A Surprise Meeting
THE Rectory pony was famed for choosing his own pace, and that not a
rapid one. Through the long drive Doris—having for once given over the
reins to the boy—found ample leisure for thought.
Again and again she recurred to her father's question—"Are you sure of
yourself?" "No, I'm not!" she answered each time. Again and again she
heard his emphatic—"Whatever you do, don't drift!"—and repeatedly,
with growing earnestness, she murmured—"No, I won't."
She had started early after luncheon; and on their way through Deene,
she stopped outside Mrs. Stirling's garden, sending the boy to the
front door with her note; a brief little note, giving no reason, but
stating only that she was sorry she could not accept. That was her
first step towards "not drifting." She hoped Hamilton would
understand.
At the beginning of the grass-path near Wyldd's Farm, she quitted
the pony-carriage, bidding the boy wait for her, and proceeded on foot
through the meadow. Mrs. Morris, stout and impassive as usual, opened
the door. "I saw you coming," she said shortly.
Doris was conscious of a faint thrill, as her hand met that of Dick's
mother, even while noting with distaste the woman's heavy ungracious
look.
"I'm glad you sent for me, if Winnie wished it."
"She seems to have got her mind set on seeing you, somehow or other.
I don't know what for. There was no pacifying of her, till I said I'd
write."
Doris would have liked to put one or two questions as to Winnie's
state, but no time was allowed. Mrs. Morris walked her into the
sitting-room, and left her there, alone with the younger girl.
"Don't try to get up," Doris said kindly, reaching the sofa. "I am so
sorry that you have been worse."
Winnie seemed at first voiceless. Her pale face flushed, and the blue
eyes were very troubled. Doris had instantly a strong impression that
Winnie knew something about herself and Dick. She thought of her
father's injunction, and resolved to keep clear of that subject.
"Yes; I'd a lot of pain; and then—I suppose I got a chill at Jane's
wedding."
"Your sister! Is she married?"
"Last week. Sam Blunt is American; and his father has got a big store
out in Chicago. He's a friend of the Parkinses—you know—the drapers—
and since he's been in England, he was always cycling over there, and
seeing Jane. And he took a fancy to her. It all came in such a hurry;
for he'd got to go back, and Jane wouldn't hear of putting off, as
uncle wanted. She said she hated Wyldd's Farm, and everything to do
with it; and she didn't care if she never set foot in the country
again. Sam means to be a rich man some day; and that's what Jane
likes."
Doris was at a loss whether to congratulate or condole. Jane must have
been a household trial; and certainly Winnie showed no distress.
"I hope he will be a good husband to her. And you are to be in the
hospital—to have something done."
"The doctor says, if I don't I cannot live long. And he says I ought.
He hopes I shall be ever so much stronger afterwards—if I get
through."
"You mustn't say 'if.' You must say 'when.'" This brought a smile.
"I am sure you will get through."
"Perhaps—" came absently. Winnie's eyes kept searching her face, and
the gentle lips moved nervously, as if she wanted to say something,
and had not courage.
"You must have thought it unkind of me, Winnie, never to come again
to see you," Doris said hastily, anxious to stave off remarks. "But—
Wyldd's Farm is a long way off. I was abroad a good while; and since
I came back—somehow it has not been possible."
"You've been too busy."
"Or perhaps too lazy. Anyhow, here I am at last—as soon as I knew that
you really wanted me. How soon do you go?"
"On Friday."
"The day after to-morrow. And—you don't mind! You are not frightened?"
Winnie's smile was an embodiment of serenity.
"Why should I be frightened? No—I don't think I am. It will be all
right—either way. And I'm trying to want to get over it."
"But of course you want that. Of course you want to be strong—able to
work and do things."
"I suppose so—of course! But—"
"Just think how different your whole life will be, if only you can
feel quite well, like other people."
"Yes—" gently. "Oh, it will be all right. I don't want to have
to choose. I'd rather—leave it all in His hands."
"I shall think of you on Friday, Winnie."
"Please do. I shall like to know that."
Again the wistful look, as of something that the girl had to say.
Doris talked on, keeping it steadily at bay. She was not entirely
successful. Winnie submitted quietly; but when her visitor stood up,
with kind parting words, there was a tight clutch of hands, and the
girl whispered with trembling lips—
"I'm to see Raye. He has promised to come."
"Your brother!" Doris's colour changed slightly.
"He is coming. I know you met—in Switzerland. May I tell him I've seen
you?"
"You tell him most things, don't you?" With a sudden impulse, Doris
stooped and kissed the pale brow. "I am glad you will have that
pleasure. Now, Winnie, you must be very careful, and not do anything
to tire yourself. I shall ask to have word sent me, how you get on."
She made her exit quickly, trying not to see the tears of
disappointment which filled the girl's eyes. What else could she have
said? To discuss the affair with Winnie was out of the question.
To her relief she found the passage empty; and she went out alone,
through the little garden, into the meadow beyond.
There she stood still, to recover herself. The sudden mention of Dick
had set her heart beating. She was rather disposed to resent Winnie's
attempt at interference. But, far more strongly, another thought had
possession of her.
She followed the grass-path, looking towards the wind-driven hills,
and came again to a pause, when only a few yards from the farther
gate. As yet the pony-carriage was out of sight. Doris faced round,
for another look at the old farm and its surroundings.
"And that is Dick's home! The home he is never allowed to come and
see. It seems so strange. Why does Mr. Stirling want to keep him away?
Why does he submit? Why doesn't he insist on coming? I do think it is
all very hard on poor Dick. And whatever his father may have been,
he himself is not to blame for it."
Then, after an interval, emphatically—
"Daddy is right. He is quite, quite right. I'm glad I wrote that note.
Now I see! Now I know! Mr. Hamilton Stirling—oh, never! I can never,
never, never marry him. If not Dick—then—nobody!"
She repeated aloud,—"Nobody! Nobody!"—and turned towards the gate
through which she had to go.
The movement brought her face to face with Dick!
He stood like a statue, just beyond the gate; a stern, white-faced
statue, sombre and still. Only that instant had he become aware of her
presence; and the sight seemed to have frozen him. But with Doris
a great rush of joy surged upward, bringing colour and radiance.
The sudden encounter, following close upon her own vivid realisation
of how things truly were with her, caused momentary forgetfulness
of all else. She did not even notice that the boy and the
pony-carriage had gone to a distance, and were still invisible.
She knew only that she and Dick were together again.
"Dick!" she said, under her breath, and she went forward, through the
gate, holding out both hands. "Dick!"
His dented and troubled forehead, even in that moment; impressed her
curiously, bringing again the feeling which she had had on their first
meeting, that surely she had known him in earlier years, or, at the
least, that he strongly resembled some familiar face. But then, as
now, she could not put a name to it. It was a subtle, elusive
likeness; perhaps rather belonging to play of muscles than to actual
form of feature.
"Dick!" she murmured, a third time. Then she awoke to his lack of
response, and her hands dropped, her glow faded. She stood looking
at him with something of wonder. "Have you come to see Winnie?"
Maurice was holding himself in fiercely; his lips pressed together;
his hands clenched. He could not have told at that moment whether
wrath or pain, anger or longing, was the stronger. He only knew that
he was tempest-tossed.
Doris spoke gently.
"You won't be too much worried about her, will you? She will get
through. I know—I am sure—she will get through. She is so sweet and
brave. And afterwards—only think, if she is well and strong! Won't
that be a joy to you?"
A wordless sound came hoarsely in reply; and she knew, from the
blanched passion of his look, that he could not speak,—that he was
thinking, not of Winnie, but only, solely, of herself.
He came a step nearer, his breathing hard and rapid, as he gripped the
top bar of the gate.
"Why do you speak to me? Why not—pass me by?" The words were almost
inaudible. "If—you meant—that letter!"
"How could I pass you by, when you are in such trouble about Winnie?"
There was a harsh laugh—almost a sob. "Winnie! Do I care? I suppose
I do. Sometimes it seems to me—I care for nothing—nothing else—only
for you. Tell me the truth now,—tell me plainly! Was it you—
you yourself!—who gave me up?"
She looked at him sorrowfully, wondering if she had been wrong
to stop.
He spoke again in the same hoarse faint voice. "Tell me—it was not you
who wrote that letter!"
"I did write it, Dick!"—and he made a sharp turn as if to go; but her
hand was on his arm. "Let me explain, please. I did write it. Mother
helped me with the wording—but—I thought it had to be. I had just come
across Jane—and I felt as if I never could endure to belong to—her."
"That was it, then!"
"Yes; that was it."
"And you never gave a thought to—what it would mean to me!"
Doris's hand still rested gravely on his arm. She said no more, and
his face was set as if in iron. But the strain was too great, and his
self-control broke. He seized her hand, and kissed it stormily. Twice
again came that strange short laugh, almost like a sob.
"Is there no hope—none?" he struggled to say.
"My father will not allow it, Dick. And I never will marry without his
consent. But—I can say so much as this, that I do know my own mind
now. I know that at least I couldn't marry anybody else. If that is
any comfort—"
His chest heaved convulsively. "Any comfort! To know that you—care
still! To know that you—love me! My darling—"
She held him off firmly, with both hands.
"No, no! Nothing further. I've told you so much, because I can't bear
to see you so unhappy. But things can only be like that. I know now
that you love me, and you know that I love you. We are not engaged.
You are free to marry to-morrow, if you like."
He exclaimed indignantly. "Yes; but you might change your mind.
It might mean too long, the waiting."
"Too long for you—!" huskily.
"It doesn't seem to me now as if it could be," she replied.