Doris's reception of him and his offerings varied, as of old. Sometimes she was submissively sweet. Sometimes she contradicted and laughed at him. Sometimes she was dignified and indifferent. Sometimes she felt that she never, never could, never, never would, marry any man living except Dick Maurice. Sometimes she felt that in the future— not too soon!—Hamilton might really do quite nicely.
Though she did not know her own mind, she knew her mother's mind. Every power that Mrs. Winton possessed was bent to the furtherance of Hamilton's suit. For she and her husband were definitely aware of that which most people only conjectured, or had heard as a matter of report, that Lynnthorpe was strictly entailed upon the next male heir. Katherine would have her mother's money; an ample supply; but Hamilton stood in the position of "next male heir." Which meant that his wife would be the future mistress of the place.
Of Dick Maurice nothing further had been heard. Doris was told in brief outline of his interview with her father. She often wondered that no letter, no message, came,—feeling that she, in his place, would not have been so soon "choked off." Yet it was better for both that he should keep away.
She had not, of course, been near Wyldd's Farm. Her promise to Winnie troubled her; but she felt that a call there was for the present not to be thought of. Now and again she saw Jane Morris; and never without a throb of thankfulness at her own freedom from that tie. At other times recollections of Dick would rise with overwhelming power, making her crave to have him again at any cost.
But this was only occasional. In a general way she was caught, enveloped, held captive, in the old circle of interests, by the influences of her life. Appreciation of good birth, extreme particularity of taste, a passion for refinement and high breeding,—these were by nature and by training a part of her very self. In reverting to them, after a brief spell of dislocation, she reverted also to Hamilton Stirling as the embodiment of them.
"If it has to be, it must be, I suppose," she said one day to herself, as she stood in the hall, gazing out of the window. "I don't know what I really want. I wish I did. He really is a dear man—rather too fond of old bones and stones; but everybody is too fond of something. He might have worse likings. We shall get along all right, I dare say. Oh dear, what a difficult world it is! I hope Dick won't quite forget me! Shall I ever be able to forget him?"
The question came involuntarily, and it startled her. Then a step behind made her turn.
"Mother—Mrs. Stirling wants me to go to Deene to-morrow—for the day."
"Yes, I know, my dear. You will accept, of course."
This was going too far; and Doris drew back.