Plainly now her duty was to write to Mrs. Winton,—not appearing to know of the engagement, but saying enough to alarm Doris's home-folks. It was no unwelcome duty; for the Rector-inn's importance at Lynnbrooke overshadowed her own, and she objected to be overshadowed. To give that importance a downward pull would be secretly enchanting.
Doris would be at once recalled. That was certain. Perhaps she would decide to go herself also. She was growing tired of this place. She would find it amusing to watch Lynnbrooke developments. The thought of her new knowledge brought a welcome sense of power.
Power that she proposed to exercise—not for the happiness of others, but as a relief to her own hurt and offended feelings. When she recalled the tone of Doris's allusions to herself, and the amused laugh which they had called forth from her companion, she was simply furious. Anything that touched her amour propre lay beyond forgiveness.
[CHAPTER XXIX]
What Next?
MRS. BRUTT'S self-control was limited; and, despite her best efforts, she failed to meet Doris as if nothing had happened. There was a constraint of manner, which set the girl studying her, and wondering what had happened.
Another letter to Mrs. Winton went off that afternoon. Mrs. Brutt explained wordily that, to her extreme distress, she had noted signs of a growing love-affair between Doris and the young surgeon,— no longer her "dear young doctor."
She regretted not having found it out earlier, and felt that she had trusted too implicitly. Mr. Maurice's conduct had been most reprehensible. She would not have believed him to be capable of anything so underhand,—or Doris either, with whom she felt sorely disappointed. However, though Doris had said nothing to her, she had doubtless kept her parents well informed. Mrs. Brutt certainly did feel hurt at having been left so completely in the dark; but her state of health had rendered her unusually blind. Some medical details followed.
All this and much more Mr. and Mrs. Winton were desired to look upon as in close confidence. Doris did not know that she was writing. She counted it her plain duty to send a word of warning, in case they had not yet heard.
They might, no doubt, fully approve of their daughter's lover. People viewed things so differently. The young doctor was on the whole quite presentable—quite well-behaved. And no doubt, too, he had principles, though in this affair he was to be blamed. He seemed clever, and might do well in his profession. So far as she could gather, there was something rather hazy about his parentage; but she had only found this out from observation and intuition,—she had really been told nothing definite. That was a matter about which some parents were particular; and she confessed to a sense of particularity herself as to people's antecedents. Still, in this democratic age, the most unlikely unions did take place, and not always unsuccessfully.