MAKING ACQUAINTANCES
IN a few days, Damaris had settled down into her lodgings with a
comfortable feeling of security and peace.
Mrs. Patch, junior, amused her by her flow of talk; she listened to her
but would give her no information about herself.
On Sunday, she went to church in the morning. The country service was
a novelty to her after the fashionable churches she had frequented in
town. She sat well back in the church, and was intensely interested in
watching the congregation arrive.
The Squire's seat was in the chancel behind the choir boys, and
Damaris's heart beat rapidly when she saw a tall smart-looking old man
lead the way up to it, and the woman and man who had passed her in the
road on the day of her first arrival following him. She could hardly
believe that the handsome golden-haired woman was her mother's sister.
She had such an air of youth about her, and yet bore the stamp of a
strong masterful woman. Damaris wondered if she could ever pluck up
courage to speak to her.
And then she saw the Rector's wife come in and take her place in one
of the front seats. She was a slight graceful woman with a very sweet
face, and led a little curly-headed boy by the hand. Damaris had heard
that he was her one and only child. Another seat in the church held
some nice-looking people—two old ladies and a dark handsome man with
a short square beard. The rest of the congregation consisted of the
villagers.
More than once Damaris met the eyes of her aunt, and of her companion
who sat next her. She shielded herself as much as she could from
observation by a pillar near her, and was rather relieved when the
service was over.
It was a little too early for summer visitors, and many glances fell on
the tall graceful girl in mourning at the back of the church. Damaris
felt almost self-conscious as she walked through the churchyard. Once
she caught the words—
"So that is Mrs. Patch's new lodger. What a pretty girl! Who is she?"
And her cheeks burned as she hurried on.
When she got to her rooms, she found the kitchen downstairs full of
Sunday visitors. There was a smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding
and of hot pastry in the oven. Damaris felt she was the recipient of
oven smells day in and day out. She wondered that a baker did not give
his oven a rest on Sunday, but she enjoyed a hot plate of roast beef
and vegetables and the inevitable Yorkshire pudding, followed by a
gooseberry tart. And then she slipped out of the house, and found her
way up to the common.
It was a lovely afternoon, and not too warm for walking. A fresh breeze
met her as she walked on farther than she had ever walked before. The
peace and quiet of it all delighted her. Her thoughts were, of course,
on her mother's home. It had been a shock to her that morning to see
that her aunt was so young in years. She had foolishly pictured her
as a gentle elderly lady who would receive her with open arms. She
realised now that, according to the letters she had in her possession,
Barbara Murray could be only thirty-eight or thirty-nine. Old Mrs.
Patch had talked of her as a young lady still.
"She's hard, Miss Barbara is," she had said, when talking of her to
Damaris. "Her temper was spoiled by her ladyship, who never understood
children. Miss Barbara might have had a sweet temper had she been
handled differently, she's high-spirited and boyish—she always liked
her brother's pursoots, but she seems harder than she is at heart. She
grew up thinkin' everybody against her, and she must defend herself.
Often she has rushed off to me, when she could bear herself no longer,
and I've told her patience always wins the day. Of late years, she's
grown more reserved and proud. But she's a warm heart when once it is
reached."
This description of her aunt made Damaris shy of making herself known
to her. She had not imagined she would find it difficult to introduce
herself, but now she put it off from day to day, hoping that some
opportunity might be given her, rather than that she should have to
make it for herself.
She was so deep in thought that she hardly noticed where she was going,
until she found herself at the end of the common facing another small
country village. An old red brick house was before her surrounded by
elms; and further down the road were a cluster of cottages, with the
usual village church in the midst of them. Very few people seemed
about, and as there was a seat on the common by the side of the road,
Damaris sat down upon it to rest.
Presently an old lady came out of the big iron gates leading to the
house in front of her. She gazed anxiously up and down the road, then
came across to Damaris.
"Excuse me, but have you seen a black-and-white fox terrier? I have
lost him. He has periodical fits of running away, which annoys me very
much."
"I have not noticed any dog," said Damaris.
The old lady looked at her sharply.
"I see you are a stranger."
"Yes," Damaris answered; "I am lodging in Marley, and have come across
the common for a walk."
"Really? It is a good four miles. Now I should not wonder if Scott has
gone over to Marley to-day, for my nephew is staying at the Hall for a
few days, and he always follows him if he gets a chance."
Damaris remembered seeing a small fox terrier dancing round the Hall
party when they left the church. She mentioned this, and the old lady
looked quite relieved.
Then she took a seat by Damaris and became very communicative.
"It's quite a comfort to see anyone to talk to. You mustn't mind me—I
am very unconventional. I always do as I like—custom or propriety does
not affect me in the least. Now, if you were lodging in this village,
I would have you in sometimes to talk to me when I'm feeling dull. You
can talk, I suppose? Some young people won't open their mouths to old
women. Are you like that? The young won't remember that old age will
come to them. I was like that myself."
"I think I like old people better than young ones; I am more accustomed
to them," said Damaris. "I have lived with two old uncles for the last
four years since I left school, and now they are both dead, and I miss
them more than I can say. I am afraid I used to grumble sometimes when
they were alive, they kept me from knowing people, but now I almost
wish them back."
"I hope they left their money to you," said the old lady bluntly.
Damaris shook her head.
"Perhaps they had not any to leave."
"Oh, yes—a good deal; but it went to their nephew."
"You interest me. Go on. What are you going to do now?"
Damaris did not know why she confided in this stranger, but she felt
she had gone far enough.
Her tone was very dignified as she said—
"I shall manage very well, thank you."
"How can you, if you have no money? Don't be foolish, child. Have you
no other relations?"
"I could easily earn my livelihood by needlework," said Damaris, gazing
before her dreamily. "I was told at the Art School in Kensington, where
I had a few lessons, that they would always take my work. I copy old
tapestry patterns."
There was a pause. Then the old lady introduced herself.
"I am Mrs. Bonnycott—everybody calls me Kitty Bonnycott. I've lived in
that old house there all my life. It came to me at my father's death. I
have three farms and a good bit of land, which my nephew looks after.
He's like a son to me, and we're very good friends; but I don't tie
him to my apron strings, and every now and then we want a change from
each other, and then he goes off to the Hall, they're always glad to
have him there. Barbara and her brothers and he all grew up together. I
live my own life. I garden, and look after my dogs and goats, and have
my finger in most of the village pies. How do you like the Rector's
wife at Marley? She's county, you know—would marry a parson—told me
she loved the idea of being a shepherdess! And she's a charming young
creature. A little too pious for me, but I laugh at her; and she takes
it in very good part."
"I have not met her yet," replied Damaris, feeling bewildered by the
old lady's confidential talk; "but I saw her in church to-day and think
she looks perfectly sweet."
"And how long are you going to stay at Marley?"
"I do not know."
Damaris's cheeks flushed in spite of herself.
Mrs. Bonnycott looked at her with a pair of very sharp far-seeing eyes.
"I ought to be in church this afternoon," she said, after a moment's
pause; "but our vicar annoyed me this morning, so I am punishing him
by my absence. I'm a most regular church goer as a rule; we have no
evening service, and the afternoon is a trial in summer! He refused to
give out a notice I sent to him. It was an invitation to the six old
almswomen to a strawberry tea. Is it wicked to mention strawberries and
tea in church? I suddenly thought of it as I was walking to church, and
I wanted them to come to-morrow. My vicar is a very proper young man;
he is always afraid of doing something unclerical or unorthodox. I have
no patience with him."
Damaris could not help smiling. Then she asked the name of the village
and was told it was Fallerton.
"I am the only resident in it of any account," said Mrs. Bonnycott;
"but we have plenty of neighbours within driving distance. The Gores
are nearest to me; they go to your church because they had a quarrel
with our vicar over some of his vestments. They're starched old maids,
both of them, but we're very good friends. Their brother would marry
Barbara Murray to-morrow if she would have him. He worships the ground
she treads upon; and I think she's a fool, for he's an intelligent
upright man, whose only fault is that he's too easy-going, and lets his
sisters rule him. He has the hobby of bee-keeping. His apiary is well
worth seeing. He's a bit of a naturalist, too; you meet him lying out
in the woods or on the common watching the habits of some insect or
bird. But I'm not very fond of men with beards, are you? I always fancy
they are hiding up a weak mouth or chin."
Damaris laughed, then got up to go, and the old lady insisted upon
shaking hands with her.
"We shall meet again. When next I am in Marley, I shall come to see
you. When we don't bake at home, we get our bread from Patch. I'm sure
you're lodging there, though you didn't tell me so. They are the only
rooms to let that I know of!"
Damaris parted from her, feeling as if she had made a friend. Mrs.
Bonnycott was a pretty old lady with a wonderfully clear complexion,
bright brown eyes, and an upright active little figure. Her eyes
twinkled as she talked, as if she were always seeing a hidden joke.
Damaris had a happy feeling as she talked to her, and as she walked
back over the common, she hoped that she might soon see her again.
As she was nearing Marley, she met Barbara Murray and Mrs. Bonnycott's
nephew. Barbara had half-a-dozen dogs with her, and Scott was evidently
one of them, for his master said as they passed her—
"My aunt won't sleep to-night without him. I tell you Scott rules the
house; but the walk over the common is good for both of us."
The breeze brought Damaris the added words—
"Who is she?"
And Barbara replied indifferently—
"How should I know?"
Damaris returned to her lodgings feeling rather tired and quite ready
for her tea.
Yet an hour later, she slipped into the little church again for the
evening service, and enjoyed it.
The next afternoon, Mrs. Dashwood, the Rector's wife, called upon her.
Damaris succumbed at once to her charms. She almost felt inclined to
confide in her, her history, but her natural reticence forbade her.
"I am so glad you came straight to the Patch's. I always think I should
enjoy living here myself. Doesn't the smell of hot baked bread make you
feel fed and clothed and housed all at once? It always gives me the
sense of comfort and home. Now don't be lonely, will you? And if your
days are long, will you help me at the Rectory? I am always trying to
catch up the work that is waiting for me even in this small village. Do
you like being busy? I believe you are a dreamer. But dreamers develop
into doers. Look at Joseph!"
Damaris's eyes sparkled.
"Yes, I have been a dreamer, and my life for several years has fostered
it. But I am just waking up now; and oh, Mrs. Dashwood, I want to do
something!"
Mrs. Dashwood leant forwards with her pretty entrancing smile.
"Then you and I will do together for a little while. We are both
pilgrims, aren't we, travelling the same road? And just for a little
time, we will walk side by side."
Then she put her hand on Damaris's arm caressingly.
"Is our goal the same, do you think?"
Damaris looked doubtful.
"I don't know."
"Have you the driving force necessary for all work? 'Such' a force!
'The love of Christ constraineth us.'"
Sudden tears filled Damaris's eyes.
"I have often thought about those kind of things, but I have been so
alone. I have had no one to help me. You remind me of old Mrs. Patch
and her 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"
Mrs. Dashwood laughed happily.
"Yes, you can't say you have no one to help you, dear, with that old
saint in the house. I don't quite know why you chanced on our little
village as a rest cure, but I see now there was no chance in it. You
were sent here to be helped, and to have your soul rested as well as
your body. How I do hope and pray you won't miss it. And now I must be
going. My mothers' meeting begins at half-past three, but I felt I must
just see you first. Will you come to tea with me to-morrow, and make
acquaintance with my small son Eddie? You see what a conceited mother I
am! But he really is nice to know."
She was gone like a flash of light, and Damaris was left with a longing
to know her better, and with a pleased anticipation of going to tea
with her the next day.
Mrs. Patch came in after she had gone.
"Our Rector's lady never stays anywhere quite long enough," she said;
"that's all the fault we finds with her. But her days is near as
crowded as mine. She flings me a pretty word.
"'Mrs. Patch,' she says, 'I wish I could be your lodger one day; I
would cast off my housekeeping cares, and have a blissful time. Your
rooms,' she says, 'have all the true atmosphere of restfulness and
comfort.'
"Ah, Mrs. Dashwood—she has the observing eye—same as have myself, bein'
a student of human natur. Did she have a few words with you to the
improvin' of your soul? I reckon she'll have been finding out if you're
a worker or not. 'Tis her craze—that of work. She even taxes me with
it, though she do allow that I've enough to do to keep my household
goin'."
Damaris listened a little impatiently. She grew rather tired of Mrs.
Patch's flow of talk, and slipped away from her with the excuse of
going out for a walk on the common.
She went up to the Rectory the next day, and found Mrs. Dashwood, in
her pretty morning-room, busy cutting out a lot of garments for her
village working party.
Her little boy was by her side, pretending to help.
Damaris stooped to kiss him. She was rather shy of children, never
having had much to do with them.
"Do you like kissing me?" Eddie asked, looking up at her with a pair of
huge blue eyes. "I aren't liking it myself."
Damaris laughed, and Mrs. Dashwood looked up from her work.
"Eddie, remember you are a little gentleman. That is not a polite way
to speak."
"But gentlemen aren't kissed," said the small boy. "Everybody kisses
me, but they doesn't kiss Daddy."
"I won't kiss you again," said Damaris—"not unless you want me to."
And then Mrs. Dashwood set her to work; and as they cut out they
talked, and Damaris found herself giving many confidences about her
past life.
Eddie retired to a corner of the room to play. His mother said that his
nurse had gone out for the day, so that she was in charge of him.
Presently a whistle was heard in the garden, and Eddie dashed out of
the open French window, crying out excitedly—
"It's my Mr. Stuart!"
Mrs. Dashwood gave a little sigh.
"I hoped we should have had a quiet afternoon together, but Stuart
Maitland is such an old friend that he walks in upon us whenever he
likes. I knew him before I married. Have you met him? He lives with an
old aunt just across the common. He looks after her property, but it is
not enough to occupy a man of his abilities. We call him the Admirable
Crichton. Here he comes."
"Well, Tina, slaving away as usual? What a woman you are for scissors!
Now it's garments for the village, isn't it? Last time you were making
havoc of your rose beds for some wedding."
Mrs. Dashwood laughingly shook hands with him, then introduced him to
Damaris. He looked at her with a frank smile.
"Our third meeting. Three is my lucky number! I knew I should speak to
you the next time I saw you."
Damaris smiled back. Her head was high, and her manner dignity itself;
but there was something in Stuart's voice that always brought smiles to
those with whom he spoke.
"You saw each other in church, I suppose?" said Mrs. Dashwood, turning
briskly to her cutting out again.
"Oh, that wasn't a meeting; the first time Miss—Miss Hartbrook—I
hope I've caught the name—was sitting by the wayside, and Barbara
and I discussed her hotly for a good ten minutes after we had passed
her. Then we met her again on Sunday afternoon crossing the common,
whereupon we discussed her again; and now I shall go back, and most
likely we will all discuss her for the third time."
"That makes me feel a person of some importance," said Damaris; "but I
am learning from Mrs. Patch's talk that everybody is of importance in
the country."
"You're right there. Allow me to relieve you, Tina. Don't dare to say
I can't wield the scissors as well as yourself. Sit down and rest that
long back of yours. What is that husband of yours doing? If I had a
wife and she helped me with my sermons, I would help her with her
scissors. That's fair play. Miss Hartbrook, when you listen to our
Rector's sermons, and he startles you with a very straight hit which
knocks you flat, that is one of his better half's bits of composition."
Stuart was rapidly cutting out children's frocks as he talked.
Damaris gazed at him with amused astonishment.
Mrs. Dashwood had laughingly taken a seat and drawn her little boy
to her side, but her quick observant eyes were following her new
assistant's rapid cuts, and twice she corrected him.
"Now," she said, "give me back my scissors. I am rested. Won't you play
to us?"
"Yes, play, and I'll dance!" cried Eddie.
The next moment, Stuart was at the piano playing the merriest jigs and
snatches of nursery rhymes. Eddie capered up and down, occasionally
bursting into songs in which Stuart joined him. He had one of the
softest and most mellow tenor voices that Damaris had ever heard.
Suddenly he stopped.
"That's enough for you, old boy. Now I'm going to play to Miss
Hartbrook. And then it will be your mother's turn. Now, Miss Hartbrook,
what will you have—grave or gay? I think I know."
He began to improvise. Damaris listened, entranced, for she knew at
once he was a real musician. And from a very sweet and plaintive little
melody, he turned to some Norwegian Folk Lore airs, and then finished
with a very inspiriting Polish March.
"To cheer you up!" he remarked, twisting round on the music stool.
"Thank you very much," said Damaris.
He turned back to the piano, and began playing "O Rest in the Lord,"
"Comfort ye My People," and "He shall Feed His Flock" followed. And
when he stopped playing, there was a grave stillness in the room.
He stood up and drew a deep breath.
"Music is meant to portray religion, isn't it?" he said.
"What a dangerous gift it is," Mrs. Dashwood said thoughtfully. "It
appeals to the best and worst inside us."
"Will you have me to tea?" Stuart asked, as he took an easy chair and
hoisted Eddie upon his knee. "Barbara has taken it into her head to pay
calls this afternoon, knowing that I won't accompany her. And Sir Mark
has shut himself into the library with some business papers, and told
me he didn't want to be disturbed."
"Of course, we will give you tea. How long are you staying at the Hall?"
"Only till to-morrow. I know you feel I've been idling here too long,
but I've been making sketches and plans for some model cottages Sir
Mark wants to build."
"Anything else?"
He laughed.
"Oh, a few. Don't make me blow my own trumpet before Miss Hartbrook,
but you know I'm a handy man, and I find jobs everywhere. That reminds
me—I've promised the rector to get rid of those crows' nests in the
belfry. I'll go now. Would Eddie like to come with me?"
"Oh, mummy, let me!"
Mrs. Dashwood looked dubious.
"He'll be breaking his neck."
"Will Miss Hartbrook come and look after him? I'm sure you've done
enough cutting out!"
Damaris was not very keen on going, but Mrs. Dashwood seemed as if she
would like her to do so.
"You will hear the tea-bell. I'll have it rung outside the house, and
when it rings, bring Eddie in, will you?"
As Damaris walked through the garden, Stuart talked to her as if he
had known her all her life. He interested her at once; there seemed no
subject on which he could not talk. And though his tone was gay, he
could drop suddenly into the gravest vein.
"Of course, you've lost your heart to Tina. I tell Barbara she's lucky
to have her near her. But women are a mystery to man in their dealings
with one another. Barbara keeps her at arm's length. I think she is
afraid that Tina will tackle her on religious subjects. She's tackled
me, and she'll do the same to you before you've been in her company
very long. But if you know a good thing, why shouldn't you try to pass
it on? And I bless the day when I was enlightened and set going by her.
Now, young man, what is it?" He turned to Eddie.
"I want to ring the bells. Will you take me?"
"Not if I know it! But we shall climb the tower, and you shall show
Miss Hartbrook the hill where the rainbows end."
"I believe I met a relation of yours on Sunday," said Damaris suddenly.
"Did you? It was my aunt. A dear old talkative soul. Was she on the
common?"
Damaris gave an account of her meeting.
Stuart's eyes twinkled.
"Did she tell you of our difference of opinion? I wanted a certain man
dismissed—a farm-hand who is an idle loafer. She wants him kept. So I
said I would go away for a few days and let her see for herself how he
worked. I received a repentant note this morning, so I'm going back to
her to-morrow."
"How nice to be able to run away when things go wrong!" said Damaris.
"That's a nasty one for me!" laughed Stuart. "Have you never run away
from anything?"
"Oh, yes," said Damaris hastily; "I'm doing it now." Then the swift
colour came to her cheeks. "I am my own mistress," she added. "I
sometimes wish I were not."
"Ah," he said, "independence has its drawbacks. Now, it's a queer
thing, but, from the look of your carriage and walk, I said to Barbara,
'That girl is on her own—no doubt of it.' And I was right."
"Do you think me an adventuress?" said Damaris, with a little smile. "I
am out on an adventure."
"Shake hands," said Stuart, holding out his hand to her. "I'm an
adventurer born. That's why I'm a Jack of many trades and master of
none. I'm always seeing things on in front that beckon to me, and I
invariably plunge after them. But I'm sticking to my aunt now. I've
been all over the world."
"Oh," said Damaris, with a long-drawn sigh; "I wish I had—I do adore
seeing new strange places."
They reached the place, and climbed up into the belfry; then Damaris
took Eddie up to the top of the tower out of danger's way. He had been
there before, and was very proud of pointing out to her different
landmarks.
The tea-bell rang too soon; but on their way down they met Stuart, who
showed them four huge nests he had rescued from some beams in the roof.
"They're big enough for you to sit in, Eddie," he said.
"Oh, no, fanks; I don't want to sit on eggs!" he promptly replied.
And then they all went into the Rectory to tea.
Stuart went with the Rector afterwards.
"My husband wants to show him some old papers he has unearthed from
the vestry," Mrs. Dashwood said to Damaris. "Stuart Maitland is one of
the most gifted men I know. He says he happens to have clever hands,
but it is his brain which directs them. You heard him play. He paints
exquisite water-colour sketches, and has written two books. He is a
very good architect, and is a member of the British Archaeological
Society. I don't think there is anything that he can't do. I always
say, when I have him in the house, that I have a plumber, carpenter,
glazier, and general repairer. He ought to be a poor man."
"And has he no profession?" asked Damaris.
"I am sorry to say he has not. He was left an orphan when he was quite
small, and came into a good bit of money when he was of age."
Then Mrs. Dashwood began to talk to Damaris of the village, trying to
interest her in the people. When she got up to go, she said—
"You will let me see more of you, won't you, dear? I want to know you
better. And we have had an interrupted afternoon."
"I shall love to come and see you at any time," said Damaris warmly.
And as she walked home, she determined she would pursue the
acquaintance. Yet somehow or other Stuart Maitland obtruded himself,
and overshadowed gentle Mrs. Dashwood in her thoughts.