The doings of Doris

by Agnes Giberne

Hamilton and Katherine were behind in the library, out of sight; both having heard all earlier in the day. Doris, with a rush of joy, recognised that Dick, her Dick, no longer ranked as a fatherless waif, without descent or standing, but that—though he still had an undesirable mother and an objectionable sister—he was nephew to a leading landowner, heir to a fine property, and possessor of a long line of ancestors. Her first sensation was of joy that she had effectually checked Hamilton, before this development, and had spoken frankly to Dick. Had it been otherwise, how could she now have given up the disinherited man in favour of a prospectively wealthy Dick?

Mrs. Brutt stared, open-mouthed. She felt actually angry that the Squire's courageous confession had taken the wind out of her sails, destroying her power to harm him.

The silence lasted only a few seconds, though to all concerned it seemed endless. Then the Rector came forward. It was one of those rare occasions when, taken suddenly and deeply stirred, he could lay aside his shyness, could cease to be dumb, could say and do precisely what was right.

Deliberately he pushed his way to the front, reached the open window, stepped over the sill, and faced round, standing beside the Squire, a gleam in his deep-set eyes. He held up a silencing hand, for murmurs were swelling, and his voice rang out.

"I don't know how you all feel, my friends. The Squire has taken us by surprise; and most of us want a little time to get used to what we have just heard. It is a new order of things; and at first we feel a little strange at the idea of this new heir—his nephew. But since he is the Squire's nephew, we will give him a welcome. I for one do so gladly. For though I have only seen him once before—as Mr. Maurice— I can assure you, from that interview, that he will not disgrace the name he bears."

"As I say, I don't know how it may be with you; but I know how it is with myself, in regard to the fact that Mr. Stirling should have come forward in this grand way, in the face of the county, as one may say, to confess his error—to tell of his own wrong-doing—and to set matters right. In so acting, he gives himself into our hands; he trusts us; and the least that we can do is to respond as old and tried friends should."

"He made once a grievous mistake. He has done wrongly. But who are we?—who are you? who am I?—that we should dare to pass judgment? Which of us has not done wrongly, has not made many a sad mistake, has not been overcome by temptation? And which of us, I wonder, would in his place have come forward with frank and open confession, as he has done?"

"The Squire has been my friend for many and many a year. I need not tell you that I have always esteemed, always trusted, always loved him. But I have never so esteemed him, never so loved him, never so honoured him, as at this moment."

"It could be no easy step for him—for one who has taken always a foremost place among us—no easy task, to stand up here, in the presence of you all, and to tell in plain terms of the long concealment, of the lack of right dealing, into which, under severe temptation, he allowed himself to be led. And—mark you!—to make no excuse for himself; to lay blame upon no other! I do say—though I offer no word in extenuation—I do say that he is acting grandly in the present; and I honour him for it. And very sure I am, my friends, that Divine grace alone could have made possible for him such a line of conduct."

Mr. Winton stopped, laying his broad hand almost caressingly upon the other's shoulder; and cheer after cheer, in gathering volume, rent the air. The Rector beamed approval. One or two county magnates, standing near, silently wrung the Squire's hand.