THE FAMILY MEETING
BOTH Stuart and Damaris were very silent during the drive to the
Grosvenor Hotel. When they alighted, Stuart said—
"I'll say good-bye. I won't come in with you. I've done my part. I
promised Barbara to find you and bring you back to them again, and I've
done it. And you must forgive my summary way of taking possession of
you."
Then, seeing that Damaris was white even to her lips, he added, "Of
course, I'll come in with you if you would rather. Are you nervous?"
"Thank you, it will be best for me to see them alone. It is rather a
nervous opportunity, isn't it?" She smiled up at him sweetly as she
spoke. "I am most grateful to you, though I know it's for my aunt's
sake that you have been so busy on my behalf."
"Oh, give me a little credit for wanting to help you, too."
He went off, and Damaris found herself standing in the entrance hall of
the hotel, feeling more lonely and insignificant and helpless than she
had ever felt in her life before.
A page-boy took her upstairs to a private drawing-room, and then the
door opened and she was announced.
Sir Mark was standing by the window looking down into the street below.
Barbara was seated at the table writing a letter. She was clad in a
brown velvet gown. Without her hat she looked more womanly, and the
sunshine streaming in from the window, rested on her golden head making
it the brightest spot in the room.
Sir Mark wheeled round, and, stepping forward, took Damaris by both her
hands and drew her towards him.
"Let me look at you, my dear," he said in a husky voice. "I have had my
poor Lilian in my thoughts all this morning. They say you are like her."
Barbara rose from the table.
Damaris first looked at her grandfather, then turned to her.
"Do you believe in me yet?" she asked. "I have brought you a little of
my mother's jewellery, which she left me—you will no doubt recognise
it. And an old servant of my uncles will come and see you if you like,
and answer any questions about me."
Then, taking out her jewel case from her bag, she laid it upon the
table and stood beside it a little proudly.
"My dear," said Sir Mark, looking at her, "I want no other proof than
your remarkable likeness to your mother. That is sufficient for me."
Barbara smiled.
"You must not bear me a grudge for my first suspicions, Damaris. I
have been quite as anxious to find you as my father. And we are very
grateful to Mr. Maitland for the trouble he has taken for us." She bent
forward and kissed Damaris suddenly. "There! We must remember we are
aunt and niece now," she said. "There need be no awkwardness of feeling
between us."
Sir Mark looked as if he could not take his eyes off this new
granddaughter of his.
"I hear you were down in our village for two or three weeks, and never
made yourself known to us," he said. "I can't understand why you did
not come up to the Hall at once."
"When I first went down there," explained Damaris quietly, "I did not
know whether I should find you still living there. I went to find you
out, and then somehow or other my courage failed me, and I put it off
from day to day. I am very sorry. I see it was foolish."
"You could have written if you were shy of coming," said her
grandfather. "I can't think why you did not write before. I had no idea
of your existence. What made you come down to discover us?"
A pink flush came into Damaris's cheeks.
"I don't want to hide anything from you," she said; "I was in trouble.
I was engaged to be married to my cousin, who came in for my uncles'
money, and I was obliged to break it off. I could not go on with it.
I was living in his house, and I had to leave it, and I did not know
where to go. I suddenly came upon those letters in my mother's desk,
and it was those which made me come down to Marley."
There was a little silence. Barbara spoke first—
"It does not matter about the past, father. Damaris would like to know
what she is to do. Do you wish her to return with us at once?"
"Of course; of course. What else should she do?"
"But," said Damaris, a little hesitation in her tone; "I don't want
you to offer me a home because I am your grandchild. I can earn my own
living. I am sure I can. And I have a cousin who is doing it; and I
know she would let me live with her if you did not like the idea of my
living alone. May I tell you my own plans? Our old servant Stevens is
going to let lodgings in town, and I can be her lodger. I have got work
from the Art Needlework School—and for the present, at least, I can pay
my way."
"Absurd!" ejaculated Sir Mark. "I should not be likely to let a
grandchild of mine fend for herself in London. No; we have room and a
welcome for you at the Hall; and the sooner you come there, the better.
We shall be returning to-morrow, and you had better come with us."
Barbara said nothing. Damaris looked in a perplexed fashion up at her.
"Couldn't I—would you allow me to follow you—say in a week's time? I
must see Stevens again, and explain things to her; and I should like to
see my cousin—"
"Look here!" said Sir Mark a little irritably. "We don't want to hear
anything about your connections on the Hartbrook side. When you come to
us, you must forget them."
Damaris's head was raised at once.
"I am not ashamed of my father's relations, nor would you be, if you
were to meet them. I couldn't give up my friendship with Nellie. Though
I have not known her very long, I would not do it on principle. If I
come to you, I could not be in bondage—I must be free to keep my own
friends if I wish."
Sir Mark stared at her, and Barbara surprised them both by a hearty
laugh.
"For goodness sake, father, don't let us have a repetition of the old
times. You always sound a good deal more autocratic than you are.
Damaris is a modern girl; she will expect the same liberty that I have.
Why shouldn't she keep in touch with her cousin? As long as she is a
quiet respectable girl, there can be no harm in her."
"You will find I am kept in very good order by your aunt, little girl.
What's your name? Damaris, isn't it? Well—we won't begin to quarrel the
first day of our acquaintance. Come and give your grandfather a kiss,
and tell him that you like the look of him."
Damaris went up promptly and kissed him. "Indeed, I do like the look of
you very much," she assured him, with her pretty smile. "And I think it
is very kind and good of you to give me a home at once. But will you
give me a week longer in town to make my arrangements for coming to
you."
"Shall we, Barbara?"
"Of course, father. She can come to us any day next week."
And so it was settled.
Damaris felt as if she were in a dream. She could hardly realise that
her whole life was going to be changed so soon. But she accepted her
grandfather's invitation to lunch, and chatted to him quite pleasantly
throughout the meal.
Barbara was rather silent; but Damaris felt that she had no opposition
or dislike to be met with from her.
She left them at three o'clock. Her grandfather put her into a taxi
himself, and surprised her by putting a little packet of pound notes
into her hand.
"That is to meet any expenses you may have before you come to us—I
won't say to buy yourself a frock, for you could not wear a prettier
get-up than you are doing at present. God bless you, child; and come to
us prepared to be happy. Barbara and I are quiet country folk, but we
understand each other and live at peace."
Sudden tears came to Damaris's eyes. From that moment, she felt that
she loved her grandfather, and would do her best to please him.
He went back and sat down in his sitting-room with a little sigh.
"It brings the old times back. What do you think of her, Barbara? A
pretty little girl, eh? And oh, so like her mother."
"Yes," assented Barbara, "she is very like Lilian as I remember her;
but if she has her hot pride and temper, I beseech you, father dear,
not to provoke it by too much severity."
"Am I severe? God knows I do not want to be. You're a good girl,
Barbara—they say you've the most unruffled temper going; but all young
people are not like you—and this child is pretty, and seems to have
had a love affair already. I don't want a lot of those city young
men—relations of her father's—down in our parts."
"I don't think there will be any fear of that. Let us wait and see. We
can deal with things as they come. Now I'm going to leave you to have
an afternoon nap—you know what your doctor told you yesterday about
overdoing it—and you can meet me at The Langham for tea. Mrs. Bonnycott
expects us."
"Yes—yes; we must thank Stuart for that run out to Florence. It was
most satisfactory getting at that register. I hope that child will be
all right by herself. She's in a respectable place, you say?"
"So Stuart assures me. Of course she will be all right. You must give
her breathing time to say good-bye to her friends. She strikes me as
having a very capable head upon her shoulders."
Barbara left him. Later in the afternoon, she was sitting with Mrs.
Bonnycott and telling her the news. Stuart came in as his aunt was
expressing her astonishment and delight. She was quite excited over it.
"I knew there was good blood in her—could see it. I've been making up
my mind to ask her to come to me as a companion. I did not like to
think of her alone in London. Stuart, what do you mean by keeping me in
the dark about it? What a sensation in our part of the world! I wish I
could discover some niece or great-niece in the same easy way."
"How did the interview go off?" Stuart asked Barbara.
She smiled.
"We were very quiet and calm; there was no demonstration of feeling—but
you could not expect that. Father is the one who was most pleased. She
has bargained for a week more of her independence."
"She is not rushing at you," said Stuart. "I wonder how she will shake
down? I can't quite see you yet. You have your pursuits, your father
has his, and you're both complete in yourselves. Where will she come
in?"
"She'll find a niche for herself, and have her own hobbies," said
Barbara. "I'm not afraid of the venture."
"You don't chum up with very young girls," said Stuart doubtfully.
"I'll be good to her, I promise you. Do you take a great interest in
her, Stuart?" Barbara put the question carelessly, but Stuart wheeled
round and looked out of the window. Somehow Barbara felt that she had
vexed him. She touched his coat sleeve. "Don't be huffy. You haven't
had your proper thanks yet for finding her and for rushing off to
Florence; you are a friend in need."
"I don't expect thanks or want them." Then he turned round with his
sunniest smile. "Come out with me, Barbara; we'll go and hear some good
music. There's a concert on at the Albert Hall this evening. Shall I
take tickets?"
"Father will be here directly. We are having tea with your aunt."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bonnycott, "and I'm so knocked flat by your news that
I hardly know what to say. I did not know your sister Lilian had a
child. I remember her, and now see who this girl is like. She's the
living image of her mother."
Nothing would turn Mrs. Bonnycott's thoughts off Damaris, and when Sir
Mark appeared, it all began again. He was quite content to sit and
talk about his new granddaughter. But after a time, Barbara and Stuart
slipped away together, leaving the two old people to entertain each
other.
Damaris went back and gave an account of her grandfather and aunt to
Miss Hardacre, who was deeply interested in hearing about it all.
"I can't bear leaving you, Miss Hardacre," said Damaris; "you have been
such a friend to me that I won't drift away from you. What should I
have done in this house without you? I can't make friends with any of
the others. They don't like me."
Miss Hardacre smiled.
"You don't like them, do you? But I will confess that the young people
are not your sort, and the old ones—well; it is a marvel that you have
been happy sitting alone with me day after day! I am glad for your sake
that you will be with your own people now. And if ever you do come up
to town, it will be a real joy to me if you can spare time to come and
see me."
"Oh!" said Damaris. "I still dread the tremendous change it will be in
my life! Both my grandfather and aunt are strangers to me. I wonder if
we shall get on together?"
"I should think they would be hard to please, if they did not get on
with you," said Miss Hardacre fondly.
"Oh, you're an old dear!" Damaris exclaimed. Then she added suddenly,
"I have just thought of a lovely plan! Miss Hardacre, you must come
down and lodge at the Patch's. You would love it. You would smell hot
bread all day! I never got tired of the smell. It always made me feel
hungry! And, oh, how you would love the glorious breezy bracing common!
And the dear little country church, and sweet old saintly Mrs. Patch,
and darling Mrs. Dashwood."
Miss Hardacre began to laugh, but Damaris rebuked her.
"I'm in real sober earnest, and I shall come and see you, and feel I've
rescued you from the London fogs and this dingy old house. Oh, do think
of it! You always told me you loved the country, and here's a delicious
country village and nice rooms all waiting for you."
"It sounds delightful, dear, but it would not be wise to tack myself
on to you at this juncture. You must go alone, and make a place for
yourself in your grandfather's house. Perhaps next summer, if I am
still alive, we might think about those lodgings. It will be a great
pleasure to me, and will be something to look forward to."
"Well," said Damaris, with a little sigh, "we will wait, then. But if I
can't come and visit my friends, I can bring them to Marley, and that
will be lovely for me!"
The week passed too quickly. One of the first things that Damaris did
was to recover her mother's escritoire. Stevens had found a house and
was moving into it. She was much disappointed that she would not have
her young mistress as a lodger, but was partly consoled by the thoughts
of her mother's home being open to her, and by the care of the precious
escritoire which Damaris insisted upon placing in her charge.
"If I can send for it, I will, Stevens; but for the present, I know it
will be safe with you."
"If it wasn't for my cousin, I'd like to throw over the house and come
off with you as maid."
"But I shan't have a maid," said Damaris. "My aunt may have one, and
perhaps I shall share her, but I don't think I shall have one all
to myself. My grandfather and aunt lead a very simple country life,
Stevens. They are not smart fashionable people."
"Then if you come up to town, Miss Damaris, you'll come to us instead
of going to an hotel?"
"Yes; I'll try to do that," promised Damaris, and Stevens was content.
Nellie came over one Saturday, and, on the strength of her
grandfather's present, Damaris took her and Miss Hardacre down to Kew
Gardens for the day. They drove down in a motor, which was a piece of
extravagance, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves amongst the glories of
autumn tints and autumn flowers.
One day, she lunched with Mrs. Bonnycott. She was still very excited
over Damaris's connection with the Murrays, and made her tell her every
detail of her past life.
"I always took to you from the first minute I set eyes on you. And
remember if Barbara is not nice to you, or Sir Mark gets into one of
his irritable fits of impatience and depression, come straight off to
me, and we'll laugh at life's difficulties together. I find that's much
the best way to preserve one's calm and cheerfulness."
"Thank you," Damaris said, smiling; "but I am not going to anticipate
any difficulties."
Stuart did not come in till after lunch. He looked tired, but was as
cheerful as usual.
"I hope we're fast friends," he said to Damaris, "and that you will
never have cause for bearing me a grudge for bringing you and your
people together. You see, I take full credit to myself for that. It has
turned out well, hasn't it?"
"I don't know yet," said Damaris, looking at him with an amused gleam
in her grey eyes. "It is rather early to judge!"
"I haven't bothered you with my presence since—for I have done my part,
and knew you would prefer to be left alone."
"Yes, I have had a good deal to do and think of. In a way, I am glad
that everybody won't be strange to me in Marley. I have friends there,
and it seems like going home."
"And I'm one of the friends, eh?"
"Of course you are, and Mrs. Bonnycott is another; and I just love the
common. I have missed it more than I can say."
"I'm glad I come first in the list," said Stuart. "I'm not jealous of
my aunt, nor of the common either, for that matter. We all belong to
each other."
"My dear Stuart," said Mrs. Bonnycott hastily, "there is no need to
mention the word jealousy. It's a vice I abhor. You may be sure I shall
never come in the way between any young couple—least of all you, for
whom I do entertain some affection, in spite of our constant quarrels."
To this astonishing speech, her nephew made no reply, only looked at
Damaris with mischief in his eyes.
She began hastily to talk about her friends whom she was leaving
behind, and very soon Mrs. Bonnycott was promising to recommend
Stevens's apartments to all her friends.
Stuart was very busy in town, for he was going down to Marley with his
aunt the next day, and he had a lot of business to finish before he
went.
"I shall say 'au revoir,'" he said to Damaris, when they parted. "I
always look upon the Hall as my second home, so you will see me again
very soon. It is a pity we can't all travel down together to-morrow.
When do you come?"
"Next Wednesday," said Damaris quietly. "I must have till then to
myself."
She tried not to dread her departure from town, but when Wednesday
came, she said good-bye to Miss Hardacre with tearful eyes.
"I little thought when I came here how sorry I should be to leave. Do
write to me, won't you?"
"Indeed I will," said Miss Hardacre. "My days will be very dreary
without you. Somehow or other you have brightened my life enormously."
In the train, Damaris tried to fix her mind on her meeting with Mrs.
Dashwood and old Mrs. Patch again. She grew more and more nervous as
she thought of the new life in front of her.
The Hall brougham was at the station to meet her. In a very short time,
she and her luggage were conveyed to the Hall. She arrived there at the
close of a sunny autumn afternoon. The old grey house was covered with
red virginian creeper and climbing roses. The borders on either side of
the drive up to it were bright with golden chrysanthemums and dahlias
of every shade and hue.
It was a big comfortably furnished hall into which she walked. A small
log fire was burning in the open fireplace, and a beautiful greyhound
lay stretched out on a rug in front of it.
A little fox terrier started out from a dark corner barking at her, but
Damaris was fond of dogs; she put her hand on his head and quieted him
in an instant.
Symon, the old butler, glanced at her as she did so. He was too well
trained a servant to speak, but he told the housekeeper afterwards that
Miss Hartbrook was one of the right sort—"afeared of nothing!"
If he had only known how Damaris's heart was beating at that moment, he
would have qualified his statement.
He was leading her into the drawing-room, when Barbara appeared upon
the stairs.
"We'll have tea in my boudoir, Symon, the Squire won't be home till
late. Well, Damaris, here you are. Have you had a comfortable journey?"
She was in the Hall shaking hands with Damaris. Barbara was a very
undemonstrative person, and shed her kisses on no one—not even her
father.
Damaris replied politely, and then they went into the charming little
room furnished in dark oak and blue velvet. The walls were panelled,
but relieved by some lovely water-colour sketches. Damaris sat down in
silence by the fire, and Barbara stood for a moment in silence, too,
thoughtfully regarding her.
"This is my sanctum," she said, "but you will be welcome to it. I
live here amongst my books, and I write a few necessary letters, and
do a few necessary accounts. But for the most part of my days, I live
out-of-doors. Do you ride?"
"No," said Damaris. "I have had no chance to learn."
"Father and I hunt two days every week in the season—not more. You'll
have to find your own occupations and follow them, independently of me.
My motto is 'Live and let live.' I was too ruled up in my young days to
be ever desirous of ruling others. So you'll be as free as air here.
You look as if you've been well disciplined. Have you?"
Barbara was talking away to put her at ease, and Damaris knew it and
was grateful to her.
She looked up at her now with one of her charming smiles.
"Oh, yes, indeed I have. I have been in a comfortable well-ordered kind
of prison since I left school, and treated as if my brains were on a
par with the animals'." Then she pulled herself up. "I don't want to
say a word against my uncles. They were good and kind to me, but they
thought a woman ought to be content with so very little—just a needle
and a duster and a walk out to see the shops. That would make life
quite full enough for her. I am fond of needlework, I confess—I think
it has grown to be part of me; but I love the country and out-of-doors.
I hope I shan't be a worry to you; I don't mean to be. And oh, Aunt
Barbara, just say that you don't hate my coming here."
Damaris had risen from her seat, the quick colour coming and going in
her cheeks, and tears springing to her eyes.
Barbara looked at her in surprise. Then she laid a hand on her
shoulder, and there was tenderness in her touch.
"I see you have not forgiven me yet. My dear, I'm very glad to see you
here. I adored your mother, and would like you for her sake if for no
other. Don't let us have any misunderstandings about each other. I
don't wear my heart on my sleeve; but if you aren't happy with us, it
will be your own fault."
"Oh, I will be! I mean to be! Thank you, Aunt Barbara. I couldn't help
feeling frightened at coming here. It is all so strange to me."
Damaris was ashamed at her show of feeling, but Barbara liked her the
better for it.
"I was disciplined, too, when I was very young," she said thoughtfully,
"but a few years of perfect freedom have helped me to strike the right
balance, I hope. You will find your grandfather a little irritable on
the surface, and he will sound more severe than he really is; but he
has not been at all strong lately, so we have to give in to him."
Tea was brought in at this juncture, so all confidential talk for the
time was stopped.