"Who was My Father?"
IT was the morning of Mr. Stirling's birthday. Presents, letters,
congratulations, had been showered upon him; and now at last he had
an hour alone. Hamilton was with his niece; and Mr. Stirling's horse,
brought round for a ride, was dismissed. Early though it still was,
the Squire spoke of being tired; a rare admission on his part. No;
he did not want Katherine; he did not want anybody. He only wished
to be alone.
Shutting the door of his study, a lofty though not large room,
well lined with bookcases, he sank back in the big arm-chair, close
to his writing-table.
Many letters demanded attention; but he was in no mood to give it.
A feeling of utter languor, almost of powerlessness, had possession
of him. What mattered birthdays, friends, tokens of affection,—while
this ever-pressing weight dragged him down? How much longer could he
endure it? Was there no way of escape—no road to freedom?
"Yes,—one, and one only." So, with relentless calm, Conscience made
answer. He looked that way in the face, and recoiled from it with a
shudder. Nothing but confession, and putting right that which was
wrong. Nothing but—the impossible!
Round and round the old weary circle his mind was working—almost like
a personality, separate from himself. He could neither control nor
hinder the treadmill of thought.
He pictured to himself, as he had done hundreds of times before,
what Katherine would feel, what Hamilton would say, how the world—
his world—would take it. He saw the looks of amazement, the silent
contempt of some, the disdainful pity of others. He heard the
comments, the whispers of wonderment; and again he felt that to meet
all this was out of the question. It could not be. The thing had gone
on too long. It had to go on still, during his lifetime. Afterwards,
the truth would become known. That was inevitable. But men would be
kind to the memory of the dead. They would make excuses —then—such
excuses as they would not make while he lived.
Yet, if things were to go on—must he endure to the end this terrible
weight, this ever-increasing sense of unpardoned guilt, this constant
remorse? That was the crucial question.
His thoughts went again to Mary, his wife; to that scene, twenty-five
years or more earlier, when the truth had burst upon him, and he had
realised in an agony that to divulge it might lose him the woman he
loved.
Vividly he recalled how, first for his love's sake, afterwards for his
wife's sake, later for Katherine's sake, and all through for his own
sake, he had insisted on silence as the price of his doing aught for
Mrs. Morris and her children. And so between them—between him and her—
the tissue of deceit was woven.
For she was left penniless, worse than penniless, with a mass of
unpaid debts on her hands; debts, the existence of which Mr. Stirling
had never known. They gave him a powerful handle, and he used it.
She was helpless, for she had no resources; and the money which would
one day come to Katherine was tied securely out of reach for many
a long year.
As the price of her silence, Mr. Stirling paid all the debts,
undertook the education of the little boy, and promised her an income
of two hundred a year, so long as the secret should be faithfully
guarded.
And she had kept it, even from her own children. She had never
betrayed him. She had followed all his directions, had obeyed all his
commands. She was a woman capable of loving, and she had loved her
husband with utter devotion; but the whole tenderness that was in her
seemed to have been expended in that one direction. It was as if the
long deceit, and the separation from her son, had seared and hardened
her nature, deadening other affections.
Yet in a way she did care greatly for this son, of whom she was
allowed to see so little, between whom and herself so complete a
separation of mind and heart had come about. She cared for his future;
and she believed that his future depended on her strict observance of
the conditions imposed. Uneducated and ignorant, she knew little
beyond the circle of her own home-interests; and she had always
believed that it was in the power of Mr. Stirling to leave his
property where he chose;—only not to a woman, therefore not to
Katherine. She had heard something of the "entail," and this was all
that she supposed it to mean. The Squire had, perhaps, made no
definite statements to her, but he had certainly implied that he had
such power, and he had allowed her deliberately to remain under this
delusion. Whereas, in point of fact, he had no power whatever to break
the entail, without the consent of the next heir.
Thinking over these things, as he lay back in his study chair, with
closed eyes and aching head, the deceit looked very black. Whether he
had or had not actually said this or that, mattered little. It was
enough that he had misled his sister-in-law, had allowed her to be
deceived.
A knock at the door made him sit upright, opening a book, with an air
of being occupied.
The butler came in.
"Somebody wishes to see you, sir."
"Who is it?"
"He didn't give any name, sir. He said he'd rather not. It's—" Forest
lowered his voice—"it's the same gentleman that came when you were
in town, sir, some weeks ago, and wanted your address."
"Tell him I am engaged, and he had better come another time. Ask his
name, please."
The butler went, and returning said—"It is Mr. Maurice, sir."
"I decline to see Mr. Maurice." The Squire had gone strangely pale.
But in the doorway, behind the solid figure of the old butler, stood a
younger and slighter figure, resolute in air.
"And I decline to be sent away," a voice said, stern as the Squire's
own.
Forest glanced doubtfully from the one to the other. And the one thing
which powerfully impressed him was—not the anger of his master,
not the presumption of the caller, but a curious intangible likeness
in those two faces; a likeness which could not be defined, but which
was undeniable.
Mr. Stirling stood up slowly. The younger man's eyes met his, and
there was a swift crossfire, a brief, silent passage-at-arms, which
ended in victory for the newcomer. Mr. Stirling said—
"Very well. I will give you five minutes. You may go, Forest."
"I beg your pardon for insisting," Maurice said when the door
was shut. "But insist I must. A few words with you are necessary."
He hesitated, noting the Squire's changed and haggard look.
"You are not well!"
The remark was put aside.
"What, pray, is the meaning of this?" Mr. Stirling demanded. "You know
that in coming here, you break conditions—"
"Unreasonable conditions!"
"Allow me to finish, if you please. Conditions, upon which your
mother's claim to a lifelong pension rest."
"I cannot help it! There are times when a man must judge for himself,—
must put aside other considerations. I have a question to put; and I
intend to have an answer."
"No doubt in reference to Doris Winton. I have heard of that folly."
"It is in reference to my love for Doris Winton. My life's happiness
depends on marrying her; and one great obstacle stands in the way.
Mr. Stirling—who was my father?"
No answer was vouchsafed.
"Is he living now?"
"No."
"When did he die?"
"Just after the birth of your sister Winnie."
"Was his name really Maurice?"
The Squire's face was set in a hard mask. He said—"Yes."
"What was his standing?"
"A gentleman of education,—and of good connections."
"How did he come to marry my mother?"
"He had been ill,—and she gained some sort of hold over him. I can
only call it insanity. He deeply regretted his action later, there is
no doubt,—and none of his own people knew of the marriage till after
his death."
"Then he punished his wife for his own folly. The brute!" burst out
Maurice.
A deep flush spread itself over the Squire's face. He sat down
suddenly; and Maurice saw the shaking hands, the trembling underlip.
He took a seat himself, unasked, and made an effort to speak calmly.
"I am sorry to distress you, but I can put off no longer. Things
cannot go on like this. I must know more. One fact you have made clear
to me. That is, that the man who married my mother was a cad at heart,
though he may have been a gentleman by birth. How, otherwise, could he
have visited his own weakness upon a woman—his wife!"
"You are speaking of your father—remember!"
"No father to be proud of!"
"He was good to her, I believe,—always—"
"I don't call that being good to her."
"It is not possible for you—knowing so little—to estimate his
position. You pass judgment, not understanding."
"I hope I know the duty of a husband to his wife. To marry—and then be
too much of a coward to acknowledge what he had done! Abominable!"
After a pause, Maurice went on—"When he died, why did she not speak
out? What possible cause could there have been then, for silence?"
He turned upon the Squire. "Why have you insisted on this silence—
made her income depend upon secrecy?"
"I am not able to explain fully. There were reasons!"
"I dare say! For the sake of his grand connections—no doubt!" Maurice
all but gave expression to the thought which flamed up—"Perhaps you
are one of them!" But the deep flush had come again, mounting to
Mr. Stirling's forehead, and he held both hands there, murmuring with
evident pain and difficulty—
"I cannot have any more of this. You must leave. I am suffering from a
very severe headache."
Maurice gravely studied the crimsoned brow and its swelling veins.
"Yes, I see. You are not well. But I must see you again. I have
a right to know more."
The Squire, leaning forward and breathing heavily, did not move.
Maurice stood up, said "Good-bye" coldly, and walked to the door.
There he hesitated, and glanced back.
A strained and troubled face the supporting hands—a face of beseeching
appeal. It was as if the Squire were being impelled by some strong
force to take action, against his own will.
"Don't go!" came slowly. "Wait! I have—something to say to you."