Foiled
ONE hour more, and Richard Maurice would be off to Lynnbrooke,—to ask
and claim his Doris. He had reached his London hotel the evening
before; and two days after he was due in Edinburgh.
He was anxious and in suspense, of course; that goes without saying.
But the tone of his mind was pitched in high hope and confidence; nay,
certainty. He had no doubt of results.
His plan was to stay at Lynnbrooke Inn for a couple of nights; thus
allowing as much time as possible for interviews with Doris and her
parents,—also for seeing the Squire. He recognised that open speech
with the latter had become a necessity. Mr. Stirling might be "only a
friend," but he had been a most generous friend; and while Maurice
was, without question, free to decide for himself, he was, also
without question, indebted in no common degree to his benefactor.
The past could not be ignored. His going at all to Lynnbrooke was an
act of revolt; and though he did not intend to be prevented, he did
intend to explain and apologise.
That he would meet with difficulties was only to be expected. Doris
had prepared him for them.
Mr. Winton would probably be in opposition; and Mrs. Winton would
inevitably be so. They would want for their only child a husband of
unexceptionable parentage; and who could wonder? Not Maurice!—who saw
the objections to himself almost as clearly as Mrs. Winton did. Like
most people without "descent," he valued it less than do those who
rejoice in a pedigree; yet he could estimate their side of the
question.
But with regard to Doris herself he had no shadow of doubt. He loved
her; she loved him; and, as he had said, they together might face a
world in opposition. In his young strong confidence, he smiled at the
thought. So long as each was true to the other, nothing could
ultimately separate them.
His wish had been to reach Lynnbrooke as soon as she did; but she had
begged for a day or two first. He gave in to her urgency, though it
was hard to wait.
In his eagerness now he was ready an hour before he had to start; his
bag packed, his gloves beside it. To fill up spare time, he ran
downstairs for a newspaper, and found a letter, which had just come
in. A letter from Doris! He had half wondered at not receiving a few
lines on arrival.
The lift was at hand; and three seconds saw him back in his own room.
A letter from her was not to be read in public. He sat down, and with
careful fingers cut open the envelope. Then his eyes travelled down
the page, as far as the signature.
Sight failed him for more. He remained sitting; silent and motionless;
dizzied with the shock. London's roar had died out of his ears, which
were filled with another roar, inward, not outward. Physical
surroundings vanished; and he was alone upon the Glückhorn with
Doris,—her dear face, flushed and radiant, turned towards him;
her dear eyes, earnest and glowing, uplifted to his.
She!—his own!—his darling!—could write to him thus!
He was stunned at first, hardly knowing where he was. Gradually he
rallied and came back to the present. He heard again the babel of
street sounds, and realised what had happened. A dense fog which had
filled the room faded out of it. He sat up, and read the note once
more, dwelling upon each word, collecting the full force of each
sentence, while a bitter smile curled his lips—till he reached the
scrawled postscript. He had not seen that before.
"Ah—h!" came with a gasp. The bitter smile disappeared, and he spoke
aloud, crushing the sheet in his hand. "Now I understand! It is not
Doris!—not my darling! She has been made to do it. The words are not
hers. She never wrote such a letter. How could I be taken in for one
moment? Dictated all through—except the ending. That is her own
beloved self. That only!—nothing else. My poor darling!"
He wondered, pityingly, what she might not have had to endure, before
giving in to parental tyranny.
"But she trusts me. She knows I shall not be so soon conquered.
I shall go still, and insist upon being heard. So much, at least,
I have a right to demand. If she tells me herself—if she looks at me
with those true eyes, and says it—then I will be convinced."
And he started for the terminus, clinging hard to the little
postscript, as a drowning man clings to a straw.
About an hour before luncheon, this same day, Mrs. Winton in the
morning-room was at work over household accounts. Between the
adding-up of successive columns of figures, she cast divers glances
of satisfaction at the present state of affairs.
Something drew her eyes to the window, and she became aware of a
slim, alert figure, walking quickly towards the front door. A smart
pull at the bell followed. Instantly she divined the truth, and
whispered,—"What a mercy the child is not here!"
She did not know, though her husband did, that Doris was away on
purpose,—knowing that Maurice might come, and not trusting herself
to meet him.
"Please, 'm,"—the little between-maid came in, twisting her
apron-strings,—"please, 'm, it's a gentleman wants to see the Rector.
And his name's Mr. Maurice, please, 'm."
"Tell Mr. Maurice I am sorry that the Rector is engaged."
Rose went and came back.
"Please, 'm, Mr. Maurice says he can wait."
"Tell Mr. Maurice it is of no use, I am afraid."
A third appearance, round-eyed this time.
"Please, 'm, the gentleman says he's got to see the Rector, and he
don't mind how long he waits, not if it's hours, 'm."
Mrs. Winton considered. Plainly this was a man with a will of his own.
Since Doris was safely out of reach, it might be wise to yield.
"Very well—if it has to be," she said resignedly. "Take Mr. Maurice
into the study."
The unwelcome caller being there installed, she made her way through
the back-garden and along the lane,—for once, regardless of prying
eyes behind muslin curtains. Mr. Winton had again fled for refuge to
manual labour, from the pain of seeing his child suffer. When his wife
entered, he was hammering with a vigour which relieved his feelings,
but which made her put two hands to her ears. Whereupon he stopped.
"The man has come, Sylvester."
"Eh? Who?"
"The man himself!—Mr. Maurice. I told you we should have him here.
I sent him word that you were engaged, but he refused to go. You must
see him, and make things clear."
"Couldn't you tackle him, my dear?"
"Certainly not. That is your business. And remember, you have to be
firm—firm! He is on no account to see Doris, and he is not to come
again. You have to get rid of him, once and for all."
Mr. Winton knew the need, but he hated the task before him.
"Well, well," he muttered, and was going off as he was, till a
scandalised forefinger pointed at his workaday apron. "Oh, ah!—
I forgot!"—and he tossed it off.
Three minutes later he was in the study; a broad, ungainly figure,
seamed and rugged in face, awkward in bearing; not the type of father
pictured beforehand by the young fellow who stood awaiting him. Yet in
those deep-set eyes was a gleam of something which found its way to
Maurice's sore heart, and gave him a sense that at least he would
be understood.
The Rector put out his hand, and it was gripped with a force which
told of passion below.
Now that suspense was about to be ended, Maurice hardly knew how to
hold himself in.
"Sit down, please," Mr. Winton said, and took the lead in doing so,—
his gaze bent searchingly upon the other.
"You don't need to be told who I am, Mr. Winton,—or why I've come.
My name is Richard Maurice; and I am here to ask for your daughter's
hand." The burning dark-grey eyes looked full at him; and the Rector
liked them, liked the good open brow above, liked the frank, manly
carriage. If only it had been possible, he felt that he would have
welcomed such a husband for his child.
"My daughter has written to you."
There was a short, scornful laugh.
"Yes. But it was not Doris. That letter was not written of her own
free will."
Dumb though the Rector might be under normal conditions, he could
sometimes forget his dumbness, could sometimes rise to the occasion,
if the need were great and if it came suddenly. Both these conditions
were now fulfilled. He had to slay the hopes of this young fellow; and
the more merciless plan might well in the end be the more merciful.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Maurice. My daughter wrote of her own free
will."
"I cannot believe it!"
The responding gesture spoke so strongly of sympathy, not anger, that
it took instant effect.
"Forgive me! I ought not to have said that. You of course mean—
believe—what you say. But you do not know! Doris never wrote that
letter to me—herself!"
"The actual wording may have been suggested. She found it difficult,
and asked for help. But she had made up her mind. The decision was her
own."
A white curtain spread itself over the bronzed face.
"If she herself tells me so—with her own lips—"
"She is away for the day; and at her own suggestion. This ought to
convince you. She guessed that you might come, and she thought it
better to be absent."
"How am I to know what manner of influence has been used? I have a
right to hear from her lips—"
"She has given you her answer in writing. That should be sufficient.
I cannot have my child put to needless pain."
"You acknowledge—it is pain to her?"
"Yes."
"And you expect that she will forget me?"
"I hope so."
"What this means to me is—of course—nothing!"
A gesture again replied; a gesture so full of kindness, of regret,
that Maurice was touched, even while reiterating—
"I can't and won't believe that this is really her wish! After all
that passed between us—all our time together—"
"Mr. Maurice, I can only say that neither her mother nor I could
consent to the engagement. If Doris had decided otherwise, we should
still refuse. But she now is convinced that it cannot be. It grieves
me to say this, for your sake,—yet surely you will allow that I must
think first of my child's happiness."
"You do not believe that I could make her happy? I would die for her!"
"I believe it!"—and the Rector's broad hand came on his shoulder. "But
many a man would give his life for a woman, whom yet he could not make
happy as her husband. I do not know you, but I like your look.
If other things were different, I would gladly consent to know you
better—to consider possibilities. As things are,—the objections are
insuperable."
"You mean—my mother being Mr. Paine's niece!"
"That has weight. I have the greatest respect and liking for Mr.
Paine; but our positions in life are apart. But also—Mr. Maurice—
who and what was your father?"
The strained white face hardened.
"Can you tell me anything at all about him?"
"No—except that he was not Phil Morris. So much we have just learnt.
For some reason, my mother has shown—great reserve."
"A wife does not show such reserve without stringent reason."
Maurice flushed, only to whiten again.
"You see!" murmured the Rector. "It is impossible. And—Doris sees it
to be so."
A relaxation of the tense muscles, a droop of the head, showed that at
last Maurice saw it too, to some extent.
"Mr. Stirling—knows more!"
"If so—the reasons that silence your mother silence him also." After a
break, Mr. Winton went on,—"It must, I fear, mean a measure of
suffering for you both; not, I hope, lasting pain. Doris, I cannot
doubt, would suffer more in the end if the engagement were allowed.
I am very sorry to have to say it, but—you cannot have our child.
You must forget her!"
"Forget Doris!" The words were wrung from him. Then he stood upright.
"Of course, there is no more to be said—since she herself gives me up.
I could not have believed her to be fickle, but—but—"
"You have known one another only a few weeks. The impression may soon
pass."
"Thanks!"—satirically. "Women are sometimes made of such stuff,
I believe!" He stopped, conscious that this was ungenerous. "It will
never pass, with me. I cannot believe that it will—soon—with her.
Mr. Winton—one word more. She knew how things were, when she
accepted me."
"She realises now, as she did not then, all that would be involved."
The Rector stood up, again offering his hand. "Try to meet this
bravely," he urged. "Try to think of her happiness—not only of your
own. Remember that a time might come when she would be tempted to
repent having married you. Could you wish that?"
"If your daughter became my wife, she would marry me for myself,
not for my relatives!"
Mr. Winton's troubled eyes noted the pose, the uplifted head,
the proudly-confident air; and that which he saw came as a surprise.
It was the reproduction of a manner to which he was accustomed.
"Tell Doris, please, that I have her letter, and that I accept her
decision. I shall never come again,—and—I shall never forget her."
"You must not ask me to pass on that message."
"Why, pray?"
"If your love is real, you cannot wish to give her unnecessary
distress."
Maurice's face changed, but he made no reply. He just touched the
offered hand, and strode away, not looking back. Mr. Winton followed
to open the front door, but he was already gone.
"So—that is what it really hangs upon!" Maurice said, as he walked
rapidly through the garden. He saw nothing by the way. "That is the
stumbling-block. Who was my father? What is the mystery? Why have
I been kept in the dark, all these years? What possible reason can
there be?"
He reached the gate, flung it open, and went through.
"Does Mr. Stirling know? If he does—I have a right to be told. I shall
see him, and demand it, as a right."
Wounded pride and bitter wrath had him in their grip, mingled with
overwhelming pain. His loving confidence in Doris lay shattered
in the dust. His was a sunny-tempered nature in ordinary life; but it
held cyclonic possibilities.
It had become plain to him that the question of his parentage was the
real cause for which he had been thrown over; and upon this his mind
was now concentrated. Why all the mystery? Why his mother's falsity?
And who was his father?
He went to the cab-stand, and drove direct to Lynnthorpe, purposing
to bring matters to a point between the Squire and himself. But when
he asked for Mr. Stirling, the reply came promptly,—Away from home.
"Away for the day?"
"No, sir. Mr. Stirling went to London yesterday—quite unexpectedly,—
and he said he would be away for a week or more."
"Can you give me his town address?"
"No, sir, I can't."
"Somebody must know where he is."
"Yes, sir,"—solemnly. "Miss Stirling has the address."
"Will you be so good as to ask her for it?"
"Miss Stirling has gone away this morning, for the week-end."
"Where has she gone?"
The stately butler disapproved of all this questioning. Or—was it that
he had been warned?
"If any letter comes for Miss Stirling, sir, it shall be forwarded,"
he said.
One or two more vain attempts, and Maurice turned away, foiled. "This
is not the end," he decided, as he drove off. "I shall come again,—and
soon. I will have things out with him. There are facts that a man has
a right to know."
But, recognising that at the present moment he was powerless,
he returned to the inn, spoke of altered plans, paid his bill, and
left for Edinburgh.