Chapter XII: A Little Plot

UNKNOWN to Mrs. Brutt, links were being forged in a chain of influences which was to bring about her pet scheme.

Katherine did not at once make mention of the visit to Wyldd's Farm. Not that she had intended delay, but that friends came to dinner two evenings in succession, and her uncle was out to luncheon and to tea. No good opportunity occurred, and it slipped out of her mind. The third evening, when they were alone at dessert, she named it simply as an unimportant matter. To her surprise, his face changed, and she met a look of severe rebuke, to which she was quite unused.

"You went!—after my expressed wish to the contrary! That was unlike you."

Katherine showed dismay.

"But I did not understand. I am very sorry. Did you really mean—?"

"I meant precisely what I said."

She tried to recall what he had said.

"I thought you were only warning me to be careful—advising me not to see too much of the family, because of the elder girl. If I had imagined—but indeed I had no idea that you forbade it altogether."

The Squire's brow was deeply dented, with not only displeasure but disquietude. Seeing her distress, he pulled himself together, and smiled.

"Tell me what passed."

Katherine did her best. She was in a mental condition to be easily upset, and her voice was not steady, as she related what little there was—in her estimation—worth relating. She was not gifted as a raconteur, and the tale sounded bare.

"Was that all?"

"Nearly all, uncle. Mrs. Morris seems an odd woman—not at all pleased to see me, I thought, so really I need not go again. Doris was a good deal taken with the poor delicate daughter—Winnie, they called her. Doris said afterwards that she meant to go and see her sometimes, and to take her books to read. It was a kind idea. And Mrs. Brutt—"

"Yes—"

"She talked a good deal, as she always does."

"About the farm people?" The Squire seldom showed so keen an interest in aught that might be described as verging on gossip.

"Yes. She seems to me to have found a mare's nest. I did not quite follow her line of thought—but it was about Mrs. Morris's past, and what she imagined to be the truth. She was sure there was some secret. It sounded rather absurd. But Mrs. Morris certainly is singular. The elder girl I did not like."

"I warned you. She will take liberties, if she is allowed."

"She did not try to take any. I found her rather subdued. It seemed to me only right to see Mrs. Morris, after what I owe to her. But of course, if I had understood, I would not have gone—and I will not go again. You know I always try to do what you wish."

Katherine stood up, with the words, and he went to open the door; courtly as usual. As she passed she gave him a slight wistful glance, and he took her hand in his own, then bent to kiss her forehead, as her own father might have done.

"I know!" he said. "You are my child!—my all!" The word came emphatically. "It startled me to think that you could go against my will. But it is all right now."

Both were by nature undemonstrative; and he dropped her hand. She gave him a gentle little smile in response, and moved on, her soft skirt sweeping the floor noiselessly. Within the drawing-room, when alone, she stood still and repeated the words half aloud—"His child! His all!"

Yes, it was true; and she knew it. She was his all; she had been his all, ever since the death, ten years earlier, of his adored wife, her adored aunt, the sweet, gentle, winsome Lady Mary, who when dying had given over her husband to Katherine's devoted care. She had most faithfully fulfilled her charge, with only the one doubt in her mind as to future days—if Hamilton should want her!

But he would not now. He would only want—Doris.

"As well, perhaps," she murmured. "How could I leave him—after what she said?"

But two great tears fell slowly.

Meanwhile the Squire went back to his seat, not to drink more wine, for he was the most abstemious of men, but to remain long motionless, lost in thought, with bent head. Gradually he saw his way, and determined what to do.

Fruit of which cogitations appeared in the morning, when his horse was brought to the door, and he said to Katherine,—"Don't wait for me. I hardly think I can be back to luncheon. I have a long round."

He proposed to see Doris, the Rector, Mrs. Brutt, and the farm people. Which first?—was the question. He decided to begin with the widow.

A touch sufficed to draw from her a flood of details. She described the farm and its belongings, animate and inanimate, with her usual wealth of adjectives, appropriate and inappropriate. Another touch—and she launched into speculation.

"There's something distinctly mysterious about those people, Mr. Stirling. Of course it is no business of mine—" this was the usual preface. "But one can't help noticing, you know. And there's something about the woman that gives one such a sensation of something underneath. Something almost uncanny, don't you know? I always feel that sort of thing. I always know when there's more than shows on the surface."

The Squire said "Really!"—with an air of incredulity.

"Yes, indeed, I am certain of it. Mrs. Morris is not exactly what she makes believe to be. It's perfectly clear to me that there is something or other in her past that she is bent on hiding. If one asked any questions—the most innocent questions—she kept slipping away from the subject, and would tell nothing. And why should she? If there was nothing to conceal, why should she conceal it?"

"People do not commonly care to pour out to strangers," the Squire observed dryly.

"But Miss Stirling was not a stranger. And then there is her face—the extraordinary unlikeness to what is said to be her picture when she was a girl. Really, quite unbelievable. People do alter—but there are limits. And I have serious doubts—"

"Doubts?"

"Whether in point of fact she is Nurse Morris at all! If you had seen how she tried to shirk the question—how she showed no pleasure or gratitude for your niece's kindness—how she seemed to shrink from every allusion to her past—you would understand. Why should she not be somebody else—just posing as Nurse Morris? The real Nurse Morris may have died. The man may have married a second time."

The Squire smiled again dryly. "I am afraid your interesting theory is not likely to be true. I happen to have followed Nurse Morris's career, and never for any length of time to have lost sight of her. She is hardly worth the trouble of exercising your imagination upon so vividly."

Mrs. Brutt was dimly conscious of being rebuked; and Mr. Stirling, dropping that subject as unimportant, introduced another. He referred to the idea she had mooted, of taking Doris abroad. Had she seriously meant it? He had given the matter some consideration, and he was inclined to agree with her in thinking it a wise plan for the girl. It might do her good in more ways than one.

Mrs. Brutt echoed and enlarged upon his words. Mentally, so good!— so wholesome!—so widening!—so precisely what the dear child needed! She could speak from her own experience of the effects of foreign travel upon the mental make.

The Squire did not care a "ha'p'orth" for the widow's mental make; but he listened with patience.

Mrs. Brutt poured on. The dear girl was really too much "sat upon" in her present sphere. Of course this was quite between themselves. Doris needed training, widening, developing—didn't he think? Exactly as Mrs. Brutt in the past had been trained, widened, developed. She held up her own mind for inspection, as a proof. And nothing would charm her more than to take that dear enchanting girl abroad—if only it were possible.

"But I ventured one day to put out a feeler at the Rectory, and I found it to be hopeless. Mr. Winton set his foot down, quite conclusively. Said he saw no need, and could not afford it."

Mr. Stirling suggested that the difficulty might be met. He wished the Wintons not to know that he had a hand in arrangements; and he unfolded his plan. Would Mrs. Brutt be willing to offer on her own account to take Doris, if he privately supplied the funds? No cost to the parents would be involved; and the scheme must be in strict confidence between himself and the widow; on no account to be breathed to any other human being.

Mrs. Brutt's face was wreathed in smiles. He might depend upon her— absolutely! She never talked. She never repeated anything.

Mr. Stirling had his own opinion as to the "never;" but for her own sake she would be silent here. He asked how soon she would care to go, and dates were discussed.

"Then you will speak to the Wintons," were the Squire's parting words. "I may perhaps say a word to prepare them. Better not to name definitely the length of your absence. If Doris is enjoying herself, and you wish to stay a little longer, I shall be willing."