Chapter XXXIII: "How will He Take It?"

WHEN Doris's tap sounded at the study door, it found Mr. Winton at his ever-recurring struggle to compose two sermons for the following Sunday. At week-day services he was content, usually, to use old compositions; but for Sunday he sternly compelled himself to make fresh ones. And the task was hard. Not that he did not know, did not feel, did not realise, did not love, the things about which he had to preach; but that the gift of expression was not his. He could be, and live, and do,—but he could not speak. And a clergyman has to speak. It is one main part of his work.

"Come in," he called.

"Father, I want to speak to you."

Doris shut the door, and stood on the other side of his writing-table, her head thrown back.

"Mother has been trying to make me say that I'll give up Dick."

"Yes."

"Ought I?"

Mr. Winton kept uneasy silence. His shaggy eyebrows drew together.

"He loves me, and I love him. Ought I to give him up now—only because his people are not exactly what one would choose?"

"There are a good many things to be considered."

"But I promised myself to him, daddy. I said I would—if you and mother were willing."

"Ah—yes."

"But if I'm forbidden—" She lifted from the table a large ivory paper-cutter of Swiss make, with a tiny carved châlet at the end. It brought back in a flash the little red-brown building, outside which she and Dick had sat and talked. Doris put it down with a decisive air. "It will just mean—waiting!"

"I think you will do what we wish, my child."

"I know what mother wishes. I want to know what you think—what you really, truly think!" She spoke impetuously. "Mother only sees my side of the question—and not all that. Daddy, you are a man. You can understand. You can see Dick's side. I want you to remember Dick. He is so dear, so true,—and he loves me—and we belong to one another. Should I be right—now!—to give him up, because of his relations? I didn't refuse him at first, when he told me about them. Ought I to throw him overboard, when nothing is changed? Wouldn't it be wronging him? Don't you see what I mean?"

"How much did he tell you about them?"

"I've just been explaining to mother." She hurriedly went over the ground again; and at the mention of Mrs. Morris, his lips drew together. "You see, Dick couldn't put all this in his letter; but he left me free to speak, only it mustn't go farther, without Mr. Stirling's leave. And I knew this when I accepted him. Wouldn't it be wronging him now, to throw him overboard?"

"You might wrong him more, by becoming his wife, if it should mean in the future—?"

She caught the meaning which underlay his slow utterance.

"Yes, I know. I see that. If I should be sorry by-and-by—if I should be ashamed. And I can't be sure. Things look so different at different times. Just now, all I seem to care for is to have him—Dick! And I know you will like him. He and you will just suit! Daddy—ought I to give him up?" Tears again filled her eyes. "Must I?"

The Rector never could bear to see his child in distress; but he realised all that was involved in the decision; and he knew now that the thing could not be. "Don't, my dear!" he entreated.

She knelt down, and laid her face against his knee.

"In any case, we should have to know about his father," Mr. Winton observed, looking down with grieved eyes upon the mass of soft dusky hair. "I do not understand this mystery."

"Dick doesn't either. It is queer, isn't it? But Mr. Stirling seems to know more than most people. You might ask him. He would tell you, daddy. I can't think why he should have made Dick spell his name differently from his mother and sisters. But Dick's is the right spelling, and Mrs. Morris's is the wrong. I don't understand how it comes to be Mr. Stirling's business at all; only, it was he who paid for Dick's schooling and college. So I suppose it has been real kindness, all through."

The rugged face, listening intently, had grown stern.

"Sometimes it seems as if such things didn't matter at all,—not in the very least. Other times—I almost feel as if I couldn't stand his people—Jane and his mother! But still—all that is not new to me. Ought I to give him up?"

"Yes!"—decisively.

She had not expected this; and her face paled. "It won't do, child!"

"I wish he had nobody belonging to him," she broke out passionately.

"That is not usual."

"And—you won't help me! I thought you would be sure to help me."

"It won't do," he said again. "It can't be." He added: "A few written words from yourself would be best; sent off at once, if you know where to reach him." The Rector shrewdly suspected that she did know. "It is far better to act at once—decisively—when a thing is impossible."

"Oh, I can't, daddy! I can't! I won't!"

She fled from the room, fighting against a rising storm of sobs, and escaped to her own room. Mr. Winton's sermon-making was spoilt for that day. He struggled for another half-hour, then gave up in despair, went to his workshop, and tried to forget troubles in woodcarving.

Not till a good hour later did Doris emerge from her retirement, once more self-controlled, though heavy-eyed. She found a list of purchases lying on the hall-table, according to promise, and set off to get them done. The outcome of her solitude was a renewed determination not to give in. If she might not at present reckon herself engaged, she would let Dick know that he only had to wait. He might count upon her later. Dear, dear Dick! How could she do otherwise?

Latest on her list came the butcher. This shop was in a side-street; and as she drew near, she heard a loud strident voice, which sent an unpleasant thrill through her. The younger Jones, blue-aproned, stood on the pavement, grinning broadly; and facing him might be seen a young woman in a staring blue silk blouse, shrieking with laughter.

"Oh, won't you, though? I know better, Mr. Jones. I know what I'm about! I say!—the Parkinses have promised they'll take me with them to the Show next week. You going too? Thought so! And the chap from Chicago—he'll be there! Somebody'll be jealous—I shouldn't wonder!"

"All right!" responded Jones, in a tone of familiarity, unknown to Doris. "I expect I'll manage to hold my own."

"You just try, that's all! He's uncommon sharp, that Chicago chap! Ain't easy taken in, I can tell you."

She went into a fresh fit of shrieking laughter, though there seemed to be nothing to laugh at. Then they both caught sight of Doris. The young butcher pushed up his cap, instantly quiet and respectful.

"Anything wanted, Miss?"

"Yes." She gave her order briefly. "Will you, please, see that it is sent early?"

"Goodness!—it's Miss Winton!" she heard from Jane, with a pert giggle, and that irrepressible young person bobbed her head in recognition.

Doris gazed straight through and beyond her, ignoring her existence. She neither flushed nor showed self-consciousness, but went slowly by; and not even the Rectorinn could have held her head higher.

"My! Ain't she proud?" reached her ears.

Another scene had presented itself vividly to her imagination. She saw herself standing again—in the future!—outside that same butcher's shop; the same young woman from the farm being on the pavement. She heard once more the loud screaming laughter; and with the laughter came unendurable words—

"I say!—that's my sister—Doris!"

More and more rapidly went the girl, as if driven by forces that she was powerless to resist. She reached the Rectory, and made her way, without hesitation, to the morning-room.

"Mother—"

"Yes, dear."

"You are right! I can't marry Dick!" There was a catch of her breath, but the tone was sternly resolute.

Mrs. Winton held down her joy.

"I was sure you would see it soon."

"I love him—dearly—but—I can't!"

She sat down with a reckless air, and opened her writing-case. "Father said I ought to write. I—suppose I must. He won't believe—if anybody else says it."

"You know his address—?" cautiously.

"He told me where he would be in town—to-morrow morning. I said I wouldn't let anybody else have it."

Mrs. Winton, with rare wisdom, kept silence. Ten minutes went by; and still Doris gazed upon a blank sheet.

"I don't know what to say," came at length. Mrs. Winton slowly approached. "Will you let me help you?"

"Yes—please." She scribbled the date and began—

"Dear Dick.'"

"It ought to be—'Dear Mr. Maurice.'"

"Ought it?" Doris seized a fresh sheet, wrote the words, and laughed— a heart-aching little laugh. "How horrid it looks!"

Mrs. Winton let that pass, and began to dictate—

"'Dear Mr. Maurice; I regret extremely having allowed you to indulge in hopes, during our short time together in Switzerland—'"

"It wasn't short, mother. It was a lifetime."

"You felt it so, perhaps. Only a few weeks, really."

Doris sighed. "Well—'in Switzerland'—what next?"

"As you are aware, I foresaw difficulties, and I was able only to give a conditional answer to your offer. That which I expected has come to pass. My parents are strongly opposed to anything of the kind. Their chief reason I need not specify. You will understand.'"

"Must I say that? It sounds—brutal."

"It would be better, if you could say plainly that you do not care for him."

"But I do care! I care for him—more than I can say!"

"You have to give something of a reason."

"I don't see why. He knows it all. There—'you will understand.' What next?"

"Will you read aloud what you have written?"

Doris obeyed. "It sounds so disgustingly stiff."

"I think the stiffness is necessary." Mrs. Winton carried on the last sentence—"'And I confess that, on consideration, I fully agree with them in regarding our engagement as impossible."

Doris wrote the words, then flung down her pen. "Oh, it is hateful! If you only knew all that we have been to one another!"

"That was very wrong. He ought to have asked your father's permission first. But the more completely you can put a stop to the whole thing, once and for all, the kinder it will be to him."

"Go on, please."

"In regarding our engagement as impossible.'" You have done that. "In any case, as my parents refuse their consent, all is at an end between us; and I can only beg of you to forget me as soon as possible. Yours truly, Doris Winton.'"

"No—'Yours sincerely.' And I must tell him how awfully sorry I am to have let him think—"

"Your letter begins with that. No more is needed. Put it up, dear, and I will have it posted."

"No,—I'll post it myself." Doris sat gazing at the half-dry page, and a maid came in.

"Please, 'm, you're wanted. A child has got badly hurt—and they don't know what to do."

Details followed, and Mrs. Winton stood up.

"Don't lose the next post," she urged in a low voice. "I'll be back soon."

A pair of dreamy eyes followed her exit, then returned to the letter. Again Doris heard Jane's strident tones and shrieking foolish laughter.

"It can't—can't—be!" she murmured. "I see now that it can't. I must have been mad to think it could. But, oh,—my poor, poor Dick! How will he take it?"

Yielding, as often, to the moment's impulse, she seized her pen, and wrote hurriedly—

"P.S.—Don't mind too much! I'm not worth it. I shall never, never forget our time together!"

Then she blotted the page, folded and thrust it in, addressed and stamped the envelope, and ran at her best speed to the nearest pillar-box.

Just in time! The postman was emptying it. She gave him the letter, and walked back with a dragging step.

"That is done!" she murmured, and she dropped into an arm-chair, suddenly nerveless. Nothing seemed left that was worth doing. Dick Maurice had passed out of her life; and all looked dead.

"How will he take it? Oh, how will he take it?" she asked again and again. "Will it break his heart? If only there wasn't that dreadful Jane! I think I could put up with other things. But—Jane!—Jane!"

Mrs. Winton presently found her thus, pale and listless.

"The letter is gone," was all Doris said.

Mrs. Winton stooped to kiss her forehead, and the girl moved restlessly aside.

"Don't, please!" she entreated. "I'm so tired! Mother, you won't like it, but I put a few more words. I asked him not to mind too much."

"Was that wise?"

"Yes. I'd rather he shouldn't hate me."

The words ended in a short catch of her breath.

"Dear Doris—by-and by—"

"Oh, please don't. Mother, please leave me alone. It is done; and I feel—horrid. It is Dick that I am miserable about. I know what it will mean to him. But I'd rather not talk—any more."