A SUDDEN DEPARTURE
"MRS. BONNYCOTT to see you, miss."
Damaris was sitting writing in her little sitting-room one afternoon,
when Mrs. Patch opened the door to announce the visitor.
Damaris had been trying to concoct for about the twentieth time, a
letter to her grandfather announcing her existence. But nothing that
she wrote satisfied her.
"If I could only see him! And if my aunt were more approachable! I
wonder if I had better confide in Mrs. Dashwood. I don't know why I
feel so shy about mentioning the subject. I know they are all curious
about me, though they are too well-bred to say so. I don't know why I
should appear such a mystery. In these days, girls live alone, and earn
their own living."
She was glad to be able to change her thoughts.
Mrs. Bonnycott was breathless with her climb up the steep stairs.
"I told you I should come and see you, didn't I," she said, taking the
easy chair Damaris pulled forward, and looking round her with her keen
bright eyes. "You have a very snug little room here. What a pretty
group of wild roses. I've just come from the Hall—been lunching with
Barbara. You don't know each other yet? Barbara is a queer girl—she has
too many men friends to be interested in her own sex. You have met my
nephew, I hear. What do you think of him? Don't fall in love with him,
will you? For I warn you he is not susceptible to women's charms—likes
to chum up with them, but no more. He was engaged once, and says, never
again; but he was young and she was young, and they were both too
self-willed. She broke it off, and married somebody else two months
after. But Stuart thinks that every other girl would be like her. Now
tell me what you have been doing with yourself. I have interrupted you
in writing, I see. So glad you have some friends to whom you can write.
I was afraid you were a forlorn young creature with no friends at all.
Mrs. Patch tells me you had an aunt who lived in these parts once."
"I don't think I told her so," said Damaris a little stiffly. "I said I
had seen 'Marley Common' mentioned in an aunt's letter, and that made
me come."
Mrs. Bonnycott gave a funny little chuckle.
"We're all very interested, not to say inquisitive, in these parts when
a lodger comes to settle amongst us."
"I have only one friend in the world," said Damaris slowly and
thoughtfully, "and that is an old servant who has known me from my
babyhood."
"What a treasure. Is she in service still? If not I wish you would give
me her address. I want a good maid—housemaid. Would she suit me?"
"She might," said Damaris, smiling, "but she is still in London in my
old home—and will no doubt stay there."
"Is that where the nephew lived who ousted you? Have you made any plans
for the future? I'm interested in you. Do you know you are too dainty a
creature to be wandering over the world alone?"
"Oh, I have my plans," cried Damaris desperately, "but I can't talk
about them."
"That's a pity," observed the old lady in a disappointed tone. "Young
people always think life is easy to manage, and they won't confide in
their elders, and troubles follow. But if you do get into trouble,
write to me. You know my address. 'The Manor House, Fallerton.'"
"You are very kind," said Damaris, gratefully. "I don't find my life
easy to manage at all. I have a very difficult task in front of me, and
I am so cowardly that I feel, though I have begun to grapple with it,
that I shall not be able to carry it through."
"And you've come down here to think things out quietly?"
"Yes—partly."
"Well—well—if you won't confide in me, you won't. But I still want you
to come over and spend a day with me. Come next Saturday, will you? If
you enjoy the walk, come over to lunch, and I will show you my garden
and my pet goats. I keep eight of them."
"Thank you very much. I shall be very glad to come."
Mrs. Bonnycott did not stay very long, and though Damaris was
entertained by her bright talk, she was relieved than otherwise when
the visit came to an end.
"I can't go on like this," she said to herself. "I must do something
definitely—I never imagined that everyone in the country would be so
curious about strangers. I am sure Mrs. Bonnycott will get it all out
of me when I go to lunch with her. And yet I do like her. And it is
such a change to know some women of the right sort. I have seen so few
of them in my life."
Two days afterwards, Damaris got her chance of doing "something
definitely."
She was sitting with old Mrs. Patch, and hearing of the old times at
the Hall, when suddenly the door opened and Barbara appeared.
She looked rather taken aback at seeing Damaris there.
"Well, Nanny, how are you? It's an age since I've been in, isn't it?
I've brought you some of our early peaches."
"This is Miss Hartbrook, Miss Barbara, dear—she lodges with us, and is
very kind in coming and sitting with me."
Barbara inclined her head a little stiffly, and Damaris at once made a
move.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Patch, for the present," she said, and then she slipped
away, going back to her own rooms.
But inside, she stood still—a sudden impulse seizing her.
"Now is my opportunity. She will pass my door going downstairs. I will
call her in and tell her. I will—I must have the courage to do it. It
is so much easier seeing her here than going to the Hall."
Now that the time had come, Damaris found her limbs trembling beneath
her. She feverishly unlocked her small dressing-case, and produced
her mother's letters. Then she tidied her sitting-room, placing her
best easy chair in the window, and arranging one for herself in the
background. She found herself preparing nervously her important
announcement.
"How shall I begin? In books they generally rush into the arms of their
long-lost relations; but I can't fancy myself doing that with Aunt
Barbara! She's a man's woman they say, and hard of heart—perhaps I am
making a mistake. My grandfather might receive me more warmly. Had I
better wait and speak to him? Oh, how long she is! I wish she would
come out. I hate the suspense of it!"
She paced the room, trying to control her agitation.
"What shall I say? I feel I shall stammer and break down. Perhaps
she will refuse to come in. I wish she would, then I shall go to my
grandfather."
Time went on. She heard the murmur of voices along the passage, and
once Barbara's rather deep laugh rang out. Damaris was devoutly
thankful that the landlady had gone to the neighbouring town that day
to market, for otherwise she would run the risk of her mounting the
stairs to enjoy the visitor's conversation. At last, the bed-room door
opened and Barbara came out.
"Good-bye, Nanny. Take care of yourself."
Damaris opened her door.
As Barbara strode along the passage, she was pulled up by a very quiet
voice.
"May I speak to you, Miss Murray, for a few minutes?"
They faced each other. Barbara's eyes were opened wide, her
astonishment was plain to be seen.
Damaris stood with her proud little head in the air, she was white from
emotion even to her lips, but her voice was well under control. There
was not a quiver in it. Her request was almost like a command.
Without a word, Barbara came in. She had to stoop her tall head to get
in at the door.
Damaris pulled forward the easy chair, and then seated herself. There
was a moment's silence between them. Barbara evidently did not intend
to speak first.
"I have wanted to speak to you for some time. It seems my opportunity.
I have something to tell you."
Still silence. Then Damaris took her mother's letters in her hand, and
handed them to Barbara.
"Do you know these letters? Will you read them? They were written by
you many years ago."
Barbara frowned heavily as she opened the letters. Damaris watched
her breathlessly, but she saw no sign of feeling in the handsome
fresh-coloured face bending over them.
One by one they were opened and read. Then at last Barbara looked up.
"Where did you get these? How do they come into your possession?"
"They are my mother's letters. I am her daughter."
Barbara stared at her uncomprehendingly. "My sister had no children."
"Were you never told that she had? Surely my mother wrote to you
before—before her death?"
"Will you kindly give me your account of it."
Something steely and fierce flashed out of Barbara's blue eyes.
Damaris faltered—she began to get a little incoherent.
"I can't give you the account of my birth. But it was in Florence, and
after my mother's death, my father brought me to his uncle's house in
London, which has been my home ever since. I—he never told me—I never
knew—until I found these—I wonder you never asked about me—but of
course I was provided for—and I took everything as my right—but when I
found myself penniless, I began to wonder if I had no other relations,
and then I found these. My father died many years ago."
Still Barbara did not speak, she sat gazing out of the window like one
in a dream.
Then suddenly she turned her face towards Damaris.
"What other proof can you show me that you are my sister's daughter?
Have you your birth certificate?"
"No," said Damaris, hesitating; "no, I do not know where that would be.
It may be in Florence. I have not seen it amongst my father's papers.
My uncles may have destroyed it."
Barbara smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile.
"We have only your word to go upon. We must have more than that."
The colour rushed into Damaris's cheeks.
"Do you not believe me? Do you think I am telling lies? Don't I know my
own mother's name, and all the circumstances connected with her life in
Florence."
Barbara smiled again.
"My dear Miss Hartbrook—if this is your name—it is curious I should
not have recognised it before, but I had almost forgotten my
brother-in-law's existence, and the name is an ordinary one; but if
it is, I cannot forget that you have been in the habit of talking a
great deal with our old nurse, from whom you would have got all our
family history. She doubtless mentioned to you, as she did to me, a
certain resemblance in you to my sister—there is nothing to prevent
you building upon this and using it for your own ends. I don't say you
have; but legally you must give us other proof. These letters were
written by me, but they may have passed through many hands; and how are
we to know that you are the rightful possessor of them?"
Damaris was silent. Never had such a possibility presented itself to
her! Not to be believed was a fact that she had never contemplated.
Such a rush of hot indignation and wounded pride seized hold of her
that she could not trust herself to speak.
At last, she moved across the room and held open her door.
"I am sorry I have told you," she said. "If my relations do not wish to
own me, there is nothing more to be said."
Barbara took her dismissal very calmly.
"I will keep these letters," she said, moving across to the door, "as
they are my property. And I will talk it over with my father, and you
will hear from us again. It is strange that you should have taken so
long a time to make yourself known to us. If your purpose in coming
here was to show us these letters, why did you not do it at once? It
looks as if you were taking time to find out all you could."
Damaris said nothing. Her eyes flashed indignantly, and she closed the
door upon her visitor with bitter disappointment and anger in her heart.
"They won't believe me! They don't want to believe me. Instead of being
glad, she hated the very idea of my existence. Never, never, shall I be
dependent on them! Never shall I enter their house! I wish I had never
come here! I wish I had never spoken to her! I shall go straight back
to London and get work. And I shall never think of them again. I have
lived without them all these years. I can live without them still. I
shall go back to London and write to Stevens and get her to come and
see me, and tell her all about it."
In a tempest of fury, Damaris paced her room, then seized hold of her
suit-case, and began flinging her clothes into it. She knew there was
no train to town that day which she could conveniently catch, but she
felt she must do something towards preparing for her departure. Then
she put on her hat and slipped quietly out of the house. Making her
way to the station, she found out the first morning train to town, and
arranged with the friendly porter to call for her luggage on his way to
the station the next morning.
When she returned to her lodgings, she found her landlady still away.
So she went in to see old Mrs. Patch, and told her she must go back to
London.
"It is very sudden and unexpected, but I must go," she said. "I sha'n't
forget you, Mrs. Patch, and our quiet talks. You have done me a lot of
good."
"But, dear miss, have you spoken to Polly? She'll be in a sore way at
losing you so suddenly."
"I'll pay her an extra week. I only took my rooms by the week. I always
knew my time here would be uncertain."
"I shall miss you sorely. You seem so young and lonely. I wish you had
the Lord as your Guide."
"How do you know I have not?"
"I don't think you've got rid of your burden yet. You don't even feel
the weight of it, do you?"
Damaris looked at her.
"I'm afraid I don't. But is it necessary? Can't I be good without
feeling I'm a very wicked sinner?"
Old Mrs. Patch laid her hand tenderly upon her arm.
"You will never love until you know what you've been saved from,
dearie. We are told in the Book that it is those who have been forgiven
most that love most. And it seems to me there be few people nowadays
who feel the horror of sin."
Damaris was silent. She looked wistfully at the old woman.
"I will think about it, Mrs. Patch. I promise you I will. It is so
good of you to care about me at all. I feel as if I'm leaving my best
friends here."
"And must you go?"
"I must."
When Mrs. Patch, junior, returned from her marketing, she was very
perturbed at the thought of losing her lodger.
"We were just becoming acquainted, and you'd settled down comfortable.
Why so sudden, miss?"
"I can hardly tell you why," said Damaris a little coldly.
She felt thankful that nobody knew of the interview she had had with
Barbara.
She left very early the next morning, and she wrote a little note to
Mrs. Dashwood which she meant to post on her way to town. It ran as
follows—
"DEAR MRS. DASHWOOD,—Forgive me for not coming to wish you good-bye.
I am leaving suddenly—as suddenly as I came. I do thank you for all your
kindness. I should like to think that one day I may meet you again. I
hardly know what is going to happen to me. But I have nothing to fear.
"Yours lovingly,
"DAMARIS."
When she reached the station, Stuart Maitland was just leaving it. He
was on horseback.
"Whither away?" he asked her cheerily.
"On adventure bound," she said, trying to speak lightly.
"I believe you're running away again," he said, looking down upon her
with a quizzical glance in his eyes.
She nodded, then held out her note to him.
"Will you do me the favour of taking this to the Rectory? You will be
passing it, won't you? I did not know you were out so early."
"Farmers are up at five o'clock, and it is just on half-past eight. Of
course, I'll take your note. I think it's very shabby of you to treat
us like this. Aren't you booked for my aunt for to-morrow?"
"I—I quite forgot. I'll write to her from town. Will you make my
excuses? I did not think I should have to leave so soon, but I must."
"If you were my sister," said Stuart, looking at her gravely, "I should
take you by your shoulders and march you back to your lodgings again.
What has happened? Treat me as a brother—a chum."
Sudden tears came into her eyes.
"I can't—I wish I had never set eyes on Marley. I wish I had never
known any of you!"
There was passionate resentment in her tone, and she passed swiftly on
to the ticket-office.
In another five minutes, she was in the train, speeding away towards
London.
Stuart rode thoughtfully on. He gave in the note at the Rectory, had
a glorious gallop across the common, and reached home in time for
breakfast.
When he gave his aunt Damaris's message, she became quite excited.
"What has happened to the child? I was looking forward to having her
here. And she had no intention of leaving us for a long time. She is
alone in the world—she told me so—and means to earn her own living.
She's the last girl in the world to fend for herself in London. She's
such a dainty, high-bred little creature! Did she seem down in spirits?"
"Angry—a regular little spit-fire," said Stuart, devouring his plate
of kidneys and bacon with a healthy appetite. Then he brought down
his fist on the table heavily. "By-the-way, I wonder if Barbara is in
the business? Somebody has angered her. And Barbara went to see the
old nurse yesterday. I wanted her to call on the child, but she was
strangely averse to doing so. She said she would like to find out about
her first. The young lady is very mysterious."
"Not to me," said Mrs. Bonnycott. "As straight and simple as she can
be, though she wouldn't tell me her plans. But I begged her to write to
me if she were in trouble at any time, and I believe she will."
Stuart went about his daily work with a strange oppression of mind. He
laughed at himself for it.
"It's too ridiculous to trouble over a passing visitor as I am doing.
But I'm honestly disappointed. She was worth knowing, and I meant to
know her well."
He was in the hayfields most of that day, working as hard as any
farm-hand. He did not come into the house till nine o'clock, and then
was handed a note which had come from the Hall for him. It was from
Barbara—
"Do, like a good boy, come over as soon as you can. I badly want
advice.
"Yours,
"BARBARA."
His aunt refused to let him go to the Hall that evening.
"I have put off my dinner to have a late supper with you. Miss Barbara
must wait. It will do her no harm. You are not her lover, are you?"
"Goodness—no!" said Stuart, with an astonished laugh. "What a woman you
are!"
"I never try to be anything but a woman," retorted his aunt sharply.
"Barbara has no right to expect you to be at her beck and call at all
hours of the day. The groom is going over to Marley to-night. He's
calling at the mill about some oats for the stables. Write a note, and
he will take it. Say, that when the hay is saved, you can give her your
attention."
Stuart smiled to himself. His note was as short as Barbara's.
"Expect me to breakfast. I can only give you an hour.
"STUART."