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.