The Mischief-Maker Again
"IS Mrs. Stirling at home?"
The caller, in her best toque and white kid gloves, put this question
with a beaming smile.
Mrs. Stirling was at home, but would be engaged for the next quarter
of an hour.
That did not matter in the very least. Mrs. Brutt was in no hurry.
She would be most happy to wait. She stepped out, and trailed
impressively after the maid. It was well for her peace of mind that
she could not see and hear through brick walls.
"Mrs. Brutt!" The tone was significant. "Did you not tell her that I
was engaged?"
"You said, ma'am, for a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Brutt doesn't mind
waiting."
"If I'd known who it was, I would have been engaged altogether." This
was an aside. No love had ever been lost between the two widow-ladies.
Then to the maid—"You can bring tea in about twenty minutes."
To herself again—"It shall be an elastic quarter of an hour!"
Which it certainly was. Mrs. Brutt, unconscious of her hostess'
sensations, but much occupied with her own, stood poised in a graceful
attitude at the exact centre of the room, conning over all that she
meant to say. She had arrived with a definite purpose.
Unwittingly, the Squire had given her deep offence. It was almost
inevitable that he should do so, sooner or later, since she ranked
in her own eyes as a personage of high importance, while in his eyes
she was nobody.
On her first return from abroad, he had called to thank her for the
prompt response to his letter, shown in bringing Doris at once home;
and he had also let her know that she was to keep to herself the story
of Dick Maurice's suit. Mrs. Brutt had assured him that he might
depend upon her discretion. She never talked! She never repeated
things. "No one ever concerns themselves," she said, being often
guilty of that most common of grammatical blunders, "less than I do,
with other people's affairs!"
The Squire knew better, and smiled inwardly; but he believed that he
had effectually shut her mouth. And it would have been so, had he
followed the matter up, as he really at the moment had led her to
expect, by personal attentions in the way of invitations to
Lynnthorpe.
But he forgot to mention to Katherine that he wished such attentions
to be paid; and Katherine disliked the talkative widow so thoroughly,
that she was not likely to take steps on her own initiative. The
Squire in fact forgot all about Mrs. Brutt from that day forward.
He was harassed, worried, very far from well; and his mind was
entirely taken up with his own secret conflict.
Katherine, though not a keenly observant person, began to notice with
concern his unwonted languor, his frequent absence of mind, his
oblivion of details. These things were new in him. He had been always
prompt, business-like, never needing a reminder as to engagements or
work. She often had to remind him now.
Weeks had passed, and Mrs. Brutt awaited still the expected
invitations to Lynnthorpe—which she looked upon as the price of her
silence about Doris and Maurice. But they did not come. Two large
parties had taken place, and she was left out. Now the Squire's
birthday was at hand, always a fête-day in the place; and she had set
her heart on being included in the big dinner-party of relatives and
intimate friends.
No such thing! She had a formal card of invitation to the mixed
afternoon gathering, to which everybody went,—an omnium gatherum,
of which she had often heard, and at which she turned up her nose.
That was enough. If she was to be slighted in such a fashion, after
all her trouble in carrying out the Squire's plans, he should be sorry
for it! She would follow her own devices, and would hold her tongue
no longer.
It occurred to her that to let slip the fact of Doris's love-affair
to the mother of Mr. Hamilton Stirling would be the most effective
method of revenging herself, not upon the Squire only, but upon Mrs.
Stirling, whom she cordially disliked, and upon Mrs. Winton. She was
quite aware that the latter wanted to secure Mr. Hamilton Stirling for
her daughter, and she had gathered that the Squire did not desire him
to know about Dick Maurice. If so, he should have taken a little more
trouble about her. She was not going to be shunted on one side in this
fashion. People might be offended with her for speaking out,—but what
then? She could easily shift her quarters again. Lynnbrooke was a
fearfully dull place, and she had had nearly enough of it.
Standing in an elegant attitude was well enough for ten minutes,
but the ten grew into fifteen, the fifteen into twenty, and she became
both tired and annoyed. Tea was brought in, and still the hostess
remained absent. She wandered round the room, paying a perfunctory
attention to the pictures.
One in a shady corner drew closer interest. Two heads, side by side,
were lightly sketched in French chalks; both of them bearing an
unmistakable resemblance to Mr. Stirling, though the one was more
delicate in feature, more refined, more really beautiful than the
other. Both were young.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long," a voice said behind
her. "How do you do? Will you have some tea?"
Mrs. Brutt turned to shake hands.
"I quite understand," she said, secretly wrathful at receiving so
scant an apology. "You are always such a busy person. But we had not
met for so long, I thought I might venture to say I would wait. I am
rather struck with this pair of heads. So well sketched: such fine
faces! Am I wrong in supposing that one of the two is Mr. Stirling?"
"He and his brother."
"Ah, to be sure—the father of Miss Stirling. He died, I believe, when
she was quite a little child."
"Yes. Years ago. Will you come and sit down?"
"And—which of the two, may I ask, is our Mr. Stirling? This one,
I suppose,—such a handsome face!"
"That was the brother—Maurice Stirling."
Mrs. Brutt echoed the word "Maurice!" with an intonation of surprise.
Then she took a chair, and poured out a string of bland remarks on the
weather, the neighbourhood, why she had come, whom she had seen
lately, gradually edging her way in the direction that she wished.
Switzerland had to be dragged in, neck and shoulders. Mountains, with
their exquisite scenery, came next; and Doris followed.
"By-the-by"—playing with her bracelet—"I wonder whether you have
happened to hear of the young surgeon, Mr. Richard Maurice, whom we
happened to meet abroad. Curious how many Maurices there seem to be!"—
reflectively. "Really, quite odd. I imagine that the Squire is
acquainted with him."
"Not unlikely," Mrs. Stirling said carelessly. "Will you have some
cake?"
"Thanks. Such delicious cake! Home-made, no doubt. We met Mr. Maurice
first at Bex, and then in the mountains. A rather agreeable man; and
clever too. He and Doris went no end of expeditions together. Girls do
such odd things, you know, in these days. You and I, when we were
girls, would no more have dreamt of going off for a day with a strange
young man, than of flying to the moon. The one would have been as
impossible as the other. But everything now is so different! Of course
they were not strangers long. Very much the reverse, as you may
imagine."
Mrs. Stirling, having received Doris's little note, and having been
impressed by it, woke up to the fact that there was method in this
outpouring. She handed more cakes.
"Thanks very much. I'm really ashamed—I am making quite a meal. And my
appetite is generally so small—so precarious, you know. To tell the
truth, I rather blamed myself for laxity, in allowing the two to be so
much together—perhaps in trusting them too implicitly. Mine is a
trustful nature, and one is so liable to be taken in. But pray count
all this to be in the strictest confidence! You see—things really did
go rather far. I quite thought something was coming of it. But even in
modern days, the course of true love doesn't always run smooth."
"This may be only the second volume of the novel. Perhaps a third
will follow," cheerfully suggested Mrs. Stirling.
"It may—of course. But something seems to have gone wrong. And when
one sees Doris, one cannot help feeling very sorry for the poor girl.
So very apparent—what she is feeling! But I ought not to have said so
much. I—in a manner I almost promised! Only, you of course—being so
intimate with them all—it seems as if you really ought to know. But
unless you can assure me that it will go no farther, I must not say
any more."
"It sounds an interesting tale. I can undertake that it will not
travel beyond my son and myself."
Mrs. Brutt professed herself satisfied, and proceeded to pour forth
the whole story—not to say, a good deal more than the whole. Mrs.
Stirling listened with an air of placid detachment, smiling
sympathetically. Whatever she felt for Hamilton's sake, she did not
turn a hair; and Mrs. Brutt, who had meant her tidings to come as a
blow, was disappointed.
"Quite a nice little one-volume love-affair!"
Mrs. Stirling remarked at the end. "It seems rather a pity, since he
is such a pleasant young fellow, that he should not have her—even
though he has not the sixteen quarterings!"
"Very far from that. There is something most hazy about his family
history—his father, more especially—putting aside the Wyldd Farm
relationships. And besides—between ourselves—I imagine that her
parents have other views for Doris."
"Really! Are you sure? We are not too well off in this place for
eligible men. Do, pray, tell me—who can it be?"
Mrs. Brutt could have shaken her; and the temptation proved
irresistible.
"Of course I don't pretend to know. I am hardly more than a
stranger—not in the Wintons' secrets. But I do happen to have heard,
and on extremely good authority, that your own son has been paying
a good deal of attention to Doris—and that her parents are more
than willing."
Mrs. Stirling lay back in her chair, and laughed till tears ran down
her cheeks.
"My son! Hamilton! After Doris Winton! My dear Mrs. Brutt!—where can
you have picked up such a preposterous notion? Doris Winton! Hardly
more than a child! A pretty girl, and a nice girl, but not in the
least suited to Hamilton. He has known her all her life, and they are
very good friends,—in fact, he is rather fond of instructing her in
geology, and I have seen her unmistakably bored with it. He and I will
have a good laugh over that report. Oh, I quite understand—you had it
on the best authority! Did you ever hear any piece of impossible news
which was not on the very best authority? I never did. I'm afraid
somebody has been amusing herself at your expense. If you really wish
to know the truth—quite between ourselves!—I can assure you that the
one woman in the world for my son would be—Katherine Stirling! But at
present she would never think of leaving her uncle. He so depends upon
her; and she is a very embodiment of unselfishness."
Mrs. Brutt felt herself foiled. She had had distinctly the worst of
the encounter; and she took herself off with a much offended air. When
she was gone, Mrs. Stirling went straight to her son, and related what
had passed.
"I've no doubt there is a modicum of truth in the woman's gossip,"
she said. "Though why she should have taken the trouble to tell me,
I don't know. Mere love of talk, probably. All that about the farm
people is, I dare say, pure imagination. But this explains Doris's
note. She has been éprise by the young surgeon, and can't think
definitely of anybody else."
Hamilton looked solemn. He was more amazed than distressed. He had
never doubted that he only had to propose to be accepted. That Doris
should prefer another to himself was almost inconceivable! But clearly
it was the case.
"If you take my advice, my dear boy,"—she called him a "boy" still
sometimes, as mothers do, long after boyhood is passed,—"you will give
up thinking about Doris, and just go back to Katherine. And—I may be
mistaken, but somehow I do think you are a good deal to Katherine.
I think you might succeed in that direction. And I've made it easy for
you now to prevent people from saying that you have been refused.
You know what I have always wished. Doris is a charming girl.
But Katherine—!"
That "But Katherine—!" with its unspoken suggestion, took hold of him.
The thought of Katherine soothed his wounded pride. After all, nobody
had been to him what Katherine always was. She, and not Doris, formed
the embodiment of his typical wife. And if Doris really had taken up
with somebody else, rather than himself—well, Hamilton was sorry
for her!
He spent a restless night, and next morning went to Lynnthorpe,
for two hours in Katherine's company.