A DIFFICULT TIME
DAMARIS welcomed him eagerly.
"Oh, how good of you! How pleased I am to see you! You always seem to
turn up when I am in the depths. How is grandfather? I am so anxious."
"Your face tells me that. Cheer up! He's as well as can be expected.
What a rash old chap he is! I've advised him to send the horse straight
back to the dealers. He is not fit for an elderly man with a weak
heart."
"Yes, it's his heart that troubles me. Is he really bad?"
"Better this morning; he didn't have a very good night. What a trump
your cousin is; she sat up all night with him. Lancaster won't let him
move from bed till to-morrow."
"Then he isn't coming home to-day?" Damaris said in a forlorn voice.
Stuart looked at her. She stood at the open window, looking very fresh
and sweet in a cream serge skirt and silk shirt. Her lips quivered a
little as she spoke, and Stuart felt a sudden longing to take her into
his arms and comfort her. But he answered in his usual light-hearted
fashion—
"Oh, that's nothing! What would you feel if I told you he was laid up
for a couple of months? And if you put on your hat, we'll walk right
across the common together, and you can see the Squire with your own
eyes."
Damaris's face brightened.
"I'll come at once. If I can see him, I shall feel better. And ought
not Barbara to know?"
"I'll tell her when I get over. She's coming out to the village this
morning. I'm meeting Ennismore there at twelve. As a matter of fact,
Aunt Kitty sent the groom over last night to give her the news. And if
she is the least anxious, she'll be over there by this time."
In a few moments, they were walking down the drive.
To distract her mind, Stuart began to talk about his work and his model
village. Damaris listened with real interest. Just before they reached
Fallerton, he said—
"Have you and Geoffrey quarrelled? I thought you were such good
friends. I suggested that he should ride over this morning and reassure
your mind about the Squire, but he did not seem to see it."
Damaris's little head was raised at once.
"I think he was over here too much—neglecting his work."
Stuart laughed.
"Youth will gravitate towards youth."
"You might be my grandfather," said Damaris a little mischievously.
"Do I speak like him?"
"Sometimes. You are apt to treat me like a child."
"You are not very old yet. I only speak as a friend."
"But," said Damaris quickly, "you told me you never wanted to be my
friend."
Stuart threw up his hands and laughed. "So I did! What a memory you
have."
"It rather hurt my feelings."
He stopped still and looked at her.
For an instant Damaris's heart beat rapidly. What was he going to say?
Then she continued, talking hurriedly—
"How do you like my cousin? I'm very fond of her. I wish grandfather
would know her."
"He does. She practically saved his life. You will hear all about it
from her."
They had crossed the common, and Nellie met them at the door of the
Manor.
She took Damaris straight to the morning-room, in which she helped Mrs.
Bonnycott with her correspondence and did all sorts of odd jobs.
"You can't go up just yet to Sir Mark, for he has fallen asleep, and
it is so important for him to sleep that we must not disturb him. Mrs.
Bonnycott has gone out into the village with her dog."
"Then we can have a good talk. Do tell me all about it, Nellie. I hear
you helped him after his accident. Tell me everything."
"There isn't much to tell. I was going across the common not very far
from here, but in rather an unfrequented part, when a rider suddenly
passed me. Of course, it was your grandfather. It struck me that he
was trying to pull in his horse very ineffectually; and then suddenly
the horse plunged and reared, and Sir Mark fell. He recovered himself
instantly, and was upon his feet again, gripping the bridle. I came
up, and noticed that he looked awfully ill. His face was blue-grey and
drawn with pain. Directly he saw me, he cried out—
"'Here, young woman, catch hold of this brute. He won't hurt you. I've
given him a good gallop, and he ought to be tired out.'
"I caught hold of the reins at once. I've always been fond of horses,
and I suppose they know it. Anyhow, directly I began stroking his nose,
he stopped dancing round.
"'You are ill, sir,' I said.
"And your grandfather gasped—
"'It's my confounded heart! I shall be all right in a minute; but I
can't mount till this attack is over.'
"'You mustn't mount at all,' I said decidedly. 'We're not very far from
Mrs. Bonnycott's. I will lead the horse, if you think you can follow
slowly on foot; or will you sit down and wait here, and I'll take the
horse on and come back for you?'
"'I'll rest a bit, and come on. I know my way,' he said.
"He's a plucky old gentleman, isn't he? I saw he was in agony, but
I could do nothing. I longed to be able to ride, for I should have
galloped away for assistance at once. But I hurried as much as I could.
I made him comfortable at the foot of a tree, left him my golf cape to
sit upon, as I know the old have to be wary of getting rheumatism. I
was never more thankful in my life than when I got my fiery steed safe
into the stable and left him in charge of the groom. Then I made them
turn out the low pony-trap with lightning speed, and the groom came
with me.
"We found your grandfather rather bad. I'd brought some brandy in a
flask, and we gave him some, and then we lifted him into the trap and
drove him gently here. Mrs. Bonnycott was a trump—didn't fuss—sent
for the doctor, and we got him to bed, where he has been ever since.
Dr. Lancaster says he might have collapsed altogether. He had been
straining his heart a good bit, trying to manage his steed, and then
this attack followed. He had another attack last night, and I'm afraid
he won't be right for some time. But he's wild to get home, and the
doctor says he must be humoured as much as possible. It's rather funny
I should be the one to find him, eh? I don't think he knows who I am;
but he and I are quite pals—I sat up with him—and he turns to me as if
I'm a nurse."
"Poor grandfather! Oh, I hope it's nothing serious. I know his heart
has been weak for a long time."
"Dr. Lancaster says he ought to have given up hunting long ago. He
warned him against it. He said he was trying to kill himself. But he
told me—and I think you ought to know—that your grandfather will never
be able to ride or hunt again. 'He's done for himself at last,' he
said."
"Oh, Nellie, how awful!" Damaris's cheeks blanched. "If he knows it,
the news is enough to kill him."
"But he doesn't know it, and we needn't tell him at present."
Damaris was almost stunned by the bad news. She knew better than Nellie
how large a part of her grandfather's life was devoted to his horses.
And she hardly dared think about his feelings when he knew his fate.
She talked on to Nellie in a desultory sort of fashion. Her heart and
thoughts were with her grandfather upon his sick bed.
At last, Nellie left her, saying—
"Brown, Mrs. Bonnycott's maid, is sitting with him—she's very useful in
illness. I will see if he is still sleeping."
She returned almost immediately.
"Come along. He is awake and would like to see you. Be quite cheerful,
won't you?"
Damaris did not feel very cheerful, but she managed to give Sir Mark
one of her sweet smiles as she stooped to kiss him.
"It is bad luck," she said, "but you look very comfortable."
Sir Mark tried to raise his head, then dropped it on the pillow again.
"This fool of a doctor is drugging me—I know he is—and it keeps me
drowsy. Listen, Damaris. I'm coming back to-morrow, but I want you to
see Blake to-morrow morning as usual, and tell him that I've considered
Benton's offer to take over the six-acre field at Long Corner, and I'll
let him have it."
"Yes, grandfather; and don't worry about anything. I'll carry on till
you come home."
"And tell Dawkins to exercise Mercury daily. I broke him in a bit, but
he needs a lot of riding." Then, after a pause, he said, "Are you alone
in the room?"
Nellie had been standing just inside the door. She now promptly
disappeared.
"Yes, we're alone," Damaris replied.
"A wonderful sensible girl is staying here—who is she? For clear common
sense she beats any woman I've known. She tackled Mercury as if she'd
been used to horses all her life, and yet she can't ride. And she's
nursed and looked after me like a professional. A nice voice too—low
and clear and to the point in everything she says."
"She's my cousin," said Damaris quietly. "Nellie Hartbrook."
Sir Mark gazed at her in silence for a moment, then he smiled.
"You've scored a point!" he said.
"I'm glad she was the one to help you, grandfather. I wanted you to
know her."
"Yes—yes—well—character tells—sometimes more than name."
He lay still after this. Then there was a little stir outside, and
Barbara appeared.
Damaris slipped away, for she knew he ought to be kept as quiet as
possible. She told Nellie that her identity was now known, and they
laughed over the little incident together.
Later on, Damaris returned home. Barbara looked at her with grave
thoughtfulness as she wished her good-bye.
"If Dr. Lancaster is right, you will have a trying time before you,
Damaris," she said; "I know what father is like when he is laid up. He
is a very bad patient. If you get into difficulties, wire for me, and
I'll come over. In any case, I'll come and see how he is getting on in
a few days' time. Symon understands him and loves nursing. Let him do
it, father hates trained nurses."
She gave her a few more directions.
Damaris listened quietly.
"I will do my best," she said, trying to speak cheerfully.
And then she went back to the Hall feeling that the sunshine across
the common, the blue sky, the larks soaring up and trilling out their
ecstatic songs were all a mockery when the old man who loved it all had
received his death knell, and would never ride across the common any
more.
The Squire was driven home the next day in his own comfortable
brougham; but he had to be carried to his bed, and for some weeks he
was seriously ill. Then he slowly began to recover, and it was during
his convalescence that Damaris felt the strain most.
Barbara had been over continually, and Mrs. Dashwood had helped a
good deal. The Squire was always glad to see her, and she had a most
soothing effect upon him when he was impatient and irritable. But
neither of them had the continual strain of keeping things going to his
satisfaction, and it was on Damaris's shoulders that most of the burden
rested.
Nothing would satisfy Sir Mark. Sometimes he would send for his
granddaughter to scold and complain and bemoan his useless existence.
Nothing that she could do or say would be right; and if crossed in the
slightest thing, he would give way to a fit of temper which agitated
and increased his sufferings.
One lovely afternoon, after a long morning in the sick-room, Damaris
crept out into the garden feeling utterly spent and depressed. She
turned into a shady walk, and reaching a secluded corner where a seat
was placed under an old beech tree, she seated herself upon it, and
indulged in a fit of tears.
"I'm a failure," she assured herself; "I pray every day for patience,
and every day I lose it. Grandfather does not like me. It is Aunt
Barbara he needs, and she cannot always be here. And I make mistakes,
and then, of course, he is angry. And if I show my feelings, and he
thinks I am sorry for him, he gets angrier still. I don't know what to
do, and how to talk to him!"
She started. Steps were coming along the path, and then a certain
whistle made her spring to her feet and dry her tears hastily. It was
Stuart. It was not often he came over in the week, and she expressed
surprise as she greeted him.
"Well," he said, "I've taken half a day off, and I wondered if you
would like to come out for a ride."
"I haven't ridden since grandfather's accident," said Damaris, a little
colour stealing into her cheeks. "I shouldn't like to tell him that I
had been doing it."
"Oh, but that's morbid. You are getting hipped. Don't turn your head
away. I see there have been tears. Are things going wrong?"
Damaris held her head up bravely.
"I am tired and a little over-done. I don't think I could go out.
Grandfather might want me."
"But Symon tells me you have been with him all the morning, and that he
is resting now."
"Yes; but if he should wake and want me?"
"Then he could be told that you are out. My dear child, this is all
wrong; you must have some time off. Now get into your habit, and I'll
have your horse round. I insist! It's for the good of your health."
He would take no denial.
In a short time, Damaris was riding down the drive with him, and when
they reached the common and met the fresh cool breezes across, she
lifted up her face with a little gesture of delight.
Stuart exerted himself to entertain her. He was always amusing and
interesting, and he took her right away from herself and the atmosphere
of the sick-room.
Presently, she laughed outright.
"Oh, Mr. Maitland, you're doing me a lot of good! I shall believe that
there is some enjoyment left in the world, after all. You don't know
how down I was to-day. Everything seemed grey and impossible."
"And now you find that a ride in the open with a little fooling, has
brought the sunshine back. You see how wise I was to drag you out!"
"It is when I am alone I get in the dumps. I wish I had Mrs. Dashwood's
joyousness, and—and yours. You are two of the happiest people I
have ever seen. I don't think I was born happy. It isn't my natural
temperament."
"You're too much alone," said Stuart, looking at her sweet sensitive
face, and realising how her present circumstances were telling upon her.
"I have always been that—always," Damaris said.
He was silent. Words that were burning on his tongue were kept back.
This was neither the time nor season. He must wait. He rode back with
her to the Hall.
"We'll have another ride next week," he said. "Meanwhile keep your
spirits up, and in bucking yourself up, you'll buck up the Squire, too!"
Damaris nodded brightly as she left him, and went into the house.
The next afternoon, Barbara arrived over. She went in and sat with her
father for nearly an hour. Then she came downstairs, and Damaris and
she had their tea together out on the terrace. Damaris was conscious
that her aunt was criticising her appearance rather closely.
"You're having a bad time, aren't you?" she said in her blunt downright
fashion. "I think you must have somebody to stay with you. Have you no
young friend who would come and keep you company?"
Damaris flushed and her eyes shone.
"There is Nellie," she said; "but Mrs. Bonnycott could not spare her.
And I'm afraid that Nellie feels obliged to go back to her work as soon
as possible; she won't give it up. Her whole soul is in it, and, now
she is rested, she says she must go. I am so glad grandfather likes
her. Perhaps at some future time, he might let me have her here on a
visit. But, Aunt Barbara, I know whom I would really like to have.
It's a Miss Hardacre; she's a little deformed old lady, but I love her
and she loves me, and she was so good to me in London that I would do
anything I could for her."
"Ask her down, by all means. She will do as chaperon, any way. If
father says anything, tell him I think you ought to have one, though
the race is nearly extinct nowadays. But now father is upstairs
altogether, it is better you should have somebody with you. Is that
young Lancaster over here much?"
"No—never now. I don't see anyone except Mr. Maitland sometimes."
"Oh, he is one of ourselves. I must be going, for the girls are home
from school and they need a little supervision." Then, in a little
burst of confidence, she added, "I'm not having a very good time
myself. The girls have met Geoffrey Lancaster and want to see a lot of
him, and their father objects; so I am acting the heavy stepmother and
am encountering the same scowls that I used to treat my stepmother to.
I see myself again in them so often. I was a brave woman to marry a
widower."
"You are very happy," said Damaris smiling. "I wish I had your calm and
cheerful serenity, Aunt Barbara. I worry so, when things go wrong."
"I see you do," said Barbara, looking at her gravely. "You are worrying
yourself to fiddlestrings. And yet you gave me to understand some time
ago that you had had some wonderful religious experience. Doesn't your
religion help you?"
Sudden tears filled Damaris's eyes. Then she said in a low tone—
"I think if I had no religion, I should have run away long ago."
"It's your habit to run away from difficulties, isn't it?" Barbara
said, smiling. "I remember you ran away from your uncle's house when
you first came here; and then you ran away from me just at the critical
moment. Well, I'm glad you haven't deserted your post now. And I can
tell you for your comfort that father told me just now that you do his
business as well as ever I did, and that Blake told him that you'd a
'wonderful head for figures.'"
Damaris laughed, but could not speak.
"Write to that old body this evening," Barbara added, "and get her to
come to you at once."
It was only when Barbara was leaving that she enlightened Damaris as to
why she had come over this particular afternoon.
"Stuart gave me such a bad account of you that I came off at once. He
will be relieved, as well as myself, when you get your friend to come
to you."
"I don't think it is Mr. Maitland's concern," said Damaris, a little
stiffly.
"Stuff, child! Don't you know Stuart yet? He interferes with every man
and woman he comes across. But I will say he generally leaves them the
better for his interference!"
And Damaris thought so too, when she went back to the house and wrote
her letter to Miss Hardacre.