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.