That he would meet with difficulties was only to be expected. Doris had prepared him for them.
Mr. Winton would probably be in opposition; and Mrs. Winton would inevitably be so. They would want for their only child a husband of unexceptionable parentage; and who could wonder? Not Maurice!—who saw the objections to himself almost as clearly as Mrs. Winton did. Like most people without "descent," he valued it less than do those who rejoice in a pedigree; yet he could estimate their side of the question.
But with regard to Doris herself he had no shadow of doubt. He loved her; she loved him; and, as he had said, they together might face a world in opposition. In his young strong confidence, he smiled at the thought. So long as each was true to the other, nothing could ultimately separate them.
His wish had been to reach Lynnbrooke as soon as she did; but she had begged for a day or two first. He gave in to her urgency, though it was hard to wait.
In his eagerness now he was ready an hour before he had to start; his bag packed, his gloves beside it. To fill up spare time, he ran downstairs for a newspaper, and found a letter, which had just come in. A letter from Doris! He had half wondered at not receiving a few lines on arrival.
The lift was at hand; and three seconds saw him back in his own room. A letter from her was not to be read in public. He sat down, and with careful fingers cut open the envelope. Then his eyes travelled down the page, as far as the signature.
Sight failed him for more. He remained sitting; silent and motionless; dizzied with the shock. London's roar had died out of his ears, which were filled with another roar, inward, not outward. Physical surroundings vanished; and he was alone upon the Glückhorn with Doris,—her dear face, flushed and radiant, turned towards him; her dear eyes, earnest and glowing, uplifted to his.
She!—his own!—his darling!—could write to him thus!
He was stunned at first, hardly knowing where he was. Gradually he rallied and came back to the present. He heard again the babel of street sounds, and realised what had happened. A dense fog which had filled the room faded out of it. He sat up, and read the note once more, dwelling upon each word, collecting the full force of each sentence, while a bitter smile curled his lips—till he reached the scrawled postscript. He had not seen that before.
"Ah—h!" came with a gasp. The bitter smile disappeared, and he spoke aloud, crushing the sheet in his hand. "Now I understand! It is not Doris!—not my darling! She has been made to do it. The words are not hers. She never wrote such a letter. How could I be taken in for one moment? Dictated all through—except the ending. That is her own beloved self. That only!—nothing else. My poor darling!"