The Woman Who Did

Chapter 21

Next morning early, Dolly left Combe Neville on her way to London.

When she reached the station, Walter was on the platform with a

bunch of white roses. He handed them to her deferentially as she

took her seat in the third-class carriage; and so sobered was Dolly

by this great misfortune that she forgot even to feel a passing

pang of shame that Walter should see her travel in that humble

fashion. "Remember," he whispered in her ear, as the train steamed

out, "we are still engaged; I hold you to your promise."

And Dolly, blushing maidenly shame and distress, shook her head

decisively. "Not now," she answered. "I must wait till I know the

truth. It has always been kept from me. And now I WILL know it."

She had not slept that night. All the way up to London, she kept

turning her doubt over. The more she thought of it, the deeper it

galled her. Her wrath waxed bitter against Herminia for this evil

turn she had wrought. The smouldering anger of years blazed forth

at last. Had she blighted her daughter's life, and spoiled so fair

a future by obstinate adherence to those preposterous ideas of

hers?

Never in her life had Dolly loved her mother. At best, she had

felt towards her that contemptuous toleration which inferior minds

often extend to higher ones. And now--why, she hated her.

In London, as it happened, that very morning, Herminia, walking

across Regent's Park, had fallen in with Harvey Kynaston, and their

talk had turned upon this self-same problem.

"What will you do when she asks you about it, as she must, sooner

or later?" the man inquired.

And Herminia, smiling that serene sweet smile of hers, made answer

at once without a second's hesitation, "I shall confess the whole

truth to her."

"But it might be so bad for her," Harvey Kynaston went on. And

then he proceeded to bring up in detail casuistic objections on

the score of a young girl's modesty; all of which fell flat on

Herminia's more honest and consistent temperament.

"I believe in the truth," she said simply; "and I'm never afraid of

it. I don't think a lie, or even a suppression, can ever be good

in the end for any one. The Truth shall make you Free. That one

principle in life can guide one through everything."

In the evening, when Dolly came home, her mother ran out proudly

and affectionately to kiss her. But Dolly drew back her face with

a gesture of displeasure, nay, almost of shrinking. "Not now,

mother!" she cried. "I have something to ask you about. Till I

know the truth, I can never kiss you."

Herminia's face turned deadly white; she knew it had come at last.

But still she never flinched. "You shall hear the truth from me,

darling," she said, with a gentle touch. "You have always heard

it."

They passed under the doorway and up the stairs in silence. As

soon as they were in the sitting-room, Dolly fronted Herminia

fiercely. "Mother," she cried, with the air of a wild creature at

bay, "were you married to my father?"

Herminia's cheek blanched, and her pale lips quivered as she nerved

herself to answer; but she answered bravely, "No, darling, I was

not. It has always been contrary to my principles to marry."

"YOUR principles!" Dolores echoed in a tone of ineffable, scorn.

"YOUR principles! Your PRINCIPLES! All my life has been

sacrificed to you and your principles!" Then she turned on her

madly once more. "And WHO was my father?" she burst out in her

agony.

Herminia never paused. She must tell her the truth. "Your

father's name was Alan Merrick," she answered, steadying herself

with one hand on the table. "He died at Perugia before you were

born there. He was a son of Sir Anthony Merrick, the great doctor

in Harley Street."

The worst was out. Dolly stood still and gasped. Hot horror

flooded her burning cheeks. Illegitimate! illegitimate!

Dishonored from her birth! A mark for every cruel tongue to aim

at! Born in shame and disgrace! And then, to think what she might

have been, but for her mother's madness! The granddaughter of two

such great men in their way as the Dean of Dunwich and Sir Anthony

Merrick.

She drew back, all aghast. Shame and agony held her. Something of

maiden modesty burned bright in her cheek and down her very neck.

Red waves coursed through her. How on earth after this could she

face Walter Brydges?

"Mother, mother!" she broke out, sobbing, after a moment's pause,

"oh, what have you done? What have you done? A cruel, cruel

mother you have been to me. How can I ever forgive you?"

Herminia gazed at her appalled. It was a natural tragedy. There

was no way out of it. She couldn't help seizing the thing at once,

in a lightning flash of sympathy, from Dolly's point of view, too.

Quick womanly instinct made her heart bleed for her daughter's

manifest shame and horror.

"Dolly, Dolly," the agonized mother cried, flinging herself upon

her child's mercy, as it were; "Don't be hard on me; don't be hard

on me! My darling, how could I ever guess you would look at it

like this? How could I ever guess my daughter and his would see

things for herself in so different a light from the light we saw

them in?"

"You had no right to bring me into the world at all," Dolly cried,

growing fiercer as her mother grew more unhappy. "If you did, you

should have put me on an equality with other people."

"Dolly," Herminia moaned, wringing her hands in her despair, "my

child, my darling, how I have loved you! how I have watched over

you! Your life has been for years the one thing I had to live for.

I dreamed you would be just such another one as myself. EQUAL with

other people! Why, I thought I was giving you the noblest heritage

living woman ever yet gave the child of her bosom. I thought you

would be proud of it, as I myself would have been proud. I thought

you would accept it as a glorious birthright, a supreme privilege.

How could I foresee you would turn aside from your mother's creed?

How could I anticipate you would be ashamed of being the first

free-born woman ever begotten in England? 'Twas a blessing I meant

to give you, and you have made a curse of it."

"YOU have made a curse of it!" Dolores answered, rising and glaring

at her. "You have blighted my life for me. A good man and true

was going to make me his wife. After this, how can I dare to palm

myself off upon him?"

She swept from the room. Though broken with sorrow, her step was

resolute. Herminia followed her to her bed-room. There Dolly sat

long on the edge of the bed, crying silently, silently, and rocking

herself up and down like one mad with agony. At last, in one fierce

burst, she relieved her burdened soul by pouring out to her mother

the whole tale of her meeting with Walter Brydges. Though she hated

her, she must tell her. Herminia listened with deep shame. It

brought the color back into her own pale cheek to think any man

should deem he was performing an act of chivalrous self-devotion in

marrying Herminia Barton's unlawful daughter. Alan Merrick's child!

The child of so many hopes! The baby that was born to regenerate

humanity!

At last, in a dogged way, Dolly rose once more. She put on her hat

and jacket.

"Where are you going?" her mother asked, terrified.

"I am going out," Dolores answered, "to the post, to telegraph to

him."

She worded her telegram briefly but proudly:

"My mother has told me all. I understand your feeling. Our

arrangement is annulled. Good-by. You have been kind to me."

An hour or two later, a return telegram came:--

"Our engagement remains exactly as it was. Nothing is changed. I

hold you to your promise. All tenderest messages. Letter

follows."

That answer calmed Dolly's mind a little. She began to think after

all,--if Walter still wanted her,--she loved him very much; she

could hardly dismiss him.

When she rose to go to bed, Herminia, very wistful, held out her

white face to be kissed as usual. She held it out tentatively.

Worlds trembled in the balance; but Dolly drew herself back with a

look of offended dignity. "Never!" she answered in a firm voice.

"Never again while I live. You are not fit to receive a pure

girl's kisses."

And two women lay awake all that ensuing night sobbing low on their

pillows in the Marylebone lodging-house.