THE RUNAWAY IS TRACKED
IT was Miss Hardacre's birthday. Damaris had gone out early and bought
her a lovely bunch of flowers. She was getting really attached to the
quiet little uncomplaining woman, but longed sometimes to be able to
cheer her by a more hopeful outlook.
Miss Hardacre was disappointed not to have received a letter from her
young friend, Miss Hartbrook, but about eleven o'clock, when she and
Damaris were sitting in the drawing-room together, and just arranging
to take a little walk in the gardens a visitor was announced, and a
tall rather shabbily dressed girl appeared, with a fair honest face,
and a lot of curly red-brown hair.
Miss Hardacre threw up her hands.
"Is it you, Nellie!"
"My dear Unnecessary One, it is. Me in the flesh! I have a holiday, and
instead of writing, I determined to come in person and congratulate you
on another year having slipped away in this vale of tears."
They kissed each other affectionately, and Miss Hardacre hastily
introduced Damaris, who was making a move from the room.
"Don't go, dear, till you have spoken to each other and found out if
you are relations."
The girls looked at each other. Then Damaris asked quietly—
"Have you a brother called Dane, I wonder?"
The girl gave a short laugh, but not a very pleasant one.
"Why, yes, I have, and once upon a time I prided myself upon the fact.
Who can you be? The young cousin who lived with my two old great-uncles
whom I never saw?"
"Yes; but why have we never known each other? Why have you kept away?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I was brought up by my mother's family, and lived with an aunt till
about four years ago, when she died. It was only last week that I heard
in a roundabout way of my brother having come home, and of having
come in to all our uncles' money. Wouldn't you have thought he would
have sought his sister out and let her share a little of his abundant
wealth?"
"Oh! But he did, he did; he hunted everywhere for you," said Damaris
eagerly. "We all did, but you had disappeared."
"I'm glad to know that much. Of course we were bad correspondents—I
used to write to him when I was quite a girl, but he never answered me,
so I left off writing. He never sent me one halfpenny, though I know he
was doing very well for himself out in India. Of course, as long as my
aunt lived, I did not need help, but I had a stiff fight afterwards.
I'm just keeping my head above water now as The Unnecessary One knows;
but it rather set my back up when I heard that the lawyer had given
him my address, and yet that he never troubled to write me one line,
or make one effort to see me." Then she looked a little sharply at
Damaris. "You are engaged to him, are you not?"
"Not now. I was for a short time."
"Oh! Then does that mean that you have lost your home?"
"The house and furniture are sold. I don't know where your brother is
now."
"But you were left some of their money, weren't you?"
"No, I received nothing."
"Shake hands! You and I are fellow sufferers then. But money isn't the
only thing in life. There are plenty of good things besides. Health and
brains. I'm told I have them both. You're lucky in rubbing against Miss
Hardacre. Isn't she a little dear? I was very down in my luck when I
first saw her. She comforted me like a mother."
"I have no comfort to give anyone," Miss Hardacre protested mournfully.
"But you've got sympathy—that's quite as good. Has she told you my
nickname for her cousin? She's imbued with the idea that she is an
unnecessary being on the face of the globe, so I rub it in. But I know
there 'll be an empty spot in my heart when she goes out."
Damaris smiled. She liked this bright, brusque cousin of hers, and
before long, they became quite intimate. Nellie Hartbrook had come to
take out Miss Hardacre for the day, and she extended the invitation to
Damaris. At first, she declined it, but she saw that they really wanted
her to come with them, and so the trio departed together, all having
lunch at a quiet little restaurant of Nellie's choice.
Then she took them to an afternoon concert at the Queen's Hall—Damaris
discovered that Miss Hardacre was passionately fond of music, after
which they had tea together, and Miss Hardacre and Damaris only
returned to the boarding-house in time for dinner.
But the cousins had been able to talk a great deal together, and though
Nellie did not advise her to change her quarters at present, she told
her that if she wanted any city work, she believed she could put her in
the way of doing something.
"We won't lose each other. It's nice to have some relations, isn't
it?" Nellie said. "And I believe you and I have a good many tastes in
common—witness both of us taking such a liking to the Unnecessary One."
Damaris acquiesced eagerly. She felt her heart go out to the brave
uncomplaining girl, who was so cheerful on so little of this world's
bounty.
She discussed her with Miss Hardacre the following day.
"It is such an extraordinary coincidence that I should find her through
knowing you," Damaris said. "If only I had been able to find her
before, I believe her brother would have done something for her. He
talked as if he would."
"But what made him change so?"
"I don't know. He did change in a remarkable way; it was that which
made me feel I could not marry him. I think he had expensive tastes,
and made friends with some extravagant women, and then wanted all his
money for himself. I wish Nellie would make herself known to him now.
He might do something for her."
"She will not do that, I am afraid. I think that both you and she are
very proud. Too proud to be beneficial for yourselves. But Nellie is a
dear girl."
Miss Hardacre spoke with feeling.
"You would never take any money from people who did not want to give it
to you, would you?" Damaris asked.
"If I were very poor, and if it were my right, why should I not?"
"I don't believe you would."
Damaris's tone was emphatic, and Miss Hardacre smiled.
"Ah, well! One does not know what one would do until one is tried. I
am thankful I have just enough to keep me from anyone's charity at
present." She sighed. "We all have to leave our money behind sooner or
later. When one gets old and feeble, the less one has, the less anxiety
is in one's life."
"I'm afraid I rather like comfort—even luxury," confessed Damaris.
"I can see you have been brought up in it."
And then Damaris found herself confiding in Miss Hardacre. She told
her of her life with her uncles, of Dane's arrival, and of her sudden
departure, and then of Marley and its inhabitants, but she did not
touch upon her connection with the Hall. That, she felt, she must keep
to herself. She simply stated that she went to Marley because an aunt
of hers had once lived there—and Miss Hardacre asked no inquisitive
questions, not even why she had left her lodgings so suddenly and come
to London to get work.
Damaris haltingly tried to explain.
"I felt I must get to work, but I was sorry to leave the village. I
have missed a good deal by coming away. I went there feeling very
unhappy, but I began to get comforted and cheered. Two people helped me
a lot—a very pretty bright young rector's wife and an old bed-ridden
woman. They both had shining eyes and soft tender voices, and they
talked of good things so happily and naturally that it made me want to
hear more. I wish you had heard them! Mrs. Dashwood said she thought I
had been sent to Marley to be rested in my soul and body, and she hoped
I wouldn't miss it. I did miss it; I came away hurriedly, though I was
dimly seeing that they had something good which I did not possess."
"It's a matter of temperament," said Miss Hardacre in a dreary tone. "I
don't think people's talk affects me much. I have grown beyond that."
It was strange how she and Damaris talked together in that shabby
drawing-room.
Damaris often looked back in her after life to the hot August
afternoons in that darkened room, where she and Miss Hardacre had sat
and worked and talked together. She could always picture the faded
carpet and ugly ornaments, the hot stuffy velvet couches and chairs,
the faint rumble of the distant traffic through the open windows. She
could see the little high-shouldered lady with her pale patient face
and sad blue eyes.
And the memory of their conversations there never left her. Politics,
philosophy, and religion all had their share. Both—old woman and young
girl—were feebly trying to penetrate some of life's mysteries, but the
key was for the time out of their reach. They could only wonder and
ponder—and if the hopelessness of the elder's outlook sometimes dimmed
the buoyant aspirations of the younger, the irrepressible energy and
high spirits of the latter gave fresh inspiration to the former.
And so the summer months slowly passed, and Damaris still remained at
Mrs. Jute's boarding-house.
Stevens wrote occasionally. She was planning to come up in the autumn
with her cousin, and take a small house in town where she could let
lodgings.
Nellie Hartbrook often came over to see Damaris and her old friend. It
was she who showed them the announcement of her brother's engagement
to Miss Welbeck in the "Morning Post." But she was determined not to
make herself known to him, and Damaris felt she would give herself no
pleasure by doing so.
One afternoon, as Damaris was on the top of a 'bus, she saw the figure
of her grandfather walking along Pall Mall. For one wild moment she
felt inclined to get down from the 'bus and make herself known to him,
but he was swept from her sight in a moment, and she knew that she
would never have had the courage to speak to him.
She had moments of contrition, sometimes. She felt she had acted hotly
and impulsively in coming away so quickly. Her aunt had said that she
would hear again from them; she had never stayed to give herself that
chance, and now, as time passed, she began to wonder if she had been
right in acting so.
And then, one afternoon towards the end of September, she went shopping
in Oxford Street. She was tired when she had finished her purchases,
and was just turning into some tea-rooms at the top of Regent Street,
when she suddenly came face to face with Stuart Maitland.
A little startled, she was bowing rather stiffly to him and passing on,
when he stopped her. He was in orthodox London clothes, and looked very
smart, and very pleased to see her. Holding out his hand, he said, with
his frank friendly smile—
"Surely we are too great friends to pass each other by?"
She returned the smile.
"I am just going in here," she said.
"Let me come with you. I like a cup of tea as well as any woman; and I
want to hear how you are getting on."
Damaris was vexed with him for following her into the tea-rooms. She
carried her head high, and spoke in a remote cold tone.
But he would not be snubbed. He found a quiet corner in an upper room,
and took the ordering of the tea into his own hands.
Then, when they were settled at their table, he looked across it at her
with eyes that twinkled irrepressibly.
"You are not glad to see me—why not?"
"I don't know how much you know," said Damaris frankly but gravely.
"I know everything, and can't conceive why you ran away just at the
critical moment."
"You cannot know everything," said Damaris with dignity, "or you would
quite understand that to stay was impossible to me."
"Because of Barbara's thick-headedness?"
"Because she refused to believe me, and doubted my word, and was
convinced that I was only staying at the Patch's to spy, and discover
all I could about the Murray family."
There was hot indignation in Damaris's tone. Her eyes flashed, and
Stuart saw that he must move warily.
"Barbara was unprepared for your announcement. She was awfully sorry
afterwards. Do you know that we have been trying to trace your
whereabouts ever since you left Marley?"
"If you are on Miss Murray's side, I am sorry that we met," said
Damaris stiffly.
"Oh, but it isn't a question of sides, is it? I honestly confess I do
feel like one of the family. But you are one of us, remember!"
"Miss Murray says I am not. I do not ever wish to see her again," said
Damaris, snapping her pretty lips together like steel.
"Well, don't let us talk about her any more. Do you know that my aunt
is in town at the Langham? I was just on my way to see her. She knows
nothing of all this, so you won't let your wrath rest on her, will
you? She would be so glad to see you. She has a slight cold, and wrote
me that she was feeling very dull. Will you take pity on her and come
over with me, after we have had tea, to the Longhorn? She has a private
sitting-room there."
Damaris hesitated.
"I don't know that I shall have time."
"Where are you staying?"
Damaris looked at him steadily.
"I don't feel inclined to say at present." Then she added with
girlish eagerness. "There is nothing to hide, but I don't want the
possibility of a visit from—from anyone at the Hall. It is quite a
quiet respectable boarding-house. I may be moving somewhere else very
shortly."
"You can easily send a wire saying you 'll be dining out. Yes, I mean
it. My aunt will be very angry if you don't stay to dinner with her.
We'll discuss it later. Try one of these iced sandwiches. They aren't
half bad. I think you are looking rather thin. Haven't you found August
very trying in town?"
Damaris felt as if her breath were being taken away. In a pleasant but
determined fashion, Stuart seemed to have taken full possession of her.
As to quietly dismissing him after tea, as she had at first intended to
do, that now seemed quite impossible. She really liked Mrs. Bonnycott,
and would be glad to see her again. She lapsed into conventional
talk about the weather and politics, and London sight-seeing. Stuart
talked with enthusiasm over everything. When they had finished tea, he
insisted upon paying the bill; and then for a moment dropped his easy
bantering tone.
"Miss Hartbrook, I'm your friend, don't forget it. Don't treat me as
if I am a naughty curious meddling boy. I'm going to advise you for
your good, and you must take it in good part. I want you to tell me
everything you can about yourself. There's no hurry. Do you mind my
having a smoke? Your place is at Marley Hall, not in London. We are
all convinced of that. Your grandfather is longing to see you, but,
of course, he wants all the proofs you can give him of your being his
daughter's child. That is only reasonable, isn't it? Have you got any
more proofs that you can produce?"
Damaris glanced up at him with a little rebellious curve to her lips.
She looked like some pretty wilful child defying authority; and then
suddenly her expression changed and melted. She put out her hand with a
little French gesture.
"Forgive me. You have always been kind to me. I will tell you all I
can. It was my ignorance that made me go down to Marley without any
proofs. Somehow I thought the letters would be sufficient to establish
my identity."
She then told him about Stevens and her mother's jewels, and her
baptism at St. Stephen's Church. And then, she added—
"And Stevens knows something else besides. I was not born at the little
villa Rosini just outside Florence, which was my parents' home; but my
mother went into Florence before I was born, and I expect my birth was
registered there, for my father never went back to the villa to live—
only to pack up. He came straight to England after my mother's death."
"Ah, that will make it easier for us. We thought you would be
registered outside Florence, in the little village close to the villa."
"You do identify yourself with the Murrays."
"Can't help it. I always have. Now then, shall we go and see my aunt?"
"I can't stay to dinner."
He smiled.
"We'll see about that."
Damaris had dropped her dignified reserve. Stuart had always a very
genial influence over people, and she chatted to him as they walked to
the Langham about Marley and its inhabitants.
"I have often wished myself back there," she said. "I should really
like to go on living with the Patches, and be friends with the Hall."
"Oh come, that doesn't sound well, when they are your relations."
"Do you really believe that?" Damaris fixed him with her steady grey
eyes.
"I do indeed, honour bright! I told Barbara so at once. You are the
image of your mother's portrait taken when she was about your age. You
wouldn't like to remain an outsider always, instead of being in your
proper home?"
"They are not bound to give me a home," said Damaris slowly. "I feel
that Miss Murray does not like me, and never will."
"You don't know Barbara. Her heart lies deep, but it is a big one."
Damaris was silent.
When Mrs. Bonnycott saw her, she was delighted.
"The lost child! My dear, what a joy! And now you will tell us the
meaning of your sudden departure. We were regarding you as a pleasant
fixture, and then you absconded without a word of explanation. Where
are you living, and what are you doing? Come and sit down and tell me
all about yourself."
"I will leave her with you, Aunt Kits. She is going to dine with us,
and then I will take her home. I have a little business to do, but I'll
return shortly."
He went away before Damaris had time to contradict his statement.
She found it difficult to make her explanation.
"I told you I was not well off," she said. "I could not go on living
at Marley doing nothing. I should have had to make a move some time
and—and I felt it was best to go away quickly."
"But why didn't you leave us your address? I went round to Mrs. Patch,
and she shook her head mysteriously, telling me she was a student of
human nature and that there was more in you than was given credit for.
She talked as if you were a burglar or a spy in disguise! Why were you
so mysterious?"
Damaris smiled.
"I did not mean to be. I did not realise you were all so much
interested in me. I came as a stranger, and I thought I could go
away as such. I am earning my living now, as I told you I should, by
art needlework. I was a pupil long ago at Kensington Art School, and
they remembered me, and are very good in employing me. I'm in a quiet
respectable boarding-house in Bayswater, and I came across Mr. Maitland
quite by accident this afternoon. I think this is all my history. There
is nothing mysterious in it."
"Well, I can't make head or tail of it. Stuart has been making quite
a rumpus over your disappearance, he is always talking about it. And
ever since we have been in town, he has been looking out for you. At
first I thought he must have fallen in love with you, but he was quite
angry one night when I taxed him with it. He said he was only acting
on behalf of your friends who wished to find you. I asked him who your
friends were, but he put me off, and told me if I happened to come
across you anywhere, I must make a point of finding out where you were
staying.
"You're looking very sweet, my dear. A little thinner, but you always
dress yourself with such distinction. I'm so very glad to see you
again. And now you shall come up to my bed-room and take off your hat
and make yourself thoroughly comfortable. Ah, here comes Stuart? He has
not been gone long!"
Stuart had only been to the nearest post-office and wired to Barbara—
"Elle est trouvé. Will write.—STUART."