by nature but by training, having been sent by her mother
to a very third-rate school, and then having spent years with some
distant cousins of her mother in Manchester; undesirable companions
for any girl.

"He'll have to do without the liking. I'm not his humble slave—I can
tell him that. Goodness gracious me, I'm not going to ask him what I
may and mayn't do. He seems to think he owns our bodies and souls,
because the land belongs to him."

"He's always so kind," Winnie put in reproachfully.

"Kind to you, if you like. You know how to come over him. He just
hates me, and always did. He thinks of me as if I was scum beneath
his feet." Jane's metaphor was mixed.

"It's your own fault," Mrs. Morris said shortly. "And if you don't
look sharp, you'll get us all into trouble. I can tell you, he won't
stand it. I know what he means. It's those Parkinses he don't like,
that you're so thick with."

Jane snapped her fingers.

"I don't care that for him," she declared.

Unconscious of Jane's rebellious attitude, the Squire rode homeward;
and half-way between Lynnbrooke and Lynnthorpe he came suddenly on
Doris. She was seated meditatively by the roadside, her bicycle
propped against the hedge. She was so engrossed she did not notice
his approach till he dismounted.

"Are you coming to see Katherine? Is anything wrong with your
machine?"

She glanced up with a brilliant smile. "Oh no, thanks. I'm only making
a debating-club of myself. Question under discussion—Shall I go on,
or shall I turn back?"

"Why turn back? Thomas shall see you home."

"Oh, thanks—but it's light so late now. Mother wanted me to cover some
books before going out; and I wouldn't. It's an awful business—such a
state as they are in. And I was vexed about something else too; so I
started off without telling her. Ought I to give up and go back?"

"Is that necessary, now you have come so far?" He met the appeal in
her face with a man's decisiveness. "Tell your mother I wished you
to come."

"Thanks awfully—" and she sprang to her feet. "That will put it all
right."



CHAPTER VI

Doris Lets Herself Go

KATHERINE STIRLING and her cousin, Hamilton, were seated together
in the hall at Lynnthorpe; really its "living-room." It had an old
oaken door opening on a wide terrace; deep window-seats; a huge
fireplace; and antique furniture. The house was very old; and
successive owners had reverently refrained from spoiling it by
brand-new additions.

As usual, Hamilton was the talker, Katherine the listener. He loved
a good listener; one who would submit to be convinced by his
arguments; one who would not interrupt. Katherine was an adept
at fulfilling this role.

He had talked for fifty minutes without a break; and he could very
well have gone on for another fifty, had the Squire allowed Doris
to turn homeward. Having laid down the law on foreign affairs, on home
politics, and on the state of the money market, he proceeded to skim
the fields of literature—if the word "skim" could be applied to any
of his movements—and to recommend a well-thought-out course
of geological study.

Katherine cared little for politics, less for the money market, least
for ancient implements and extinct monsters. But she paid unwavering
attention, because it was Hamilton who spoke. With many women the
speaker matters far more than the thing spoken about.

The two were second-cousins and friends; not lovers. At least,
Hamilton was not Katherine's lover, and perhaps never had been,
though two or three years before this date some had looked upon him
as tending that way. If so, he had made no further advance.

As for Katherine, he was and always had been for her the embodied type
of all that a man should be. But she often told herself that she could
not think of leaving her uncle to live alone; he so depended on her
companionship. So perhaps she was in no great hurry for matters
to ripen. It was enough for the present that Hamilton seemed to belong
to her, consulted her, confided in her. She was placidly happy in the
"friendship."

For Hamilton Stirling to "consult" anyone meant only that he wanted
approval of what he had done. Since Katherine always did approve,
he found in her what he wanted.

She was just thirty years old; and she looked her age, being pale,
quiet, patrician to her very finger-tips. Many complained that she was
proud and distant, and hard to know. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps
she was proud—proud of her descent, of her blue blood, of her
beautiful ancestral home, of her uncle. But if so, it was a humble
and non-boasting type of pride; and she was also very shy, very
self-distrustful; a not unusual combination.

Hamilton, now in his thirty-ninth year, possessed the typical Stirling
outline of feature, which was even and regular. Somehow he managed to
be less good-looking than Nature—to use a popular phrase—had intended.
He had none of the elder Stirling's charm of manner. He was too rigid,
too measured, too sure of himself, whereby he often provoked other
people, who could not for the life of them see why they too might not
be sometimes in the right.

But he never provoked Katherine; and that no doubt was partly why he
so enjoyed her companionship. She always gave in to his views.

At the end of fifty minutes, having done with extinct monsters and
underground fire-seas, he broke new ground. Katherine found him to be
discussing Doris Winton, of whom she was fond. An unwonted thrill
became audible in his voice, and he even flushed slightly,—a most
unusual phenomenon. It might have ranked for rarity among some of the
pre-Adamite phenomena which he had been describing.

Katherine, on the contrary, grew rather more pale; but she listened
with her ordinary calm.

"Yes," she said. "You want—what is it?"

He showed a touch of displeasure at her inattention, and went over the
ground again. He wished her to use her influence over Doris. That was
the point; and Katherine had heard, but had doubted her own ears.

Doris Winton was a gifted and most attractive girl; but—this between
themselves—certainly a degree lacking in self-control. He ran through
the little gamut of her faults, suggesting that, if Katherine would
kindly exert herself, those faults would soon cease to exist. The
thing which struck Katherine unexpectedly, as with a physical blow,
was that he talked as one who had a personal interest in the matter.
Doris was to be improved and shaped—for him! He did not say this,
but he implied it. He wished her to be trained and educated up to
his level.

"I am afraid I have very little power over Doris," Katherine said.
"But, of course, I will do what I can."

Of course she would; since it was Hamilton who asked it of her. And
still more "of course" nobody should ever guess what this meant in her
own life.

"Here comes Doris with my uncle," she remarked, turning to the window.

Hardly a greater contrast could have been found than between these
two; Doris, all life and glow and high spirits; Katherine, colourless,
still, and impassive.

Nobody noticed Katherine's look. She had much self-control; and one
who is always pale may easily be a little paler than usual, without
causing comment. Doris's vividness absorbed attention. She had not
expected to find Hamilton here; and the encounter, just after
Mrs. Winton's unwise suggestion, threw her off her balance. Whatever
she really felt about him—and no one knew this less than the girl
herself—she was flattered by his attentions. Things might have drifted
a good deal further, unconsciously on her part, if the mother's heavy
hand had not reduced the abstract to the concrete.

Doris only knew that her spirits, after descending to zero, rushed
abruptly to tropical heat. She made no effort to restrain this new
mood. There is a charm in being carried on the crest of a wave,
reckless of rocks ahead; and she allowed it full swing. She had found
a seat on an old carved chair, facing the three; and her cheeks were
a pretty carmine with excitement, while the hazel eyes shone like
stars. The slender hands lay ungloved and quiet, but she talked fast.

They listened seriously to her sallies. In the Stirling composition
existed a total lack of the "saving sense of humour," though the
Squire's sympathetic readiness to smile with those who smiled often
took its place. But he was grave to-day, and Hamilton was slow as a
tortoise to grasp a jest, while Katherine seldom attempted the feat.

"I didn't believe I could come, for mother wanted me to put fresh
covers on a lot of old library books. Don't you just abhor handling
books that have been pawed over by the grubbiest fingers in the place?
If I had my way, I'd whisk them all into the nearest ash-pit.
I shirked the work yesterday, and to-day I was wild for a spin—leaving
dull care behind! So I eloped without permission; and half-way here a
most awful fit of remorse came on. I had to sit down on the grass
to fight it out. And Mr. Stirling found me there, and said I might
come on, which I was just dying to do. It's lovely to have things
settled for one, in the very way one wants."

The Squire smiled because he knew it was expected of him. Katherine
did not hear; and Hamilton objected to feminine frivolity.

"And isn't it perfectly horrid when one wants to do a thing and
conscience won't let one alone? I had set my heart on coming, and I
did my level best to smother remonstrances. Lynnthorpe is always my
haven of refuge, when the world gets out of gear."

"I have always imagined needlework to be a woman's proper refuge,"
Hamilton remarked, and she flashed round upon him.

"You haven't! Needlework! It's my purgatory. It's the bane of my
existence. If ever I have a home of my own—" the words slipped
recklessly out, and though with instant realisation her colour
deepened, she went on—"I'll never darn another stocking in my life.
Don't I wish I could set a dozen men for a whole day to patch and
mend? They wouldn't prescribe needlework again, I can tell them, as a
sedative! Besides, I don't want sedatives. I want champagne. The only
sort of needlework I ever found endurable is trimming hats. I should
like to trim a new one for myself every week, and to give the old ones
away. That would be jolly."

Hamilton disapproved alike of extravagance and of feminine slang,
which she knew.

"A hat doesn't take long, when one is in the mood. Don't you love
doing things when you're in the mood, and don't you hate doing them
when you're out of the mood?" She glanced at Hamilton, and he tried
to insert a remark about not being the victim of impulse, but she gave
him no loophole, and rattled on.

"I wonder whether, if I waited long enough, I should ever be in the
mood for handling dirty library books. But, of course, I shouldn't.
It's too hopelessly against the grain. Oh, yes, I had your letter—
thanks awfully." She suppressed a glimmering smile. "And I'll keep the
list of books that you want me to read; though I don't believe I shall
ever manage to wade through them. Geology is so fearfully dry. It's
history that I love; and poetry; and languages; and really good
novels. Not science. You don't care for novels, I know. You only care
for chemical combinations and explosive substances, and old bones and
stones, and labelled specimens, and flints and arrowheads."

Katherine was silently indignant that the girl could laugh at
Hamilton. He tried to defend himself; but for once the inveterate
talker was over-matched. Doris did not raise her voice, but she poured
steadily on like a babbling stream.

"Oh, I know!—I know! Old bones mean a lot; and everybody ought to be
scientific. But everybody isn't; and I don't care a hang for rows of
specimens. One wants something lively in a place like Lynnbrooke.
It's always the same thing over and over again here. A weird old body
marches up, born in the year one, and says: 'How do you do?—and is
Mrs. Winton quite well?—and how busy the dear Rector must be!'
Or perhaps from somebody weirder still it's: 'How's your Parr and your
kind Marr?—and what good weather!' Or else: 'Deary me, Miss, I've got
the brongtipus in my throat, that bad, you can't think!' And if it's
one of the parish ladies—we're all old ladies and parish ladies!—it
is: 'My dear, do you think you could get me some more soup-tickets?—
and are there a few club-tickets to spare?' Or else a bit of gossip:
'I suppose it's quite true that John Brown is going to marry Lucy
Smith. Dear, dear me, what a sad look-out for those poor young
things!'"

She had slid into mimicry, giving one voice after another with
delicate exaggeration. The Squire smiled again absently; while
Hamilton's rigid face betrayed his disapproval. Yet even in his
annoyance he realised, more vividly than before, his growing captivity
to this eager girl, with her slim grace, her warm colouring,
her brilliant eyes.

She did not represent his ideal wife. The life-companion of Hamilton
had always been, as pictured by himself, after a different model—
refined, ladylike, self-controlled; a dove-like being, placid and
meek, submissive and gentle, with manners full of repose, a tender
smile, an infinite capacity for listening, and no pronounced opinions
of her own.

Doris was neither meek nor submissive, neither reposeful nor
dove-like. Her laugh, though ladylike, could hardly be called low;
and she much preferred, at least in her present mood, hearing her own
voice rather than his.

He had not seen her like this before. She sat flashing nonsense at one
and another, reckless of what might be thought. As a child, and still
more as a school-girl, home at intervals for the holidays, he had
generally ignored her existence. It was only during the last few
months that she had dawned upon his consciousness as a distinct
personality.

"How I should love to be in London!" This was a fresh divergence.
"Always to be on the go, and seeing fresh people, and having a good
time." Her words recalled Mrs. Brutt to the Squire. "I detest
a humdrum existence; and nobody can deny that Lynnbrooke is awfully
humdrum."

Tea coming in made a diversion; and when it was over Doris spoke
of going.

"I really mustn't stay late, for mother hasn't the dimmest notion
where I am; and those wretched books have got to be done. No need
to send anybody with me, Katherine. I shall go like the wind, and get
in long before dark."

Hamilton, with his air of disapproving gravity, offered himself
as escort.

"Thanks awfully, but please don't. I'd rather not. I hate to be a
bore; and you know you meant to stay here for hours. You and Katherine
always have such oceans to talk about."

Katherine betrayed no shrinking under the thrust, which was not meant
to be a thrust. Hamilton held to his point, and they started together.



CHAPTER VII

The Cycle Ride

ON the way home Doris's barometrical conditions underwent a change.
Excitement had vanished; chatter ceased.

The talkative mood over, she became conscious of having given vent
to a good deal of nonsense. And people seldom talked nonsense at
Lynnthorpe. The atmosphere was uncongenial; in fact, Lynnthorpe was
the wrong place for nonsense of any sort, good, bad, or indifferent.

From earliest childhood the doctrine had been impressed upon Doris
that, when with any of the Stirling family, she must be on her best
behaviour, must speak in her gentlest tones, must use her mildest
adjectives. Perhaps she had never before so flagrantly run in the
teeth of these rules.

So far as regarded Hamilton she did not mind. She had meant to shock
him—a little—and if she had succeeded, so much the better. But to
shock Mr. Stirling and Katherine was like shocking Royalty; a thing
not to be got over. She determined that, next time she went to
Lynnthorpe, she would carefully wipe out to-day's impressions by an
elderly decorum, better suited to the dignified surroundings. She
loved Katherine with a mild and flameless affection; and she looked
upon the Squire as the ne plus ultra—the ultima thule—of all that
a man should be. He was in her girlish eyes the embodiment of
masculine perfection; and from judgment in that direction existed
no appeal.

Besides these uneasy recollections, she was annoyed with Hamilton for
his insistence in seeing her home. It was an annoyance entirely due
to her mother's action. Possibly she might have been disappointed
had he not insisted.

He rode his bicycle as he did most things, too rigidly; while her
lissom figure swayed with easy grace to each curve in the road; and
she flew along at a speed which he tried to check by holding back.
In vain; for she shot ahead, glanced back, and gave him a wicked
little farewell nod. He had to put on speed to overtake her.

She was thinking hard. She knew that he objected to rapid bicycling
for women; and she was bent still on crossing him. Mrs. Winton had
seemed to take it for granted—or so Doris imagined—that he only had
to speak to be accepted. Her pride was up in arms. Nobody should
suppose that she sat meekly, with folded hands, awaiting permission
to be his.

She might marry some day. She might even marry Hamilton Stirling.
It was not an impossibility. All things considered, she rather
favoured the notion, as a dim and distant prospect. She enjoyed
feeling herself the object of somebody's attentions. It gave her
a touch of prestige. Moreover, she had a supreme admiration for
intellect in every form; and thus far Hamilton was about the best
embodiment of intellect that she had come across.

Or if not, he appeared so to her; and at least he thoroughly believed
in himself. Doris was not unwilling to accept him at his own
valuation. He had graduated with moderate honours, and had elected
to enter no profession, but to devote his life to the pursuit of
science. Since he had enough to live on, he could do as he chose.
His mother objected, but not strenuously, being glad to keep him
at home. Friends opposed the decision; but Hamilton, with calm
indifference, pursued the even tenor of his way.

He was not an energetic man, yet none could call him idle. He read
a great deal, belonged to divers learned societies, and wrote much,
with the avowed intention of becoming, one day, a scientific luminary.
Doris decided that, if ever she did marry him, he should write
something that would stir the world. She would be his helper, his
inspirer. The idea was fascinating; and she failed to remember
the disappointed ambitions of a certain "Dorothea," great in fiction,—
aspirations like in kind.

While so cogitating she abstained from remark, waiting for him to
begin. But he too was silent. He could not get over her conduct that
afternoon, or the coldness with which she had so far received his
confidential letter.

It dawned upon her that, if he had made up his mind not to take the
initiative, no power on earth would make him. There was a spice
of obstinacy in his composition.

"How nice it was of you to write and tell me about that article
of yours being accepted!" she said approvingly.

He spoke in chilling accents. "I supposed that you felt no interest."

"But I do. Why, of course I do. I think it's most frightfully jolly
that you are really going to get into print at last. Quite too
delicious, I mean,"—as she recalled his dislike to girlish slang.
Perhaps she had shocked him enough for one day. "And now they've taken
one paper, they'll take lots more, of course. How soon is it coming
out?"

"Probably in a month or two." Curt still.

"Odd—isn't it?— that when a heap of old bones are found in a cave,
people can put them together—like a jig-saw puzzle—and settle all
about the sort of creatures that used to live there?"

Hamilton smiled a superior smile; and Doris's long lashes twinkled
 an acknowledgment.

"But sometimes the very cleverest men do make mistakes—and call the
old bones by wrong names."

This "drew" Hamilton, as she intended; and he launched into an
elaborate defence of scientists in general. Very much to his surprise,
he found her remark to be no random shaft. He had discovered before
now a cheerful uncertainty about Doris's mental attributes, which kept
him continually on the stretch. You never could foretell what she
would produce next from her hidden laboratory. Any amount of feminine
inconsequence might come to the fore; but, when least expected,
she would send an arrow straight to the mark.

"Oh, yes, of course. Nobody makes mistakes on purpose. But there was
a bone somewhere, which all the savants declared was a human bone.
And they proved a heap of things from it, about how long man had been
living on earth. And in the end it turned out to be only a bear's
bone; so all the wonderful arguments went to smash. Father told me;
and I think he was rather pleased. Only, he was afraid a great many
people who heard of its being a man's bone, never were told that it
was all a mistake. And he said we should never be in a hurry to draw
conclusions of that sort, because Science is a structure built upon
discarded blunders." She quoted the words with empressement.

Hamilton had intended to give, not to receive, information. He would
not for the world confess that he had forgotten the incident
in question; for a man whose cue it is to know everything naturally
does not like to be caught napping. He was conscious of relief
when she went back to his article.

"Would you care to read it in proof?" he asked.

"May I, really?" Her face flashed into brilliant interest. "I've never
read proof-sheets. May I help you to correct the mistakes?"

His smile showed doubt of her powers. "I have it here," he remarked,
and she was on the ground with a spring. Impetus carried him ahead;
but he wheeled, came back, and dismounted.

"You should not jump off in that wild way. It is unsafe."

"Oh, I often do, going full speed. I always come down right way up.
Do show me the proof. It's light enough."

Her eagerness gratified him. They stood at one side of the road,
and red sunset gleams, shining through a thin veil of trees, found a
reflection in her sunny face. He fished a small packet out of its
retreat, and she scanned the long slip with delight, spotting
instantly two slight printer's errors which had escaped his notice.
He pencilled both; and then she pitched on another mistake, this time
grammatical, not the printer's but Hamilton's own. He was chagrined,
finding it impossible to deny the force of her contention; and—"I will
consider it"—was all he could bring himself to say. He had expected
praise, not criticism.

A motor car rushed by, covering them both with dust. Doris was too
much absorbed to notice it.

"You couldn't let that stay. Think—how it would sound!" She read the
sentence aloud with exaggerated emphasis. But the next instant she was
soothing his ruffled sensibilities. "How you must love to see yourself
in print! I should like it of all things. To feel that one has power
over other people's minds—to feel that one may help them, and make
them better! Don't you see?"

She met a non-comprehending glance. What Hamilton did see at that
moment was Doris herself. He wondered that he had been so slow
to realise her charm. Yes—she was the woman for him—with just a little
shaping and manipulation. He was glad that he had spoken to Katherine.

"Don't you see?" she repeated, her hazel eyes deepening. "I think—I do
really think—I would rather have that power than any other. Only,
of course, one would have first to understand more of life."

But life in Hamilton's eyes wore a simple aspect, not in the least
perplexing. He was always sure of his own standing, and he could look
upon no landscape from his neighbour's position.

"People seem so oddly arranged for—so queerly placed!" She forgot the
printed slip in her hand, as she gazed dreamily away from him and
toward the reddening west. "Born artists set to darn socks; and born
musicians set to sweep crossings; and born idiots set to govern
nations. People having to live with just those others who go most
frightfully against the grain,—and having to do just exactly the work
that they most detest and can't—really can't—ever do well. Why mayn't
people always be with those that suit them—and do the things they like
doing?"

His slower mind followed her gyrations with difficulty. There was
in him no gift of instant grip and swift response, that most valuable
of assets in dealing with other minds. He could talk for an hour at a
time, but always in certain grooves. He could not catch up another's
line of thought, and make it for the time his own. Before he could
decide what to say, she was off on a fresh tack.

"I'm so glad you're going to get this paper out. It's a beginning.
But you won't stop there, will you? You won't only write articles
on geology and that sort of thing—will you? Not only about the bones
of poor old dead people, who lived such ages and ages ago. Can't you
sometimes write what would help the people who are alive now—something
that will tell them how to make the best of their lives? Do you see
what I mean? You don't mind my saying it? So many people seem to be
all wrong—put in the wrong place, and having the wrong sort of work
to do. And if you can write, couldn't you help them—say something
to show them how to get right?"

Her shining eyes were full upon him; and he had an uneasy
consciousness that she was asking of him that which he was powerless
to give. The feeling of incapacity was unwelcome; and he took refuge
from it by beginning to quote in his measured tones—

"'The trivial round, the common task,
 Will furnish all—'"

"But that has been said before," she interrupted hastily. "Everybody
knows it; and I think now we want something new. Couldn't you give us
something fresh? Couldn't you think it all out, and give it us
in words that haven't been said before?"

She read displeasure in his look.

"Besides—the trivial round never does furnish me with all I want.
I detest common everyday tasks. They are so stupendously dull. Well—
it can't be helped. We had better go on."

She in her turn was vexed with his lack of sympathy. She had opened
out a corner of her real self, and had met with a rebuff. She gave him
back his proof, and was off like an arrow, sweeping down the long
gentle incline. Hamilton kept pace with her, but he counted the speed
unsafe for a woman; and at the bottom of the hill he told her so.
She glowered all the rest of the way. But her anger was not
unbecoming. Most people, out of temper, look their worst. Hamilton was
fain to admit to himself that she looked her best—reticent, dignified,
with a geranium-tint in her cheeks, and a smouldering glow in the
deep-set eyes which turned them nearly black.

More and more he was conscious of a growing thraldom. At some future
day he would certainly make this girl his wife. It did not occur
to him to say "If!" But some training first was desirable; and he
hoped great things from Katherine's gentle influence. He had never
so distinctly disapproved of Doris as to-day; and he had never before
found himself so definitely in love with her. The combination was a
trial to his well-balanced mind.



CHAPTER VIII

Mrs. Brutt Suggests

AT a side-table in the morning-room, with its green carpet, faded
green curtains, and air of general usefulness, Doris sat at work over
the library books. Murmured interjections of disgust, on behalf of her
dainty finger-tips, broke from her, as she handled covers which had
passed through the "grubbiest" village grasps. She touched them
gingerly.

Behind her, at the centre table, stood Mrs. Winton, cutting a roll
of coarse flannel into lengths. No gingerly touches here, or wasted
moments. Mrs. Winton was an expert with her scissors.

Neither had spoken for some time. Thus far, no more had been said
on the vexed question of Hamilton Stirling's letter; but Doris knew
that her refusal to show it was not forgiven. An atmospheric
disturbance prevailed. More than once she had said to herself,
"I'd rather have a good explosion, and have done with it!"

Yet somehow she had not named her encounter with Hamilton. In a
general way she would have mentioned it freely. But Mrs. Winton's
question had produced an uncomfortable consciousness; and she could
not now talk of him quite naturally. So she took refuge in not
speaking of him at all.

The silence came to an end.

"You did not tell me that you had seen Mr. Hamilton Stirling
yesterday."

Doris pasted with diligence.

"No, I didn't. Why should I? He's always in and out there."

"You gave me the impression that you had seen only Mr. Stirling and
Katherine."

"I never said so."

"One may convey a wrong impression without any actual untruth."
Mrs. Winton did not speak unkindly, but she was troubled; and she
found herself at a disadvantage, facing Doris's back. "It was not
quite like you."

Doris turned hastily.

"Mother—I can't help people's impressions. I simply said nothing,
because—"

Mrs. Winton waited in vain for the end of the sentence.

"He was not only there, but you and he bicycled back together. Mrs.
Stirling came in an hour ago to speak to me. She was motoring back
from a party with some friends; and they saw you and him in the road,
standing and talking, as if—"

"As if—what?" proudly. For this sentence, too, remained unfinished.

"She was much surprised that I had heard nothing. Why did you not
tell me?"

"Because I knew, if I did, I should be badgered half out of my
senses." Doris returned to her work, pasting with hands that shook
a little.

"You never used to speak to me in such a tone." Mrs. Winton was really
hurt. "I cannot think what has come over you lately. Mrs. Stirling
evidently thinks that you said or did something which Hamilton did not
like. She wanted to know from me what had passed, since she could not
get him to explain."

"I don't see that it is any business of hers."

"No business of his mother's!" Mrs. Winton moved two steps nearer,
and examined the sleeve of Doris's blouse. "You should get out this
grease-spot."

"It's not grease!" The girl quivered under Mrs. Winton's handsome
but ponderous hand.

"Certainly it is grease. You must see to it. But about Hamilton
Stirling—I want to give you a word of warning. If you go on as you are
doing now, you will end by driving him away. He is not a man to stand
rebuffs."

"Horrid man! Let him go, and welcome! I don't want him to come
bothering me."

"I don't think you mean what you are saying."

"Yes, I do. He puts me out of all patience."

Doris had swung round, after a night's rest, to a mood many degrees
less favourable to her admirer. "And I can't stand being worried about
him, mother. If I liked him ever so much—and I don't—at least I think
I don't—that would be enough to turn me against him. All I want is to
be let alone."

She flung a book down tempestuously, and vanished from the room,
leaving Mrs. Winton to uneasy reflections.

That the mother should be solicitous for her child's happiness was
only natural; and she honestly believed that marriage with Hamilton
would ensure that happiness. True, some people counted him a bore,
and others reckoned him something of a prig; but he was always
agreeable to Mrs. Winton herself. She had watched his attentions from
the first with approval; but had been often exercised over her
daughter's erratic changes of mood. One day Doris would be all smiles
and graciousness; another day she would hardly vouchsafe a glance in
his direction. One day she would welcome a letter from him with
barely-veiled delight; another day she would toss it aside with a
disdainful—"Old bones again! What a bother!"

To Mrs. Winton this meant real anxiety. How to set things right
she did not know; and it never occurred to her that the sensible plan
was to do nothing. She had yet to learn the wisdom, in such affairs,
of holding patiently aloof.

Doris, meanwhile, catching up a garden hat, made her way to Clover
Cottage. It was by no means the first time that she had fled for
comfort, after a passage-at-arms, to her new crony, Mrs. Brutt.
She did not mean to betray aught that had passed. She only wanted to
be soothed and made happy again. But once in the power of that astute
widow, she let slip a good deal more than she knew. Mrs. Brutt had a
gift for worming things out of people, without their consent.

It was nice to sit on a low chair, close to the elder lady, beyond the
region of home-worries; to feel kind and approving eyes bent on
herself; to have no fear of fault-finding; to be listened to with
affectionate attention; to be sympathised with compassionately.

"Poor dear child! Yes, I quite understand. You have been so busy,
have you not? And you are quite tired—quite jaded—with it all."

Doris disclaimed fatigue. Yet a wonder crept over her—was this sense
of discontent with her little world, this craving to get away and to
live a different life, really tiredness? She began to pity herself.

"What with classes—meetings—district—shoe-club—library—parish
accounts—errands—"

Truth compelled a protest. Some of these belonged to winter only;
some not to her at all.

"So uncomplaining! Such a brave spirit! Not much leisure for your
own concerns, poor dear child!"

"Well—of course—" admitted the girl.

"Yes, of course—I know. And I can so sympathise with you in your love
of reading. I adore books."

"Mother seems to think it a waste of time to read much in the
morning."

"Ah—true—yes—non-intellectual!" murmured the other, not inaudibly.
"Poor dear child. But, really you know, it is most necessary that you
should have some recreation—apart from the time for study, which—
with your mind—is so needful!"

"I go to lots of tennis-parties and afternoon teas," Doris laughed.
"No end of them. You mustn't think I don't have plenty of fun."
Honesty again compelled this.

Mrs. Brutt surveyed her visitor with a meaning gaze.

"Tennis-parties! Yes. And afternoon teas! Yes. That sort of thing.
Just the country round. Yes. My dear, I wonder if you half guess
what a bewitching creature you are. Positively, neither more nor less
than bewitching. Not at your best to-day, perhaps,—you have been
worried, and that tells. But if you could see yourself—sometimes!"

Doris blushed with pleasure.

"Yours is a sylph of a figure. And there is the sweetest little dimple
when you smile. Yes—just there—" with a touch. "Your play of feature
is simply charming. And your eyes are a true hazel—a blending of green
and yellow and brown and grey. Now I have made you laugh. I like to
see you laugh. It suits you to get excited. You should let yourself go
oftener—give the reins, you know, and not wait to think what anybody
may say."

"But when I do, I'm always sorry afterwards. I'm sure to say the wrong
thing."

Mrs. Brutt ignored this.

"I only wish I had you in London," she said pensively. "Or—better
still—abroad. Meeting all sorts and kinds of people, and making no end
of new friends. It would do you such good. And you would be a success,
Doris."

"Should I?"—wistfully.

"No doubt of it—with your figure,—your eyes—your complexion. Such a
pretty creamy-white, and such a delicate rose-carnation. And you hold
yourself well—you have such a natural air and pose. And you talk well,
too. Oh, you would take everybody by storm. I know!"

She launched into a detailed description of life in foreign towns;
of going from hotel to hotel, finding always delightful people,
meeting with the élite of society. Incidentally she gave her hearer
to understand that her own past career had been one long series
of social triumphs, and that her present retired existence formed
a dismal contrast. She piled her colours massively; and Doris's "daily
round" could hardly fail to wear a dingy hue, seen alongside.

"You should get your father to let you travel for a few months. Not,
of course, alone, but with some older friend. Somebody who could take
you about, and introduce you to the right people. Everything depends
upon that."

"I should love to go with you," Doris said warmly. "But—no chance
of such a thing!"

"My dear, I should love nothing better. Well—we shall see. Sometimes
impossible things become possible. Who knows? Are you going to
luncheon at Lynnthorpe on Friday? You had better drive there with me,
unless you prefer your bike."

Doris thought she would prefer to drive. She was disinclined for
another tête-à-tête with Hamilton quite so soon. She went home, elated
at having been made much of, and having become in her own eyes
something of a martyr.

Mrs. Brutt suffered from no twinges of conscience. On the contrary,
she felt pleased with the progress made. Lynnbrooke was dull; and she
was bent upon going abroad in August. She liked the notion of a young
and pretty girl by way of companion; one whom she could show off, and
who would have no voice in arrangements. An older person might be
troublesome.

In a certain allegorical tale, published long ago, a pilgrim, named
"Good-Intent," came across a company of men, groaning under the weight
of heavy chains. They had not discovered their miserable condition,
till some officious passer-by had taken the trouble to point it out;
whereupon, cheerfulness gave place to melancholy. That the chains
existed only in their fancy, as a result of "suggestion," did not
lessen their actual unhappiness.

Mrs. Brutt was doing the work of that officious passer-by. She was
pointing out to Doris fetters in her life, which till then had not
seemed to be fetters.

Of course the girl had trials; who has not? Of course she had to do
things which she did not enjoy doing; who, again, has not? But though
the fetters might not be a matter of pure imagination, their weight
could be very much exaggerated.

Mrs. Brutt gave to vague dissatisfaction a definite voice. She
magnified small frictions into serious troubles. Doris was
warm-hearted, impressionable, easily swayed; and the elder lady knew
how to manipulate such materials.

Not that she meant to do harm. Few people do. All she wanted was
to bring about her own ends; to amuse herself, to make time pass
pleasantly. She was kind-hearted, and by fits and starts she would go
out of her way to help others. But in the main hers was a self-seeking
nature.

Theoretically she knew little about the force of suggestion; but
practically she was an adept in the use of that weapon. This is always
possible. A duck may be an excellent swimmer, with no understanding
of the theory of swimming.

Probably few of us grasp the tremendous potency of "suggestion,"
as exercised by one mind over another. Half the temptations that meet
us may be simply the whispered "suggestions" of evil spirits. Half the
helpful and comforting thoughts which arise in our minds may be the
murmured "suggestions" of angels.



CHAPTER IX

Sudden Silence

FRIDAY'S luncheon was in full swing; and Mrs. Brutt felt miserable.
She loved to be the best-got-up woman in a room. But to be wrongly
got-up is another matter.

She had come in her most imposing grey silk, topped by a toque fit
for Hyde Park in the month of May. And she found rural simplicity
to be the order of the day.

That Doris, whom she brought with her, should wear a serge skirt and
white blouse mattered nothing. But when she found Katherine Stirling
hardly better dressed; and when little Mrs. Stirling, who always
looked as dainty as a doll under a glass case, turned up in a black
alpaca, and the most innocent of country hats, her heart sank.

A woman of more force would, after a moment's regret, have dismissed
the subject. Mrs. Brutt could not so easily put it aside. She might
have felt flattered at being asked to so informal a luncheon—"quite a
family affair," as she told herself; but she was direfully troubled,
none the less.

Somebody else's heart had sunk very low beforehand. This was
Katherine's first sight of Hamilton, since her discovery that he had
begun to care too much for Doris—too little for herself. But she was
a perfect hostess; and no one could have guessed from her look
or manner how she had dreaded the hour.

The little party of six dropped naturally into three couples; and Mrs.
Stirling, who fell to Katherine's share, chatted without cessation.

Hamilton was talking also, not less continuously than his mother; and
Katherine heard every word he uttered, even while her polite attention
in other directions never failed. In his monotonous undertone he was
pouring forth a stream of information; and Doris listened with an air
of deferential interest, which brought to his mind the ideal
Mrs. Hamilton Stirling, lately hidden from view. He became sure
that at last he had found her.

Doris was a different being this day from the girl whom he had met
last in the house. She held herself in; she did not chatter; her voice
was low; her colour was normal; her eyes were not brilliant. Despite
Mrs. Brutt's advice that she should "let herself go"—advice which she
had not forgotten,—she was bent upon undoing the previous impression.

So she heard, smiled, and was gracious; and if a slight yawn had to be
more than once suppressed, he did not see. That she could be charming
in a reckless mood, he knew; but this self-restraint, this pretty
girlish dignity, suited him far better. He decided that Katherine must
already have used influence to bring about such an improvement; and he
sent across a grateful glance, which set Katherine's pulse leaping.
Then he reverted to Doris and the Stone Age, and forgot her.

Mrs. Brutt had the Squire to herself; and—despite the dress blunder—
she was bent on making the most of her chance. By hook or by crook
she dragged in two or three titled names, offering them as credentials
for her own respectability. Then discussion of the neighbourhood
followed. Presently, gliding into foreign travel, she conducted her
polite listener through two or three galleries of pictures, and was
just beginning to suggest anew the advantages of a trip abroad for
Doris,—"So important for the development of a young mind! So widening,
didn't he think?" —when a break occurred; one of those odd sudden
breaks which sometimes come without apparent reason.

One instant all three couples were hard at work. The next—voices had
stopped, as if by general consent.

"Farmer Paine—" had sounded clearly in Mrs. Stirling's little
bird-like tones. And everybody waited to hear what would come next.

Afterwards Mrs. Brutt recalled that it was the Squire himself who
first stopped; stopped in the middle of a sentence. He tried to catch
it up, but in vain. Mrs. Brutt did not wish others to hear what she
had to say about Doris; and her own attention was distracted by the
farmer's name. Hamilton, having just arrived at the end of a lengthy
statement, came likewise to a pause at the critical moment.

"Farmer Paine! Do you know him?" asked Mrs. Brutt, leaning forward.
"Such an interesting old man! He told me all about his poor wife, and
the niece that has come to live with him. A genuine son of the soil!—
the real antique type, don't you know?"

Mrs. Stirling lifted her eyebrows. "He's a worthy old fellow,"
she said irreverently.

"I heard only yesterday," remarked Katherine, "about his widowed niece
having come. Can that be Mrs. Morris—'Nurse Molly' that was?"

Mr. Stirling responded to her glance of inquiry. "Yes. She was your
nurse for a short time." He spoke composedly, but his forehead was a
mass of fine wrinkles,—a sure token of disquietude.

"It has always been said that she saved my life."

"You were in a delicate state, and she was a careful nurse. One must
allow for some exaggeration in such statements."

"I must look her up one day soon."

"Quite unnecessary. You have no recollection of her—and she was well
remunerated. No need to take further steps."

The unwonted sharpness of tone took them all by surprise, as well
as the objection made to so simple and natural a course of action.
In general the Squire was noted for his considerate and delicate
kindness towards his tenantry.

"If I were Katherine, I should certainly make a point of going,"
Mrs. Stirling observed. She and her son were about the only people
who ever contradicted the Squire. "But if you could remember her—"
turning to Katherine—"you'd find her extraordinarily altered. Nurse
Molly was a perfect picture; the prettiest creature, with smiling
eyes, and little tendrils of curly hair, and exquisite colouring—
really exquisite. You remember, Richard?"

"She was good-looking—" reluctantly.

"That's all gone. She is transmuted into a stout, commonplace,
middle-aged person, with not a ghost of good looks, and as dull
as ditchwater. Nothing to say for herself."

"Unlike her uncle, then," rippled Mrs. Brutt, who never could endure
a talk in which she had no share. "Such an idyllic old man!
I positively adore the real old yeoman farmer."

"Mrs. Morris is anything rather than idyllic. I never saw a more
prosaic individual. She has two daughters—one rather like her old
self, with a considerable difference. But the other—"

"As pretty as Mrs. Morris in her young days?" interjected Mrs. Brutt.

"Too sickly. One can't judge. Nurse Molly was a wild-rose beauty,
in perfect health and high spirits. Winnie is gentle and refined—
I can't think where she gets that refinement from. But the elder girl,
Jane, is a most impossible person. She goes cycling about in a yellow
blouse, with a voice that can be heard two streets off. You know—"
to the Squire. "I was telling you."

The Squire answered by a disapproving glance, and Katherine tried
to stem the tide.

"She is always carrying on a flirtation with somebody," pursued Mrs.
Stirling. "Her mother must find her a handful. I believe she was sent
to some very inferior school, which just did for her. Yes, Katherine,—
I beg your pardon. No, nothing more, thanks."

Katherine looked at Mrs. Brutt, and a move followed.

"Would you rather go straight home, or would you like a longer round?"
the hostess asked presently of Mrs. Brutt, who was to be taken back
in the Lynnthorpe carriage. Katherine had had as much as she wanted
both of the widow and of Doris; but she seldom thought of her own
wishes.

Mrs. Brutt welcomed with avidity the idea of a longer round. She would
be charmed. So excessively kind of Miss Stirling. And might she make
a suggestion? Would Miss Stirling feel disposed to go in the direction
of Wyldd's Farm? If that was not too far, she positively longed to see
again that dear idyllic old farmer. She confessed also to a slight
curiosity about the niece—the once-lovely Nurse Molly.

Privately, Katherine thought the request rather presumptuous; but she
acquiesced. It mattered little either way. She meant to go some time;
why not now?

When they were about to start, the Squire asked for a word with
Katherine in his study. He shut the door, stood for a moment
thoughtfully, facing the side-window which looked out upon a
magnificent cedar of Lebanon; then, without preface, he said—

"I do not wish you to have anything to do with the Morris family.
Since the subject has come up, I had better say so at once."

She did not ask why, but smiled gently.

"The elder daughter is a pushing forward person. You might find her
troublesome."

That brought a smile of a different type. As Miss Stirling of
Lynnthorpe she had had to do with pushing persons; and, despite her
shy humility, she knew how to hold her own.

"I think there is no danger," she said.

"You have not seen the young woman. She is capable of a good deal.
In any case, I wish you to keep her at a distance. The less you have
to say to them, the better I shall be pleased." His forehead was all
over wrinkles again; but he laid a kind hand on her arm. "My dear
child, you do not look well to-day. What is the matter?"

She could bear up better against anything than sympathy, and her
throat ached fiercely. "I'm a little—tired," she said.

"Try to have a good rest by-and-by. You must not get over-done."

But at present no respite was possible. Outside the study door she was
seized on by Mrs. Stirling.

"Hamilton and I have to be off. He declares it is going to rain.
My dear—" in a whisper—"do you like that widow? I don't. She's a mass
of affectations. How in the world she managed to get hold of your
father—but he is as soon deluded as most men. And after a fashion
she is clever. What made you propose to take her for a round?"

"She seemed to expect it."

"You look much more fit to go to bed! If ever there was a Spartan,
it's you—you poor dear!—with those white cheeks. Well,—we mustn't
delay any longer. You'll have her on your hands for a good two hours
yet, if you don't take care. How sweet Doris looks to-day! So much
prettier than when she gets into one of her rattling moods!"

Katherine was wondering why she had not mentioned to her uncle that
she might be calling at the farm that afternoon. She wondered also—
would it be wiser on the whole to give up the plan?

But the call would have to be paid. That little attention was, she
felt, only due to one to whom—it was said—she owed her life. Since
Mrs. Brutt wished to see the farm again, the present was as good
a time as any other.

She hardly gave a second thought to aught so unimportant as the
manners of Jane Morris. And somehow she failed to gauge the force
of Mr. Stirling's injunction. It did not occur to her—perhaps because
her mind was preoccupied with Doris and Hamilton—that he had
definitely meant her not to go at all.



CHAPTER X

A Surprise Visit

"WELL, I never!" ejaculated Jane Morris. "If that isn't a sell!"

She had donned her yellow silk blouse and a gorgeous hat, and was
about to cycle to a gathering of Lynnbrooke cronies, when checked by a
sudden downpour of rain. Till within the last twenty minutes the sun
had shone, and nothing had been farther from her thoughts than
weather.

In a trice the outer scene was transformed. Beneath a blackened sky
trees bent low before the gale, and water poured in sheets. Miles of
cycling under such conditions would reduce her to the drowned-rat
stage.

She stood at the window in disgust.

"Plague take it! Always the way! Just the very afternoon when I was
most set on going!"

"Why this afternoon?" asked Winnie. Each change in the atmosphere
affected her fragile frame, and she was full of aches from head
to foot. The soft eyes looked out from dark rings of pain; and a thick
shawl could not keep her warm. The two were alone.

"Why? I like that! Anything to get away from this beastly hole.
Nothing to do, and nobody to see! That's why."

"But why to-day particularly?"

"Oh, because—because there's a tea-party. You needn't tell mother.
She only bothers."

"A tea-party where?"

"Some people I've got to know. Doesn't matter who. You don't know one
from another, always mewed up here. I can't think how you put up with
it. The life would drive me crazy. Well, I don't mind if I tell, only
you're not to blab." Since Jane could not escape, she felt the need
for a confidante. "It's at the Sparks'—Mr. Andrew Sparks and his wife.
They've got a dairy, and the Parkinses are their cousins. That's how
I've got to know them."

"You said there was a young Parkins."

Jane giggled.

"Well, so there is. And a young Mr. Jones. I shouldn't wonder
if they'd both be there."

"Jones is the butcher."

Jane nodded.

"And there's a Mr. Winter too. I like him best. He's as clever
as anything."

"You know what the Squire said," murmured Winnie.

Jane snapped derisive fingers.

"I wouldn't give that for the Squire!" she declared. "I say!—here come
folks. Caught in the storm, I suppose. Goodness me—it's Miss Stirling
and Miss Winton, and that fine new widow-lady—Mrs. Brutt." Jane knew
by sight pretty nearly everyone within a compass of ten miles.

A ring demanded admittance; and the three ladies crowded into the
narrow passage, thankful to escape from a fresh downpour. They had
left the carriage at the beginning of the grass-path; and when
half-way through the meadow had been overtaken by such a pelt, that
they had found shelter in a shed. A slight lessening had encouraged
them to hurry on; and Mrs. Brutt was breathless with the final rush.

"What a deluge!" she panted, glancing ruefully down at her handsome
silk. "Really, it is quite a mercy that we were so near the farm.
We should have been soaked to the skin in the open carriage,—without
even umbrellas."

"I hope Thomas will find shelter somewhere till the storm is over,"
Katherine said in her gentle indifferent voice, as she turned to meet
a woman coming downstairs. "Mrs. Morris?" she asked.

Mrs. Morris's "Yes" was sufficiently curt.

Katherine held out a hand, with her distant graciousness, and it was
taken slowly.

"I have only just heard of your being here. Once, long ago, you nursed
me, I think, through a long illness, when I was a little child.
You were—Nurse Molly."

"That's the name I went by."

"I came this way on purpose to see you—not thinking that we should be
so glad to escape from the rain. It was fine when we started."
Katherine smiled kindly; but no response was visible on the
expressionless face. "I cannot of course remember you, but—"
she hesitated, thrown back by the other's immobility—"I have always
heard that I owed my life to your care; and I wished to thank you."
As she said the words, Katherine silently wondered—was it a thing
to be thankful for, this life which meant such a stretch of pain lying
ahead, if things went as she feared? Then she rebuked herself for the
thought.

"I suppose so." No look of pleasure lighted up the dull plain
features; and Mrs. Brutt was deciding that reports of Nurse Morris's
good looks were pure romance. "You'd like to come in," Mrs. Morris
said, and she led the way into the long low sitting-room. Jane
followed, and Winnie stood up, having thrown aside her shawl.

"Are these your daughters?" Katherine glanced from the freckled Jane
to the delicately fair Winnie.

"Yes."

"I hope Farmer Paine is well."

"He's quite well."

Katherine's conversational powers, never great, were at an end. Doris,
still in a retiring mood, had retreated to a window. Mrs. Brutt saw
her opportunity, and came forward.

"What a perfectly charming spot this must be, when the sun shines!
One always needs sunshine, doesn't one?—especially in the country."
She beamed round upon them all. "Dear me, what glorious sunsets
you must see from this window!"

"Looks east," stolidly remarked Mrs. Morris.

"Ah—sunrises, I should have said. And of course you are all up by
sunrise. So different, farm-life from town-life, isn't it? Six o'clock
in winter; four o'clock in summer. So deliciously primitive!
So patriarchal! The Simple Life, in fact. Exactly what I should love
to do myself." She breakfasted between half-past nine and ten; but
that was a detail.

Katherine, relieved to have the burden of talk-making lifted from her
shoulders, sat near in her attitude of gentle reserve, chiming in with
an occasional murmur of assent. Mrs. Brutt was delighted to take the
lead.

"You seem so out of the world here! So forgetting and forgot.
A perfect Arcadia. Plenty of time for thought and study."

"Beastly dull," muttered Jane. For once the elder girl was under a
curb; the curb of Miss Stirling's presence. She might snap her fingers
at the Squire behind his back; but she could not do so at the Squire's
niece. Katherine, despite shyness and humility, had it in her to abash
others; and with no apparent effort on her part, but simply because
she meant it, Jane was abashed.

Mrs. Brutt felt round for a fresh topic.

"Dear me, what a charming old cabinet!" She started up. "I really must
look at it more closely. How interesting! Real old oak!—and such
exquisite carving! Quite a treasure. At the very least two hundred
years old, I should say."

"It isn't oak."

"Not oak!" Mrs. Brutt seemed rather taken aback. "But really I think
you must be mistaken. Such a genuine piece of old work. It must have
been in the family from time immemorial."

Mrs. Morris said "Yes" to this, perhaps misunderstanding. She added,
"I saw it made, thirty years ago."

"Really! Not more than thirty years! Extraordinary! But one comes
across such wonderfully clever imitations in these days. Quite
deceptive." Mrs. Brutt quitted rather hastily the immemorial cabinet,
moving towards Winnie. "Your daughter looks very delicate. Not lungs,
 I hope."

"Rheumatism." Mrs. Morris seemed bent on wasting no needless words.

"Is that all? Trying, no doubt, but not a thing to be anxious about.
I have a remedy at home which never fails to cure rheumatism. It is
most efficacious. I shall bring it with me the first day I can manage
to get so far."

Winnie smiled. She had tried so many infallible remedies. Mrs. Brutt
glanced from the one girl to the other. "And these are your only
daughters, Mrs. Morris?"

"Yes."

"And no son?"

The indistinct response might have been either "Yes" or "No."
Mrs. Brutt decided to accept it as a negative.

"But how nice for you to have two dear good girls, able to look after
you, and to help in all the farm work. It must be so charming. Quite
idyllic!" When Mrs. Brutt came across what she counted an impressive
word, she was apt to work it to death; and for the time being
"idyllic" was in the ascendant. "So interesting!—with all the animals
about—dear dumb creatures! I dote on animals, don't you? So delightful
to study their pretty little ways!"

Doris, recalling the speaker's dread of cattle, supposed that the
pretty little ways of cows were not included.

Rain still poured without intermission, and Mrs. Brutt began to feel
exhausted. Making conversation to an unresponsive world uses one's
energies fast. Katherine, too, was tired of her present position, and
both were glad when the footman appeared, in a dripping condition.

"Would Miss Stirling go home in the carriage—or would she prefer
a closed fly from the village?"

"A fly certainly, and as soon as possible," decided Katherine.



CHAPTER XI

The Portrait

THE atmosphere had become oppressive. Nobody had anything to say.
Katherine was at the end of her ideas; Doris remained in the
background; Jane was still subdued. Mrs. Brutt felt that it rested
with her to keep the ball going. She walked across to the mantelpiece.

"What a remarkable picture! Quite realistic, isn't it, Miss Stirling?"
Katherine went near. "Was that painted by yourself, Mrs. Morris? No?—
oh, I see—" as she made out a scrawled "P. Morris" in one corner.
"I see—her husband!" in a whisper to Katherine. "What wooden rollers!"
Then aloud: "How interesting for you to have this. So touching! Was
your poor dear husband a sailor?"

"No."

"He must have had a gift—quite a gift! An artist, I suppose."

"No."

"Not an artist! Then he occupied his leisure hours with painting.
How nice! So good for a man to have some pursuit, apart from his
regular work. It keeps him away from the public-house. It makes him
love his home. And I suppose your younger daughter is like her
father."

"No."

"Indeed. She does not take after you either."

"That's as may be."

Mrs. Brutt was at a loss how to meet this.

"I'm said to be like what mother was," Winnie observed timidly.

"Indeed." The notion was preposterous. Mrs. Brutt turned to a framed
photograph. "Ah, this no doubt is Mr. Morris. Such a fine-looking
young man! And was it in India that you lost him?"

"That's my uncle."

"You don't say so! Your uncle, Mr. Paine? But I ought to have guessed—
quite the young farmer, leggings and all. And now I see—so like Farmer
Paine! A perfectly charming old man!"

Mrs. Morris was silent.

"Now here is another, which I am sure must have been a triumph of
skill. Do look, Miss Stirling. A painted photo, and really well done.
Such a pretty creature—hair and complexion quite bewitching, and the
sweetest roguish smile. The sort of face a man would fall in love with
on the spot. Not a daughter of your own, Mrs. Morris! Though I see
just a look of Winnie. A cousin, perhaps."

"That's me."

Mrs. Brutt looked from the picture to her, from her to the picture.

"Really!" she said. The information came as a shock. "Dear me!
Really!" It was all she could bring herself to utter, with the utmost
stretch of politeness. "Dear me—how very—how extremely—"

"People alter as they get older," jerked out Mrs. Morris.

Mrs. Brutt made no effort to combat a truth so self-evident; but the
present application of it went beyond bounds. She took up a small
closed frame of leather, not realising in her confusion that the act
might be counted a liberty, and opened it with a—"May I?" Leave did
not come, neither did she wait for it.

"Is this—oh, I see!" as again she read "Phil Morris" written below.
"Ah, so this is your husband. Poor thing!"—with a sympathy which
called forth no gratitude. "A painting, I see,—not a photo. Done by
an amateur." To Katherine she whispered: "Do look! How awful!" Then
aloud: "Quite a speaking likeness; and how you must value it!" She put
her head on one side, studying the narrow low brow, the common
illiterate face, the insipid simper.

Doris for the first time made a move, and had a clear view of the
portrait, which impressed itself vividly on her mind. Little did she
dream when, and under what circumstances, memory would one day haul
it up for her startled inspection.

Mrs. Brutt flowed easily on. "But I see quite a resemblance to your
elder daughter; a kind of expression, not features. And he died—how
many years ago?" She was treating Mrs. Morris as she treated the women
in her district, showing what she intended for a kindly interest. They
liked to be asked questions, or she imagined that they did; and why
should not this woman like it too?

Mrs. Morris muttered something which sounded rather like "Twenty."

"Twenty years do you say? Ah, a long time. But years mean nothing
where the heart is concerned. Twenty years may be only as twenty days.
And he was—how did it happen?"

Mrs. Morris jerked out one word—"Drowned."

"Really. But how sad! So sudden! So unexpected!"

A pause.

"I wonder how soon the fly will be here." Mrs. Brutt was conscious
again of exhaustion. She put down the defunct husband, and tried a new
notion.

"Wouldn't it be a capital plan, if we might see over the house? I love
old farms. So full of curiosities, you know, and steps up and down.
And farm-kitchens are too delightful for anything—the chimney-corners,
and flitches of bacon, and saucepans that one can see one's face in.
So idyllic! And I adore old beams. Such a history of the past written
in them."

Mrs. Morris offered no objection. Perhaps she hoped thus to escape
further questioning; a hope not destined to find fulfilment. The two
ladies vanished, led by Mrs. Morris, and followed by Jane. Doris made
a move towards Winnie.

"Are you ill? I think you ought to lie down." She had seen Winnie's
start from the sofa when they arrived.

"By-and-by—" with a smile.

"You are shivering. Don't wait till by-and-by. I'll tell them I made
you." With a pretty air of command she insisted, covering the girl
well up. "What makes you feel so bad?"

"It's only rheumatism. I mustn't mind."

"Are you in pain now?"

Winnie whispered a "Yes," and lay as if worn out. The half-hour
of sitting up had tried her severely. Doris examined the pale face,
and felt a wish to know more of what lay beneath that serene white
brow, with its clustering hair, its sweet patience. Winnie Morris,
though perhaps not much older than herself, seemed to have lived a
good deal longer.

"Where is the pain, Winnie,—if I may call you so?"

"Almost everywhere. But I mustn't mind," the girl repeated. "People
often have worse things to bear than rheumatism."

"I should think that was quite bad enough. How long ago did it begin?"

"Oh, some years. I seem to have been in pain—almost always."

The words struck home. Doris saw the contrast between her own health
and vigour, her powers of enjoyment, her free active life,—and this
restrained suffering existence. The gentle pretty face filled her
with pity.

"Always in pain! Every day. No end to it. That is frightfully hard
to bear. Can't anything be done? At your age—"

"I'm twenty-five. People often take me for less. Only one year younger
than Jane, and two younger than Raye."

"I shouldn't have guessed you to be more than eighteen. Don't you get
desperately tired of being always ill—not able to go about and amuse
yourself? Don't you feel cross sometimes?" Doris recalled her own late
mood of discontent, her impatience under little home-worries,
her half-imaginary grievances. What did they matter, compared with
what Winnie had to bear?

"I try not—" very low. "It is what—what God chooses for me—so it is
all right."

"Does that really help you, Winnie?"

"Yes; often. It ought—always." Doris's gaze drew her on. "Don't you
know those lines by Trench—

"'Thou cam'st not to thy place by accident;
It is the very place God meant for thee!'"

"And if He meant it—chose it—arranged it all—don't you see?—it must be
right, because He loves me."

"The place—perhaps. But the pain—"

"That's part of it all—part of what He gives me to bear. It is all
from Him—and through it all He loves. He couldn't give me more to bear
than it's right for me to have—because He loves me."

Doris laid her gloved hand on Winnie's.

"I like to hear you. Some day you must say more." She had often
herself spoken some such words to a sufferer in a cottage, because she
supposed that she ought. It was a different matter to hear them
uttered out of a girl's own experience. But she was shy of pursuing
the subject just then. "Can you ever get out for walks?" she asked.

"When it is warm enough I sit in the garden."

"And—church?"

"It is too far off, and I can't sit up for so long. Last time I tried,
the pain got so bad that I fainted."

"Have you no friends to come and see you?"

"Oh, yes—there's—" and she hesitated. "We left most of our friends
in Norfolk."

"Did you like coming?"

"Uncle wanted mother; and she thought we ought. He was alone—and this
had been her home when she was a girl—till she went to be trained as a
nurse."

"And she nursed Miss Stirling—when was that?"

"When Miss Stirling was quite a little child. And then mother married.
I think uncle didn't much like mother's marriage. She saw nothing
of him, or he of her, for years and years after."

"I should like to come and see you, sometimes, Winnie. I might cycle
over, now and then." Winnie's face brightened. "And I shall speak
to Mr. Stirling about you. He always likes to know when people are
in trouble."

This brought a flush. "He does come—"

"I suppose he calls to see Mr. Paine on business."

"He comes to see us too. He gives me presents. He is—so kind. He has
done such a lot for us. I shouldn't like him to be asked to do
anything more."

Doris had not thought of money-help. "I only meant that he might
advise your mother to make you see a doctor."

"He would say, if he thought she ought." Winnie plainly deprecated
interference. "Next time he is here he will say if it is right. Mother
always does what he advises."

Doris noted the form of expression. "Then you have seen him a good
many times."

"Only twice since we moved here. He is so busy. But—he has always been
our friend—our very best and kindest friend. I don't know what we
should have done without him."

Doris was rather astonished. Even in Winnie's soft tones, this sounded
to her like taking a liberty.

"I suppose he is everybody's friend, in a way," she remarked. "I know
he has property in Norfolk.".

"Yes; and we lived in one of his houses. And he sent Raye to college—
my brother, I mean. Raye is so very, very clever. Mr. Stirling said
that, with his talents, it was right he should go. So he helped
mother. Raye is such a dear brother."

Winnie stopped, and a shadow crept over her face.

"I ought not to have told you that—about Raye at college. It was wrong
of me. We never talk about it, because Mr. Stirling doesn't like it to
be known. I can't think how I came to say what I did. Please, please,
never tell it again to anybody."

"But why should he mind? It is only telling how generous he is."

"I know! But please promise."

Doris assured her of secrecy.



CHAPTER XII

A Little Plot

UNKNOWN to Mrs. Brutt, links were being forged in a chain of
influences which was to bring about her pet scheme.

Katherine did not at once make mention of the visit to Wyldd's Farm.
Not that she had intended delay, but that friends came to dinner two
evenings in succession, and her uncle was out to luncheon and to tea.
No good opportunity occurred, and it slipped out of her mind. The
third evening, when they were alone at dessert, she named it simply
as an unimportant matter. To her surprise, his face changed, and she
met a look of severe rebuke, to which she was quite unused.

"You went!—after my expressed wish to the contrary! That was unlike
you."

Katherine showed dismay.

"But I did not understand. I am very sorry. Did you really mean—?"

"I meant precisely what I said."

She tried to recall what he had said.

"I thought you were only warning me to be careful—advising me not
to see too much of the family, because of the elder girl. If I had
imagined—but indeed I had no idea that you forbade it altogether."

The Squire's brow was deeply dented, with not only displeasure
but disquietude. Seeing her distress, he pulled himself together,
and smiled.

"Tell me what passed."

Katherine did her best. She was in a mental condition to be easily
upset, and her voice was not steady, as she related what little there
was—in her estimation—worth relating. She was not gifted as a
raconteur, and the tale sounded bare.

"Was that all?"

"Nearly all, uncle. Mrs. Morris seems an odd woman—not at all pleased
to see me, I thought, so really I need not go again. Doris was a good
deal taken with the poor delicate daughter—Winnie, they called her.
Doris said afterwards that she meant to go and see her sometimes, and
to take her books to read. It was a kind idea. And Mrs. Brutt—"

"Yes—"

"She talked a good deal, as she always does."

"About the farm people?" The Squire seldom showed so keen an interest
in aught that might be described as verging on gossip.

"Yes. She seems to me to have found a mare's nest. I did not quite
follow her line of thought—but it was about Mrs. Morris's past, and
what she imagined to be the truth. She was sure there was some secret.
It sounded rather absurd. But Mrs. Morris certainly is singular.
The elder girl I did not like."

"I warned you. She will take liberties, if she is allowed."

"She did not try to take any. I found her rather subdued. It seemed
to me only right to see Mrs. Morris, after what I owe to her. But of
course, if I had understood, I would not have gone—and I will not go
again. You know I always try to do what you wish."

Katherine stood up, with the words, and he went to open the door;
courtly as usual. As she passed she gave him a slight wistful glance,
and he took her hand in his own, then bent to kiss her forehead, as
her own father might have done.

"I know!" he said. "You are my child!—my all!" The word came
emphatically. "It startled me to think that you could go against my
will. But it is all right now."

Both were by nature undemonstrative; and he dropped her hand. She gave
him a gentle little smile in response, and moved on, her soft skirt
sweeping the floor noiselessly. Within the drawing-room, when alone,
she stood still and repeated the words half aloud—"His child!
His all!"

Yes, it was true; and she knew it. She was his all; she had been his
all, ever since the death, ten years earlier, of his adored wife,
her adored aunt, the sweet, gentle, winsome Lady Mary, who when dying
had given over her husband to Katherine's devoted care. She had most
faithfully fulfilled her charge, with only the one doubt in her mind
as to future days—if Hamilton should want her!

But he would not now. He would only want—Doris.

"As well, perhaps," she murmured. "How could I leave him—after what
she said?"

But two great tears fell slowly.

Meanwhile the Squire went back to his seat, not to drink more wine,
for he was the most abstemious of men, but to remain long motionless,
lost in thought, with bent head. Gradually he saw his way, and
determined what to do.

Fruit of which cogitations appeared in the morning, when his horse was
brought to the door, and he said to Katherine,—"Don't wait for me.
I hardly think I can be back to luncheon. I have a long round."

He proposed to see Doris, the Rector, Mrs. Brutt, and the farm people.
Which first?—was the question. He decided to begin with the widow.

A touch sufficed to draw from her a flood of details. She described
the farm and its belongings, animate and inanimate, with her usual
wealth of adjectives, appropriate and inappropriate. Another touch—and
she launched into speculation.

"There's something distinctly mysterious about those people,
Mr. Stirling. Of course it is no business of mine—" this was the usual
preface. "But one can't help noticing, you know. And there's something
about the woman that gives one such a sensation of something
underneath. Something almost uncanny, don't you know? I always feel
that sort of thing. I always know when there's more than shows on the
surface."

The Squire said "Really!"—with an air of incredulity.

"Yes, indeed, I am certain of it. Mrs. Morris is not exactly what she
makes believe to be. It's perfectly clear to me that there is
something or other in her past that she is bent on hiding. If one
asked any questions—the most innocent questions—she kept slipping away
from the subject, and would tell nothing. And why should she? If there
was nothing to conceal, why should she conceal it?"

"People do not commonly care to pour out to strangers," the Squire
observed dryly.

"But Miss Stirling was not a stranger. And then there is her face—the
extraordinary unlikeness to what is said to be her picture when she
was a girl. Really, quite unbelievable. People do alter—but there are
limits. And I have serious doubts—"

"Doubts?"

"Whether in point of fact she is Nurse Morris at all! If you had seen
how she tried to shirk the question—how she showed no pleasure or
gratitude for your niece's kindness—how she seemed to shrink from
every allusion to her past—you would understand. Why should she not be
somebody else—just posing as Nurse Morris? The real Nurse Morris may
have died. The man may have married a second time."

The Squire smiled again dryly. "I am afraid your interesting theory
is not likely to be true. I happen to have followed Nurse Morris's
career, and never for any length of time to have lost sight of her.
She is hardly worth the trouble of exercising your imagination upon so
vividly."

Mrs. Brutt was dimly conscious of being rebuked; and Mr. Stirling,
dropping that subject as unimportant, introduced another. He referred
to the idea she had mooted, of taking Doris abroad. Had she seriously
meant it? He had given the matter some consideration, and he was
inclined to agree with her in thinking it a wise plan for the girl.
It might do her good in more ways than one.

Mrs. Brutt echoed and enlarged upon his words. Mentally, so good!—
so wholesome!—so widening!—so precisely what the dear child needed!
She could speak from her own experience of the effects of foreign
travel upon the mental make.

The Squire did not care a "ha'p'orth" for the widow's mental make;
but he listened with patience.

Mrs. Brutt poured on. The dear girl was really too much "sat upon"
in her present sphere. Of course this was quite between themselves.
Doris needed training, widening, developing—didn't he think? Exactly
as Mrs. Brutt in the past had been trained, widened, developed. She
held up her own mind for inspection, as a proof. And nothing would
charm her more than to take that dear enchanting girl abroad—if only
it were possible.

"But I ventured one day to put out a feeler at the Rectory, and I
found it to be hopeless. Mr. Winton set his foot down, quite
conclusively. Said he saw no need, and could not afford it."

Mr. Stirling suggested that the difficulty might be met. He wished
the Wintons not to know that he had a hand in arrangements; and he
unfolded his plan. Would Mrs. Brutt be willing to offer on her own
account to take Doris, if he privately supplied the funds? No cost
to the parents would be involved; and the scheme must be in strict
confidence between himself and the widow; on no account to be breathed
to any other human being.

Mrs. Brutt's face was wreathed in smiles. He might depend upon her—
absolutely! She never talked. She never repeated anything.

Mr. Stirling had his own opinion as to the "never;" but for her own
sake she would be silent here. He asked how soon she would care to go,
and dates were discussed.

"Then you will speak to the Wintons," were the Squire's parting words.
"I may perhaps say a word to prepare them. Better not to name
definitely the length of your absence. If Doris is enjoying herself,
and you wish to stay a little longer, I shall be willing."



CHAPTER XIII

"Have I Done Wrong?"

IN his beloved old coat, ragged and paint-stained, and his workman's
apron, the Rector stood before a half-finished piece of woodcarving,
a handsome lectern, destined for a poor East-End parish. Other carved
work, just begun or nearly done, lay around him. In one corner a pile
of unglazed picture-frames awaited attention. The shed boasted little
furniture, as such, but it held a carpenter's bench, a turning-lathe,
and a multiplicity of tools. At present he was entirely engrossed by
the lectern.

He was always happy with chisel and mallet. Handiwork was with him
a passion; and though his life-business lay in other lines, he found
here his recreation and his joy.

Lines that he would not have chosen for himself! Strong pressure
through years had been used, to force him thitherward. His mother,
a woman of determined will, had made up her mind that he should take
holy orders, and had refused to hear reason. The son had slowly
yielded, believing that this insistent pressure might in itself
constitute a "call."

A born mechanic, he might have excelled as an engineer. With the best
intentions, the most earnest endeavour, he never would excel as a
"Parson." Critics spoke of him often as an unmitigated failure; and
they went too far. No man who puts his heart into his work, and does
his utmost, even though he has no natural gift for it, can be an
unmitigated failure. But a success, from the ordinary point of view,
he was not.

Though duty was never neglected by him, parish work ranked as a
perpetual burden, and the visitation of sick and bereaved folk as a
never-ending terror. Few guessed the fact, while condemning his
uncouthness. His was a childlike nature, combining genuine enthusiasm
with a man's shrewdness; but also it included something of animal
dumbness. He could not voice his own emotions, could not say what
he thought, could not express what he felt.

There were indeed seasons when, unexpectedly, he would break through
these restraining bonds, when some sudden emergency would call forth
his real strength of character. Then dumbness ceased, and he could
take the lead, and take it well. But such occasions were few and far
between. Usually, he only asked to be left in the background which he
loved.

He was a square man in a round hole; and, do what he might, he never
could fill the empty space. In the nature of things, this was
impossible. A touch of the pathetic in such a sight, is there not?
But has it ever occurred to you, how much grander a thing it is for a
square man to be striving his heroic best to fill a round hole—even
though the result be failure!—than for a round man to slip easily and
without effort into a round hole which just fits him? The one means
exertion, struggle, self-denial. The other means—nothing!

Do you question this? Think of a boat on a powerful river. From which
does the looker-on gain most—from a man fighting bravely against the
stream, whether he succeeds or fails, or from a man swept easily down
by the force of the current? Mr. Winton's daily battle formed an
object-lesson to more than one silent observer.

When Doris came to the shed, and found her father in pleased
contemplation of his handiwork, she had come to the right place.
She was in a cloudy mood this morning, and things looked awry. And she
felt that, though the dear old daddy—she called him "daddy" still,
when they were alone—might say little, he would understand.

Twice he glanced up from the work which he had resumed, with a
scrutinising glance.

"Eh, child?" came at length. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm only tired of things, daddy. I should like to get
away."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. I don't mind. Don't you sometimes feel so?"

"I've had the sensation."

"And only yesterday I thought I wouldn't. I saw poor Winnie Morris,
and she made me ashamed of not being contented. But this morning—
somehow—"

Her father's broad hand, with its delicate capabilities, just touched
hers. "I know—" it said.

"What do you do when you get a fit like that, daddy?"

"Knock it down," the Rector said grimly.

"And if it knocks you down?"

"Get up and fight it."

She laughed a little.

"I suppose one never ought to wish for anything one hasn't got."

"I don't say that. There is a right as well as a wrong way of wishing.
And there is a Divine discontent, as well as a discontent which isn't
Divine."

"And the Divine discontent—?" she questioned.

"Do you remember Mrs. Gatty's Parables? I suppose it is the sort that
makes the grub climb out of the pond, to become the winged creature."

"I'm afraid mine is the discontent that isn't Divine," she said
slowly. "I want things changed —different—and—Winnie said things were
right because God had arranged them for us. I don't think I feel like
that in the least."

The Rector looked up in her face. The one person with whom he was not
tongue-tied was this daughter?

"My dear—some of God's saints have taken fifty years to learn that
lesson perfectly."

"To learn that things are right—because—"

"To learn that, whatever our conditions may be, those conditions are
the best that can be for us—in view of the future. It means a great
deal. It means—knowing God, knowing Christ, with a personal intimate
knowledge—as man knows man—and trusting His love and wisdom—as friend
trusts friend. We begin with infantine knowledge. We go on to that."

"And Winnie has got to that, you think!"

"I don't know how far Winnie has got. I don't suppose she knows
herself. She is learning—we are all learning. Some are more willing
to be taught than others. And our Father puts us, each one, into just
that class in His earthly school where we can best be taught."

"Then one ought never to wish for change?"

"One ought never to give in to a spirit of discontent. Natural
'wishing' is a different matter—if we keep our hold on the reins.
But always remember—He loves—and He knows best."

Doris kept silence so long that he went back to his work, and
presently lost himself in it, forgetting all else. She would not
interrupt him again, but after watching a little while, she went out;
and the Squire soon came in her stead. He too stood gazing. For the
Rector with his tools was a sight worth looking at; a picture of power
and perfect content. Sermon-writing had hung fire, and in despair
he had escaped hither. Often he could not command his brain to work;
but always he could command his hands.

"Morning—" he murmured in response to a movement. "Sit down, please.
I'll attend—two minutes."

Mr. Stirling obeyed, using the one chair. He knew that the two minutes
would expand, for Mr. Winton at work had no consciousness of time.
But for once it was the latter who spoke.

"I say—what has put into that child's wanting to get away?"

"Doris's?"

"Aye."
"Why not let her go?"

The Rector looked up, shook his head, and gazed at the lectern.

"You think she could not be spared."

"Can't afford it."

"But if her expenses were undertaken?

"That's not likely. And after all—the child is well. Her turn will
come some day. No need yet."

"Well, if an offer does come—and I have a notion that it may—don't
refuse, that is all. A few weeks or months abroad would do her no end
of good."

"Not months." But the Rector had grown thoughtful. Mr. Stirling,
satisfied to have set the stone rolling, went to the Rectory garden,
and there came across Doris, busy with her pigeons. She wore a pink
blouse and a holland skirt; and her pretty face, with its dusky hair
and deep-set eyes, broke into smiles at the sight of him. The pigeons
rose with their startled swish, and her mind reverted to Winnie
Morris. Here was an opportunity! True, Winnie had asked her not to
speak; but she had confidence in her own judgment; and of course
she would not let slip that which she had promised not to mention.

"Real June weather," she remarked, forgetful by this time of her
discontent. "Mr. Stirling, I want to say something. We went the other
day to Wyldd's Farm—Katherine and Mrs. Brutt and I."

"So I hear."

"And we saw Farmer Paine's niece and her girls. I don't care for the
elder one; but Winnie is sweet."

He made a hole in the bed with his walking-stick, and pushed neatly
in a fallen leaf.

"You know them, don't you? Winnie said you had always been their
friend. It sounded droll—put in that way!"—and she laughed. "That
queer Mrs. Morris, and that vulgar Jane—and you!" She glanced up
with girlish admiration at the pale dignified Squire. "But of course
I knew what she meant. You have been good to them, as you are
to everybody. But don't you think Winnie ought to see a doctor?"

"Mrs. Morris will, no doubt, call one in if necessary."

"But Winnie said you would know you would tell them, if she ought.
She almost seemed to think her mother wouldn't do anything without
asking you first. Funny—wasn't it?" Doris stopped, noting the tension
of his face, and he spoke with constraint—

"It is kind of you to feel an interest in the girl. She is delicate;
and I believe not much can be done for her. Mrs. Morris must herself
decide whether to have a doctor."

"Yes,—so I should have thought, but for what Winnie said. Poor girl,
I'm so sorry for her. One day she fainted in church, and she says
she almost always has pain. It must be frightfully hard to bear.
And she looks so patient! I mean to cycle over sometimes, and try
to cheer her up. I should like to know her better."

"You must be careful. The elder girl is pushing. Your mother would
dislike the companionship for you."

Doris laughed merrily. "Oh, that is nothing. We 'clergy-folk' have
to know everybody, and we don't mind. I'm not in the very least afraid
of being taken for one of Jane Morris's friends!" No young princess
could have held herself with more stateliness than Doris at that
moment. "It's odd, two sisters being so unlike. Somebody said that
Jane lived for years with her mother's relatives—not dear old Farmer
Paine, of course, but others—and that she got into their ways. But I
should like to be a friend to poor Winnie."

"I think you should be cautious. Better not to take steps in a hurry,
and then have to draw back."

He left Doris vaguely impressed, and rather puzzled also, and made his
way to Wyldd's Farm.

Jane was out, and he had first a private talk with Mrs. Morris. Then
he returned to the sitting-room, and took a chair by Winnie's side.
She was on the sofa, suffering too much to sit up. His manner had a
touch of coldness, and she scanned him with anxious eyes.

"Winnie, I don't wish to find fault, and you are not to distress
yourself. But I have a request to make."

Her lips parted with a gasp.

"I think you have been indiscreet. Yesterday you saw Miss Winton."

Her face fell.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I know! She was so kind, and for a moment I forgot."
To herself Winnie added bitterly, "I didn't think she would have let
it out."

"You forgot—what?"

"We were talking, and I—somehow I said—something. I forgot that you
don't like people to know how kind you've been to us—paying for Raye,
and all that!" She glanced up penitently. "I know it was wrong. But I
didn't mean—"

"You told Miss Winton about Raye!" This was news, and his face
darkened.

"I'm so sorry. It—somehow it just slipped out. I don't think I said
'school,' but I did say 'college.'"

"You have always been told that these things were not to be
mentioned."

"I know! I forgot."

Winnie was fighting to keep down sobs. "She—she—promised—she wouldn't
tell anybody."

This brought a frown.

"She! Do you mean Miss Winton? What reason did you give for asking her
to be silent?"

"I said—oh, I said—you didn't—didn't—like people to know it."

"I do not. Stop crying, and listen to me." But he ordered in vain.
The little thin hands were clenched over her face. He put a kind hand
on her shoulder, and that only made her worse.

"Winnie—stop!" She obeyed this time, and sobbed no more, but the
slight frame was convulsed. Mrs. Morris brought a glass of water,
and he made her sip it.

"Now you are better. Don't begin again. If you do, I shall have to go
away."

She clutched at his sleeve. "Oh please—please—don't."

He waited in silence, till the struggles for self-control were
successful.

"Now you must listen to me. I wish you once for all to understand.
People do not know what you mean, when you talk in that way; and it
causes gossip. Remember, I owe much to your mother, for her care of
Miss Stirling in infancy. I am always grateful for it; and if I choose
to show particular kindness to her and you, that is my affair. But I
do not choose my actions to be made the talk of Lynnbrooke. Even Jane
knows this. I have warned her; and she does not forget. I did not
think it would be needful to warn you."

The girl pressed her handkerchief to quivering lips.

"Miss Winton did not tell me that you had talked about Raye's
expenses. What she did say was that you spoke of me as your 'friend."

"Yes—" faintly.

"I hope I am a friend to you, and to all my tenants. But I object to
have comparisons made, and jealousies aroused. If I have helped you
as a family more than other families, I am perfectly free to do so;
and I have my reasons, which do not concern other people. If it is
talked about, those other people, not understanding, will expect the
same for themselves. You see now! I want you to act with discretion,
like a woman, not like a thoughtless child. It did not matter so much
in Norfolk, but it does matter here. You must say nothing; you must
tell nothing; either to Miss Winton or to anybody else."

She nodded silently.

"Then I need say no more. Come—there is no need to cry. Only be
careful in future."

He stayed a few minutes longer, then said good-bye. Winnie hid her
face in the cushion. He had never before shown displeasure towards
her.

"It's your own fault," Mrs. Morris said stolidly. "If you hadn't been
a little goose, you wouldn't have brought it on yourself. And I'll
tell you what—if Miss Winton takes to coming here, it's got to be
stopped somehow."

"Why?"

"He says so."

Winnie sighed, as her one scrap of blue sky clouded over.

But the difficulty did not arise. Doris was too much excited, too
fully occupied, with the projected foreign trip, to have leisure for
aught else. She did not forget her promise; and she still meant to go
"some time." But the Squire had thrown cold water, and everything
seemed to conspire to prevent her. When the time came to start with
Mrs. Brutt, she had not again seen Winnie.



CHAPTER XIV

The Stranger

DORIS wondered at herself. Only a fortnight and three days since she
had left home! The almanack must surely be wrong. It looked like six
weeks, at the very least.

She was leaning idly out of her little bedroom window, surveying the
hotel garden below, and the Rhone valley beyond, bounded by its
stately mountain ramparts. Bex lies at the bottom of a tea-cup, closed
in around by lofty heights, like the sides of the cup. She had always
so longed to see Swiss mountains. And they were very grand, ineffably
beautiful, clothed in pine-woods, streaked with ravines and valleys.
Yet Doris, possessing her wish, was by no means in tip-top spirits.

She tried to smother down a sense of flatness, of disappointment, and
hummed a tune softly. But it would not do. Things were not all she had
expected. That is to say—Mrs. Brutt was not! Doris was growing deadly
tired of her companion's talk.

It went on endlessly, like a babbling stream. In certain moods Doris
herself could go on thus; but that was occasional. In Mrs. Brutt
it was perpetual.

By this time the girl knew all, and more than all, that there was to
be known, about that lady's early charms, her relatives, her friends,
her admirers, her conquests, the places she had seen, the people she
had known, the dresses she had worn, the troubles she had endured, the
illnesses she had survived. Once and again a little of this might have
been interesting; but when it recurred day after day, with endless
repetitions, patience was put to a severe test.

And patience was not one of Doris's strong points. It seldom is with
anyone of her age. It has to be slowly learnt, through years of
strife.

"I don't believe you know what you are going in for," Mrs. Winton had
said. "It all sounds smooth. But you don't really know Mrs. Brutt.
She is a woman who will have her own way; and you will be at her
mercy. You need not suppose she will give up anything she wants,
just to please you. If I'm not very much mistaken, you will soon wish
yourself at home again."

Doris had indignantly repudiated the possibility. She was aware that
Mrs. Brutt's seemingly generous offer was rather a trial to her
parents; neither of them caring to be thus indebted to a comparative
stranger. But she was frantic to accept; and she overbore all
opposition. She was so fond of Mrs. Brutt. She would enjoy herself
most awfully. It would be so frightfully disappointing to give it up.
She couldn't—she really couldn't!—lose the delight. In the end she
overcame or swept away all opposition; and leave was practically given
for her to stay, within reasonable limits, as long as Mrs. Brutt might
wish.

The idea that her friend's fascinations might wane on a closer
acquaintance seemed to the girl absurd; till close acquaintance had
lasted a few days. Then she began to realise that the agreeable widow,
to whom she might escape for an hour's relief from home-frets, and the
manager of a tête-à-tête trip abroad, were different beings.

Not that Mrs. Brutt meant to be different. She was simply now her
natural self. Hers was essentially a self-centred nature; and she had
a temper, not under good control. She expected unlimited attentions
from those around; and she expected, as a matter of course, that
Doris's will should always yield to her own.

Their tastes were in opposition, to begin with. Doris, young and
active, wanted to go everywhere, to see everything. Mrs. Brutt had
done it all before, and had no wish to do it all again. She cared not
a rap for scenery, though given to piling on ecstatic adjectives.
All that she really wanted was—a host of new acquaintances, with
herself for their centre.

They had travelled direct to Geneva, spending a week there; and they
had now been over a week at Bex.

On their arrival at the former place, Mrs. Brutt had enlarged on
coming excursions. Doris must go up the Salève—such a view!
Enchanting! She must visit the Park Arian—magnificent tapestry!
She must see the junction of the two rivers—absolutely a unique
spectacle! But day after day slipped by, and nothing was done.
Each morning something prevented action. The weather was wrong;
or shopping claimed attention; or Mrs. Brutt was tired,—so sorry,
but really quite unequal.

And she was mistress of the situation. Doris, by this time painfully
conscious of her obligations, could say nothing. She would gladly have
gone alone, having pluck enough, despite useless school-room French.
But Mrs. Winton had exacted from her a reluctant promise to attempt
no solitary excursions; and her hands were tied.

Here in Bex it was the same. Mrs. Brutt talked about a day in
Montreux, a trip to Lausanne, boating on the lake; but a week was
over, and they had done nothing. Soon they would leave for a little
mountain village, where rooms had been secured.

Mrs. Brutt had an eye to economy. Mr. Stirling had named no
time-limit. He suggested the spending of a weekly amount, liberal
enough to cover, not only Doris's expenses, but with care part of Mrs.
Brutt's also. She did not scruple to use it thus; and he certainly
had said: "Pray consider it your own, to be employed as you think
best." These words she construed into full permission.

The less spent upon excursions, the more for herself. Mrs. Brutt saw
this plainly. Mr. Stirling had not seen it. His one object had been,
if possible, to prolong the absence of both travellers, until their
new-found interest in Wyldd's Farm should have died a natural death.

Another unexpected factor arose to interfere with the girl's
enjoyment; and this was—jealousy! Mrs. Brutt was never happy to find
herself in the position of Number Two. She expected always to be
first; always to be the centre of attraction. She had quite left off
praising Doris's face and figure, and had ceased to talk of her coming
successes. It dawned early upon the latter that, if she wished for
peace, she must refrain from competing with the elder lady.

And Doris knew that she had good looks, knew that she could win the
liking of others. If, when a chance occurred, she let herself go, the
instant result was—neglect of Mrs. Brutt. And Mrs. Brutt's displeasure
on those occasions was plainly shown. Doris, secretly indignant,
remembered again her indebtedness, felt that she owed her presence
there to Mrs. Brutt, and in silent vexation drew back.

Three especially dull days were ending. A middle-aged lawyer, on Mrs.
Brutt's other side, had taken up her whole attention at meals. Doris,
with Germans in front and Spaniards at her side, was condemned to
silence. It never seemed to occur to her companion that she might feel
neglected. If the lawyer would have preferred speech with the pretty
girl, two seats off—as was only natural—he was allowed no chance.

Three days of this; and as Doris leant out of the window, peeping at
the people below, all happy and chattering one with another, she had
an unwonted sensation of loneliness. Her thoughts turned homeward,
with a longing to be there. She pictured lovingly the old father,
saying little, but ever on the look-out for his child; and the
somewhat managing mother who, though at times a little trying, made
her chief aim in life—this daughter. Never till now had Doris realised
the sweetness of being always wanted, always thought of, always cared
for, always welcome.

"I suppose it will be the same thing again this evening," she thought,
observing that only ten minutes remained before the hour for
table d'hôte. "I wish I could talk German. That is rather a
nice-looking German lady opposite me. But I can't make out a single
word she says. No hope of any change yet, I'm afraid."

There were changes, however. Mrs. Brutt's middle-aged lawyer had
disappeared; and an elderly lady took his place. Also on Doris's other
side two talkative Spaniards were gone; and she waited with curiosity
to see who would fill the vacant seats.

They remained empty till the end of the first course. Then a man drew
back the chair by her side, and slipped into it—bowing to those
opposite.

Another "foreigner," Doris decided. What a pity! She was longing to
exchange ideas with somebody. Perhaps he might prove to be a linguist.

One glance revealed to her a spare and muscular figure,
broad-shouldered and of medium height. She saw that the sunburnt
well-shaped hand, lying on the table, made no needless movements.
"English—surely!" An odd feeling of confidence in the owner of that
strong still hand took possession of her.

"Would you please pass the mustard?" she had to say; and the ice was
broken.

"Pretty place, Bex," he remarked. So she had conjectured rightly.

"Rather shut in," she observed, brightening.

"Well, yes. One would not care to stay too long. I'm going higher."

"So are we in two or three days."

She gave another glance, and met a pair of good grey eyes bent upon
herself. A good face too; not exactly handsome, but she liked it.

"I thought at first that you were a foreigner," she remarked.

"Properly speaking, we are both foreigners here." When he smiled,
no question existed as to his good looks. The whole face changed.
It reminded Doris of somebody—or something. "May I ask why you took me
for a 'foreigner'?"

"Only because you bowed. We English don't generally, you know,—till we
have begun an acquaintance."

"A bow isn't a bad preliminary. And sometimes it's not a bad plan
to adopt foreign ways in a foreign land."

Again she met those dark-grey eyes, and their intense honesty, their
abundant kindliness, impressed her. Also their self-forgetfulness.
They seemed to be too fully occupied with others' interests to have
time for their own.

"I think I'll begin, the next place we go to." She heard a little
murmur of approval, followed by—"It would save misunderstandings, if
each nation would respect the rules of good manners in other nations."

"But don't you think foreigners quite as often offend against our
rules, as we against theirs?"

"Yes; and perhaps as unconsciously. No reason why we should not be
pioneers in trying not to cause needless annoyance."

"There was a Polish lady here, when we first came; and she told me her
little boy said he hoped to be an Englishman when he grew up, 'because
the English were always so polite.' I thought that rather nice."

"It looks as if our characters as travellers were improving. We might
perhaps take more trouble than we do to be understood. The average
Englishman is a little too apt to stand calmly aloof, and to say:
'Only a foreigner! What the dickens does it matter?'"

"I suppose you have been a great deal abroad."

"I was at school on the Continent for some years."

Their eyes met afresh. Something in his was certainly familiar; or in
the face as a whole. She had a curious feeling that he and she were
not strangers. Yet she could attach no name to the memory-association,
vaguely aroused. She was unconscious of her puzzled scrutiny, till he
said—

"No. I don't think we are old acquaintances."

Doris promptly withdrew her gaze. "But how did you know? What made you
think—?"

"Some people's faces are easily read."

"I did think I must have come across you before, somewhere—I can't
imagine where."

"I have never come across you!" He spoke with absolute conviction.

She allowed the question to drop, and they fell into a very pleasant
conversation, discussing places that he and she had seen, spots that
should be visited, excursions which ought to be made. He was surprised
to learn how little she had yet done.

Thence they turned to books, comparing notes over what each had read,
and exchanging impressions. He found in her an intelligence beyond the
average of girls, and readiness to take in fresh ideas. She found in
him a cultured mind, clear and sensible, with signs of power. He made
no attempt to engross the whole talk, but set himself to draw her out.
She felt like an instrument, played upon by a practised hand. It was a
new experience, being manipulated by a strong masculine personality,
encouraged to say what she thought, listened to with deference,
treated as if her crude girlish notions were worth hearing.

Hamilton Stirling never did this. He could lecture and inform, but he
could not throw open the doors of another mind; indeed he had no wish
to do so. When Hamilton asked her what she thought, she always knew
that he only wanted to prove her to be in the wrong. This stranger
treated her as if she were a reasonable being; not an empty-pated and
ignorant person, with no right to differ from him.

It is remarkable how many subjects may be skated over, in the course
of one lengthy meal. Doris had no conception of the attention drawn
by her own animated face,—the real charm of which few present had
discovered earlier. Of course Mrs. Brutt was among those who saw;
and jealousy soon awoke.

She tried to insert herself into the dialogue, scraps of which reached
her ears in a tantalising fashion. Didn't the stranger think the views
around perfectly enchanting—sublime—magnificent? No doubt they were;
but he had not the least intention of discussing them across Doris;
and Mrs. Brutt found herself dropped. She fumed in silence, and could
not get over it. That she should have to her share a semi-deaf elderly
woman, while Doris enjoyed masculine society, was not to be borne with
patience.

Dinner neared its end. Doris had seldom passed a more delightful time.
Could it be that, only an hour or so earlier, she had not known of
this man's existence? Again her eyes met his, again to be deciphered;
and he shook his head, smiling.

"No! No! If we had met, I could not have forgotten."

"Perhaps in a former state of existence—" and she dimpled deliciously,
he thought.

"Let us hope—not as cat and dog."

"If we did, I'm sure you wouldn't have worried me."

"Nature in quadrupeds is strong."

"Besides—I might have been the dog, and you the cat!"

"In which case, I should have been the worried, not the worrier."

"We might have encountered as spiders and beetles."

"Pray don't suggest anything so awful. Nonsense apart—your imagination
may be equal to it. Mine isn't."

She laughed, and with one of her quick transitions, asked: "Are you
going to do any climbing?"

"I hope so. And you—?" with a glance at the lithe figure.

"Oh, I want it most frightfully. I'd give anything in the world to go
up a mountain. But I've had so little practice—none with real
mountains. And I've no one to go with. Perhaps I shall find somebody
soon." She named casually the village where they would soon be due,
and his face lighted up.

"Are you going there? So am I."

"To-morrow?" she inquired eagerly.

"No, but in a very few days. To-morrow at six in the morning I'm off
to Martigny. But—I hope we may meet again."

Mrs. Brutt was standing up, and Doris had to move. She longed to find
out whether he would be at the same hotel with themselves, but could
not resolve to put the question. He bowed a gravely polite farewell,
as the two ladies withdrew.

Often after dinner Mrs. Brutt would stay in the salon. This evening
she insisted on a walk in the garden.

"That man is really too forward," she said, drawing up her head with
an air which Doris had learnt to understand. "You will have to be
careful about making new acquaintances. It is not safe to be friendly
with people that one knows nothing whatever about. He may be a
sharper, or a man of bad character. Anyhow, a person you never set
eyes on before. And you were treating him precisely like an old
friend."

"I wasn't!" the girl said indignantly.

"I beg your pardon! I saw and heard. And nobody knows anything about
him! I don't at all like his face. There's a sort of a sinister look."
Mrs. Brutt was not always happy in her choice of adjectives. "I should
not imagine that he is to be trusted. In fact, I am sure he is not.
I can always depend on my own sense—my instinct—of other people's
characters. I am never mistaken—and I have a strong sense that he is
not a man in whom one could put any confidence."

Doris held herself in with difficulty. Her own sense said exactly
the opposite. She decided that it was not necessary to name the
possibility of their meeting in the mountains.



CHAPTER XV

R. R. Maurice

"GOOD morning, Mrs. Brutt. I'm going to breakfast. Are you better?"

Doris's face, dimpled and radiant, made its appearance, answering
a fretful "Entrez."

"Shut the door, pray. Such a draught. I can't go down this morning—
I am feeling so ill. It is the fault of the food, I am sure. And the
heat yesterday was fearful—positively fearful."

The elder lady was still in bed, forgetting for once to pose
picturesquely. Doris could not help thinking how abnormally plain
she was, when deprived of all adventitious aids. Flat and rumpled hair
is not becoming; and few faces fail to look plain in a mood of annoyed
self-pity. Mrs. Brutt was not well; and, like many, people, when she
was bodily out of sorts, she was sure to be also mentally out of
sorts—in other words, out of temper.

"You needn't be in such a desperate hurry," she complained as the girl
made a move. "You are always wanting to rush away. I must speak first
about my breakfast. It is quite unbearable, having no bells—no way to
get hold of anybody. I never expected to find this sort of thing, when
I settled to come up into the mountains."

She had made the same remark at least twenty times already.

"If I had imagined the wretched accommodation, nothing would have
induced me to bind myself to stay. Six weeks of it! I shall be dead
before the end."

"Oh, I don't think you will." Doris thought it best to adopt a
cheerful tone.

"You are a most unsympathising person! Most unsympathetic!" The two
words meant the same for Mrs. Brutt. "You have no feeling at all for
others. So very selfish."

"But I'm sorry you are not well. Only—if you hadn't secured the rooms,
they would have been taken by somebody else. And, you know, you wanted
to come here, because it is a cheap hotel."

Mrs. Brutt objected to this view, and she spoke sharply. "I am paying
an excellent price for absolutely nothing. That is not what I call
cheapness. These are not rooms; they are mere cupboards. Miserable
rat-holes! No comforts! No space! Actually, I have to keep one of my
trunks in the verandah. All my things will be ruined."

She gazed disgustedly at the opposite wall, which indeed did not lie
far off. The boarded floor had no carpet, but a rug only, beside the
bed. A wash-handstand of stained wood, with drawers below, served for
a dressing-table; and above it hung an anti-vanity glass of small
dimensions. There were also two cane chairs, a cupboard of limited
capacity, and a writing-table—that sine quâ non of foreign bedrooms.

As a make-weight to its interior simplicity, the room opened upon a
balcony, with a full view of the stately Dent du Midi, seen sideways,
and of less distant ranges, all bathed in sunshine. Doris wondered
that anybody could grumble, with such an outlook.

She had been up herself since six o'clock; and from her little
balcony, facing another way, had watched the goats of the village,
starting for their day upon the alps; gathered together by the
goatherd with his horn; each small beast coming composedly from its
own stable at the sound. Already Doris had had one ramble, and now she
was more than ready for breakfast. It was all too delicious—except
Mrs. Brutt. The girl was in dancing spirits with the air, the views,
the novelty, the freedom.

But the string of complaints went on. Her companion was presenting
a new facet for her inspection.

"Not even a stove to boil a kettle on. I really dare not use my
spirit-lamp except on a stove. In these wooden houses, it is so
fearfully dangerous. Not wood! Of course it is wood. I am certain
of it. At all events, there's an immense amount of wood about. And I
felt so bad in the night. I would have given anything for a cup of
tea. These people never seem to think of the necessaries of life."

"I suppose nobody comes here, except in hot weather; and so stoves
are not needed."

"Really, I don't see what that has to do with the question. Pray don't
move those shoes, Doris!"—sharply. "I put them there to dry. They are
damp still, after that rain of two days ago. The weather here is
always in extremes. My room is an absolute oven this morning."

"It is a perfect day," Doris could not help remarking.

"Fearfully hot. I feel quite overpowered. There was such a noise
in the night; people starting on excursions, and that sort of thing.
These foreigners never mind what uproar they make. And just as I was
dropping off, quite worn out, that wretched creature went blowing his
horn all through the village. It is barbarous."

Doris was silent. What could she say?

"The food, too, is atrocious. I do not mind how plain the cooking is—
nobody can be less particular than I am. But it is most essential that
I should have things good. That extraordinary mess that comes round—
I believe it is tinned meat, done up in gravy, and I never could eat
tinned meat. It is that, I am sure, which has made me ill."

"Shall I tell Mademoiselle that you want your breakfast in bed?"

"And such a bourgeois set! Impossible creatures. Hardly a person one
cares to speak to."

"But they are nice and kind. And for six weeks what does it matter?
We have the mountains," suggested Doris.

"You might at least have the grace not to argue. Yes, you can tell
them that I want my breakfast, and that I must have it at once. I am
quite ill and exhausted. Tell them I must have freshly-made tea—not
that boiled stuff that has stood for an hour. And mind you come to me
after breakfast. I must know what you are going to do."

Doris went downstairs more slowly than she had come up, feeling a
little flattened. The message had to be given, and she gave it
prettily, with apologies. Mademoiselle, like many Swiss girls, spoke
English well, and she and Doris were on friendly terms.

Breakfast was laid out of doors, upon a wide stone terrace, which
adjoined the back of the hotel on a lower level than the front door.
A good many people were already at the tables. Doris glanced at none
of them, but made her way to the edge, where she stood to enjoy
 herself.

Sharply away from the terrace fell the ground below; and deep down,
out of sight, flowed a stream on its way to join another and larger
torrent; whence both streams journeyed together to the Rhone.

Away to the left rose the jagged Diablerets peaks; and away to the
right the spreading mass of the Dent du Midi. Just opposite, with
lesser green heights between, a great range of bare rock-mountains
lifted itself high into the blue sky.

Doris stood in rapt delight, drinking it all in, studying wondrous
outlines, curves, and flutings. Then a feeling of being watched made
her turn. She still looked at nobody, but walked to her own seat and
took it, forgetting to bow as she did so. One of the smiling
waitresses was already there, with a small teapot; and Doris was about
to inquire whether Mrs. Brutt's needs had received attention. But the
idea fled. Lifting her eyes, she met the gaze of a steady grey pair,
at the same table, just on the other side.

The flash of pleasure in her face came before she was aware; and it
met a like flash in his. But she knew at once that he had seen her
before she saw him. He was not taken by surprise.

"So you have come to this hotel," she said, a little confused at
having shown what she felt. It was like meeting an old friend,
she said to herself. Yet she had seen him but once before.

He said—"Yes,"—smiling; and as before, with the smile came a nameless
charm, amounting to far more than ordinary good looks. "And you are
still here?"

"We've taken our rooms for six weeks. It's a perfectly—ripping place!"

"Seems so this morning. I got in last night."

"Are you going up a mountain to-day?"

"To-morrow. The Grand Muveran."

"Not alone!"

"No. I believe a guide is necessary—unless one is in a guideless party
of experts."

Doris dimpled.

"I heard an English lady at Bex talking about the Grand-move-her-on,
and the Petty-move-her-on."

"Which fixed the names."

"Don't you like the way the Grand Muveran stands? He throws up his
head with such an air. And the Petit Muveran beside him is—Impudence
beside Dignity."

He laughed, and asked: "Have you had any excursions yet?"

"Oh no, I've only wandered a little near at hand. But I'm aching to
get higher—right up somewhere. Mrs. Brutt can't climb, and we keep
to the roads. But I mean to do a little scrambling by myself."

He put down his knife, looking at her gravely. "That won't do! You say
this is your first visit to Switzerland. You might be over a
precipice, before you dreamt of danger."

"I'll be careful."

"Care is not enough without experience. The most innocent-looking
grass-slopes are often the most deadly. Have you nails in your shoes?"

"No. Ought I?"

"It's not safe in these parts to leave the beaten track without them.
If you take your boots to a village shoemaker, he will put in the
nails. And you should get a strong pointed stick."

"And then I shall be all right?"

He shook his head.

"Not even then—going alone. Have you no one to walk with?"

"Mrs. Brutt—generally. She is a good walker; only to-day she is not
well. But she doesn't care for scrambling; and I just love it. I've
always loved any bit of climbing I could get hold of. And really
I like going about alone. One sees so much more. And I'm beginning
to find that I can make myself understood a little."

"You must be very very careful," he repeated, and he looked serious.

As before, they chatted without effort, one topic leading to another.
And, as before, she had the sense of being drawn out, played upon,
manipulated, made the best of. It was a delightful sensation. She was
astonished presently to find that she had been more than an hour
at table.

"It is getting late. I ought to go," she said.

"Have you seen any of these?" He drew from his pocket a supply of
post-card views, came round to her side, and took Mrs. Brutt's vacant
chair. "They are rather good."

Doris glanced through them with interest. "I've got some,—but not
all."

A letter, which he had pulled from his pocket with the cards, fell on
the table; and without intention she caught sight of the address—

"R. R. Mau—"

The rest was hidden by a post-card, but a movement of his arm brushed
the latter inadvertently aside, and she saw the whole—

"R. R. Maurice, Esquire."

He thrust it carelessly into his pocket, and she did not feel impelled
to apologise for having seen what he had allowed to lie just before
her eyes.

"So now I know his name—Mr. Maurice!" she said to herself. Aloud she
asked: "Are you going to take a long walk?"

"Some letters have to be written first. Then I'm going for a lengthy
ramble up the valley. Not likely to be back till evening."

"Is it to be jour maigre with you?"

"I take a few sandwiches. That's enough for me."



CHAPTER XVI

The Cry from the Châlet

DORIS walked down the village street, more than half lost in a dream.
She had forgotten all about Mrs. Brutt and the visit to her room. The
last hour had swept such recollections out of her head. And, as if she
had not already enough to fill her thoughts, when she left the
breakfast-table the post came in, bringing a letter from Hamilton
Stirling.

This was a typical Swiss mountain village, some three thousand five
hundred feet above the sea-level, straggling along the side of a deep
valley. Picturesque châlets were intermingled with houses of a more
prosaic stamp; and there were little primitive shops, as well as
hotels. Visitors abounded, chiefly Swiss and French, together with an
admixture of Germans and Russians, and a few English.

The letter from Hamilton felt uncomfortable in her hand, as she
walked; and she was in no haste to open it. She wondered whether she
ought to have been glad to see his writing; and she came to the
conclusion that she was not—very—glad.

Going more slowly, she tore the envelope, pulled out the sheet, and at
a glance saw—

"I need not apologise for writing again so soon. You will have missed,
as I have, our close intercourse; and you will be expecting another
letter."

But she had not missed him, she told herself indignantly; not in the
very least; and their intercourse had not been "close;" and she had
not expected another letter. She had not thought about him at all.
What business had he to feel so sure that she wanted him? She didn't
want him. It was quite a relief to escape his lectures on geology.

She put the letter into her pocket, and set off at a good pace,
resolved to find some quiet retreat, where she could read it at
leisure, and could try to analyse her own state of mind, which plainly
needed dissection.

Missed him indeed! What nonsense! Nothing of the kind!

She held her head high, and went on with lithe and easy carriage,—
a pretty picture in her shady hat. Somebody in the hotel she had left
watched her from a top window, as long as she was in sight.

Possibly it might have been that steadfast gaze which conjured up a
vision in her mind of a pair of grey eyes—dark-grey, earnest,
solicitous—side by side with Hamilton's impassive features. She gazed
at the two together.

"He's awfully nice," she murmured, not in reference to the early
admirer. And then—"Missed him indeed! It's like his cheek! I've not
missed him. I've never thought about him at all."

Leaving the village street behind, she went along the shady main road
for a short distance; the hill uprising to her right, the wide valley
down-dropping to her left.

A châlet close to the road drew attention. It was of pale brown wood,
lately built, and not yet burnt by the sun to a deep red-brown, like
other châlets. Carved balconies adorned the front and ran round the
sides; and the pointed roof had deep overhanging eaves. Several pines
grew in the garden, and on a bench outside the front door lay a book.
She was interested, for someone had told her, the day before, that it
was taken by un Monsieur Anglais, and his young wife. Perhaps she
would get to know them.

A little later she turned off to the right along a grass-path, which
led slanting upward; and then she found herself in a meadow of long
grass, specked with flowers, and thronged with thousands of
grasshoppers and crickets. When she bent for a closer study of them,
one after another, poised on the tip of a grass-blade, seemed to
survey her with its big uncanny eyes, before taking a leap—literally
a flying leap!—to another spot, yards away.

Still to her right, as she went, the grassy hill rose steep and high;
and on her left, beyond the road, the valley descended, with green
ranges beyond, and behind them vast mountains of bare rock. To the
front, across the fore-shortened Rhone valley, where flowed the
historic river as a slender muddy ribbon, she could see the great
spreading skirts and massive ridges of the Dent du Midi.

Following steadily a little footpath, she reached a store-châlet, with
open door, revealing an empty inside. Deciding after one peep that it
might be a cow-house, she perched herself on some stones outside, and
heaved a sigh of content.

In front of her now a new vista had dawned, beyond the far end of the
Rhone valley; a vista of snowy heights, crowded together in the
distance; some sharp as needles; some lofty and rounded, with
snowfields shining in sunlight, intermingled with light clouds. It was
a delicate dreamland of loveliness, contrasting with the dark rocky
ranges which made for it a frame.

Hardly a sound broke the stillness, except the ceaseless buzz and
murmur of insects, the snapping of grasshoppers, the song of a bird.

She settled herself to gaze and listen, but soon reverted to her
previous line of thought. Again she opened Hamilton's letter, and this
time read it through.

It seemed rather dull. All about geology, and the make of mountains.
Well, not dull exactly, for he wrote well on his own subjects, and she
was an intelligent girl—only—she was not in the state of mind to-day
for science. She liked to learn, and she liked to have a lover; but a
scientific lover hardly appealed to her present mood. It was
preferable to have the science and the love-making in separate doses.

Mr. Maurice might be scientific too. One or two things that he had
said left an impression of his being, in her girlish phraseology,
"most awfully clever." But she was sure that he would never sandwich
in his scientific information between layers of love-making,—supposing
him to be in love with anybody!

It was not as if Hamilton Stirling would be willing to give her a fair
share of talk and opinions,—should she in the far off "end" consent to
be his wife. She said this to herself; and she was conscious of a
rising rebellion at the thought. Before leaving home, it had not
seemed impossible. This morning such a future looked unattractive.
She would have always—invariably—to agree with him. She would have
always—invariably—to act the part of submissive listener. She would
have always—invariably—to let her own ideas go down before his.

It was so much pleasanter to be allowed one's own opinions; not to be
squashed flat, with a superior smile, the moment one ventured to make
a suggestion. Mr. Hamilton Stirling was so fearfully superior, and
sure of himself. Mr. Maurice was so different! A little laugh broke
from her. Of course he had his opinions; and when he didn't agree with
her he told her so, but not by way of a set-down. He explained what he
thought, and why he thought it; and he let her say what she wished
in answer.

She was gazing towards that distant dreamland of snowy heights;
but she had ceased to see it. She had ceased to hear the snapping
of grasshoppers. She only saw again that kind strong face, with its
unexpected smile, and its clear truthful eyes. She only heard that
well-modulated musical voice.

"How absurd!" She laughed again. "I've seen him—just twice! Why, we
are strangers. I know nothing about him—nothing whatever. And yet—"
she made a long pause. "And yet—I do think—I like him already in some
ways better than—him—" with a swift glance at the other man. "Does
that mean—I suppose it must—that I don't care so very much for him,
after all? I can't see what else it can mean. And if that is it—what a
mercy I've found out in time!"

She looked down at the letter on her knee.

"I won't answer it in a hurry; that's certain. And when I do,
I'll say—oh, perhaps I'll say that I've been ever so much too busy
to miss anybody, except of course my home-people. I should think that
will about finish him."

It flashed into her mind that she had never gone to see Mrs. Brutt
after breakfast, as desired.

She glanced at her watch, found the time to be not far from eleven,
and wondered what that lady would say. Without delay she set off at a
brisk pace through the wet grass, with its leaping grasshoppers, down
the path and into the road, finding the distance less than she had
thought.

Once more she had to pass the newly-built châlet, occupied by the
English couple; and again she paused for a moment's interested gaze.
A book still lay on the bench, and nobody was visible.

But as she stopped, a girl ran out of the front door, quite a girl
in age, hardly more than a child in look, round-faced and fair,
bare-headed, pale, and distraught. The blue eyes were widely opened,
as if in fear, and she wrung her hands together with a despairing
gesture.

"Oh, what shall I do? O God, what shall I do?"



CHAPTER XVII

A Great Effort

DORIS threw open the little gate and ran in. "Is anything the matter?"
she asked. "Can I be any help?"

The girl seized her hands, with an exclamation. "Are you English? Oh,
tell me what to do. My husband is so ill. I don't know what to do."

Her face quivered like the face of a terrified child, and she gripped
Doris as a drowning person clutches a rope. Doris knew herself
instantly to be the more capable, the stronger, of the two.

"Has he been ill long? Tell me—" and she held the little cold hands
firmly. "Don't be frightened. Just tell me."

"Only a day or two—poorly—just poorly—only that!—and I didn't think
anything of it. He is so well always. And he tried to hide it.
He wouldn't wake me all night. I never guessed what he was going
through. And this morning he is in such pain—and he looks dreadful.
I've never had to do with any illnesses. I've never nursed anybody.
And I can't talk French—and I've no one to ask—only a girl from
another part. She doesn't know."

"He must see a doctor."

"But there's no doctor in the village."

"Then you must send to Bex."

"Will you—will you help me? I don't know how to manage. It's all so
strange—and he has done everything."

"I'll find out about doctors for you, and which is the quickest way.
There's an Englishman at our hotel—if only I can catch him before he
goes out! He is so kind, I am sure he would help. If not, Mademoiselle
will advise me. But Mr. Maurice would be best."

"Maurice!" The name arrested her. "A friend of ours—a Mr. Maurice—was
coming out to Switzerland soon."

"This is a Mr. R. R. Maurice—spelt M-a-u—"

"Dick Maurice!" She clasped her hands again. "Oh, if he is here—!"

"He was going for a long walk. I'll do my best to stop him."

"Will you? Oh, will you? How kind. If only it is our Dick Maurice!
He is a young surgeon—just starting practice—so kind and clever.
Please tell him it is Arthur and Amy Ramsay."

"I'll be sure—if only I can catch him. Anyhow, I'll let you know
quickly. Keep up heart meanwhile—don't be frightened. People are often
not so bad as they seem."

Five minutes brought her to the hotel; and she learnt that Maurice
had just started.

No thought of Mrs. Brutt might stand in the way. She knew the
direction he had meant to take; and her only chance of overtaking him
lay in instant action. At her best speed she set off; and on quitting
the village she caught sight of a masculine figure, slim and active,
not to be mistaken, some distance ahead. Already he had left the road,
and was mounting the steep hillside. One glance made clear that there
was no one within reach whom she could send in chase. She could not
risk letting him get out of sight, while she turned elsewhere to find
a man.

All depended upon her; and she braced herself for the chase. He did
not appear to be going at any great pace; but he was well in advance;
and though she was both strong and vigorous, an upward rush soon
brought her to a breathless condition. She had to pause, gasping,
and to go more leisurely.

Despite her utmost efforts, the space between them gradually widened.
Then he vanished behind some bushes; and when again he came within
view, he had taken another turn up a yet more acute slope, still at
the same long easy stride, which cleared the ground faster than it
seemed to do.

Now he was on a steep zigzag, winding to and fro; and this brought
new hope. A faint indication of a path led straight upward, ignoring
the bends; a path of rough shale, broken and jagged. If she could
mount thus, direct, she might intercept him as he, in more deliberate
fashion, followed the bends. Spurred by the recollection of that
distressed girl-face, she made the attempt.

[Illustration: GIVING IN HAD BECOME INEVITABLE, WHEN HE TURNED.]

No easy matter, as she soon found. The path, meant for use in coming
down only, grew worse and worse, more stony, more difficult. The loose
shale yielded beneath her tread; and for each step in advance, she
felt as if she slid two steps downward. Yet advance she did, though
with heart-breaking slowness.

If breath would but hold out! She was gaining upon Maurice; and she
had healthy lungs; but this was severe work. Her heart was beating
like a drum; and as she struggled on, she panted painfully. A call
now might stop him; but no voice was left. She could only gasp.

Just when she had reached the stage, at which giving in had become
inevitable, he stopped short, and turned. She waved her handkerchief
violently. He waved his, and started at a run, descending by the
steeper path. Rapid as were his movements, she was recovering herself
before he arrived.

"You want me—!" with surprise, which changed into concern, as he saw
her flushed and breathless state.

"I promised—to catch you—if I could!" She laughed at herself for
having still to gasp between the words. "I'm—all right. It's only—"
and she hurriedly explained what was wrong.

"Yes—they are my friends. I had no idea they were coming here. Thanks
for calling me. You have had hard work."

"Oh, I didn't mind—only the stones were so horrid, sliding away under
my feet. I thought I should never get up with you."

"You didn't attempt the short cut!"

"I fancied it would save time. Did it?"

"Doubtful. But you must be a good climber to do it at all."

She was delighted, but said: "Ought we not to be off?"

"Are you rested enough?"

"I'm all right. And that poor girl does so want you."

"Try this way."

He turned to a different path, shorter and steeper than that by which
they had come. It meant a descent which Doris could not have tackled
alone, with nailless shoes. He went first; and two or three times his
hand caught hers; yet most of it she did unaided; and again he spoke
in praise of her sure-footedness.

"Climbing always seems to come naturally to me," she said. "If only,
only, some day I could go up a real mountain! I want that desperately—
I can't tell you how much! And I don't see the very least chance
of such a thing. Oh dear,—I wish with all my heart there were."

"Perhaps something might be arranged while you are here. We must see.
I'll think about it."

Her deep-set eyes sent him a swift grateful glance, which stirred his
blood. She was a pretty girl.

"Oh, it would be most frightfully nice!" was all she said.

"I'll see!" he repeated.

Then he spoke of these friends of his; the husband a college chum,
"an awfully decent chap,"—the young wife, barely eighteen, and married
three months earlier, whom he had known for years.

Doris would have liked to go with him to the châlet, and to see if she
might be of use there. But she felt that the neglected Mrs. Brutt
claimed first attention; and he promised to let her know if help were
needed.

On reaching Mrs. Brutt's room, she was greeted with a gale which took
her breath away, almost as the steep hillside had done. By this time
she had learnt to know the agreeable widow as a confirmed grumbler;
but till the present hour she had not seen her in a passion. It was
not a pleasant sight.

Breakfast had not been carried up till a full hour after Doris's
departure; and for that she had to bear full blame, though it was not
her fault. Mrs. Brutt had been "quite ill" in consequence, and alone
all the morning,—an additional grievance. Doris was a most selfish,
thoughtless, unkind girl! So ungrateful!—considering all that she owed
to the speaker. Mrs. Brutt would not have believed it of her. But one
knew nothing of people till one travelled with them,—a statement which
Doris could have endorsed.

She tried to explain, but in vain. The more she tried, the more Mrs.
Brutt enlarged on her wrongs. Somehow, all this did not sting like
home-worries; perhaps because Doris's mind was full of new interests.
She kept her temper, and at length said—

"If you are ill why not see a doctor?"

"So unkind!—when you know there is no doctor to be had in this
wretched place!" moaned Mrs. Brutt, by this time reduced to the
abject stage. "But I might die, for all you would care."

Doris let this pass, and remarked that there was a doctor—an English
one to boot—in that very hotel. The news proved reviving. Mrs. Brutt
loved nothing better than to be medically discussed and liberally
dosed; and her spirits at once improved.

So when Maurice came in, he found another patient awaiting him; not
always a welcome event on a man's holiday. But since she belonged
to Doris, he had not the smallest objection. To the latter he confided
that he had left Ramsay very ill, and that he feared an operation
might prove needful. He would spend the night at the châlet. No, he
could not make his intended ascent next day.

"But how awfully disappointing for you!"

He smiled at that.

"Oh, it's all right," he said cheerfully.

"You'll go another day instead?"

"I hope so." He then explained that, in the nick of time, a
brother-in-law of Ramsay's had telegraphed to say that he and his wife
were coming immediately to join them. Nothing could be better. The
wife was an experienced nurse; the husband was a first-rate climber,
a member of the Alpine Club. "Their coming will make it quite easy,
I hope, to manage our little expedition," he added. "Pressford is
equal to any guide. We'll take you somewhere between us, sooner or
later."

"Will you—really—?" in a tone of rapture.

"I'll do my very best to bring it about—I promise you."

After which he spent a full half-hour, listening to the catalogue
of Mrs. Brutt's symptoms, which were of such abounding interest for
herself, that she could not imagine their having less interest for
other people. He could have prescribed for her in five minutes, with
ease; but then he would have failed to win her confidence.

She recognised in him the "sinister" individual of Bex; but she
promptly dropped that adjective, and substituted "delightful." He was
really such a clever young fellow!—so observant!—so thoughtful!—
so sympathetic! Such penetration! He had read her whole constitution
at a glance-positively at one glance. Mrs. Brutt prided herself on the
abnormal complexity of her make, transcending the complexities of less
distinguished beings; and she felt that never before had it been so
truly perused.

Perhaps this came near the mark. Maurice had penetrating eyes, and he
read her in more ways than one. If he took particular pains to
ingratiate himself with the widow, it was hardly for her own sake.



CHAPTER XVIII

On the Mountain

"YES, we think you can do it." Maurice spoke aloud, scanning the girl
with thoughtful eyes. "Pressford is sure. You are a born climber. But
you must make up your mind to obey orders implicitly." He spoke in a
tone of half apology, having found in her by this time an impulsive
tendency to insist on her own way. Her face glowed.

"I'll be sure. Oh, I promise—anything you like. If only I may go!
Is the Glückhorn a good height?"

"About twelve thousand feet. It's a peak of medium difficulty; not
beyond a beginner of your calibre. Pressford has never been up it; but
he has made full inquiries. There's only one really stiff bit; and
we'll have you up that between us. Given a fine day, it will be all
right."

Then he went into the question of preparations.

Under the combined skill of Maurice and Mrs. Pressford, Ramsay was
by this time on the high road to convalescence. He had narrowly
escaped a dangerous operation; but he had escaped it; and Maurice
could at last venture on a long day's absence.

Mrs. Brutt offered no objections to the proposed ascent. She was
completely captured by the young surgeon's attentions to herself;
and she nursed the agreeable delusion that his kindness to Doris was
solely on her account. She flattered herself that he found her as
"delightful" as she found him.

Really, she repeatedly said, he had done so much for her!—it was quite
amazing!—she began to feel like a different being. She almost believed
that she might herself climb one of the mountains. Well, not the
Glückhorn, exactly, but another, just a trifle easier. She could
assure Mr. Maurice that she had been in the past a capital climber,
quite light-footed—in fact, gazelle-like. And with Mr. Maurice's help—

Maurice listened with praiseworthy patience; but he did not encourage
the notion of gazelle-like friskiness in perilous places. A timely
reference to the beloved topic of her varying temperature turned the
conversation into a safer channel.

During Ramsay's illness and Mrs. Brutt's little indisposition, Doris
had seen a great deal of Maurice. In one way and another he was
perpetually turning up. She went often to the châlet to cheer the
young wife; and he was frequently there. Also at meals he was her
vis-à-vis. She and he with Mr. Pressford had already taken several
long scrambles, inclusive of rock-climbing, severe enough to test her
powers; and results had convinced them both that she might safely
undertake the "real ascent" for which she craved.

By this time Doris had left off analysing her own sensations; the
state of her mind being too simple to need dissection. She thought
no more of Hamilton; but she thought a great deal of Dick Maurice.
When with him, she wanted nothing else. When not with him, she was
looking forward to their next meeting. The present was enough; and she
shut her eyes to possible complications. Each day brought its own
delights.

Mr. Pressford's coming had made developments easy. He was a strong
wiry man, about forty in age; brusque in manner, taciturn in speech,
and a passionate devotee of Alpine climbing. Always ready to take the
lead, he would march steadily ahead, oblivious of or indifferent to
the fact that his two companions had a trick of dropping behind, just
out of ear-shot. If the "going" were difficult, he would be at once
on the alert; though between Maurice's care and the girl's own
sure-footedness, his help was seldom needed. At other times he
preferred solitude, and liked nothing better than to be let alone.

All of which meant that Maurice and Doris were thrown more and more
together; and neither wished things to be otherwise.

The first real mountain expedition was now to come off; and Doris was
ready for it, down to the possession of an ice-axe, chosen under
Maurice's supervision. All the day before she went about in a state
of suppressed rapture, with glowing eyes and a perpetual breaking
out of smiles.

Since they had to rise soon after midnight, it was needful to go to
bed directly after table d'hôte; and her head was on the pillow by
eight. But sleep was another matter.

Every pulse was beating with joyous expectation; and blissful visions
floated before her mind's eyes in an endless diorama. She never
consciously "lost herself;" yet when the awakening rap at her door
came, there was first a bewildered wonder what it could mean, and then
a sense of being sharply recalled from a distance. She felt sure,
doubtless wrongly, that she had that instant dropped off.

No matter how brief one's rest may be, getting up is as different from
going to bed as sunrise is from sunset. The glamour had departed; and
dressing in midnight gloom has a depressing effect, of which even
Doris was conscious. She donned by candlelight her very short serge
skirt, flannel blouse, Norfolk jacket, and strong nail-studded boots.
Then proudly carrying her ice-axe, she went down to breakfast.

Both men were already there; wearing their rough tweed coats, with
voluminous pockets inside and out, and their putties; while their
heavily-nailed and well-greased boots waited to be drawn on the moment
breakfast should be over. More than a hundred feet of rope lay coiled,
ready for shouldering; and a couple of ice-axes leant against the
wall. Maurice, who, as the less experienced climber, would play the
part of porter, was in the act of tying up his ruck-sack, stored with
provisions.

Doris's spirits were fast rising; and she was surprised to find,
not only the ever-taciturn Pressford, but also Maurice, in a silent
mood. The latter surveyed her carefully, and knelt to examine the
lacing of her boots. But he had no light chatter at command, and
breakfast was eaten in sombre silence. She wondered—was this a part
of the programme? Wisely, she fell in with their mental conditions.

By half-past two they were off. Pressford, lantern in hand, took the
lead, walking after his usual habit slightly in advance and apart,
even when there was no need. Doris in her eagerness would have hurried
ahead, not heeding one or two stumbles; but she was at once checked.

"You must husband your powers," Maurice said. "Steady, please.
Pressford will set the pace."

She realised the wisdom of this later, when she found how she could
keep on hour after hour at a swinging stride, with no tendency
to flag.

For some distance they followed the main road; and then came an easy
rise by pathway, till they gained an upland, and by-and-by entered
a pine-forest, where reigned pitchy darkness. When after a
considerable time they emerged, it was upon a stony alp. Darkness made
their footing here far from easy, since they had left all vestige of a
path behind; and starlight gleams seconded but feebly the glimmer
of their lantern.

Not far from three hours after quitting the hotel, they reached the
first belt of rocks. Here a pause was made for their first mountain
breakfast,—that movable feast which goes on at intervals of two hours,
until, on the way home, the climbers have "breakfast at afternoon
tea."

It was, as it always has to be, a light meal; consisting this time
of bread and potted meat. Maurice found a comfortable seat for Doris,
supplied her wants, and placed himself near. A few remarks passed; and
with a gesture of his hand towards the east he said: "See! Dawn is
coming."

A bank of cloud lay low, and between it and the horizon, a pale grey
glimmer had begun. As they gazed, a pink hue crept into the grey;—dim,
indeterminate, a mere suggestion of what would follow. Yet in that
tender gleam lived hope "sure and certain" of high noontide. They had
to wait for it; but it would come!

Pressford stood up, a sign that they were to do the same. The rocky
belt which had now to be surmounted meant a good two hours of work,
difficult ax first in the morning twilight, though each minute made a
difference with the growth of light. Doris had to pay careful
attention to her steps; and Maurice, close behind, gave an occasional
hint, when needed.

A halt again was ordered, that they might watch the coming sunrise.

It was Doris's first view of their widened horizon. She stood on a
ledge; Maurice one step lower; Pressford a pace above. The cold was
biting. A slight breeze, like liquid ice, crept past; and despite her
exertions, she could scarcely feel her fingers.

Beyond the rock-belt, looking downward, they saw the long ascent of
grass by which they had come; and lower still the dark pine-forest.
Then intersecting valleys, dotted with hay-châlets; and here and there
a tiny village, deep in shadow. But far above towered lofty peaks,
bearing a hint of rose; and the soft colour grew bright; and the tide
of light crept downward, revealing couloir after couloir, fold after
fold, upon each mountain-side,—till, from beyond the peak which still
hid the approaching monarch of day, streamed on either side slant rays
of pure whiteness.

One moment the three were in shadow. Then, with a leap, sunshine burst
forth, not white but golden; and the world around was transformed.
Doris pulled off her woollen gloves, and held out chilled hands,
bathing them in the flood of warmth, laughing with gladness.

"That was worth seeing," Maurice remarked, as their silent leader
moved. "Are you getting on all right?"

"It's too lovely for anything," she said with energy. "I never enjoyed
myself one-hundredth part as much in all my life."

Two hours of this rock-climbing brought them to the foot of a
snow-slope, which formed the "shoulder" of the mountain. Far away
upward from where they stood stretched a smooth sheet of sparkling
purity.

"Now we shall be above the snow-line," joyously exclaimed Doris. "I've
been longing for that, ever since I came to Switzerland."

"Which means—goggles."

"Must we? That beautiful snow! And the goggles will spoil it all so
desperately. Must we, really? But of course, if I'm told—"

"I'm afraid it has to be."

Again they paused for a light meal. Pressford decided that roping was
advisable, the slope higher up being steep, and Doris's experience
small. When they set off, he as usual led; and Maurice, with his
ruck-sack, came last. The snow was in good condition, and they made
steady advance, though some scraping of steps with Pressford's ice-axe
became needful before the end.

An hour of zig-zagging progress up this slope brought them to the
final rocks.



CHAPTER XIX

A Rotten Piece of Rock

THE belt which they had reached was both higher and more formidable
than the one already surmounted; a stern and frowning rampart, giving
access to the short arête by which they would gain the summit.

Seen from below, it looked like a bare wall of rock, seamed indeed
with cracks and chimneys, but little less than perpendicular. Tiny
patches of whiteness lay wherever it had been able to find a
resting-place. For the greater part, however, the angle was too
steep for snow to lie; and, as regarded the question of climbing,
in mountain parlance "it would not go." A climber's only hope lay
in the narrow snow-lined couloirs streaking it, one of which seemed
to offer good promise for foothold and handhold.

It was a more awkward "pitch" than Pressford had expected. And, to
make matters worse, the rocks were partially glazed with that terror
of mountaineers, the dangerous verglas, a thin veneer of ice. Wherever
this delicate coating shone, foothold was impossible.

From their position below a small bergshrund, choked with snow, the
two men took an anxious survey of the rocks, which indeed wore a
menacing aspect enough, especially for a tyro. Doris stood by in acute
suspense; for she realised that one word now might dash all her hopes
to the ground. And to give up—to turn back—having advanced so far,
would be too dreadful! She read doubt in their faces; and imploring
words leaped to her lips. Wisely, she held them back, though her face
was eloquent.

Maurice glanced at his companion, and murmured something. Pressford
put off immediate decision, by suggesting another meal. The narrow
snow-plateau, from which that rocky wall uprose, made an ideal
breakfast-table, spread with the purest of snowy cloths.

"I may go on!" Doris breathed, as Maurice came near.

"We'll see—presently." He threw down the rück-sack, emptied of its
contents, and offered it to her for a seat. For himself he planted
his ice-axe deep in the snow,—a narrow support, which called for
careful balancing on his part.

Pressford had unroped and gone off a short distance to reconnoitre;
and on his return he beckoned Maurice aside.

"She can do it," he said. "I see how it will 'go.'"

"But the verglas—"

"Only in patches. They can be avoided."

"Shall we start now?" called Doris eagerly.

"Finish the sandwiches first. We shall have no other chance for some
time. I'll scramble up a bit, and have one more look. Then—en avant!"

Still free of the rope, he moved some paces away, munching chocolate,
and scanning the rocks which frowned grimly above. Maurice came back
to his seat by Doris.

They had the world to themselves. Pressford, always aloof and
preoccupied, hardly counted.

From their very feet the snow-slope fell away. Behind rose the stern
rock-rampart, calling to be climbed. But their eyes were turned to the
wide sweep of mountain pastures far below, and downward thence to
valleys shepherding cloudlets of morning mist.

Like birds they were perched aloft; away from common life; cut off
from human habitations.

To right and left the gaze rested on snow-clad heights, rocky
buttresses, sharp needles; all the fantastic wildness of bristling
and icy arêtes; of rocky mountain-sides, seamed with gullies; of snowy
mountain-sides, broken by outcrops of bare rock; of hanging glaciers,
glittering in sunshine. Peak lay beyond peak; snow-field stretched
beyond snow-field. To Doris this wonderful tableau brought a sense
of joy; not gay delight, but solemn uplifting rapture.

"It's beyond words," she said. "It is—sublime. But that doesn't
explain. Words don't seem strong enough."

"There are things that can only be felt, not said."

"I think I meant that. It is the width—the greatness—the immensity!
All earth and sky and heaven. Nothing small or puny. Don't you feel
as if you didn't want ever to go back to the paltriness of everyday
life?"

"Is everyday life paltry?"

"Compared with—" Her glance swept the scene.

"Even compared with this. It all depends on what one lives for?"

"You mean—doing things for other people. But they are such tiny
things. This is so grand—so vast! It seems to lift up one's whole
being."

"If you were here always, the force of first impressions would fade.
And that question would still push its way to the front."

"The question—what one lives for—do you mean?"

"Yes. Whether for Duty—or only for Self."

A slight pause followed. "If only one's duties weren't so often just
the very things one most dislikes!"

A look in her companion's face somehow recalled her father. He asked
simply—

"Don't you think that the less one minds about one's own likings,
the better? And after all,—obedience against the grain is always
grander than doing what one wishes. That may land one on a
mountain-top."

"Yes—I see. I suppose—" and she smiled—"when you gave up your climb
that day, for the sake of Mr. Ramsay, you really got to a higher peak
than if you had gone up the Grand Muveran."

He laughed.

"Very kind of you to say so. But that was a simple necessity. Nothing
else could have been possible."

"And since then you've never been able to go, because you have been
so busy, teaching me to climb." That some self-denial might be
involved in this had not earlier occurred to her. She looked at him
gratefully. "But anyhow—you have the work in life that you like.
You are not one of those people who seem put down in just the wrong
place. You wouldn't wish to change!"

"It is the work I have to do. It was not my choice."

"But how—Was it settled for you?"

"Practically. My business now is to make the best of it. We can always
learn to like what we have to do."

"Can we?" The corners of her mouth curled rebelliously. "But I like
to choose for myself. I like to be free."

"Most of us do. But there's a higher standing than just personal
freedom."

"And the higher—?" she questioned.

"Carrying out the will of another, against one's own will—because it
is one's duty."

"Carrying out—anybody's will!"

"I meant, primarily—the Divine Will."

She considered this soberly.

"But—if one can do the things that one likes better than the things
one doesn't like—wouldn't that be best?"

"Not from the point of view of character-making. When a man does his
best badly in the line that he does not love, it is actually better,
actually worth more, than if he were successful to any amount in the
line that he would love. Of course we're right to do the work we
prefer, when it's given us to do. But the other may have grander
results. Men are not always called to what they would choose for
themselves."

She pondered this again, then said with a smile—

"Curious that we should have got into such a grave talk, up here!"

"One often does," he replied; and it was true, as many have found
in their position. The splendour of a scene, such as that on which
they gazed, does not lend itself to moods of frivolity. Pastures
dotted with human homes may consort with gaiety; but the wild
solitudes of mountain heights are not gay. They seem rather to be
intensely earnest; uplifted above light talk and merriment; brooding
solemnly over earth's smallness; apart from lesser interests; leading
the minds of those who gain their presence to deeper and higher
topics.

Pressford, having gone farther than he intended, now came crunching
over the hard snow. It was all right, he said,—and "a rare sporting
bit." His quiet eyes held an unwonted gleam in them, as of a mountain
warrior, eager for the fray, thirsting for a fight with Nature's
obstacles.

But for Maurice all was not so clear. With regard to Pressford and
himself, the climb might be practicable enough. Could it be looked
upon as right for the girl? That was the real question, and he did not
attempt to hide his anxiety.

"Indeed, indeed, I'm not afraid," urged Doris. "I'm not one least
little atom afraid. It is all so much easier than I expected. And I'm
splendidly fresh still. And to go back now—oh, it would be too
desperately disappointing. Please, please, don't make me!"

"She can do it," once more asserted Pressford's imperturbable voice.

"I don't half like her to try."

"Well,—we'll put matters to the test. She shall wait here, while you
and I do part of the way. If we find that it 'goes,' you shall come
down for her on the rope; and I'll haul her up. That does away with
risks. The awkward part is certainly not more than a hundred feet or
so. Once over that, we shall be all right."

This plan, after some further discussion, was adopted. Pressford and
Maurice began the ascent; the former leading. Only thirty feet of rope
separated the two men. They followed the rule, invariable in rock
climbing,—one moving, while the other stood firm, hitching the rope
over any convenient rock-projection, and thus making himself as secure
as possible, to ensure safety in the event of a slip on the part of
his companion.

Pressford's task as leader was by far the more severe; and his
climbing was a work of art, worth seeing. He had chosen a couloir
or gully, never more than a dozen feet in width, rugged, broken,
partly lined with snow, partly glazed with ice. It swerved a little
to the left, so that one climber would seldom be just over the head
of the other.

Doris below, near Maurice, watched steadfastly, fascinated by
Pressford's advance, as he crept upward, making no hasty movement,
testing each foothold before he trusted to it, taking advantage of
every handhold. At times he appeared to cling bodily to the steep
rock, writhing and working himself cleverly over one obstacle after
another.

Having thus mounted nearly thirty feet, he came to a halt, fixed
himself in a good position, and then called on Maurice to follow.

"You'll be sure to let me come! It looks so deliciously easy!" begged
Doris.

"Not so easy as you think!"

"But you'll have the rope."

"Yes. My work is child's play, compared with his."

"And mine will be child's play too," she said gaily.

He gave a little parting nod, and went up in steady fashion, till he
reached Pressford. Then, in his turn, he settled himself firmly, and
Pressford started anew.

The second advance of thirty feet proved stiffer than the first.
Pressford managed it, however, with no real difficulty; and Maurice
followed, his task as before greatly simplified by the "moral support"
of the rope.

Next came Pressford's third effort, the toughest of all. This done,
there would be nothing beyond to fear.

Slowly, quietly, with never a hurried movement, he worked his way up
the gully, inch by inch ascending, till he had gained a level of
nearly one hundred feet above their starting-point, where Doris stood,
statue-like, on the snow.

"Is it easy going now?" shouted Maurice.

"Pretty fair," assented the leader. "I haven't had really to extend
myself yet. But I think I'll have another ten feet of rope, if you can
manage it, before you go down and rope Miss Winton."

"Are you over the worst bit?"

"Nearly. Ten feet more rope will do it. Quite easy after that."

"One moment—" called Maurice. "Can you stand firm? Another ten feet
will put me in a splendid position."

A pause; and then—"Yes. All right."

Maurice mounted the few feet without trouble, and wedged himself
in where the gully had narrowed sufficiently to imprison a fallen
boulder. Each foot had solid support; and his shoulders rested in a
hollow between the boulder and the side of the gully. He could hardly
have been better placed. When he had made himself secure, Pressford
observed—

"It's a bit of a stretch to a perfect hold. Are you quite firm?"

"Yes. But don't risk anything. There's Miss Winton to think of."

"Oh, I can do it!" came in reply. "The rock's good enough."

Then a grim silence, long to the listener, broken only by the
occasional patter of a stone loosened by Pressford, which came
bounding down the gully.

Pressford was now out of sight of his fellow-climber, but in full view
of Doris, who had followed the movements of each in turn, with mingled
suspense and delight, counting the moments till she should be allowed
to make her own essay.

Suspense, lest they should decide that the ascent was too hard for a
beginner. That was all. She had no thought of fear; and nothing lay
farther from her imagination than that either of her companions should
come to grief. Two experienced climbers—one of them a practised
mountaineer who had scaled without a guide some of the most hazardous
peaks in Switzerland!—roped together, in a gully which she herself
hoped to go up. The idea would have seemed preposterous.

But even a first-class mountaineer is never absolutely ensured against
a slip,—still less against the perils of rotten rock.

She saw Pressford creep, worming himself along like a snake, over a
slab of slanting rock, on which from where she stood no foothold could
be detected. His right hand rose stealthily, inch by inch, till it
appeared to be at its furthest stretch.

For two or three seconds the climber rested thus,—silent, immobile,
as a black shadow on the rock. Suddenly there was a spasmodic effort.
His hand clutched at a hold six inches beyond reach; and in this act
the only firm foothold was perforce abandoned. His fingers closed
convulsively on the rocky projection; and in another moment he would
have drawn himself up to a safe position.

He gripped a shade more firmly. And—like the snapping of a rotten
branch, overweighted with winter snow—the rock came away in his
clutch.

One second he lay prone against the wall, clinging with every muscle
of his sinewy frame; the only clear thought in his brain a wild regret
that he had trusted to an untested hold.

Then he came sliding downward, faster and faster; making vain clutches
at the rock to stay his fall,—till, from thirty feet above Maurice, he
was brought up sharply thirty feet below, by the rope.

And there, to the dismay of Doris, he hung; heavy, motionless, as if
without life.



CHAPTER XX

Only a Girl!

THE first intimation of anything wrong, received by Maurice, came in
the shape of a shower of stones; and a sharp exclamation from above
warned him what to expect.

He saw Pressford slide past, vainly trying to check his own rapid
descent. And before Maurice had time for more than a lightning-flash
of realisation, came the shock—the grip of the rope about his chest
and body, almost cutting him in two.

It seemed more than he could endure. All his strength was needed to
withstand that first overwhelming pull, which tore fiercely at him
like a wolf, bringing positive agony. He was unable to breathe save
in broken gasps.

Half-unconsciously he shifted his position, to ease the intolerable
strain. Then, as the pain lessened, he could breathe and think again;
and he began to ask himself what had happened.

Was Pressford killed—or only stunned—by this fall of some sixty feet
on relentless rock?

He shouted, and there was no answer. He tried to haul at the rope
which bound him to Pressford; but the effort only endangered his hold.
He dared not stir. For the time he could bear the strain of his
friend's weight. But—how long would he be able?

He could not see the fallen man. He could only see the rope—twitching
as it descended over the jammed boulder. He could only know by
conjecture what had been the cause.

Would nothing break this death-like stillness?

He remembered Doris, whose presence had been momentarily driven from
his mind by Pressford's fall. Why had she not called out? Then it
occurred to him that she might have screamed, unheard, at the worst
moment of the shock,—that even since then she might have called,
without gaining his attention.

As he wondered, her voice, clear and steady, came up to him. "Mr.
Maurice—something is wrong. Mr. Pressford has fallen. Can I help?"

"Can you see him?" Maurice's deeper tones asked.

"Yes." In the pure mountain air their voices travelled easily.

"Any support below?"

"I'm afraid not. It's all smooth rock." She scanned the part intently.
"I can't be sure. There's a ledge a little to one side—not quite below
him. May I come up? If I may, I can pull him on the ledge."

The offer took Maurice by surprise. He was amazed at her coolness,
her presence of mind.

"No! No!" he called. He could not think of letting her run the risk,
unroped. "Stay where you are." His tone was urgent.

"But indeed I must. Please let me." Her courage rose, as she
recognised the need for action. "Let me come. Say yes. I'm sure
I can do it."

"No, no. Wait. Pressford may revive."

Moments lagged slowly by, and still the heavy helpless body hung
against the rock-wall, kept there by the taut rope. For Maurice
to stir was out of the question. As now placed, he might support
the weight for an hour, perhaps even for many hours. But to slacken
his hold of the rope for one instant would mean certain death for the
unconscious Pressford and for himself; probably also for Doris,
should she be left alone on a steep mountain-side, under such terrible
conditions.

If the weight dragging at him could be but for a few seconds removed,
he might make the rope secure, and then descend to Pressford's help.
But that was impossible.

Only a girl below; a mere inexperienced beginner in the art of
climbing. She could do nothing. He had to stay where he was,—till
Pressford should revive, or till some problematic rescue-party should
appear on the scene.

"Do let me," she entreated. "I'm almost sure I could get him on the
ledge. We can't leave him like this. I'll be very, very careful."

Through fifty or sixty feet of height each word dinned mercilessly
into his ears. He was sorely exercised. How to consent, he did not
know; yet what else to do, he did not know either. Had Doris been a
man, that which she suggested would have been the only right plan.
But to allow her to risk her life—and he knew it must mean no ordinary
risk!—the whole being of the young surgeon cried out in protest. It
would have been out of the question with any girl, he told himself.
How much more with her!

He pictured the awfulness of what must follow a slip on her part.
No rope would hold her up. She would fall to the snow-ledge whence she
had started, and with such impetus that she would not stop there, but
would roll and bound down the snow-slope and over the rocks below. And
he, tied to his helpless friend, would be unable to stir a finger to
save his love from a terrible death. Had he doubted the fact before,
he knew in this hour that she was his love—the one woman in the world
for him. And he would have to look on—to see it all! The horror of
that thought went beyond endurance.

Yet more—he saw himself, somehow rescued, going to the hotel, to make
known what had happened; wandering over the heights, in search for her
crushed and mangled body. He saw what her friends would think, when he
and Pressford returned; and only the young girl in their charge was
missing!

Impossible!

"No! No! You must not," he repeated. "I can't allow it. Could you find
your way down the mountain, and send help?"

She surveyed the long steep slope, which they had mounted, and shook
her head.

"No!" she called, a thrill of fresh resolution in her voice. "It would
mean hours and hours. And I might miss my way. You could not hold him
all that time."

"Yes, I could."

"No. You must let me climb. That is the only thing to be done."

He set his teeth and groaned, before replying—"I will not have it.
I can't allow it, Doris." The name slipped out unconsciously, and it
sent a glow through her.

"But he has to be saved. He must be saved. And there's no other way,"
she cried in terse phrases. "You must let me try." Then, as he still
refused,—"But if it is my duty! You will not keep me from doing my
duty!"

He had at length to give in. Pressford showed no signs of returning
sense; and Doris's insistence swept aside his opposition. He began
to realise that, if he refused consent, she would come without his
consent. He doubted, too, whether to attempt the long descent of the
mountain alone would mean for her less peril. She would have to go
unroped, feeling anxious, distressed, hurried. The tax to nerve and
strength would last through hours; and he would not be at hand to lend
encouragement. For awhile still he held out; but at last, with a
deadly sinking of heart, he was impelled to yield.

"But you must be very careful—very slow—" he urged. "Make sure of each
hold before you leave the last. And if you find it too much, turn back
at once."

"Yes, yes," she cried. "I'll be so careful. I promise."

For three seconds she stood motionless, praying one short vehement
prayer for help,—entreating that she might be kept calm and steady and
sure of foot; that she might be able to carry out what she had to do.

She did not under-estimate the nature of the task before her. That it
was both difficult and dangerous, a task which under ordinary
conditions she would not have dreamt of doing, she knew well; and she
realised also that the lives of these two men depended, in all
probability, upon her exertions. Maurice would never abandon his
friend. If no casual passer-by came to their rescue,—a most unlikely
event,—and if Pressford did not regain consciousness, then, but for
her, both were doomed.

Without further delay, and with every muscle braced to firmness, she
set out upon her perilous emprise.

Although, as said earlier by Maurice, she was a born climber, her
experience had been limited, and this was a severe test. The steepness
of the gully, the paucity of good holds, the general slipperiness,
the patches of verglas to be avoided—all demanded skill and nerve.
And she knew, hardly less distinctly than Maurice himself, what a slip
must mean.

Step by step she advanced, placing each foot with caution, testing
each hold before she trusted to it! Maurice from above, spoke an
occasional quiet word, when he could see what she was doing. When he
could not, he lived through sickening agonies. A vision floated before
his eyes of a false step on her part, and then of that fearful
bounding fall down and down the mountain-side. But at the back of that
vision, behind the anguish of suspense, though it seemed to him that
no word of actual prayer was possible, his whole being was
concentrated into one passionate appeal for her safety. "O God!—
O God!"—was all he could utter. It meant—everything.

About half-way up she found herself on a narrow ledge, from which
further progress looked all but hopeless. For a moment her heart
failed. Could she go on? Should she turn back? She thought again
of the two men; of Maurice, unable to stir; of Pressford, hanging
senseless. She was their one hope. The thing had to be done.

Again a cry for help was flung upwards from her heart; and she set
herself resolutely to work, to surmount the difficulty—to climb a bare
rock-surface, which commonly she would have counted insurmountable,
unless she were roped.

Careful study showed the only track which she could hope to follow
with success; and she set to work. Her whole mind had to be bent on
what she was doing; and every nerve was tense, as she crept from crack
to crack, clinging, gripping, holding on for very life. Not for her
own life only! Was she not given this to do —for others? That
recollection brought renewed confidence.

A single glimpse she had of the plunging depth below; a moment's awful
realisation of what a fall would be. With the glimpse and the
realisation came a shock and tremor. Then she calmed herself, holding
hard, and looking upward. "It has to be done! It must be done!" she
whispered; and the brief weakness passed.

Four more brave efforts; and the spot which had threatened disaster
lay behind.



CHAPTER XXI

A Superb Rescue

IT took Doris twice as long to mount as it had taken Pressford; and
each moment of the time was to her—but tenfold more to Maurice —an age
in itself. She was in a state of acute nervous strain. One object only
lay before her mind,—the next step, the next handhold. Other thoughts
died out, or were entirely subordinate. Her powers of climbing, under
the present exigency, were increased to a remarkable degree. Maurice
marvelled, as he watched and feared.

At last she was nearly on a level with Pressford!

She could see now that he hung against a face of smooth rock, beyond
the couloir which she was mounting; and that between him and death lay
nothing but the upholding rope. But, as she had half made out from
below, a ledge of rock, just wide enough for safety, gave access from
the gully to a spot nearly below him. Once upon that ledge, she would
be able to secure Pressford, and so to free Maurice. Her spirit
bounded at the thought.

More work had to be done first. To quit the couloir and reach the
ledge meant two or three dizzy steps. But' courage rose high, and fear
was gone. All recollection of self was swallowed up in the joy of
success. Perhaps her chief danger at this point lay in the direction
of overconfidence; and Maurice's warning voice—"Steady, don't hurry!"—
came at the right moment.

Three critical steps were managed without a shudder. She gained the
ledge, passed to its farther end, measured Pressford's distance with a
glance, and called—"It's all right! I'm here!"

That crossing from the gully had taken her beyond the range of
Maurice's vision; and the pause before her glad cry reached him meant
another short-long agony of suspense. Then he knew; and the relief was
unspeakable. For one moment his brain swam; and—"Thank God!"—was all
he could utter.

"I'm on the ledge all right," she cried again.

Maurice spoke clearly. "Can you reach him? I can only loosen a foot
of rope, without letting go."

"Yes—yes that will do. I'll get him—if you'll just lower him the least
little bit. Yes—so—a little more."

Inch by inch, as Maurice allowed the rope to slip through his stiff
and aching fingers, Pressford descended. Doris, steadying herself,
grasped him by the boots, pulled him towards the ledge, and called for
further slackening. Soon he lay at full length, and she knelt to
support his head.

"It's all right!"—once more in ringing tones. "He is here—safe—on the
ledge with me."

"Can you unrope him, and fix the rope securely?"

"I'll try."

She freed the rope from Pressford, and then, with a good deal of
difficulty, succeeded in fastening it strongly round a crag.

"I think it will do now. I've pulled hard, and it holds," she said.

"Stay where you are. I'm coming."

She could hear but could not see Maurice's movements. The waiting,
the inaction, tried her much, after the past strain and exertion.
Pressford did not stir, but once or twice she heard him mutter an
incoherent word. She could see that he had had a heavy blow on the
head, where his hair was matted with blood.

Keeping a hand on his shoulder, lest he should try to get up, she
counted the slow moments. "If Maurice should slip," became a haunting
fear. True, he had the rope; and that, if it held, would keep him from
falling far. But what if she had not made the rope quite secure? What
if the crag should snap under a sudden jerk? What if he, in his turn,
should be stunned?

These and other possibilities ran riot in her mind. If anything
happened to him, what could she do, alone on this ledge of rock with
the helpless Pressford? She had come up, alone. She was certain that
she could never go down alone.

Beyond and above such fears, it flashed across her what a difference
would be wrought in her life, if Maurice were killed! Till this hour
she had hardly recognised the place which he had won in her heart.

He was coming—coming. She could hear the sounds of his gradual
approach. She said no word, called no question. He needed all his
faculties, undisturbed, for the descent. The actual difficulties of
the gully were indeed much less for him than for her; but he had
passed through a nerve-trying experience, which might well have
lessened his powers of endurance. And though the rope was there to
break his fall, in case of a slip, it gave him no actual help in his
descent.

Suddenly he was within sight. She held her breath. Those critical
steps, dividing the couloir from the ledge, had to be taken, but to
a practised mountaineer they meant nothing.

One moment more—and he stepped upon the ledge.

Doris's forebodings vanished like smoke. In an instant she felt as
safe as if at the mountain's base. His hand grasped hers with a long
and meaning grip which spoke volumes; and their eyes met. Words were
not needed; perhaps, at least for Maurice, were not possible. Each
felt only that the other was safe; that a great danger was over; that
a terrible calamity had been averted. That prolonged grasp spoke of a
thankfulness which could not be voiced,—of a mutual joy beyond
speech,—of a drawing closer together of their two lives.

Then, still in silence, Maurice knelt beside Pressford, examined the
blow on his head, and passed a careful hand over different parts of
his body.

"Is he much hurt?" Doris ventured to ask.

"I hope not. I can't be sure yet as to other injuries; but no bones
seem to be broken. He is badly stunned, poor fellow!" After a slight
pause,—"I must rope you next, and send you down."

"And Mr. Pressford?"

"Afterwards. You first."

He made all ready, bracing himself securely as near to the couloir
as he could stand, while within reach if Pressford should move. Then,
as Doris began her descent, he let out the rope with extreme caution.
Going down was, of course, in itself more risky than going up, but the
rope gave confidence and meant safety. Twice she slipped, and Maurice
held firmly, till she regained her balance.

Arriving at the snow-plateau, she freed herself, and stood watching,
while Maurice hauled the rope in, fastened it round Pressford, and
slowly lowered the latter to her side. This done, he followed, fixing
part of the rope to aid him over the worst rocks.

"Mr. Pressford seems rousing up a little," Doris announced. "He said
something quite sensible just now."

The "something sensible" must have been hazy in nature, judging from
the mutter which greeted Maurice. But after a few sips of cold tea,
when Maurice had tied up the wound on his friend's head with a silk
handkerchief, Pressford really showed signs of reviving.

"What has happened?" he was able to ask.

"You've had an awkward fall, old man. Did you lose your hold?"

"No—" after a pause for recollection. "No—I believe—the rock gave."

"Hard luck! But you'll do now, I hope."

Pressford seemed to lose himself again; and some time elapsed before
his next remark. "Miss Winton—sorry—disappointed. Can't bag our peak
to-day."

"No. That's unfortunate."

"How did you get me down? I suppose—the rope held."

"Yes; but I was a fixture. It was all I could do to support your
weight. I might have stayed there till Doomsday—but for Miss Winton.
She climbed up to our help."

"Climbed—where?"

"To that ledge." Maurice indicated its position, and Pressford,
startled into full consciousness, raised himself on one elbow, staring
hard at the rocky rampart, then turning amazed eyes on Doris. "You
were hanging above that—to one side—on the smooth slabby bit."

"You don't mean to say—!"

"Better lie still a little longer." Maurice put him back with a gentle
hand.

"You don't mean to say she climbed up there—alone!—unroped!"

"Alone and unroped. She did it superbly. Not a slip from start to
finish."

"My goodness!" uttered Pressford, still staring.

Doris broke into a little laugh of pleasure.

"But I was dreadfully frightened once—at the worst part—and not at all
brave," she confessed. "The rock was so steep; and there seemed almost
nothing to get hold of. I thought I should have to give up."

"If you felt afraid, it was much braver to go on than if you did not,"
Pressford said. He seemed more himself, though pale and shaken; and
his gaze went to and fro between Doris and the mountain-wall. "Well—"
he muttered. "I shouldn't have imagined any girl could do it—with no
more training!" He turned to Maurice. "How you could let her—passes
me!"

"But it had to be done. There was no other way," Doris eagerly
explained. "It would have been much worse to go alone all down the
mountain. And Mr. Maurice couldn't have held you up, all those hours."

"I should have come to—in time."

"I rather doubt it—in the position in which you were hanging," Maurice
said dryly. "And if you had, it would have been an awkward spot for
you to tackle in your present state. You were not over the ledge.
And just below you—"

He did not finish the sentence. Pressford took another look, and
muttered—"Hm!"

"So we owe our lives, both of us, to Miss Winton's courage."

Maurice attempted no self-defence. He simply could not explain what
the giving of that permission had meant to himself. He could not trust
himself to speak of it.

"I say—time is going, and we have to get down the mountain. I believe
I can walk now."

"Wait half-an-hour more. We will start then. Miss Winton and I want
another breakfast first."

"Yes, indeed. I'm just starving," declared the girl.

During the half-hour they munched bread and chocolate, talking and
laughing, as if none of the three had, only a little while before,
been on the very verge of that gulf which divides this life from the
next. Not that they had not been deeply impressed; not that they were
not profoundly thankful; but something of reaction was upon them.
Doris was in a state of natural exultation at having achieved a task
of no small difficulty and danger, thereby saving two lives; and
Maurice's hopes with regard to her had risen high. He could not but
feel how much nearer together they had drawn this eventful day.

A start had to be made. They were roped again; Doris now, in the
descent, going first; and Maurice, occupying the post of most danger,
behind. Pressford, as the least capable of the three, had to be in the
middle.

So soon as he was on his feet, it became evident that he was suffering
greatly from pain and dizziness; but he pulled himself together, and
managed better than might have been expected. While any real
difficulty of footing existed, he kept this up; down the steep
snow-slope, and on the lower belt of rocks, which had meant for them
two hours of stiff ascent. Then he collapsed, and had to lie on the
ground for nearly an hour, semi-conscious.

In the long stretch which followed of pine-wood and easy pasturage,
he failed again and again; and one rest had to follow another.
So hours passed; and it was dusk when they neared the village. Yet the
time had not seemed tedious to Doris; still less, to Maurice. These
repeated rests gave them opportunities for long quiet tête-à-tête
talks on many subjects; and neither of the two had any wish to reach
the end of the walk, for their own sakes, though both were solicitous
for Pressford.

By the time that the lights of the village hove in sight, and their
troubles were ended, it seemed to Doris that she had known Maurice all
her life. It seemed yet more to Maurice that life without Doris had
never been.



CHAPTER XXII

Two Hearts Drawing Nearer

PRESSFORD was for several days hors de combat; and Ramsay could hardly
yet be called convalescent; so the two wives had enough to do. Mrs.
Brutt, deeply interested in the invalids, confident of her own
infallibility, and always anxious to be "in" whatever might be going,
begged permission to lend her help. She was so accustomed to sick
folks; she would know exactly how to manage.

"Not for worlds! Keep her off, at any cost!" growled the dismayed
Pressford.

Excuses were politely framed; but Mrs. Brutt, like many who are
abnormally sure of themselves, proved impervious to hints. If she
might not share in the actual nursing, she was bent on at least
supplementing the efforts of her "dear young doctor."

So she brought to the door, now a bottle of medicine for one patient,
then a prescription for the other; now a plate of fruit, then a bunch
of grapes; now a recipe for soup, then a pictorial newspaper. It was
all most kindly meant; but her incessant comings and goings between
hotel and châlet began to get upon people's nerves.

Since the accident, she had taken fright about mountain-ascents, and
had put her foot down flat, refusing consent for another attempt. No,
she really couldn't! It was out of the question. If Doris were killed,
what did they suppose would be thought of her? This seemed to be a
question of greater importance in her eyes, than the actual tragedy.
Go up the Glückhorn again! Certainly not! Doris must first get leave
from her parents. Mrs. Brutt washed her hands of any such
responsibility.

It was a severe disappointment; for Doris had set her heart on a
second and successful climb. She doubted if leave would be given,
after the manner of letter which Mrs. Brutt was sure to write. And
days were passing! Maurice's time of absence was nearly up, though it
had been slightly extended.

Thus far, in writing home, she had said very little about him,—vaguely
dreading to have her present happiness cut short. She would have found
it difficult to express by post her own half-defined feelings; and—
whether consciously or half-unconsciously—she had not mentioned his
name, but had alluded to him as the "English doctor in our hotel."

This was distinctly not ingenuous. From the first she ought to have
written more fully. And in her heart Doris knew it!

Until the day of the Glückhorn ascent, she had not definitely allowed
even to herself that the growing intimacy meant more than friendship.
And, though now her eyes were being opened, still—Maurice had not
spoken.

After divers protestations from Mrs. Brutt, and the quashing of
various schemes, Maurice begged to take Doris to the summit of the
Petit Chamossaire. He was bent on having her once more to himself.
Something had to be said before they parted; something that he had no
wish to say—that he would thankfully have deferred saying. But
conscience spoke loudly, and would not be denied.

So he made his request, and explained that no risks would be run.
A magnificent view could be gained at small cost. The summit stood
some 7600 feet above the sea-level; yet to get there meant a mere
walk, with no real climbing; a walk which any lady might venture
to take. Any robust lady, he hastened to add, as he perceived dawning
recollections of past gazelle-like agility. He did not wish Mrs. Brutt
to forth a third in the expedition; and he knew that she dreaded
nothing more than to be counted "robust."

After some fuss, leave was granted. Mrs. Brutt had her doubts whether
Mrs. Winton would approve of the plan—just Doris and Mr. Maurice going
together! She might have been perfectly sure that Doris's mother would
very much disapprove. But since her dear young doctor thought it
right, she could not refuse. And really girls nowadays did that sort
of thing. Nobody thought anything of it.

She had not the resolution to oppose him; and she honestly believed
that his "kindness" to Doris was wholly for her sake. He was really
so agreeable, she said to one of her English-speaking German cronies;
so charmingly "domesticated." This was another of her misused
adjectives, which might give the impression of a man of the "tame-cat"
order. Dick Maurice was not that. But it satisfied her; and she was
delighted with his attentions to herself.

So the expedition was arranged.

No need this time for axes and goggles. And they started between six
and seven, instead of between two and three.

Much of their way was a rough sledge-path through pine-woods, where
footing might take care of itself; and they talked without a break.
Well as they felt that they had known one another before, mutual
knowledge that day advanced by strides. No third person was present
to act as a drag.

Somehow, Doris had told him much more about herself than he had told
her about himself, up to this date.

He could talk with enthusiasm of his profession, his work, his
friends, his aims and objects, the books he had read, the places he
had seen, the mountains he had climbed. And that was all right enough.
But from the first he had said little about his home. She knew that
his work lay in Edinburgh. She did not know whether his home was
there; and, though aware that his mother lived, she knew nothing more
about his family. Sometimes she had caught herself wondering over this
persistent silence.

Through the long early morning walk, he still said nothing; but she
had a curious sense that he wanted to say something. There were
occasional slight breaks and pauses, when his attention seemed adrift,
his mind preoccupied.

They had a second breakfast at Bretaye, in the small open restaurant,
with a fine distant view of Mont Blanc. Then they mounted the only
steep place which had to be climbed; a mere nothing, after recent
experiences.

On the summit, a lofty headland, they found themselves at the centre
of a splendid panorama.

By the way they had come, the descent though sharp was grassy and
gradual. On the other side, close to where they had found seats, a
narrow belt of sloping grass ended in a deep precipice, facing the
Rhone Valley. It was a day of glorious sunshine, tempered by a light
breeze; and a few cloudlets, like wisps of cotton-wool, lay in far off
hollows. The heaven was one unbroken expanse of rich blue.

Maurice pointed out to her in a subdued voice some chief features
in the landscape; beginning with the Lake of Geneva, a misty blur,
bounded by dim Jura outlines; and travelling thence to the left, by
way of the rugged Gramont and the pale blue Dent du Midi. Between the
latter and the Dent du Morcles was a radiant vision of the monarch of
Swiss mountains, pure and spotlessly white; also of the massed turrets
and glaciers of the Valaisian Range.

Viewed beside these snow-clad giants the Dent du Midi, imposing enough
when observed from a lower level, was dwarfed, much as some worthy
village magnate is dwarfed in the presence of Royalty.

Farther to the left lay the grand rocky range, which Doris had been
daily studying; and the individuals of that range also fell into their
true places. Seen from this lofty standpoint, indeed, many heights
which had claimed to be great grew small; while others, hitherto
modestly in the background, rose to their real greatness.

Yet more to the left, as the eye travelled round, and beyond rocky
ranges, was a vision of the Oberland giants; especially of the
Jungfrau and her two mighty neighbours. Of all the vast mountain array
that day, the stately Jungfrau alone, a coy maiden of substantial
proportions, hid her fair face behind a veil of cloud.

Farther still came more and more masses of tangled rocks and pine-clad
summits; following which, the circuit was completed; and at length the
dim Geneva lake once more claimed attention.

But no words can give the scene as a whole; no brain could grasp all
its infinite complexity of finish.

Solid mountains and spreading valleys; hollowed ravines and rifted
sides; towering summits and wall-like precipices; steep white
glaciers, with tiny transverse lines suggestive of crevasses, and pure
broad snowfields; lifted horns and jagged ridges; great pine-forests
and fair green pastures; scattered villages and distant towns—all
these went to the making of the picture. And over everything, far and
near, a delicate intangible veil of pale blue mist, hiding nothing,
dimming nothing, only adding to the perfect beauty by a slight
softening of outline, while permitting every detail to be seen.

And, in the midst of it all, two human beings, a man and a girl; two
hearts drawing hourly nearer together.

And the heart of a man is greater than the mightiest of mountains,
as spirit is greater than matter.



CHAPTER XXIII

Almost Over

THEY had followed the circuit of the landscape, standing up to look
each way in turn; then resuming their seats. A break in the talk came.
Doris twisted round, to gaze over the abrupt descent behind them—then
looked again admiringly towards the wonderful Oberland dream-vision.
She had anew the feeling that Maurice wanted to say something; and
waited for him to say it.

Her sense spoke truly. All the morning he had been pondering how to
lead up to this something—how to produce it; and conjecturing how she
would take it.

He dreaded coming to the point. It might make all the difference with
her; with his hopes of winning her. But the thing had to be said. And
he could hope for no better opportunity. When he spoke, there was a
sound of strain in his voice.

"You were asking one day—not long ago—how it was that I took to my
present work."

"Yes, I remember. You said it wouldn't have been your own choice.
I suppose that means that you don't care for doctoring—or rather,
for surgery."

"It is a life with no end of openings."

"Openings for what?"

"Helping others. Being of use."

"But you would have liked something else."

"My real bent was for the army."

"And why didn't you—?"

"The friend who paid for my education refused his consent."

She wondered why this brought a disagreeable sensation.

"What made him refuse?"

"He gave no reason."

"And you are sorry—still!"

"Nothing is more foolish than to be a slave to useless regrets.
My line is marked out for me; and I have to make the best of it."

"That is brave—anyway," she murmured.

"It is my simple duty."

He had not yet said what had to be said. It was difficult to come
to the point. He was sorely tempted to put off.

"But your friend who—had he a right to forbid the army?"

"I suppose he had—in a way. He made it a condition of giving the help
that I—we—needed."

"I see," she said. But she felt that she did not see. "Was he a near
relative?"

"No. A friend." Doris kept uneasy silence. He added, "My mother
enforced his wish."

She repeated, "Your mother?" with a note of inquiry.

"I have meant to tell you more about her. It is right that I should.
Her father, my grandfather, was, I have always heard, a very superior
man; head-clerk in a large house of business in Manchester. But he
married beneath him—one of the mill-hands. I don't know how it came
about. My mother was left an orphan very young; and her home was with
an uncle—a farmer. She is not well educated. She was sent to school,
I know, for two or three years—but perhaps she did not care to learn."

Doris was taken acutely by surprise. She did not know what to say; and
she waited in silence for more.

"My father," he went on in a low voice, "died when I was a little
child. I have no remembrance of him. But my mother once told me that
he was well-born—well-connected. And I know—apart from what she said—
I know, from what is in me, that he must have been of gentle birth.
You understand, do you not? I have all the instincts of gentle blood.
That at least I may claim, without hesitation. I have them—not from
training only, but by inheritance."

Another pause. Doris had not stirred.

"Still—I must tell you frankly—I am afraid there may have been about
him something not satisfactory. I only conjecture this, for my mother
has said nothing of the kind. She is by nature extraordinarily
reserved; and she scarcely ever mentions him. He may, possibly, have
done something which she does not like to tell. But that my father was
a gentleman, I have no doubt."

Doris made an indistinct sound.

"By the wish of this friend, who undertook my education, I have been
very little with my mother and sisters. He has insisted on keeping me
as much as possible away from them."

She managed to say, "That must make things difficult."

"It makes things very difficult. When we do meet, there is a gulf
which nothing can bridge over. Our lives, our aims, our whole outlook—
are different. I suppose the separation was wrong. But I had no
responsibility there. Nothing now can undo the past."

"And this friend—does he still wish you to keep away from them?"

"The same as ever. And though he has no real control over me, we owe
him much. Besides—he makes other things depend upon—this!"—in a lower
tone.

Another break. "You have sisters," Doris observed.

"Two. One of them has inherited—as I hope I have—the instincts of
gentle blood. Poor little Winnie! But—Jane—"

He stopped short. Doris had started to her feet, crimson and half
choked, hardly able to believe her own ears.

Winnie!—and Jane! Morris!—and Maurice!—the same name, differently
spelt.

His father—a gentleman! In a flash she recalled the portrait, found
and opened by Mrs. Brutt; the narrow, low-browed bad face, the worse
than vulgar look. That—his father! And his mother—the heavy, blunt,
silent woman, Mrs. Morris! And his sister—the impossible Jane,
in yellow blouse and furious fringe and cheap gorgeous hat!

It was like an abyss opening before her! This new sweet world
of happiness, in which for days she had lived, underwent eclipse.

In a flash she saw it all; and she forgot where she was. She forgot
everything, except the dire discovery that Dick Maurice, the man to
whom she had lost her heart, was the son of Phil Morris and Nurse
Molly, and—the brother of Jane!

Her first impulse was to spring to her feet, to put a space between
herself and him. She obeyed the impulse unthinkingly, with a hasty
backward movement.

One step, and she was on the verge of that tremendous depth, which
separated this lofty headland from the valley, far far below.
Dominated by the one overwhelming thought, she did not dream of
danger. A second step—and her foot was over the edge, in empty air.

She tottered—staggered—flung out her hands. Maurice, springing to save
her, believed for one awful hundredth of a second that he was too
late; that she had surmounted the perils of a dangerous rock-climb,
to perish from off this grassy mount. The shock of her staggering
clutch at the air, as she swayed backwards, drove every vestige of
colour from his face; and any less instantaneous leap to the rescue
must have failed of its object. She was in the very act of falling,
when gripped by his hand and dragged away.

"How—could you?"

She saw that he was ghastly.

"I—don't know. Did I slip?"

"What made you?"

She tried to withdraw her hand, but he kept a firm grip, led her
to the edge, and bade her look over. Where they stood, it seemed that
nothing lay between them and the level of the Rhone Valley, thousands
of feet below. From the contemplation of that sheer depth, her eyes
sought his.

"I see! I—had forgotten. And you—you saved me." She gave a shudder.
"How quick you were! I can't thank you. It has given you rather a
fright."

Rather a fright! He drew her to a safe distance, made her sit down,
and did the same himself—his face still as white as chalk. She
submitted in bewildered silence, conscious that her escapade was being
commented on by two or three strangers present, though no one ventured
to accost the pair.

As she sat by his side, it dawned upon her what her death would have
meant to Maurice, had she been thus, in one moment, swept out of his
life. Then, reverting to what had gone before, she felt a great wave
of pity for him. She could see that he was unnerved, shaken, hardly
able to hold himself together. If things were as he said, it was not
his fault. He could not be blamed for his parentage.

"But I ought to have known sooner," she said to herself.

Maurice at length broke the silence.

"Was it—what I said? Did that startle you?"

Her reply was indistinct.

"For days I have felt that I must explain. Especially since your
mention of Mr. Stirling. Don't you see?" as she looked puzzled. "It is
he who paid for my education."

"Oh," vaguely. "Did I speak of him? He is a great friend of ours."

"It—has not been easy," Maurice went on, very low. "The temptation
to put off has been—tremendous. More than I can explain! But I knew
it had to be said. And I thought—if I could get you alone for this
walk—"

"Yes. I understand."

He clenched his fingers upon his stick, till they whitened through
their tan.

"Was it—what I said about my mother that startled you? Or was it—?"

"I have seen your sister Jane," was all she said; and Maurice needed
to ask no more.

Doris sighed quietly.

"I suppose it is about time for us to start," she said. She spoke
as one in a maze; and still to herself she kept repeating—

"The son of Nurse Molly! The brother of Jane Morris!"

Yet still Dick Maurice!—the man who was becoming so much to her!—
the man by whom she could be sure she was beloved! Her eyes fell upon
the strong, finely-formed brown hand, clutching his stick, the hand
which had drawn her attention when first they met as strangers; and a
wave of tenderness rolled through her. How hard it was for him!

"I meant to take you to the Lac des Chavonnes. It is part of the show.
Perhaps you'd rather not—now."

His face was wistful; and a reckless fit carried her away. Everything
was different, she told herself. This might be their last, their very
last, walk together. Why cut it short? Why not make the most of it? He
had been so brave, so good, speaking out the distasteful truth! This
one little treat, surely, she might allow—whether to him or to
herself, she did not mentally specify.

Nor did she pause to consider whether it was wise—whether, for his
sake, if everything now would be different, she ought not at once to
end their intercourse? The wish assailed her powerfully, and she gave
in to it.

"I suppose I ought just to see the lake. It is not far off, is it?"

"Not half-an-hour's walk from Bretaye."

His face brightened, and they went at a rapid pace down the steep
grass-slope, each trying to put aside the prevailing thought, and to
chat lightly. If Doris succeeded, Maurice did not.

Reaching the small blue-grey piece of water, with its framework of
jagged rocks and slender pines, they climbed to a shady spot, and sat
long in silence, which neither was in haste to interrupt. Upon each
stole a strong consciousness that, shared with the other, life offered
the best that it had to give, little besides being essential for
happiness. But, while this consciousness pervaded the whole being
of the man, dominating his every faculty, it rested rather as a ray
of brightness upon the surface of the girl's mind; not less genuine,
but less deep.



CHAPTER XXIV

"But I'm Afraid"

"DOES it matter so very much?" Maurice asked at length, a thrill of
intense feeling in his voice.

"I'm afraid it does." Her eyes were full.

"It was wrong of me not to tell you sooner. You forgive?"

"Oh, it isn't—forgiveness," she said, with difficulty. "It means so
many things."

"Tell me—what things."

She shook her head.

"I can't. How can I?"

"No need," he said.

Then he explained how fully he knew; how deeply he felt his own
position; how in college days he had suffered—always in silence—from
the impossibility of asking his college chums to his home, as other
men did. How he had fought the battle out, had accepted those
conditions of life which were his, had determined to make his own
standing, had found friends, had hoped that the worst was over. And
then—how he had seen her, and had discovered, with a new and terrible
poignancy, what his position indeed meant.

Not at the beginning; not when they first met; but day by day as they
grew more intimate. Then the old battle had to be fought over again;
only far worse, far harder, than ever before. Even when he had seemed
to be at his best and gayest, he never could forget, and the strife
had gone on. For all through he had known that, sooner or later, he
must tell her everything; and time after time he had striven to bring
out the words, which he feared would dash his hopes to the ground.

"For I love you!—love you!" he said, with a concentration of passion.
"I love you with all my heart—with all my soul. No one ever has been—
no one ever can be—what you have become. Doris, do you care ever so
little for me? Could you love me? Could you be mine—my own!—my very
own?"

He caught her hands, and rained kisses upon them. She let them lie
in his grasp, neither responding nor checking.

"Tell me—do you care? Sometimes I hope that you do. In spite of all
this—do you love me, just a little? Am I nothing to you—nothing at
all?"

"No!" she whispered. The monosyllable seemed to be dragged from her.

"You do—you do love! My own! My darling!"

The rapture of look and tone awoke a sense of prudence.

"Yes, but—no, stop, please. It can't be. It is impossible. It can
never be."

"But if you love me, Doris, sweetest!—if you feel for me only 
one-hundredth part of what I feel for you—is this to keep us apart? This,
that I cannot help—this, for which I am not responsible!—this, that
does not change me, does not make me in myself unfit for you? Is the
question of my forbears so tremendous a thing, that it must spoil my
life—must spoil, perhaps, both our lives? If other things do not stand
in the way, and if you know that I could make you happy—Doris, my
darling, does it not seem that we are made for one another? I have
felt it so from the first. Have not you? I love you—and you do not
deny that you love me. Is not that enough, my darling—my own?"

He was beside her on the grass, his eyes on a level with hers,
searching into them, full of pleading, full of vehement appeal; his
face white with feeling.

"If we truly love, can anything keep us long apart? Shall any lesser
thing be allowed? Would it be right—reasonable? I do not minimise the
difficulty. It is real, I know. But think!—think!—dear one. Could you
choose to live your life apart from mine?—would you choose it, if the
choice is yours? Are we not one already in mind and heart? If you
love—would you consent to separation for life, only for this?—only
that yours is bluer blood than mine! You shall make of me what you
will! My people shall not trouble you—that I can promise. It is you
and I who love—just you and I! What has the rest of the world to do
with us? Just you and I!—my Doris!—my darling!"

His passionate energy swept her along, carried her away, and she burst
into tears.

"I don't know. Oh, I don't know," was all she could say; and his arms
were round her.

"My own! My Doris!"

"Oh, don't! Please don't! It is so hard. I can't tell what mother will
say. And—there is Mr. Stirling."

"He is only a friend. He has no real authority over me." Maurice
laughed joyously, holding her fast. "My own! My own!" he repeated,
with a radiance of delight which infected her and bore her,
metaphorically, off her feet. It was like being carried along on a
whirlwind. "I am of an age to decide for myself. And you—my darling—"

"If—mother—" she faltered. "But I'm afraid—I'm afraid—she won't—"

"Don't be afraid. Why should you? Now we know that we love, all else
is nothing. We may face the world without a doubt."

This was all very well; but he did not know Mrs. Winton.

"Even if obstacles do arise, it will only be for a time. You are mine
now—mine absolutely. While you and I are true one to another, nothing
can finally separate us."

He had his way. He had won a confession of her love; and his ardour
awoke a reflection in her. For the moment, doubts were mastered, and
she consented to put them aside, to yield herself to him. Nothing—just
then!—seemed of importance, beyond the fact that each loved the other.

Time fled on wings as they talked; and they had the place to
themselves.

They compared notes as to the beginnings of love on either side.
Maurice told her what lovely eyes she had, and how she had taken him
captive with her first glance, her first smile. Doris more cautiously
admitted that he from the first had seemed unlike other men. They
laughed over some recollections; and they lived through once more
the crucial hour of her difficult rock-climb.

Then they reverted to his early life; and he told her many things
connected with his past,—how seldom he had been allowed to see his own
people; how his holidays had been spent with comparative strangers, or
else at school. Doris said how she had taken to the gentle Winnie; and
he replied earnestly that she should see Winnie as often as she
chose,—but not Jane! She was silent, knowing that he could not, even
for her sake, repudiate the relationship. And there was his mother
too. A chill crept through her at the thought that she, some day,
would be Mrs. Morris' daughter-in-law,—and Jane's sister-in-law! And
what—oh, what—would her mother say? It was Mrs. Winton—not the Rector—
whom she feared; and still more, opposition in herself.

She began to wonder how she could have so completely, given in to his
urgency. At the first she had felt everything to be changed by this
discovery; she had looked upon him as impossible. And now — here was
she already engaged to marry him! Subject, no doubt, to her parents'
consent; yet provisionally engaged.

Had she been too impulsive, too easily carried away? Would it not have
been wiser, more sensible, at least to have insisted on time for
consideration?

These doubts suggested themselves; and then again she met his ardent
gaze, his glowing smile; and she could think of nothing else. He stole
another kiss; and while she protested, she did feel that it was very
sweet to be so loved.

"I don't understand about your name," she said later, having for a
while lost sight of these questionings. "Why is it different from your
mother's?"

"Mine is, I believe, the right spelling. Mr. Stirling settled the
question for me in boyhood, and gave no reason. Sometimes I have
fancied that my father may have wished to disguise his name, when he
went to Canada. But I know so little—beyond that one fact that he was
by birth and education a gentleman. My mother only spoke of it once;
but she was quite definite."

Doris could not resist saying—

"But I saw his likeness."

"We have no likeness of him."

"Yes; it was on the table, at the farm. Mrs. Brutt took it up, and his
name was written—'Phil Morris.'"

"My mother has never shown it to me."

"It was there," repeated Doris, reading unbelief in the tone. "And—
Dick—it was not the face of a gentleman."

He smiled. "Rather difficult to judge from a photograph."

"It was painted."

"Still less to go upon, unless the artist were first-rate. Would you
like to be labelled from all your likenesses?"

She was silent; not convinced.

"And after all, my darling,—don't you think that the real question is—
not, what my father was, but what I am? I don't mean that that is
without weight; but surely—it has lesser weight."

"You don't know my mother, Dick, or how much she thinks of that sort
of thing."

"She is—a little particular!"—fondly.

"Oh, very!—very!"

Doris heard her own voice speaking to the Squire, as she stood with
head thrown back,—"I'm not the very least afraid of being taken for
one of Jane Morris's friends!" She added faintly—

"I'm afraid—I'm a little particular too."

He looked at her with admiration, ready to believe that she was so
in the abstract, and failing to see the present application.

"You shall be as particular as you like with me, my darling. Whatever
you wish shall be done."

She sighed, but did not explain; and again he poured out loving words,
till he had once more the upper hand, and her doubts waned before his
fervour. After a while she reverted to them sufficiently to observe—

"I wonder why Mr. Stirling has never spoken of you to us—or of your
mother. We know him so well."

"He would hardly go about talking of his own generosity. I don't think
that would be his way. Besides—" Maurice stopped.

"Yes. Besides—?"

"I have never felt that I could fathom him. His is a perplexing
character—a curious mixture of opposites. My sister, Winnie, half
worships him. But, with all his kindness to us, he has somehow never
managed to win my affection."

"You don't care for him!"—wonderingly.

"No."

"But—why?"

He laughed, and quoted,—"'The reason why I cannot tell—but this I do
know very well—'"

"We all think so much of him. Why, Dick,—he always seems to me just
perfect. I've never known him do a wrong thing."

"He has been a most generous friend to us. Won't that do?"

They walked back slowly, neither of them in haste to end the day.
Recurring waves of doubt assailed Doris from time to time; but she put
aside each in turn. The future would have to be met. The present she
would make the most of. Still, she could not feel quite easy.

When they reached the last piece of steep downhill, leading to the
village, they found that they would be late for table d'hôte, and also
that they were in for a grand "after-glow."

Not upon snow, but upon rocks, the nearer heights being at this time
of the year almost free from snow. All the vast rocky barrier,
extending from the Diablerets to the Dent du Morcles, was transformed
as by the touch of a magician's wand from its ordinary cold grey to an
extraordinary radiance, like molten copper shining with its own
intensity of heat. Between the red-gold of the Diablerets and the rich
orange of the Argentiere many varieties of tints might be seen; but
all were brilliant, burnished, metallic, wonderful! It was hard to
believe that the gorgeous wealth of colouring was a loan, not
intrinsic. The splendour lasted long, and faded gradually.

Neither spoke. They stood and gazed.

Doris saw vividly how, but a short time back, she had been at the
parting of two ways. A single step—and she hung in the very arms of
death—she was actually falling over an awful abyss. One instant of
hesitation on the part of Maurice must have sealed her fate; and she
would now be in that other world, beyond the veil which shrouds our
senses; a world as real, as actual, as this; a world prefigured to the
imagination by such a scene as that on which she was looking.

A vision came of what that fall would have meant,—the fearful downward
rush through yielding air; the clear consciousness of time; the
lightning realisation of past and present, of squandered hours and
wasted opportunities; the shock of terrific contact with mother-earth;
and then—the entrance on that other world.

But she had not gone. She was still on this side of the dividing veil.
She had still to live this lower life of preparation, with its duties,
its overvalued littlenesses, its undervalued greatnesses. And she was
glad to be here; glad to be not yet called away; glad to feel that it
was still in her power to make a better and nobler thing of her life
than in the past.

She glanced towards Maurice, and found his eyes bent steadily—not on
the glowing rock-mountains, but upon herself.

"Dick—I needn't tell Mrs. Brutt?"

"I don't think it is her business."

"But—my people must know."

"Yes. The question is—shall I write to your father at once? Or, shall
I wait till I go home next week, and travel straight to Lynnbrooke?"

"Will you do that? Oh, Dick, it will be best—much, much best. If they
see you, that will make just all the difference."

"I'm not so sure! But it does seem the wiser plan. One can say so much
more—verbally."

"Only of course we can't count it really an engagement, till they
know."

"I'm afraid I count it very real indeed."

"You don't know what mother will think."

Her face shadowed over, and a chill query shot through his mind. Had
he brought trouble upon her by his impulsive action? He was not in the
main a selfish man; far from it; but this day he had been completely
carried away by passion.

In the morning he had intended to let her know about his parentage;
but since she had never named the Morrises, he had no idea that she
had ever come across them. He felt only that she had a right to know
all; and he meant to enlighten her.

Now he had gone far beyond mere enlightenment. He had taken
irrevocable steps. Whether their engagement should or should not be
permitted to stand, he had called into active life longings, hitherto
vague, now definite, which would not be easily laid to rest.

Was she to pay a penalty of suffering for his failure in self-control?



CHAPTER XXV

The Squire's Advice

"LETTERS. One for you, Sylvester, from Doris. And another for me,
from Mrs. Brutt."

The burly Rector sat at one end of the breakfast-table; and at the
other Mrs. Winton presided, with her usual air of state. She never
forgot that a Peer of the Realm was her distant cousin. They studied
their missives in silence.

"What a woman it is!" came presently. "The amount of talk! What does
Doris say?"

"Wants to climb another mountain. Mrs. Brutt refuses consent."

"She shows some sense—for once!"

"So the child appeals to us."

Mr. Winton read on, smiling to himself.

"Mrs. Brutt says she has been ill—and her English doctor has done
'wonders' for her. Is that the one who went up the peak with Doris?"

"Probably."

"Mrs. Brutt seems full of him. 'A delightful young fellow,' she calls
him. 'Young!'" Mrs. Winton scented mischief. She had pictured the
doctor in question as a comfortable, middle-aged practitioner, father
of a family.

"'Young,' Sylvester. You heard!"

"Yes, my dear."

"And Doris has been rampaging over the mountains with this young
doctor! Just listen—"

"'Such a dear young doctor—so gifted!—with quite distinguished
manners. Really, I never came across a medical man with keener
insight. I assure you, he read my constitution at a glance which must
mean absolute genius on his part, for I am not a person easily
understood—so very complex, you know!—as my dear old doctor used often
to say—"Yours is such a highly-strung organisation, my dear lady;
it needs acute observation—"'"

Mrs. Winton came to a bored pause.

"I don't believe any doctor alive would say anything so supremely
absurd—unless by way of flattery."

"But about Doris?"

"I'm trying to find out. It is all about the woman herself. Ah, here
we are. 'Doris is writing to Mr. Winton about her new craze for
climbing. She went partly up one peak with Mr. Maurice and
Mr. Pressford.' Now, which of them is the doctor? 'And Mr. Pressford
had a bad fall, and was stunned. Such a mercy that they had a doctor
in their party!' So Mr. Maurice is the individual. 'Doris will tell
you all that happened. She seems to have helped the others out of
their difficulty really most cleverly.'"

Mrs. Winton was scandalised.

"I never heard anything like it! Two full-grown men!—and a girl having
to get them out of their difficulties. What next, I wonder?"

"Mr. Maurice was supporting his friend on the rope, and he was unable
to move. Doris explains."

"Then he had no business to support his friend! They ought both
to have been looking after her."

Mrs. Winton reverted to her letter.

"'He is such an agile young fellow. But if an experienced climber like
Mr. Pressford can have a fall, one feels that anything might happen;
and really I must refuse any more responsibility in the matter.' I see
she says later that Mr. Maurice is beginning to practise in Edinburgh—
and is 'extremely well thought of!' I suppose he told her so himself!
I wonder what Mr. Hamilton Stirling would say to all this!"

The Rector grunted. He did not want anybody to carry off his pretty 
Doris; but it was conceivable that a lively young Alpinist might be
better than a human Encyclopaedia.

"I don't know what you think, Sylvester, but I consider that it is
time for Doris to come home."

"Here's the Squire. Ask him."

Mr. Stirling walked in, apologising for the hour. He had ridden over
before breakfast, secure of supplying his needs at the Rectory and
hardly was he seated before Mrs. Winton had launched into the subject
of the two letters. The Rector, studying him, decided that something
was out of gear. He looked worn, almost old; and at first he seemed
abstracted. Something in a sentence from Doris's letter called up his
full attention with a jump.

"A new accomplishment for Doris," was his first remark, and it was
said with a forced smile. Then he asked carelessly how the young
doctor's name was spelt.

Extracts from the elder lady came next, with emendations from
Mrs. Winton.

"I dislike this sort of thing for Doris—extremely. Mrs. Brutt ought
to have known better than to allow it. She seems infatuated. I dare
say the young doctor is well enough in his way; but I do not choose
that Doris should be mixed up with all sorts of people."

The Squire had ceased eating, and was lost in thought.

"On the whole," he remarked, "I am disposed to advise a recall.
You will be wise to have Doris home."

Mr. Winton was again conscious of a perplexing element in tone and
manner. Mrs. Winton, taken up with her own view of matters, noticed
nothing.

"I happen to know something of a young Maurice, living in Edinburgh,—
probably the same." His words came slowly, and Mrs. Winton threw up
alarmed hands.

"You mean that he is an improper acquaintance."

"I have nothing to say against him personally. But his connections
are unsatisfactory."

"You mean—if there were any danger of an attachment! No fear of that.
Doris is too well trained; and she is as particular as I am myself.
Not the slightest danger of such a thing. But the intercourse is
undesirable. We had certainly better have her back as quickly as
possible,—and this is the last time she shall be trusted with Mrs.
Brutt. Quite the last time! I never did feel any confidence in that
woman. She thinks of nothing but herself. But about Doris's return—
if necessary, I suppose I must go myself."

"No need," the Squire said. "Your wiser plan, if I may suggest it,
will be to write and say that you cannot spare Doris any longer. If
Mrs. Brutt does not wish to return yet, an escort can be found."
He was already planning a letter which would bring the elder lady home
also. It was not his wish that either of the two should remain in
close touch with Maurice.

A few minutes later he rode away, resolving to call at Wyldd's Farm.
Some necessary business had to come first; but that should follow.
He had not once been there since his rebuke to Winnie.



CHAPTER XXVI

Not Her Husband

FARMER PAINE in his garden was whistling softly, while he plucked a
bunch of rosebuds for Winnie. She had drooped a good deal of late;
and he was very fond of the girl. Big strong man that he was, her
gentleness appealed to him, and he had a tender heart.

The niece "Molly" had disappointed him a good deal; she was so changed
from the winsome maiden of earlier years, so "shut-up" and
nonresponsive. And Jane was a trial. But he clung to Winnie.

As he stood in his rough coat and gaiters, putting the buds together
with large careful fingers, a man came through the field, and stopped
at the gate. Not a gentleman; not a farmer; not an ordinary labourer;
hardly a beggar. Mr. Paine was at a loss how to label him.

He was short and knock-kneed, with toes that turned in, and a heavy
narrow-browed face, a contrast to the fine old farmer. He might have
been fifty or more, and he slouched along with an uncertain gait. Not
the easy powerful swing of a sailor, or the characteristic roll of the
Rector; but hesitating, dubious, wanting in aim.

"Good morning," he said. "Farmer Paine, I s'pose. I'd know you agen,
anywhere. Fine figure of a man you was—and you're that still. You
dunno me—easy to see!"

Farmer Paine looked up and down the sorry face, the backboneless,
shambling figure.

"No. I don't know you, my man. Perhaps I ought."

A short laugh came in response.

"Didn't much s'pose you would—not expectin'. It's hard on twenty-seven
years since you and me met. And you wasn't over-much perlite to me
then, neither. You and your missus didn't think I was fit for your
pretty Molly. Nor I wasn't. But all the same—"

The farmer fell back a step.

"Yes—I'm him. You know me now."

"Phil—Morris!"

"Same!" He held out his hand.

"But—but I say!—we thought you'd been dead, years and years ago."

"Well, I wasn't—that's all. I'm alive now."

"Molly said you'd been drowned—out in South America."

"Told that, was she? Wonder however she heard! Did she mind?"
He showed interest.

"Why, of course she minded."

"Glad to hear it. Didn't think she'd have cared. No—I didn't."

"And you're here—alive! All these years after."

"I'm alive. I aint much more. And I've got about what's on my back—and
nothin' beyond. I can tell 'ee that."

Paine hesitated. Was this unlooked-for return good for Molly—for the
girls? A penniless failure, for husband and father! He had not liked
Morris in the past, and he had strenuously opposed the engagement;
but Molly had been wilful, and had taken her own way in this as in
other matters. He liked the man even less now. Lines in the face told
of a life of dissipation. Still—here he was!

"To think that Molly isn't a widow, after all! And hasn't been,
all this while."

Morris stared in his turn.

"Dunno what you're after now. She married—of course."

"No, no,—never."

"Eh? Then she must ha' cared a lot more for me than ever I thought."

"Of course she did. Molly ain't one of the talkin' sort. Leastways,
she ain't now. Different when she was a girl. But of course she cared.
Wouldn't be natural-like, if she didn't."

"And never married, after all. I wonder what became of the chap that
was after her. And she's kep' her own name. Whatever did you mean,
farmer,—talkin' as if you'd thought she was a widow?"

They were at cross purposes still. Farmer Paine turned towards the
house. He had not taken in the sense of the last words.

"Come along. Come in," he said heartily. "She'll give you a welcome,
Molly will. It'll startle her, maybe, just at first,—but you'll have
a welcome, man. Care. Of course she cared."

With great strides the farmer reached the door, opened it, and called
in lusty tones—

"Molly! Molly! Here's one come back, that we thought never to see
again." A voice within him murmured—"And didn't wish to see again!"—
but he put that down. "Now, don't you be taken aback," he called
energetically. "Where's Jane? Where's Winnie? Here's your father,
girls,—come back from the grave, as one may say. Never drowned at all,
Molly. It's all a mistake."

"Their father! No, no!" Morris tried to interpose, as the nature of
the farmer's error dawned upon him. But Mr. Paine, all the more
because of that protesting voice within, pressed forward, talking
eagerly—

"Here you are, girls. Aint this a bit of news? Your father's come
back. Wasn't drowned at all, and never wrote. But he's back at last.
Here, Jane,—Winnie—Molly—come along. It's your husband, Molly."

The two were confronted. Farmer Paine dragged forward the wanderer,
a sheepish, puzzled figure; and Mrs. Morris moved to meet him.

She was imperturbable even now, though her face showed that she was
startled. Jane stared with round eyes. Winnie trembled like a leaf.

"Molly, my dear, it's your husband. Him as you thought was dead."

Mrs. Morris stood stock still, one hand folded over the other, after
the style of the superior housekeeper receiving orders from her
mistress.

"Some mistake or other," muttered Morris, holding back.

"Yes, it's a mistake," she agreed. She looked at the farmer.
"That aint my husband."

"Not!" The farmer's jaw fell.

"And Molly she never was my wife, though she was to have been, if she
hadn't gone and jilted me."

"Well, I never!" uttered Mr. Paine. "And if you're not Phil Morris,
who are you, man?"

"I'm Phil Morris, sure enough. But I aint Molly's husband—worse luck."
He turned to the girls. "Nor I aint their father. Wish I was!"

"Never been married!" The farmer was all astray still.

"Well, I did marry, and she's dead, and I've come back. I'd no luck
out there, and I thought I'd try the old country agen. And a sort of
a wish corned over me, to see if Molly was alive." He turned to Mrs.
Morris. "And you married that other chap, did you?" She nodded, and
his gaze went to Mr. Paine. "Whatever did you mean—saying she wasn't
married?"

The farmer seemed dazed, and he spoke slowly.

"I thought she was your widow. I meant—she'd never married again."

"Well, she never was my wife, though she'd promised to be. She was
comin' out to me in Canada; and all of a sudden she wrote and chucked
me. Said she was goin' to marry another feller, and I shouldn't never
hear from her agen. That hit hard, I can tell 'ee— it did, farmer.
I cared a lot for Molly."

Other questions were thronging on Farmer Paine.

"Molly went to Canada," he said; and his fine rugged face had grown
hard. "If she didn't go to you, what did she go for?"

A moment's silence.

"Who was it you married, Molly,—if it wasn't Phil Morris?"

Mrs. Morris spoke stolidly, one hand still folded neatly over the
other.

"It was another man," she said. "I came across him; and I found
I didn't care for Phil. I'd thought I did, and I didn't. It was the
other I cared for—not him. He was a bit above me—a gentlemen out and
out—and he didn't want his folks to know about me being his wife—
he didn't want the fuss there'd be. So I just kept it secret, and let
nobody know. It didn't matter to other people."

"It mattered to me," the farmer said, his voice grieved and hoarse.
"It mattered to me and my wife. And you took us in too."

"Yes. It had to be, uncle."

"And you went to Canada with the other man."

"No, I didn't go to Canada—not at all. That was all a make-up, just to
stop talk. We stopped a good bit where we were after we were married."

"Where was it?"

"We stopped abroad—all the time till my husband died. And then I went
to Norfolk."

"And all these years you've been deceivin' me. And I thought you true,
Molly. Whatever your faults might be, I've judged you true."

"I couldn't help it," she said. "There was reasons why I couldn't say
more; and there's reasons now."

Morris was staring about the room.

"There's the picture I painted and gev to you, Molly," he remarked.
"I gev it you when I went off to Canada—thinkin' as you'd come after
me."

"I didn't know my own mind then."

"And they told you I was drowned. Who said it?"

"I heard it. And after that, I wrote to uncle here. I'd never been
sure before that you wouldn't turn up, and say I wasn't your wife."

Jane broke in with a jarring laugh.

"And this—" she said, taking up the shut frame which Mrs. Brutt had
noticed,—"we thought it was our father, and it isn't. Mother never
showed it to us, till we came to Wyldd's Farm. We couldn't think why."

Mrs. Morris offered no explanation.

"It's me, anyway," said Morris. "But I ain't your father, my dear.
Shouldn't mind if I was."

Jane giggled, and Winnie shivered.

Farmer Paine could not get over the blow. His straightforward nature
recoiled at the thought of this long deliberate deceit. He had trusted
Molly utterly; and at one blow his trust was shattered. With him,
to doubt once was to doubt always. He would never again, after this,
put confidence in her. Besides, he recognised that she had not told
him all. She was shuffling; hiding something still.

Questionings thronged upon him. Why should she have pretended that she
had been married to this man, when she had not? Why should she have
passed all these years under his name? Why should she have displayed
his painting, his likeness, as of her husband? Why should she have
made believe to have gone to Canada? Why should she never have
revealed her whereabouts, even to her nearest relatives, till years
after her husband's death? The whole tissue of lies seemed so
needless, so foolish, over and above the actual wrong-doing. Each new
aspect increased the mystery of her conduct. The more he thought,
the more his spirit was stirred within him.

It was at this juncture that Mr. Stirling, on his way from the
Rectory, arrived at the farm. Finding doors open, and his ring
unnoticed, he walked into the midst of them.

"How do you do?" were his first words. His glance passed carelessly
over the stranger.

"This is Phil Morris, sir," spoke the farmer. "That we all thought
dead. That we thought was her husband!" He indicated his niece with
a backward twist of his thumb.

Jane laughed once more, and the man snickered feebly.

"Eh? What do you say?" Mr. Stirling turned sharply, and his eyes sent
forth a lightning-flash.

"It's Phil Morris, sir,—that we thought was Molly's husband, drowned
twenty years agone. And he wasn't drowned. And she and he they both
has it that they wasn't ever husband and wife. She jilted him for
another man; and she never went to Canada. And all these years that
I've thought her true, she's been deceivin' me—takin' me in right and
left. Livin' a lie, as the sayin' is. And it beats me, it does, to
know what all the tellin' of lies has been for."

The Squire's face was set rigidly; his forehead dented and lined;
his eyes bent, as in stern demand, upon Mrs. Morris. She came two
steps forward, looking straight at him, with no sign of fear.

"It's Phil Morris that I was once engaged to," she said composedly.
"And that I was to have married, as soon as I'd done nursing little
Miss Katherine. I was to have gone out to him in Canada. And I let
folks think I'd done it. But I didn't." She breathed a trifle harder,
and seemed thinking what to say next. Her eyes and the Squire's met
during this pause. "He wrote to say he was going to South America,
and I was to make haste, and we'd be married before he left Canada."

"And you did not go."

"No. I'd met another by that time, that I liked a lot better. And I
married him, and jilted Phil. And their names was pretty much the
same, leastways in sound; and he didn't want his home-folks to know.
And I didn't care. I'd got him, and that was all I wanted." The
impassive face changed, just a little, with these words. "So I
promised him I'd keep it dark; and I did."

Mr. Stirling listened thus far in silence. "A singular tale!" he said
then thoughtfully.

"I'd got my reasons. They didn't matter to anybody else. If my husband
wanted it, I'd got to do what he wanted."

"And after he died—why didn't you speak out then?" demanded the
farmer.

"I couldn't!" was all she said. Her eyes sought the Squire still,
oddly, as if asking his approval.

"And the painting—and the likeness—and the name—and the peck o' lies!"
groaned Farmer Paine.

"That was all of a piece, uncle. It's no use to half do things. I'm no
story-teller, not in a common way. But if a thing's got to be done,
I do it thorough. And this had got to be done."

She folded one hand again over the other, and was silent. Mr. Stirling
seemed lost in consideration.

"Could you ever have thought it of our Molly, sir?" the farmer asked.

"I should like a few words with Mrs. Morris in another room." The
speaker glanced towards Morris, who muttered—

"I'd best be off. Don't see as I'm wanted here. I've got to look for
work."

The Squire paused.

"What kind?"

"I ain't particular. Any sort of odd job 'ud do. I've got to live."

"Wait for me in the field. I can probably help you, if you do not mind
going to a distance."

Morris signified his readiness, and disappeared one way, Mr. Stirling
and Mrs. Morris going another way. The farmer dropped heavily into his
chair.

"Who'd have thought it? Whoever would have thought it?" he groaned.

"But oh, I'm glad that man isn't—father!" whispered Winnie.



CHAPTER XXVII

The Eavesdropper

"THERE she is again!" uttered Pressford in dismay, as a familiar
figure sailed up the garden. "For pity's sake, keep her off."

Mrs. Pressford being out, Amy had to throw herself into the breach.
She was rather in awe of Mrs. Brutt.

"I've brought a few flowers for your poor invalids. Just to cheer them
up, you know. So dull to be kept indoors this lovely weather! I have
been thinking—could you not make a little more use of me, now they are
better? If you would allow me to sit with your husband for an hour,
while you get out with Mrs. Pressford, I should be delighted."

Mrs. Ramsay's childlike eyes widened with dismay.

"It would be no trouble—none whatever. So I hope you will not
hesitate. Invalids need to be amused; and I would do my best. A little
cheerful talk, you know—"

If she had known how Pressford loathed "talk."

"Thanks! It is most kind. Oh, what pretty flowers!"

"Then you will let me appear, some time this afternoon."

"I'm afraid not yet. They have to be kept so quiet."

"I assure you, my dear, I am most quiet. I know so well the need.
The least stir—the smallest creak—in certain states become agonising.
Simply agonising! I know too well from experience. But you may depend
upon me. So if I might look in this afternoon—"

"I'm afraid we must not think of it at present. Thanks very much,
all the same."

"Really! I am sorry. It would give you a short rest. Well,—if it must
not be—By the bye, is dear Doris with you this morning?"

"I've not seen her to-day."

"Then she does not always come directly after breakfast?"

Mrs. Ramsay said—"Oh no,"—not seeing whither the question tended.

"Ah,—she gets a little walk first. And Mr. Maurice?"

"He generally comes in about eleven or twelve."

"I see. Yes, I see. And you are quite sure you cannot make any use
of me. I should have been charmed."

Mrs. Brutt withdrew, sweetly smiling; her mind busy.

"Now I wonder where they are," she said to herself, as she sauntered
away; for by this time she was in a state of highly-strung alertness
with regard to the lovers, besides being eaten up with curiosity.

From a worldly-wise point of view, if they wished to secure secrecy,
Maurice and Doris would have been wise to take the widow into their
confidence. Had they done so, she would have fussed and protested,
but the being told would have gratified her sense of importance,
and she would have arrayed her forces on their side.

To be made acquainted with the affair before even the Rector and the
Squire, would have meant a degree of distinction, which she would
thoroughly have appreciated. Despite her love of talk, she could keep
a secret entrusted to her care; and she loved to be confided in.

But the mere fact of anything being hidden from herself aroused
another side of her nature, calling into play a spirit of
self-assertive inquisitiveness. The secret and all who were concerned
in it became at once in her eyes "fair game;" and she could know
no rest till, by hook or by crook, she had discovered that which was
hidden. Towards this end she would strain every nerve; nor would she
be scrupulous in her methods. Not to be told what another might know,
amounted to a personal grievance.

Until the evening of the Petit Chamossaire expedition, she had looked
upon Maurice as her own property. She was not so clear-sighted as she
imagined. "Nothing ever escapes me!" was a pet phrase with her; yet a
good deal did escape her. Once aroused, however, she could be
sagacious enough.

On the return of the two that evening, towards the close of
table d'hôte, fresh from their day of intercourse, he must indeed have
been nonobservant who should have seen nothing unusual in Maurice's
look, however carefully repressed,—who should not have detected
an unwonted brightness in Doris's eyes, and noted her soft brilliancy
of colouring.

The girl looked lovely,—no less! It was useless for them to expatiate
on their ramble, on the views they had enjoyed, on the wondrous
after-glow. No sunset hues on rocky heights had brought that look!

"I know better!" Mrs. Brutt said to herself, and she waited to be
informed.

But she was not informed. It dawned upon her that, whatever might have
passed, she was not to be told. Then she became angry. Since they did
not choose to confide in her, she would find out for herself. With
newly-quickened attention, she became aware of Maurice's absorption
in Doris; of Doris's dreamy abstraction when he was absent; and also,
not seldom, of a troubled expression in the girl's face. She observed
too how each would quietly slip away after breakfast,—no doubt for a
tête-à-tête elsewhere.

"So very deceitful!" she said to herself. "So wrong of them!"

All had happened rapidly, in few days. On this morning it occurred
to her that, by an early call at the châlet, she might learn
something. Before starting, she had seen Doris go down the village
street, and perhaps the two might meet at the châlet. Finding her
theory wrong, she had to hunt elsewhere.

"Really, so underhand!" she repeated.

Meeting on the road one of her new cronies, an English-speaking German
lady, she expressed a wish to find her young charge; and the German
lady pointed to a narrow path, ascending slantwise. "I haf seen her go
dere sometimes."

Mrs. Brutt thanked her, and proceeded to investigate.

Using her eyes in all directions, she followed the path, seeing nought
of beauty in mountain or valley; for her mind was taken up with one
idea,—to find out whether Maurice and Doris had gone this way.

And she had her wish. After some fifteen or twenty minutes of slow
progress, she caught sight of a small red-brown châlet, somewhat above
the path. In front of it, side by side, two figures were seated,—a man
and a girl—deep in talk.

She drew instantly back out of sight. They had not noticed her, and
they should not!

"So—that is it!" she ejaculated. And again—"Really, how deceitful!
One would have thought they knew better. Above all things, I do detest
underhand ways." She felt that, for the unearthing of such a
conspiracy, any methods were admissible.

The dear young doctor had become many degrees less delightful, though
she was disposed to lay chief blame on Doris.

When the girl rejoined her an hour later, she asked no questions, made
no remarks. But next morning, having risen with unusual promptitude,
she was the first to vanish, making her way briskly to the small
châlet.

Did they always come here? Was it a daily trysting-place? If not,
her trouble might be thrown away. If they did come — she hardly knew
what she would do. Her first idea was to seat herself on the farther
side of the châlet, where she would be hidden as they approached, and
then casually to walk out on them. But as she debated, she noticed the
châlet-door to be ajar; and she went in.

Rough flooring under her feet; rough beams overhead; some upright
beams also, supporting the roof; and at one side what she took for a
manger. That was all. Not a bad place in which to sit, and quietly to
hear what might go on outside. This thought came; and she put the door
quickly to. She had not quite made up her mind; but she dwelt upon the
possibility. And if a little voice whispered the words which she had
been using about others,—"deceitful," and "underhand,"—she put them
aside. Doris was in her charge, and surely it was her duty to find out
what the girl was after.

Voices sounded, drawing near. Too late now for the other plan. She
could wait here, however, just for a minute—and then make her presence
known. She moved softly close to the wall, on the other side of which
they would sit, if they did not pass on.

And they did not. It was a lovely spot. They believed themselves to be
alone, beyond sight and hearing of all other human beings.

Thirty or forty yards below lay a fringe of shrubs and low trees; and
the Rhone valley beyond was nearly hidden. Just in front stood boldly
forth the great sweep of rocky heights, hard and grey, jagged and
seamed. Lines of strata might there be studied, upright and
horizontal, curved and twisted, telling of long-past pressure and
moulding, perhaps also of great cataclysmic upheavals, in the shaping
of these mountains. The vast rock-range, one of Nature's "out crops,"
rose high above softer grass-green alps, dotted with hay-châlets.

The Grand Muveran, as seen from this position, was still robed in
morning shadow; and sunlight fell on the small glacier to the left
just below the summit. The Petit Muveran, standing pertly up to his
gigantic neighbour, also cast a shadow downward.

Across the fore-shortened Rhone valley, the Dent du Midi flung his
stately head aloft, no longer reduced to insignificance, as when seen
from the Chamossaire summit, by the greater aristocracy of the
mountain-world. Yet some fair aristocrats were visible, huddled
together in the distance,—rounded and snow-clad heights of the
Valaisian range, above the Glacier de Trient.

The Dent du Midi, wide-spreading, solid, substantial, with great
saddle-back ridges extending outward and downward, was all blue with
a different blue from that of the sky. And soft cotton-wool masses
of cloud lay in the ravines, not yet dispersed by the sun's power.
All around was stillness, unbroken except by the continuous murmur
of insects, the click of grasshoppers, the rough caw of a crow,
and two alternating human voices.

Little dreamt Doris or Maurice who was on the other side of the châlet
wall!

Mrs. Brutt had meant to stay where she was "only a minute." She had
an uneasy consciousness that her position was far from dignified.

So she would only just listen to a word or two. Then, with scathing
apologies, she would step forth upon the guilty pair.

But she stayed much longer than a minute; and she heard much more
than a word or two.



CHAPTER XXVIII

What Mrs. Brutt Heard

ONE or two murmurs; and then—

"Dick, I don't think you are well."

(Mrs. Brutt pricked up her ears. "Dick" indeed! Had it gone so far
already? She felt that she was amply justified in listening. No one
could blame her for carrying out so patent a duty.)

"I'm fit enough. Only worried."

"What about? Tell me."

"I've had a letter."

"From your mother? From one of your sisters? Try to forget it just
now. Dick, I didn't half think we should get off this morning.
I believe Mrs. Brutt has begun to suspect. She's an awful hand
at ferreting out things."

"I should imagine she had a gift that way."

"Oh, she's awful! If once she suspects, we shall have no more peace.
Her 'dear young doctor' will be in her bad graces at once. However,
she vanished in a hurry after breakfast—perhaps to pester them at the
châlet. She does so 'love cheering up invalids,' you know."

(The outraged lady held her breath. That Doris should dare to mimic
her! The insolence of it! The impertinence!)

"Mrs. Pressford will probably be equal to the occasion," laughed
Maurice.

(The "dear young doctor" had done for himself now. Mrs. Brutt reverted
on the spot to her earlier opinion. Had she not known him by instinct
as a "sinister" individual? She bristled with wrath.)

"Tell me what worries you, Dick."

"One must have bothers sometimes, darling. It's a letter from the
farm."

("Darling" indeed!)

"A most extraordinary thing has happened."

"Yes. Tell me all about it."

"Of course I will. My own, how sweet you look to-day."

("His own!" Atrocious! Scandalous! And she never to have been
informed!)

"Take off your hat. I want to see you without it. Look at me, Doris.
Those dear eyes! I never saw such expressive eyes as yours. They say
everything you think."

"I'm always trying to keep them from doing it. Now, Dick,—what is it
that bothers you?"

"Phil Morris has turned up at the farm. Such a scene. Winnie describes
it all."

(Phil Morris. The farm! Winnie! Mrs. Brutt became excited. What could
Mr. Maurice know about them? Her nostrils quivered, scenting prey.
Doris's slight mimicry, Maurice's laughter, had turned her there and
then into their bitter enemy. Kind-hearted though she was in the main,
inordinate vanity was a leading feature of her character; and she
could neither endure nor forgive aught of a personal slight.)

"Phil Morris"—slowly. "Your—" and a pause. "But he was drowned."

"That must have been a false report. He made his appearance without
warning. Walked in upon them suddenly."

Doris took one flashing survey of the situation. She recalled the
relationship, the portrait she had seen,—and she realised what this
must mean.

"Phil Morris! Dick!—your father!"

(Through châlet walls the word had an electrical effect. Mrs. Brutt
thrilled with the joy of a seeker after treasure, finding more than
he has bargained for. She dismissed for the moment her personal
injury, to give undivided attention. Here was a cache indeed,
disentombed! Dick Maurice—no longer her beloved young doctor,—actually
the son of Nurse Molly, and of that disreputable creature, Phil
Morris, hitherto supposed to be dead. Oh yes—she knew—she remembered!
She had since hunted out various facts about him, and had learnt to a
certainty that he was disreputable. And to think that he should be Mr.
Maurice's father! No marvel that, in her brilliant perspicacity,
she should at first sight have turned against the young fellow. Within
the limits of two seconds, the whole thing became clear; and she crept
some inches closer to the wall, that she might not lose a syllable.)

"Then, after all, he didn't die, all those years ago."

"He did not die. It was a mistake. Phil Morris is alive still. But,
darling, he is not my father."

"Not!"

"No. That has come out now."

"Oh, I am glad. Are you sure? I'm so thankful. I never could bear
to think of you as the son of that man. It would have been too
frightful."

"You did not admire the portrait."

"Oh, I couldn't endure it. I may say so now. Such a horrid face!—weak
and common and low! It was that which startled me so dreadfully on the
top of the Petit Chamossaire—remembering the picture and—That, and—you
know, I told you how I came to see it. Mrs. Brutt was ferreting round,
and she fished that up."

(Mrs. Brutt set this and the resulting laugh down to the debit side
of Doris's account. She put her lips together, and formed one
word—"Vixen!")

"I can't tell how far the present position of things is an
improvement. I'm in utter ignorance still who my father really was.
My mother seems to have admitted that he was above her in birth,—
and that that was the reason for secrecy. He did not want his people
to know."

"What a coward he must have been! But, anyhow, we can be thankful
that it is not that dreadful Phil Morris. You have always been sure
that your father was a gentleman; and perhaps this will prove it.
Don't you see?"

"I see that I've won a rare treasure."

(Mrs. Brutt heard something suspiciously like a kiss.)

"Don't, please. You know it's not a real engagement, till my father
consents." In her heart she said "mother."

"Nothing in life was ever more real to me."

"But tell me more. I want to know how it happened."

"I'll read you Winnie's letter"—and a masculine rumble followed.

First came the description of Phil Morris's sudden appearance, of the
farmer's excited announcement, of Mrs. Morris's cold disavowal; well
and graphically told, for Winnie was a clever girl, with natural ease
of expression, and far better educated than her mother and sister.
Then followed the coming of the Squire, Mrs. Morris's explanations,
and the farmer's distress.

"And," the writer continued, "I felt I must let you know it all.
Mother is sure not to, and Jane says she doesn't mean to meddle and
get her fingers burnt."

(Mrs. Brutt nodded a sagacious head at the word "Jane," which clenched
the truth of her surmises.)

"I always tell you everything, and mother hasn't said that I must not
now. It all seems so strange, Raye. So very, very strange! To know
nothing about our father, except just his name,—and not even his
Christian name! I asked mother what that was, and she told me
I needn't chatter."

"Uncle looks so unhappy; just as he did when we first came. Almost
more, I think; for he is so good and true, and he hates deceit.
He doesn't know what to think of it all. Jane seems not to care.
She is full of her own affairs. But uncle and I care."

"Mr. Stirling looked so stern to-day. It frightened me to see how very
stern he can be. I am sure he felt, as uncle does, how mother has
deceived us all. He wouldn't say much before others, but he asked
to see her alone; and then, I suppose, he told her what he really
thought."

"We fancied he would make her confess more; but he didn't. At least,
if he did, he kept it to himself. He only said to uncle—when he came
out alone—that he understood mother's position, and that it was a very
difficult one. Uncle said something about wishing to see her
marriage-certificate. And—we were so surprised!—Mr. Stirling said
he had seen it, and it was all right; only, he would say nothing more.
Uncle had to be content; but he and I did think it odd. Why couldn't
she have shown it to uncle, just as much as to Mr. Stirling? Of course
he is a very, very old and kind friend; and we owe a great, great deal
to him. But it does seem queer. It is all so worrying; and I don't
find it easy to be brave. I suppose things are harder to bear, when
one is ill and weak."

"Poor Winnie!" murmured Doris. Then, unexpectedly,—"Why does she call
you 'Raye?'"

"My name is 'Richard Raye.' I've always been called 'Raye' by my
mother and sisters."

"And not by your friends?"

"No."

"Dick—do you remember how I fancied, when first we met, that I had
seen you before? I wonder if it is that you are a little like Winnie."

"I have never been counted like any of them. But of course there might
be a look."

(Mrs. Brutt, listening to all this, could hardly restrain her
eagerness. Something worth knowing had indeed come to hand. Not only
that Maurice and Doris were, if not strictly engaged, at least
conditionally promised one to another; but that Maurice, the would-be
fiancé of Doris, was the son of Mrs. Morris of Wyldd's Farm, and of
some unknown individual, who might have been—anything! She realised
to the full what a bitter pill this would prove to the stately
"Rectorinn.")

(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.



CHAPTER XXIX

What Next?

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?"



CHAPTER XXX

The Squire is Mysterious

"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.



CHAPTER XXXI

The Squire's Dark Hour

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.

[Illustration: "I THANK YOU ALL FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART."]

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?



CHAPTER XXXII

"You Don't Know Dick"

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."



CHAPTER XXXIII

"How will He Take It?"

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."



CHAPTER XXXIV

Foiled

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.



CHAPTER XXXV

Would Hamilton Do?

"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."



CHAPTER XXXVI

A Surprise Meeting

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.



CHAPTER XXXVII

The Mischief-Maker Again

"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.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

"Who was My Father?"

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."



CHAPTER XXXIX

"That was Well Done!"

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.



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