Chapter VI: Doris Lets Herself Go

KATHERINE STIRLING and her cousin, Hamilton, were seated together in the hall at Lynnthorpe; really its "living-room." It had an old oaken door opening on a wide terrace; deep window-seats; a huge fireplace; and antique furniture. The house was very old; and successive owners had reverently refrained from spoiling it by brand-new additions.

As usual, Hamilton was the talker, Katherine the listener. He loved a good listener; one who would submit to be convinced by his arguments; one who would not interrupt. Katherine was an adept at fulfilling this role.

He had talked for fifty minutes without a break; and he could very well have gone on for another fifty, had the Squire allowed Doris to turn homeward. Having laid down the law on foreign affairs, on home politics, and on the state of the money market, he proceeded to skim the fields of literature—if the word "skim" could be applied to any of his movements—and to recommend a well-thought-out course of geological study.

Katherine cared little for politics, less for the money market, least for ancient implements and extinct monsters. But she paid unwavering attention, because it was Hamilton who spoke. With many women the speaker matters far more than the thing spoken about.

The two were second-cousins and friends; not lovers. At least, Hamilton was not Katherine's lover, and perhaps never had been, though two or three years before this date some had looked upon him as tending that way. If so, he had made no further advance.

As for Katherine, he was and always had been for her the embodied type of all that a man should be. But she often told herself that she could not think of leaving her uncle to live alone; he so depended on her companionship. So perhaps she was in no great hurry for matters to ripen. It was enough for the present that Hamilton seemed to belong to her, consulted her, confided in her. She was placidly happy in the "friendship."

For Hamilton Stirling to "consult" anyone meant only that he wanted approval of what he had done. Since Katherine always did approve, he found in her what he wanted.

She was just thirty years old; and she looked her age, being pale, quiet, patrician to her very finger-tips. Many complained that she was proud and distant, and hard to know. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps she was proud—proud of her descent, of her blue blood, of her beautiful ancestral home, of her uncle. But if so, it was a humble and non-boasting type of pride; and she was also very shy, very self-distrustful; a not unusual combination.

Hamilton, now in his thirty-ninth year, possessed the typical Stirling outline of feature, which was even and regular. Somehow he managed to be less good-looking than Nature—to use a popular phrase—had intended. He had none of the elder Stirling's charm of manner. He was too rigid, too measured, too sure of himself, whereby he often provoked other people, who could not for the life of them see why they too might not be sometimes in the right.

But he never provoked Katherine; and that no doubt was partly why he so enjoyed her companionship. She always gave in to his views.

At the end of fifty minutes, having done with extinct monsters and underground fire-seas, he broke new ground. Katherine found him to be discussing Doris Winton, of whom she was fond. An unwonted thrill became audible in his voice, and he even flushed slightly,—a most unusual phenomenon. It might have ranked for rarity among some of the pre-Adamite phenomena which he had been describing.

Katherine, on the contrary, grew rather more pale; but she listened with her ordinary calm.

"Yes," she said. "You want—what is it?"

He showed a touch of displeasure at her inattention, and went over the ground again. He wished her to use her influence over Doris. That was the point; and Katherine had heard, but had doubted her own ears.

Doris Winton was a gifted and most attractive girl; but—this between themselves—certainly a degree lacking in self-control. He ran through the little gamut of her faults, suggesting that, if Katherine would kindly exert herself, those faults would soon cease to exist. The thing which struck Katherine unexpectedly, as with a physical blow, was that he talked as one who had a personal interest in the matter. Doris was to be improved and shaped—for him! He did not say this, but he implied it. He wished her to be trained and educated up to his level.

"I am afraid I have very little power over Doris," Katherine said. "But, of course, I will do what I can."

Of course she would; since it was Hamilton who asked it of her. And still more "of course" nobody should ever guess what this meant in her own life.

"Here comes Doris with my uncle," she remarked, turning to the window.

Hardly a greater contrast could have been found than between these two; Doris, all life and glow and high spirits; Katherine, colourless, still, and impassive.

Nobody noticed Katherine's look. She had much self-control; and one who is always pale may easily be a little paler than usual, without causing comment. Doris's vividness absorbed attention. She had not expected to find Hamilton here; and the encounter, just after Mrs. Winton's unwise suggestion, threw her off her balance. Whatever she really felt about him—and no one knew this less than the girl herself—she was flattered by his attentions. Things might have drifted a good deal further, unconsciously on her part, if the mother's heavy hand had not reduced the abstract to the concrete.

Doris only knew that her spirits, after descending to zero, rushed abruptly to tropical heat. She made no effort to restrain this new mood. There is a charm in being carried on the crest of a wave, reckless of rocks ahead; and she allowed it full swing. She had found a seat on an old carved chair, facing the three; and her cheeks were a pretty carmine with excitement, while the hazel eyes shone like stars. The slender hands lay ungloved and quiet, but she talked fast.

They listened seriously to her sallies. In the Stirling composition existed a total lack of the "saving sense of humour," though the Squire's sympathetic readiness to smile with those who smiled often took its place. But he was grave to-day, and Hamilton was slow as a tortoise to grasp a jest, while Katherine seldom attempted the feat.

"I didn't believe I could come, for mother wanted me to put fresh covers on a lot of old library books. Don't you just abhor handling books that have been pawed over by the grubbiest fingers in the place? If I had my way, I'd whisk them all into the nearest ash-pit. I shirked the work yesterday, and to-day I was wild for a spin—leaving dull care behind! So I eloped without permission; and half-way here a most awful fit of remorse came on. I had to sit down on the grass to fight it out. And Mr. Stirling found me there, and said I might come on, which I was just dying to do. It's lovely to have things settled for one, in the very way one wants."

The Squire smiled because he knew it was expected of him. Katherine did not hear; and Hamilton objected to feminine frivolity.

"And isn't it perfectly horrid when one wants to do a thing and conscience won't let one alone? I had set my heart on coming, and I did my level best to smother remonstrances. Lynnthorpe is always my haven of refuge, when the world gets out of gear."

"I have always imagined needlework to be a woman's proper refuge," Hamilton remarked, and she flashed round upon him.

"You haven't! Needlework! It's my purgatory. It's the bane of my existence. If ever I have a home of my own—" the words slipped recklessly out, and though with instant realisation her colour deepened, she went on—"I'll never darn another stocking in my life. Don't I wish I could set a dozen men for a whole day to patch and mend? They wouldn't prescribe needlework again, I can tell them, as a sedative! Besides, I don't want sedatives. I want champagne. The only sort of needlework I ever found endurable is trimming hats. I should like to trim a new one for myself every week, and to give the old ones away. That would be jolly."

Hamilton disapproved alike of extravagance and of feminine slang, which she knew.

"A hat doesn't take long, when one is in the mood. Don't you love doing things when you're in the mood, and don't you hate doing them when you're out of the mood?" She glanced at Hamilton, and he tried to insert a remark about not being the victim of impulse, but she gave him no loophole, and rattled on.

"I wonder whether, if I waited long enough, I should ever be in the mood for handling dirty library books. But, of course, I shouldn't. It's too hopelessly against the grain. Oh, yes, I had your letter— thanks awfully." She suppressed a glimmering smile. "And I'll keep the list of books that you want me to read; though I don't believe I shall ever manage to wade through them. Geology is so fearfully dry. It's history that I love; and poetry; and languages; and really good novels. Not science. You don't care for novels, I know. You only care for chemical combinations and explosive substances, and old bones and stones, and labelled specimens, and flints and arrowheads."

Katherine was silently indignant that the girl could laugh at Hamilton. He tried to defend himself; but for once the inveterate talker was over-matched. Doris did not raise her voice, but she poured steadily on like a babbling stream.

"Oh, I know!—I know! Old bones mean a lot; and everybody ought to be scientific. But everybody isn't; and I don't care a hang for rows of specimens. One wants something lively in a place like Lynnbrooke. It's always the same thing over and over again here. A weird old body marches up, born in the year one, and says: 'How do you do?—and is Mrs. Winton quite well?—and how busy the dear Rector must be!' Or perhaps from somebody weirder still it's: 'How's your Parr and your kind Marr?—and what good weather!' Or else: 'Deary me, Miss, I've got the brongtipus in my throat, that bad, you can't think!' And if it's one of the parish ladies—we're all old ladies and parish ladies!—it is: 'My dear, do you think you could get me some more soup-tickets?— and are there a few club-tickets to spare?' Or else a bit of gossip: 'I suppose it's quite true that John Brown is going to marry Lucy Smith. Dear, dear me, what a sad look-out for those poor young things!'"

She had slid into mimicry, giving one voice after another with delicate exaggeration. The Squire smiled again absently; while Hamilton's rigid face betrayed his disapproval. Yet even in his annoyance he realised, more vividly than before, his growing captivity to this eager girl, with her slim grace, her warm colouring, her brilliant eyes.

She did not represent his ideal wife. The life-companion of Hamilton had always been, as pictured by himself, after a different model— refined, ladylike, self-controlled; a dove-like being, placid and meek, submissive and gentle, with manners full of repose, a tender smile, an infinite capacity for listening, and no pronounced opinions of her own.

Doris was neither meek nor submissive, neither reposeful nor dove-like. Her laugh, though ladylike, could hardly be called low; and she much preferred, at least in her present mood, hearing her own voice rather than his.

He had not seen her like this before. She sat flashing nonsense at one and another, reckless of what might be thought. As a child, and still more as a school-girl, home at intervals for the holidays, he had generally ignored her existence. It was only during the last few months that she had dawned upon his consciousness as a distinct personality.

"How I should love to be in London!" This was a fresh divergence. "Always to be on the go, and seeing fresh people, and having a good time." Her words recalled Mrs. Brutt to the Squire. "I detest a humdrum existence; and nobody can deny that Lynnbrooke is awfully humdrum."

Tea coming in made a diversion; and when it was over Doris spoke of going.

"I really mustn't stay late, for mother hasn't the dimmest notion where I am; and those wretched books have got to be done. No need to send anybody with me, Katherine. I shall go like the wind, and get in long before dark."

Hamilton, with his air of disapproving gravity, offered himself as escort.

"Thanks awfully, but please don't. I'd rather not. I hate to be a bore; and you know you meant to stay here for hours. You and Katherine always have such oceans to talk about."

Katherine betrayed no shrinking under the thrust, which was not meant to be a thrust. Hamilton held to his point, and they started together.