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.