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."