Chapter XXX: The Squire is Mysterious

"WELL, child! So here you are. All right?" asked the Rector. He clipped his sentences nervously, squared his shoulders, and avoided looking in his daughter's face.

She was conscious of relief, to see him alone on the platform. It might be cowardice; but she welcomed any delay in the more formidable encounter. Ever since her arrival at Dover, she had been picturing what the latter would be like; conjuring up a stately and offended "Rectorinn," and imagining conversations enough to fill a small volume.

"Daddy, it's awfully nice to be back. What an age I've been away! You are glad to have me?"

"Glad" was not the word; but Mr. Winton could seldom say what he felt. He grunted an uncouth assent.

"Where's—she?" he demanded.

"Mrs. Brutt? She was bent on three days at Dover, and I was bent on getting home. So here I am."

"Had enough of her?"

"Quite!" expressively. "Oh, I must see to my luggage." She went swiftly along the platform, with smiling recognition of one well-known face after another, among guards and porters. "That is all done," she soon announced. "And now we can walk home, can't we?" She tucked a hand under her father's substantial arm. "What have you been working at lately, dad?"

Nothing more was needed to unloose her father's powers of speech. He could always talk on the subject of carpentry; and he quickened his stride, rolling characteristically from side to side, while Doris hung on as best she might, and he sketched his plans, past, present, and future, with enthusiasm.

She listened dreamily, finding it difficult to keep her attention fixed.

"Then you're going to do two more lecterns?"

"As soon as I can find time." He explained his scheme for the next, keeping it up all along the main street. She wondered whether this were of set purpose, to avoid more ticklish topics.

As they neared the Rectory, her mind had wandered elsewhere; and the Rector reverted into dumbness. His burly frame did not preclude mental sensitiveness; and he knew in a moment when she no longer listened.

"Daddy,"—and she stood still, just within the Rectory gate,—"did you get Dick Maurice's letter, and mine?"

"Yes, yes, child." He tried to hurry her on. "Come—mother is looking out."

"But I want to know. Does she mind?"

"Ask her, my dear. She'll tell you."

The girl hesitated, and he went ahead.

"Here she is," he called joyously, opening the front door.

At once became apparent the fallacy of previous imaginings. Mrs. Winton came forward with an anxious smile; and Doris was folded in large, outspread arms,—folded and held.

She had not expected this. The Rectorinn was far from demonstrative; and while Doris had braced herself to meet displeasure, the last thing she had expected was tenderness. For a moment neither spoke. Doris's head went down on her mother's shoulder; and she nestled into the welcoming grasp, feeling herself to be a child again,— or like a little bird, returning from a long wander into the warmth and shelter of the nest.

Could Mrs. Winton have realised it, she might at any time have controlled this daughter of hers by the slightest of silken threads. Stern opposition, severe management, always stiffened the young back; but Doris would succumb at once to the touch of love and gentleness.

Those clasping arms meant to her what she had known, but often had not realised, the strength of mother-love! She knew that the firm grip meant more than love. She read in it guardianship, exclusion, disapproval,—all these. But the tenderness made up for everything, made all of small importance by comparison; and she gave herself over to it, clinging fast—was it for protection from herself? She could not have told.

Neither saw the tears which glistened in another pair of eyes, under shaggy brows.

"Are you tired with your journey?"

"Not in the least, mother,"

She stood up, and adjusted her hat.

"How nice it all looks! So pretty and homelike! Why—you have put fresh flowers in all the vases. It's not the day."

"For you!" Mrs. Winton's face said.

"And the best china out!" She appreciated that honour. "And those little cakes that I like. And what is this?" She stopped before a small table, on which lay sundry packages, addressed to herself.

"Tea first," suggested Mr. Winton.

"I'm longing to open them. Well—I'll wait." She sat down, and her parents watched her with hardly-veiled anxiety and admiration. She had never looked fresher, prettier, more charming. Mrs. Winton was thinking how, at this phase, she would doubly attract Hamilton Stirling. The other undesirable young fellow had of course to be got rid of as fast as possible. She did not foresee grave difficulty, but she did recognise a need for tact; and though not commonly a tactful person, she was cautious now through fear of consequences. Doris, as she well knew, could be roused to obstinacy.

"No end of invitations," Mrs. Winton said. She ran through a list of forthcoming garden-parties in the neighbourhood; titled names included. She was much too sure of her own position to care for any bolstering up by acquaintances. She would have said that she left "that sort of thing" to "people like Mrs. Brutt." But to-day she was desirous to get Doris back into the old atmosphere; so, with a purpose, important names figured prominently.

"Now may I open these parcels, mother?" The note of submission was unusual. "A pincushion from my Sunday class. Dear little things! And a pair of vases from the maids. How kind of them. Ah, this is from you, mother—a new hat!—and what a beauty! How did you guess that I wanted one? Getting things for climbing cost such a lot,—I've no money left for clothes. And a dear little writing-case from father. Oh, thank you!"

She lifted a large bouquet of hothouse flowers, guessing the truth before she read—"From Hamilton Stirling."

"I don't think I ought to keep that."

"You could hardly send it back, my dear."

"I suppose—not. But I wish—"

The Rector bolted.

"Mother, we didn't write earlier, because we thought—I thought—it was better to wait. But just at last I changed my mind."

"There is a letter from a Mr. Maurice." Mrs. Winton's head became grenadier-like in pose, though she spoke still with studied kindness.

"What did father say?"

"He has not been able to answer it. No address was given."

"Oh, that was me—I mean, it was my doing. At least I wanted it; though really Dick had made no plans, and didn't know where he would be for two or three nights. I wanted you and father to see him. You couldn't say anything without seeing him."

"I think we will leave that question till to=morrow."

"Dick will be coming."

"Not for a day or two, I imagine. We will wait till to-morrow. You have your unpacking to attend to,—and I must write some letters."

"Oh yes,—and all my Swiss treasures to get out."

She ran off blithely, not sorry to defer the great discussion. Mrs. Winton smiled to herself.

The letters that had to be written made slow advance. Mrs. Winton leant back in her chair, and gave herself up to thought.

Mrs. Brutt's second effusion had not taken precisely that effect which it was meant to take. Like many mothers, Mrs. Winton could find unlimited fault with her daughter; but if an outsider ventured to do the same, she bristled into instant defence.

"I call it a very impertinent letter," she had said to her husband, after reading it. "Mrs. Brutt is out of temper; but, really, I do not see why she should have expected to be told. If she had done her duty, no such complication would have arisen. She has been disgracefully careless; just wrapped up in herself and her fancies. Mr. Maurice has behaved very ill; but his duty was to write to us, not to consult Mrs. Brutt."

"Poor little Doris!" the Rector said.

"Yes. I really do not see that the child has been so much to blame." This unlooked-for leniency gave immense relief to Mr. Winton. "She has fallen a victim between the two. Well, mercifully it is stopped now!" The Rector's lips formed a very dubious—"Is it?"—"And it will soon be over. The great thing at present is secrecy. Mr. Hamilton Stirling must certainly hear nothing."

The Rector asked how she meant to gag Mrs. Brutt.

"I must think what can be done. The woman is a perfect sieve, and if she is not checked, the whole tale will be over Lynnbrooke in a week. She will pour it all out to the Squire, the first thing. Perhaps, if she does, he will stop its going farther. She is setting her cap at him, so she will do what he wishes."

The bare idea of Mrs. Brutt at Lynnthorpe, in the capacity of Katherine's aunt, was enough to send Mr. Winton into a prolonged chuckle.

"Yes, of course. We see the absurdity, but she doesn't. She has an overweening notion of her own importance."

Mrs. Winton pondered these things as she sat at her davenport. It had been decided between herself and her husband that something should be said to the Squire, anticipating Mrs. Brutt's probable confidences. Since he had confessed to knowing this young doctor, he might give fuller information as to the latter's antecedents. He had been absent from home since the arrival of Mrs. Brutt's former letter; but he was expected to return this morning. And as she debated, her husband appeared, ushering in the Squire.

"I told Mr. Stirling, my dear, that we had a question to ask him. Perhaps we had better adjourn to the study. Doris may come in here any moment."

The move having been made, Mr. Winton spoke a few words of careful inquiry. They were anxious to know about the young Edinburgh surgeon, whom they had named to him before,—Mr. Maurice. Would he be willing kindly to give them further particulars?

The Squire was leaning back in an arm-chair, with the air of languor which had lately often characterised him. He did not stir, but asked—"Particulars as to what?"

"You mentioned that his connections were unsatisfactory."

"They would not satisfy you."

"His parents?"—inquiringly.

"I am not able to go into the matter fully. It should, I think, be sufficient to say—and I do say it emphatically—that you would disapprove of them."

"You mean," Mrs. Winton put in, "that we should disapprove of him as an acquaintance for Doris."

"If that is all you wish to know—yes."

The husband and wife exchanged glances. Mr. Stirling had spoken with an unwonted touch of sharpness; and he looked, the Rector thought, strangely pale.

"That is not all," Mr. Winton said, taking the matter into his own hands. "Mr. Maurice has proposed for Doris. And she wishes to accept him."

The Squire seemed to rouse himself with an effort. He sat upright, facing them both.

"Does this mean that you wish for advice,—that you will allow me to offer advice?"

"Yes—certainly!"

"Then, if I were you, Winton, I would write by the next post, and refuse consent."

"Unfortunately, I can't. He sends no address, but says he will call in person for his answer, to-morrow or next day."

"He does!—does he?" There was a lightning-flash of indignation, though the Squire still spoke restrainedly. "It would be of no use giving you his Edinburgh address. A letter sent there would not arrive in time."

"You know a good deal about him," Mr. Winton could not help saying. "What about the young fellow himself—his character?"

"There is no particular fault to be found. It is simply a question of his connections. I cannot give you particulars. I can only advise you—urgently—to act with decision."

"He will be here before we can take any steps."

"Apparently so. You will have to make him understand that nothing can come of it. I suppose you will keep this—episode—to yourselves."

"As far as possible," the Rector began, and his wife broke in—

"But Mrs. Brutt—"

"Does she know?"

"She has found it out somehow. She wrote to warn us."

The Squire stood up thoughtfully.

"Perhaps I may be able to give her a hint. Yes, I will remember. I have to see her on a small piece of business. It is desirable that people should not be set talking. Good-bye. I must be off. You will let me know how things turn out."

"Will you not stay and see Doris?" asked Mrs. Winton, surprised at so early a move.

"I think not now. I have a good deal to do. Another day."

They gazed after him as he went heavily down the garden. He seemed all at once aged and altered, almost feeble.

"Something is wrong with the Squire," Mrs. Winton remarked.

The Rector made no comment. Five minutes later he stood at his study-table, reading anew Maurice's letter. He liked the tone of it, the manly frankness, the ardent warmth, the devotion to his child.

His eyes rested, by no means for the first time, on the signature,—"Richard Raye Maurice."

"I don't understand that," he muttered. The puzzle had been in his mind ever since receiving the sheet. He wondered at his wife's having failed to remark the same. Then he recalled that the Squire's invariable signature was—"Richard R. Stirling." Few knew what the R. stood for; perhaps almost no one in the place except himself.