"You Don't Know Dick"
NOT a word about Dick Maurice was spoken that first evening.
Twice Doris tried to bring him forward, and was rebuffed,—very kindly,
yet decidedly. She could not resolve to do it again. She seemed to be
under a spell; able only to bask in the sunshine of home, in the
loving welcome from all sides.
And though she thought of her lover continually, yet in a manner
he was pushed to the background of her mind. Switzerland already began
to look far off. Her feelings had become mixed and indefinite. She had
almost the sensations of a naughty child, come back to be good.
Everybody and everything had to be seen,—servants, neighbours,
friends, household pets. The hours slipped fast away; and while much
talk went on, it was talk mainly of Lynnbrooke interests. Mrs. Winton
left no space for aught else. Doris was amply posted in local news;
and the name "Stirling" came up perpetually.
When she went to bed, it was to dream of Dick. They were on the
Glückhorn together; just he and she. Once more she was trying to climb
to the rescue. Details differed, as they are apt to do in a dream; and
the rock-wall of her sleeping fancy would have been ludicrous in the
eyes of an Alpinist; but to her it seemed natural enough. In dreamland
nothing is absurd. She mounted the rocks, reached Maurice, and then,
as he clasped her hand, she found him to be—not Dick, but Hamilton
Stirling, in frock coat and kid gloves, solemn and dignified. The
rocky height vanished; and he and she were on a high road; and he
pulled a printed slip out of his pocket, offering it for her
inspection.
She woke up, and had a laugh; yet she felt disgust with herself
for having reverted in thought to the latter, even in slumber. "As if
I had anything to do with him now! Oh, how curious life is! Everything
seems such a muddle."
Further sleep proved impossible; and she lay long, thinking, thinking,
about affairs in general, and about Maurice in particular. After
breakfast she went into the garden, and enjoyed herself among the
flowers, watching the bees at work, feeding her pigeons, anxious for
and yet shrinking from the decisive talk, which could not be much
longer delayed.
"Dick must be in such dreadful suspense," she thought. "I rather wish
now that I had not asked him to wait. It is better to have things
settled straight off. But anyhow, he won't be later than to-morrow.
I know why mother will not speak in a hurry. She thinks she will give
me time to get over my fancy. If it were no more than that—but it
isn't. It is much, much more! My dear, dear Dick! If only his people
were different! But that isn't his fault; and it doesn't alter in the
least what he is in himself."
Sauntering indoors, she found Mrs. Winton in the morning-room, busy
with needlework, but evidently on the look-out for her daughter. Doris
sat down, slowly pulled off her garden gloves, and said—
"Mother, we've got to speak."
"Yes, dear." Mrs. Winton's was a heavy footfall; but she had in this
case a wholesome dread of blundering, and she was doing her utmost
to tread lightly.
"I've told you already—it was all my doing that we did not write
sooner. You must not blame Dick for that."
A shake of the head responded.
"Don't you understand? How could you and father say anything, till you
had seen him? How can you now? He is a perfect stranger to you both."
"He ought to have given his address."
"No; I settled that." The girl was instantly eager in his defence.
"Even if he had known where he was going, I wouldn't have let him.
He has to come here, before anything is done."
Silence met this; not an easy silence to Mrs. Winton, who could have
said a good deal.
"I know I wasn't right in one thing. I ought to have said more about
him in writing—when I began to see—but it was horribly difficult.
Somehow, I couldn't. Till he spoke, I could never be sure how he
really felt."
"The question is—had he a right to speak at all?"
"Why, mother!—of course. Any man has a right, I suppose."
"To ask any woman to marry him? No! There are limits."
"Well, yes, there are limits. A crossing-sweeper can't quite ask a
duchess," admitted the girl hardily. "But—any gentleman—"
That brought matters to a point. Mrs. Winton put down her work,
and looked steadily at the warm young face.
"We want you very much, my dear, not to do anything in a hurry.
Remember, this is a question which involves your whole life's
happiness. Of course there are things which your father and I could
not possibly consent to—and we know you would obey. But we would so
much rather that you should be sensible, and should see for yourself
the need."
"If you and father forbid it—of course—" Doris said proudly. "I would
wait—at all events. But it's not fair! You don't, either of you, know
him."
"No, I know we don't. And I am sure he has managed to make himself
agreeable. I dare say he is—handsome." This was a severe effort.
"I don't suppose you would call him handsome. I think he's awfully
good-looking."
"And—pleasant too!"
"Oh, he's perfectly delightful—I can't tell you how delightful and
dear he is."
"A great many men know how to make themselves liked by young girls,
my dear,—men whose family connections"—Doris moved uneasily—"are not
precisely what one could accept. You see, nice manners are not the
only thing to be considered in marriage."
"But Dick is all right in himself. He is everything that you and
father could possibly wish."
"How about his relatives?" calmly and mercilessly inquired Mrs.
Winton.
"He has always said he is quite sure his father was a gentleman
by birth."
"About the last thing he would ever think of saying, my dear,—if it
really were so."
This thrust went deep, and Doris's face was flooded with colour.
"You see, it is not merely a question of the man himself. He may be
all you think—personally delightful. But when you marry a man,
you adopt your husband's family, whatever they are. His mother becomes
your mother-in-law. His sisters become your sisters-in-law. That is
inevitable."
"Then—you know!"
"Know what?"
"About his people."
"He speaks of his grandfather on his mother's side as a clerk in some
house of business,—and of her uncle as a farmer. That at least is
honest of him."
"It was frightfully hard for him to speak out; but he did it—quite
openly. And we settled that I was free to tell you, before he came.
He couldn't write the whole. But I have seen his mother. She is Mrs.
Morris of Wyldd's Farm—Katherine's 'Nurse Molly.'"
Mrs. Winton's whole air was aghast. "Doris!"
"Yes, I know!"
"This is far worse than anything I have imagined. Of all impossible
connections! Mrs. Morris. Farmer Paine's niece! The mother of that
dreadful Jane! Are you mad?"
Doris stiffened instantly. Mrs. Winton saw her own mistake, but could
not at once recover herself.
"Mrs. Morris!—of all people! And do you know—but of course you do not—
all that has just happened? Do you know that her supposed husband has
just come back, after being looked upon as dead for twenty years—and
that he is not her husband at all, and she will not say who was?
For all we know he may have been a convict—a murderer! Farmer Paine
is in such distress. He came to see us only two days ago. And you—
you would have that person for your mother-in-law!"
Doris was silent, and Mrs. Winton spoke again in a different tone.
"Of course—I understand. You saw him away from them all, and you did
not realise what it would be. No doubt he is unlike the others—unlike
that terrible young woman, Jane."
Another and longer break.
"He did not tell us this in writing."
"He couldn't. But of course he meant you to know. Mr. Stirling is an
old friend of theirs, and he has always insisted on keeping Dick away
from his people. He doesn't even like it to be known that Dick belongs
to them—so you mustn't tell anyone, please, without his leave. It is
only for you and father."
"I suppose you are aware that, when one marries, there are
settlements, and lawyer's inquiries, and everything has to come out."
Doris looked puzzled.
"Perhaps that could be got over," she suggested, with pleasing
vagueness. "Or—there might be no settlements. And Dick does intend to
speak to Mr. Stirling, only not until he has seen father. Mr. Stirling
won't like his coming here. But really, now that Dick is close upon
twenty-seven years old, he surely has a right to decide for himself."
Mrs. Winton had again difficulty in holding back what she felt.
"All this ought to show you how utterly impossible the whole thing
is," she said; and there was a fresh silence.
"But, mother, it is—Dick!" came at length. "It's not other people, and
relations, and settlements. It is just—my Dick. If you only knew what
he is, you would understand! It is—Dick himself."
She suddenly saw those pleading grey eyes, felt the grasp of those
strong shapely hands, heard the tender musical voice,—and nothing else
mattered. Mrs. Winton's touch came on hers, a trifle heavily, yet with
real feeling.
"If you knew what he is to me, mother!"
"My dear, whatever he has been to you, he has not behaved rightly."
"He spoke out the truth about his people."
"Before he began trying to win you?"
"It wasn't long—after. I don't think he knew how much he cared—till
that day on the Glückhorn."
"And then he explained all?"
Doris made no direct reply.
"It must be a little hard upon you, dear,—as well as upon him. You
see, you have had your mind full of him. And he has been—attentive,
and so on. But just think—if you married him—think of the position
you would be in. Think of your father's cousins." The Rector, though
eccentric, was well-connected. "Think of my people."
"One needn't bring all one's relatives together, I suppose."
"But the people that one would like to keep apart have an unfortunate
knack of coming together, just at the wrong times," Mrs. Winton
remarked dryly.
Doris sat upright.
"I know all that," she said. "But I promised. I have given myself
to Dick. I did it with my eyes open."
"You could only promise conditionally—if we should consent."
"If you forbid it—" Every line in her attitude spoke resentment.
"If we do, it will be for your sake, darling."
Hardly three times in her life had Mrs. Winton used that endearing
term. The girl's face softened.
"By-and-by you will be grateful to us for saving you from a lifetime
of unhappiness."
"You don't know Dick, mother!"
"But whatever he may be in himself, that does not touch the question
of what his people are." Doris murmured an unwilling half-assent.
"I was sure you would see that. Now, do you think you could go into
the town for me, and order a few things?" Mrs. Winton wished her words
to have time to work. "I will make out a list while you get ready, and
leave it on the hall-table."
"Yes, but I must speak to father first."