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.