Next morning early, Dolly left Combe Neville on her way to London. When
she reached the station, Walter was on the platform with a bunch of
white roses. He handed them to her deferentially as she took her seat
in the third-class carriage; and so sobered was Dolly by this great
misfortune that she forgot even to feel a passing pang of shame that
Walter should see her travel in that humble fashion. “Remember,” he
whispered in her ear, as the train steamed out, “we are still engaged;
I hold you to your promise.”
And Dolly, blushing maidenly shame and distress, shook her head
decisively. “Not now,” she answered. “I must wait till I know the
truth. It has always been kept from me. And now I _will_ know it.”
She had not slept that night. All the way up to London, she kept
turning her doubt over. The more she thought of it, the deeper it
galled her. Her wrath waxed bitter against Herminia for this evil turn
she had wrought. The smouldering anger of years blazed forth at last.
Had she blighted her daughter’s life, and spoiled so fair a future by
obstinate adherence to those preposterous ideas of hers?
Never in her life had Dolly loved her mother. At best, she had felt
towards her that contemptuous toleration which inferior minds often
extend to higher ones. And now—why, she hated her.
In London, as it happened, that very morning, Herminia, walking across
Regent’s Park, had fallen in with Harvey Kynaston, and their talk had
turned upon this self-same problem.
“What will you do when she asks you about it, as she must, sooner or
later?” the man inquired.
And Herminia, smiling that serene sweet smile of hers, made answer at
once without a second’s hesitation, “I shall confess the whole truth to
her.”
“But it might be so bad for her,” Harvey Kynaston went on. And then he
proceeded to bring up in detail casuistic objections on the score of a
young girl’s modesty; all of which fell flat on Herminia’s more honest
and consistent temperament.
“I believe in the truth,” she said simply; “and I’m never afraid of it.
I don’t think a lie, or even a suppression, can ever be good in the end
for any one. The Truth shall make you Free. That one principle in life
can guide one through everything.”
In the evening, when Dolly came home, her mother ran out proudly and
affectionately to kiss her. But Dolly drew back her face with a gesture
of displeasure, nay, almost of shrinking. “Not now, mother!” she cried.
“I have something to ask you about. Till I know the truth, I can never
kiss you.”
Herminia’s face turned deadly white; she knew it had come at last. But
still she never flinched. “You shall hear the truth from me, darling,”
she said, with a gentle touch. “You have always heard it.”
They passed under the doorway and up the stairs in silence. As soon as
they were in the sitting-room, Dolly fronted Herminia fiercely.
“Mother,” she cried, with the air of a wild creature at bay, “were you
married to my father?”
Herminia’s cheek blanched, and her pale lips quivered as she nerved
herself to answer; but she answered bravely, “No, darling, I was not.
It has always been contrary to my principles to marry.”
“_Your_ principles!” Dolores echoed in a tone of ineffable, scorn.
“_Your_ principles! Your _principles!_ All my life has been sacrificed
to you and your principles!” Then she turned on her madly once more.
“And _who_ was my father?” she burst out in her agony.
Herminia never paused. She must tell her the truth. “Your father’s name
was Alan Merrick,” she answered, steadying herself with one hand on the
table. “He died at Perugia before you were born there. He was a son of
Sir Anthony Merrick, the great doctor in Harley Street.”
The worst was out. Dolly stood still and gasped. Hot horror flooded her
burning cheeks. Illegitimate! illegitimate! Dishonoured from her birth!
A mark for every cruel tongue to aim at! Born in shame and disgrace!
And then, to think what she might have been, but for her mother’s
madness! The granddaughter of two such great men in their way as the
Dean of Dunwich and Sir Anthony Merrick!
She drew back, all aghast. Shame and agony held her. Something of
maiden modesty burned bright in her cheek and down her very neck. Red
waves coursed through her. How on earth after this could she face
Walter Brydges?
“Mother, mother!” she broke out, sobbing, after a moment’s pause, “oh,
what have you done? What have you done? A cruel, cruel mother you have
been to me. How can I ever forgive you?”
Herminia gazed at her appalled. It was a natural tragedy. There was no
way out of it. She couldn’t help seizing the thing at once, in a
lightning flash of sympathy, from Dolly’s point of view, too. Quick
womanly instinct made her heart bleed for her daughter’s manifest shame
and horror.
“Dolly, Dolly,” the agonised mother cried, flinging herself upon her
child’s mercy, as it were; “Don’t be hard on me; don’t be hard on me!
My darling, how could I ever guess you would look at it like this? How
could I ever guess my daughter and his would see things for herself in
so different a light from the light we saw them in?”
“You had no right to bring me into the world at all,” Dolly cried,
growing fiercer as her mother grew more unhappy. “If you did, you
should have put me on an equality with other people.”
“Dolly,” Herminia moaned, wringing her hands in her despair, “my child,
my darling, how I have loved you! how I have watched over you! Your
life has been for years the one thing I had to live for. I dreamed you
would be just such another one as myself. _Equal_ with other people!
Why, I thought I was giving you the noblest heritage living woman ever
yet gave the child of her bosom. I thought you would be proud of it, as
I myself would have been proud. I thought you would accept it as a
glorious birthright, a supreme privilege. How could I foresee you would
turn aside from your mother’s creed? How could I anticipate you would
be ashamed of being the first free-born woman ever begotten in England?
’Twas a blessing I meant to give you, and you have made a curse of it.”
“_You_ have made a curse of it!” Dolores answered, rising and glaring
at her. “You have blighted my life for me. A good man and true was
going to make me his wife. After this, how can I dare to palm myself
off upon him?”
She swept from the room. Though broken with sorrow, her step was
resolute. Herminia followed her to her bedroom. There Dolly sat long on
the edge of the bed, crying silently, silently, and rocking herself up
and down like one mad with agony. At last, in one fierce burst, she
relieved her burdened soul by pouring out to her mother the whole tale
of her meeting with Walter Brydges. Though she hated her, she must tell
her. Herminia listened with deep shame. It brought the colour back into
her own pale cheek to think any man should deem he was performing an
act of chivalrous self-devotion in marrying Herminia Barton’s unlawful
daughter. Alan Merrick’s child! The child of so many hopes! The baby
that was born to regenerate humanity!
At last, in a dogged way, Dolly rose once more. She put on her hat and
jacket.
“Where are you going?” her mother asked, terrified.
“I am going out,” Dolores answered, “to the post, to telegraph to him.”
She worded her telegram briefly but proudly:
“My mother has told me all. I understand your feeling. Our
arrangement is annulled. Goodbye. You have been kind to me.”
An hour or two later, a return telegram came:
“Our engagement remains exactly as it was. Nothing is changed. I
hold you to your promise. All tenderest messages. Letter
follows.”
That answer calmed Dolly’s mind a little. She began to think after
all—if Walter still wanted her—she loved him very much; she could
hardly dismiss him.
When she rose to go to bed, Herminia, very wistful, held out her white
face to be kissed as usual. She held it out tentatively. Worlds
trembled in the balance; but Dolly drew herself back with a look of
offended dignity. “Never!” she answered in a firm voice. “Never again
while I live. You are not fit to receive a pure girl’s kisses.”
And two women lay awake all that ensuing night sobbing low on their
pillows in the Marylebone lodging-house.