ENGAGED
"MISS DAMARIS, my dear, trouble is on us! Come quick! Mr. Ambrose has
had some kind of stroke!"
It was Stevens who came in upon Damaris as she was working in her quiet
upper room. The girl was feeling dull and rather flat. Dane had been
with them as an inmate of their home for two months. Now he had gone—he
was still fruitlessly looking for his sister. But latterly, he had
seemed to lose interest in her, and had been rather engrossed with some
friends of his whom he had known in India, and who were now at home. He
was at present with them in Scotland.
Damaris had met them once, and had not been very favourably impressed
by them, but that was perhaps because they had not made themselves very
pleasant to her. Mrs. Welbeck was a very smart-looking widow with three
marriageable daughters, all of whom were older than Damaris, and very
lively go-ahead girls. They seemed to have plenty of money, and were
looking about for a country house in which they hoped to settle.
Damaris had felt, as she listened to their talk, how little she knew of
the world in which Dane had lived, and how ignorant and unsophisticated
she must appear to these wide-awake knowledgeable girls. When Dane had
gone, she found herself continually wondering whether he would soon
write and announce his engagement to one of these girls. She felt that
either of them would have him, but was not sure whether he meant to
marry at present, he seemed so well contented and satisfied with his
present state. He had ingratiated himself into the good graces of his
uncles, and had delighted them by his keen interest in some of their
treasures. And they, as well as Damaris, had missed him very much since
he had left them.
Damaris's thoughts, as she sat at her window and worked, had been in
Scotland. She roused herself with a frightened start at Stevens's
words. Illness of any sort had never come near her. She did not know
how to deal with it. Her Uncle Ambrose used to boast that he had never
had a day's illness in his life. Her Uncle Simeon was not so strong. He
would get heavy chest colds, but Stevens would nurse him through them,
and Damaris felt no responsibility about them.
"Oh, Stevens, what do you mean?"
"I've just found him on the floor in the library. Mr. Simeon has helped
cook and me, and we have got him into his bed-room and on his bed. Mr.
Simeon has rushed off for the doctor, but Mary and cook are no good at
all, they're all in a shake, and I must get hot bottles to his feet. I
want you to sit with him till I come back."
Talking rapidly, Stevens led the way to the bed-room, and Damaris
followed her feeling dazed and bewildered.
Then ensued some very weary troubled days. The doctor came and went;
Damaris developed into a very capable nurse. She and Stevens attended
upon the invalid entirely between them. He was unconscious for some
days, then recovered consciousness, and with difficulty tried to make
his wishes known.
One afternoon Damaris was alone with him. He had been sleeping and was
lying with closed eyes, when she suddenly heard him trying to pronounce
her name. She bent over him.
"Yes uncle, dear? What is it? Can I do anything for you?"
He looked up at her.
"You must marry him," he said feebly. "A nice boy—knows the worth of
things. We've talked it over—he's willing—and then—you'll get your
share."
Damaris felt the blood rush into her cheeks. She felt that her uncle's
mind was wandering.
He looked up at her uneasily.
"Yes—yes," she said, soothingly; "it will be all right. You are getting
better, Uncle Ambrose. You will soon be all right again."
He shook his head feebly in dissent, but lay still. Then he spoke again—
"Simeon—he knows—codicil—he will tell you."
"Yes," said Damaris again; "it will be all right. I will ask him. You
try to sleep again for a little."
He said no more, but after a time his breathing became so laboured and
hard that Damaris slipped out of the room and called Stevens.
Those were his last words to her. He died two hours afterwards.
Mr. Simeon Hartbrook was inconsolable. He wired for Dane, but Dane was
touring through the Highlands with his friends, and could not be found
quickly.
Damaris and her uncle were the only ones who attended the funeral. She
felt an immense pity for her Uncle Simeon. He seemed to be literally
crushed by his loss, and was quite unable to settle any of his
brother's affairs. It was very wet and stormy at the cemetery and he
contracted a chill.
Stevens put him to bed like a child when he came home, but he insisted
upon seeing Damaris, for he said he had business to discuss with her.
When she came to him, he looked at her helplessly.
"I am feeling very ill, my dear. If I don't get well, I want to tell
you about—" He hesitated. "I can't remember—but Dane knows—he will
explain—we felt he would value our things more than you would. He would
not sell them. And you've been a good girl, and when you are married,
he will do everything for you. He seemed to come just when we wanted
him. It will be all right for you—but Ambrose thought it best."
"Yes, I'm sure it is all right," murmured Damaris.
She began to wonder if her two uncles had really been trying to make
up a match between her and Dane. Her pride rebelled against such an
idea, but she could say nothing to disturb her uncle at this juncture.
She had a hopeless helpless feeling that everyone round her was going
to die. If it had not been for Stevens, who never lost her cheerful
composure, Damaris could hardly have got through those days.
When Dane eventually made his appearance, he was met at the door by
Stevens who said reproachfully—
"You are too late, sir. You have been wanted badly. Both the masters
are gone. I knew Mr. Simeon would never outlive his brother for long,
and poor Miss Damaris has had everything to do and settle, with nobody
to help her. She's fair worn out with the shock and distress of it."
"Goodness!" ejaculated Dane, aghast. "What a tragedy! And in such a
short time!"
He went into the library and sat down on a chair as if he were stunned.
Damaris came to him there. It struck him that she carried herself
regally, and spoke to him in rather a cold, detached tone—
"Stevens has told you. Did you get none of our wires?"
"Only two," he answered. Then he sprang up and seized hold of her hands.
"You poor child! How I have failed you! Just when I ought to have been
by your side, doing everything for you! And I was longing to be back—to
put my fate in your hands. I wanted to have spoken before I left; but
somehow I was afraid. I hoped being away a little might show you—well,
you know—you did not seem ready to meet me half-way. Oh, what am I
saying? Damaris, dearest, you will never be alone or friendless if you
make me a happy man. I want to have the right to shield—protect—love
you. Will you let me have that right?"
One would have thought that Dane had chosen a most unpropitious moment
to begin his wooing; but Damaris was feeling unhinged and desperately
lonely. She had hardly known how to pass her days. The shock of her
uncles' deaths had been great. She had always been treated like a
child, and not allowed to act independently or have any responsibility.
Now she was alone in this big house, and had to settle and arrange
everything, with no help from anyone but Stevens. She felt incompetent,
ignorant and forlorn, and longed for someone to be at her side to
advise her. She had hoped that Dane would write or come; she had
watched expectantly for some news of him day after day.
His impulsive speech and compassionate eyes, his tender hold of her,
drove away the slight feeling of annoyance she had been cherishing. She
had thought him selfish and unfeeling to stay away at such a crisis;
now she realised that he had brought with him a sense of comfort and
safety, and that she never wanted him to leave her again.
When his arm drew her gently to him, she did not resist; she only gave
a long quivering sigh, and said—
"It is good to have you back again, Dane. I thought I could stand
alone, but I find I can't. Take care of me."
And then she began to cry, and Dane rested her head against his
shoulder, and kissed away her tears and comforted her.
A little later Stevens was taken into their confidence. She did not
seem surprised at their news.
"Mr. Ambrose mentioned it to me before he was taken ill. He seemed so
pleased you appreciated the house so much, Mr. Dane. He said to me,
'twas good to know you'd care for the things they had loved, when they
were gone. It seemed as if he felt he would be taken soon."
And Stevens wiped her moist eyes as she spoke. She had been with her
masters for over twenty years, and had a sincere affection for them.
Dane went away, but only to settle himself into the hotel opposite, and
the next day he came over to the house and had a long interview with
Mr. Hunter the lawyer.
Mr. Hunter was a little wiry wizened man with a very big forehead and
beetling eyebrows, beneath which his piercing eyes would transfix and
awe all who transacted business with him.
"I suppose I can see the will?" Dane said. "I understood from my uncles
that, in the first instance, they had left everything to their niece,
Miss Hartbrook, but that they were so anxious that we should make a
match of it that they told me that they had drawn up a codicil in which
we were made co-legatees upon our wedding-day. Is this correct? They
need not have troubled to alter the will, Miss Hartbrook and I would
have come together without it. A case of love at first sight!"
He gave a little awkward laugh, and felt annoyed at Mr. Hunter's
glittering gaze.
"I am glad to hear it. Very glad," said Mr. Hunter. "I have known
Miss Hartbrook from a child. She, in my opinion, deserves to be sole
legatee; but your uncles were peculiar in their attitude towards women.
They seemed afraid that she might marry someone unsuitable—someone who
might not appreciate or value their hoarded treasures—so they wanted to
safeguard her; and when you told them you hoped to make her your wife,
they seemed to think her future was secure."
He paused, then cleared his throat.
"You may like to see the codicil. Everything is left unconditionally to
you."
"Not unconditionally?"
Mr. Hunter handed him a copy of the will. The brothers had made their
will together in a very quaint fashion, but it was all perfectly legal.
Dane read the codicil in silence, then he handed it back to the lawyer.
"Of course, it will make no difference to Miss Hartbrook," said Mr.
Hunter; "for her uncles seemed quite assured that she would marry you.
Apart from you, she will be left penniless."
"But she never will be apart from me," said Dane hastily. He got up
from his seat and paced the room. Then he stood still.
"Does she know this? Has she seen this codicil?"
"No," said Mr. Hunter; "as she does not benefit directly by the will,
I saw no need to let her read it. She has never asked about it, but I
think that she imagines that the estate is divided between you. I don't
approve of the codicil myself, and I told your uncles so. I was such an
old friend of theirs that I felt I had a right to speak. But, as I say,
I hope it will make no difference to Miss Hartbrook."
"She need never know," said Dane quickly.
Then Mr. Hunter and he began to discuss business matters together;
and when the lawyer eventually left, Dane still paced the room with a
frowning brow, and set determined lips.
"What a fool I was to be in such a hurry," he muttered to himself.
But when he next met Damaris, he was the tender demonstrative lover.
She was very sweet, but still bore herself somewhat proudly. He felt
that he did not yet wholly possess her heart.
Stevens watched over her like a dragon. She allowed her to go out with
Dane, but did not encourage him to come much to the house.
"You are alone here," she said; "and I know how careful young ladies
have to be. I wish Mr. Dane would find his sister. She would be good
company for you."
Damaris felt very lonely in the big house. She sometimes went through
the beautiful rooms with Stevens, but she could take no pleasure in
their contents.
"It is a waste of life, Stevens," she said one day, "to spend all your
money and strength on things that you have to leave behind you when you
die. I keep thinking of that verse in the Bible:
"'Then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided?'"
"They are yours, Miss Damaris—they will be when you're married," said
Stevens, who could not follow her young mistress's train of thought.
Damaris looked round her with a little whimsical smile. She was
standing in an oak-panelled Jacobean-furnished room. The great bed with
its tapestry hangings, the old chests, and beautiful chairs, the heavy
silver candlesticks on the carved oak mantelpiece, all seemed to her
gloomy in the extreme, though the bright sunshine was streaming through
the windows.
"I wouldn't sleep in this room, or take it for my own, Stevens, for
a hundred pounds," she said; "and yet how Uncle Ambrose used to love
it!" Her voice faltered. "Oh, Stevens, I do want them back. I feel
frightened of the future. They were always so safe, so reliable!"
"They were very fond of you, Miss Damaris; and there, now—did I not
tell you what Mr. Simeon said to me not long before his end? He said,
'Tell Miss Damaris that her mother's escritoire in my study is hers, as
well as the furnishing of her own room. The rest will be her husband's
property.' I don't quite make out what he meant, poor gentleman, for
the whole house is yours, surely."
"I haven't seen the will," said Damaris, in hesitating tones; "but Mr.
Dane seems to think they are his. And of course, when we marry, there
will be no question of to whom they belong."
"Miss Damaris, my dear, I've known you from a child, but you don't
appear to be over-eager about this marriage. If so be as you'll have
enough left to you—and surely the masters have put you first—I'll be
willing to go with you anywhere you like. But don't marry if you're not
sure whether it will be a happy thing for you."
"You're a dear, Stevens," said Damaris, tears rising suddenly to her
eyes; "but I am in no doubt as to what I ought to do. I am glad you
told me about my mother's writing-table. I would like it moved up to my
room as soon as possible."
Stevens bustled away to see that this was done.
Damaris crossed the room and opened one of the windows. Then, kneeling
on a low stool, she leant her elbows on the window-sill and propped
her chin in her two hands. She gazed down into the busy streets below
dreamily. Her spirits had been so crushed by the calamity that had
befallen her that at first she had simply acquiesced in all that came
to her. Even Dane's proposal had almost left her unmoved. She regarded
it as inevitable, because she felt that her uncles had wished him to
share in their personal estate, and that it was the only way in which
justice could be done him.
And Dane was very affectionate and tender with her for the first few
days. She was soothed and comforted by his presence. Lately she had not
seen so much of him. Mrs. Welbeck and her daughter were back in town,
and he spent a good deal of his time with them. He naturally did not
feel his uncles' deaths so deeply as Damaris did, and was vexed with
her for refusing to go to entertainments with him.
Now, as she looked out of the window, the lethargic state of her
mind seemed to be passing from her. A sudden vista of freedom
and independence came to her, of taking Stevens as her maid, and
travelling, of seeing some of the places to which she had always longed
to go. She drew a long breath. She looked backwards half-fearfully into
the sombre bed-room behind her.
"Did my uncles expect me to live in this house for ever and ever?
Shall I never have any change? If I marry Dane, shall I still have to
stay in these old rooms, and sit at home with my work, whilst he goes
out and enjoys himself with other women? I feel that this will be my
life. And oh! I just long to break away from it all! How often I used
to wish that some change would come into my life. Now it has come—the
door seems open—and yet I can't go out! And I'm afraid I don't like
the idea of marrying Dane. I don't feel quite sure of him—but I have
promised—and I seem shut-up to it!"
She sighed at such thoughts, then saw Mr. Hunter crossing the street
towards the house.
She knew he was still busy over some of her uncles' papers. They had
made him their chief executor, and he came nearly every day to the
library to overhaul the contents of a big writing bureau that stood
there. A sudden impulse took her downstairs. She determined to ask
him the exact terms of the will. She had asked Dane more than once,
but he had waived the subject, and she had a longing to know exactly
how she was situated. When she entered the room, she found Mr. Hunter
just settling down to work, but he turned at once towards her with a
fatherly smile.
"Well, Miss Damaris, how are you? Why are you not out this lovely
morning?"
"I hope I am not interrupting you," said Damaris, with dignity; "but
I think I have a right to know about my uncles' will. I have never
been told, and I should like you to explain it now. Have they left
everything between myself and my cousin? Uncle Ambrose told me some
time ago that I should come in for it all, but from what he said to
me when he was ill, I fancy he must have made some alteration. They
were so fond of Dane. They seemed to think he appreciated all their
treasures more than I did."
Mr. Hunter hesitated.
"You place me in an awkward position," he said. "Has not your cousin
told you? It will make no difference to you. Happily you two young
people fell in love with each other before the codicil was drawn up."
"What is the codicil?" asked Damaris. "I really have a right to see it,
if it has anything to do with me."
"Well, you are not a child, my dear, and so I will tell you. As I
say, it will make no difference to you. Your uncles revoked their
former will, and instead of leaving everything to you, left it all to
your cousin unconditionally. I did not approve of the alteration, I
protested against it; but your uncles were determined. Mr. Dane took
their hearts by storm. You know their old-fashioned notion, that women
were helpless as far as money or business was concerned. They were
convinced that your welfare would be considered by your cousin, and
that your marriage to him would be an accomplished fact."
Damaris looked at him with clear steady eyes.
"Then you mean to say that I am penniless, and that it will be no
advantage to my cousin if he marries me? Can you tell me when he knew
this?"
"When I showed him the codicil. It was a surprise to him as it is to
you. He had always thought that you would be the chief benefiter by the
will."
"And upon what date did you show him the will?"
Mr. Hunter referred to his pocket-book and told her.
Damaris stood before him very straight and slim. And as Mr. Hunter's
keen eyes met hers, he knew that this was no weak helpless girl who
would sink under the blow which she had just received.
"I think you ought to have told me this before," she said gravely.
"I think I ought," he replied. "It was weakness on my part not to have
done so. But you asked no questions, and I knew what a troublous time
you had had of it, and thought it best to defer the information. It
will make no practical difference to you, will it?"
"All the difference in the world," she said.
And she walked out of the room, still carrying her head like a young
queen, but with a heart as heavy as lead.
She went up to her own room, which was filled with the afternoon
sunshine. Stevens and the maids had been there, for her mother's
beautiful secretaire was in the window. It was of Chinese workmanship,
so beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl that it was iridescent.
Inside, it was fitted with sapphire-blue velvet. As a little child, she
had loved to pass her small fingers over its surface. But now, for the
time, she did not heed it.
She sat down at the open window with troubled eyes. She knew now that
Dane had proposed to her before he had been told of the codicil; that
he had been under the impression that he was offering himself to a
young heiress. Was this the explanation of his gradual coolness and
indifference to her? She could not but acknowledge to herself that, as
a lover, he left much to be desired.
"But then," she told herself, "I am not in love with him. I don't know
why I said 'Yes,' except that I knew the uncles wished it; and I was
feeling so lonely and miserable, that it was nice to feel that somebody
cared for me. What a shock it must have been to him when he was shown
the codicil! Oh, I hope I don't wrong him, but I think—I think that
money is more to him than a wife. I never have felt that I am worth
very much in his eyes. I am not smart enough, or amusing enough to
capture his heart. He much prefers to be with the Welbecks. It is good
of him to have kept me in ignorance of my position. But I am thankful
that I am ignorant no longer!"
As she sat, thinking deeply, she longed as she had often longed before,
to have some woman to advise her.
And then Stevens came to the door.
"Mr. Dane has called. Will you see him?"
"Certainly," said Damaris with decision. "Don't show him up here. I
will go to him."
Dane came forward, when he saw her, with outstretched hands.
"Damaris, dear, will you come out with me? I have been so busy the last
few days that I fear you will think I have forgotten you."
He drew her to him and kissed her.
Damaris turned a little from him so that his kiss only touched the edge
of her cheek; but he did not appear to notice anything amiss.
"I don't think I will come out this afternoon," she said, "it is too
hot."
"I thought you might like to come round to the Welbecks. Mrs. Welbeck
has called upon you, hasn't she? She's so anxious to befriend you. For
my sake, you won't repel her advances, will you? She really would be a
good friend for you, Damaris. She knows everyone worth knowing, and you
can't always shut yourself up in this old house away from the world."
"But, Dane, it is barely a month since my uncles died. Nobody could
expect me to be out and about just yet."
Dane made an impatient movement.
"You're so old-fashioned! Mrs. Welbeck was only saying yesterday that
it must be very bad for you to be so much alone."
"Perhaps it is," said Damaris quietly; "but I am accustomed to it. I
wish you could find your sister. It would be nice to know her."
Dane looked a little uncomfortable.
"I meant to have told you," he said. "I did trace her—at least, I heard
all about her. But our family trouble has driven it out of my head.
And I don't know that I should do her any good by going to see her. It
might just unsettle her."
"Your sister, Dane?"
Damaris showed the amazement she felt.
He gave a short laugh.
"She's doing all right for herself. She's working in the City. The
honest truth is, if I turned up, she would think I ought to keep
her—especially now. I didn't know she was so badly off. The aunt she
lived with left her nothing—old wretch! Her money went to her son who's
abroad somewhere. I don't feel like having Nellie on me for good and
all. She would expect to live with me—and how would you like that?"
"Do you think she is very like you, Dane?"
"Haven't a notion. Why?"
"She might be very different. She might prefer her independence. I
can't think that you mean to leave her alone, and never let her know
that you are in England."
"Oh, I'll see her some time or other," said Dane vaguely.
There was silence between them. He was conscious of her disapproval,
and was annoyed with her in consequence.
"Now, I ask you again, Damaris, to come round to the Welbecks with me.
Do it to please me."
"Is it their 'At Home' day?"
"Yes."
"Then I really cannot. Mrs. Welbeck ought not to expect me. I won't
keep you, Dane, as you're going. Come round another day, and let us go
out of London for a day. I should really enjoy that."
She parted from him pleasantly with a smile on her lips, and watched
him go out of the house and walk down the street. She fancied she could
see the relief he felt, in his light easy step and the swing of his
broad shoulders.
And then she turned to go upstairs again, and these words escaped her—
"You will soon be rid of me, Dane. You will not have long to wait."