THE LAST RIDE
"OH, I can't believe I've got you here! It's perfectly lovely to have
you!"
A radiant Damaris was hugging Miss Hardacre at the station. It was
five o'clock, and a hot August afternoon. The sun blazed down upon the
platform, and, to Damaris's eyes, Miss Hardacre looked white and weary
and smaller than ever. She had come herself to meet her in the brougham.
"I'm not quite sure whether I'm dreaming or not," said Miss Hardacre,
with her whimsical smile.
And then when she was settled in the carriage and a soft cushion
stuffed behind her back, she put her hand caressingly on Damaris's arm.
"Dear child, how sweet of you to have me! I can hardly believe it even
now. And you're looking just the same. I have never lost sight of your
small dark head and tiny oval face and your great starry eyes. I have
sometimes shut my eyes and fancied you sitting beside me—but, oh, I was
so thankful that you were not. I don't think you would have thrived in
London this hot summer."
"I am sure you have not. A rim seems taken off you everywhere."
Damaris talked away gaily. Her heart ached for this old friend of
hers—so small and frail and feeble—and she resolved to do all she could
to make her happy and comfortable.
Miss Hardacre continued to feel in a dream—the cool shady drawing-room
with its lovely flowers, the delicious tea awaiting them; and then
the going up the old oak stairs, along a soft-carpeted corridor, to a
lovely bed-room with a couch drawn near to the open window, and outside
a view of the common with its purple heather stretching away to the
horizon.
When Damaris insisted upon tucking her up on the couch, and leaving her
there to rest from her journey, tears of joy stole down the withered
cheeks, and she murmured to herself—
"It almost makes me believe in a loving God again to be blessed like
this."
When Sir Mark saw his granddaughter's friend, he smiled grimly to
himself. But before many days had passed, he grew to look for the old
lady's visits to him.
"She has a mind," he told Damaris; "and she's a highly-respectable
chaperon for you."
Damaris's cares set lightly on her now. The very fact that she had
somebody to talk over all the worrying little details of her busy life
made them seem insignificant.
She drove Miss Hardacre out in the low pony-cart across the common
and along the lovely country lanes. She settled her in a cushioned
arm-chair under the old beech trees upon the velvet lawn with her books
and work, and left her there when she was occupied with her grandfather
or with the bailiff in the study.
And after dinner, they would sit out on the terrace watching the moon
rise, and talk of many things.
One evening, soon after Miss Hardacre came, Damaris touched on her
new-born happiness of soul.
"You told me you had lost all your faith," she said softly; "I do want
you to get it back again. It is all true, all real. Christ is living
to-day with us all, and He makes His power felt. I suppose troubles
are like big clouds hiding the sun, but the sun is there all the time.
And God is watching us all, and holds the world in the hollow of His
hand, and loves us through all our disbelief and want of faith, and
indifference and rebellion. Oh, Miss Hardacre dear—I shall never rest
till you get God's peace and love filling your heart."
Miss Hardacre listened with interest.
"I have loved your letters," she said; "but I am old and it seems too
late. Enthusiasm and fire come so easily to the young—I am weary and
care-worn."
Damaris turned upon her with shining eyes.
"And didn't our Lord speak to the old and weary when He said,—
"'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will
give you rest.'"
The old familiar words seemed to strike Miss Hardacre in a new fresh
sense. She murmured them over to herself, and, when she went to bed
that night, got out her little Bible, which was so seldom used by her,
and turned up the verse, reading it again and again.
The next day was Sunday. Was it by chance that Stuart, sitting down at
the piano after tea, began playing, "Oh, Rest in the Lord."
Miss Hardacre leant back in her chair. As a girl, she had sung the
refrain, and every word hammered itself against her brain as he played.
Stuart took to her at once, as he did to most old people. In her
presence, he teased Damaris in a happy light-hearted fashion.
"Miss Hartbrook is very atmospheric, isn't she?" he said. "I call her
'Miss Barometer' sometimes, but she doesn't like it."
"She 'is' susceptible to atmosphere," said Miss Hardacre.
"I wish you wouldn't discuss me before my face," said Damaris a little
petulantly. "I should like to have Aunt Barbara's unmoved calm, and
your light-heartedness, Mr. Maitland, and Miss Hardacre's philosophical
endurance. But I don't seem able to arrive at any of those virtues."
"You're too thin-skinned," said Stuart, looking at her with an amused
gleam in his eyes. "I've been with your grandfather this afternoon, and
he's been railing at everything in creation, but I don't come out of
his room with my forehead a network of wrinkles and my eyes misty with
tears. My tough skin protects me from that. I only feel sorry for the
old chap, and try to buck him up all I can!"
"Men are different from women," said Miss Hardacre cheerily. "But you
must remember that you only make occasional visits to the Squire,
whilst Damaris spends the greater part of each day with him."
"Besides," said Damaris, "grandfather may growl a little with you,
but he doesn't make you feel that everything in the house and stables
and village and all the estate is going to rack and ruin through your
ignorant mistakes."
"Never mind," Miss Hardacre said; "since I have been here, you have
certainly been neither wrinkled nor misty with tears."
Damaris laughed.
"How could I, when I have you to come to? You always understand."
Stuart looked from one to the other of them and marvelled at the
friendship that existed between them.
When he had gone, Miss Hardacre said—
"Mr. Maitland is a great friend of yours."
"No, he says he won't be. He doesn't like being friends with me. He
told me so."
"Perhaps he wants to be something more."
A pink flush came into Damaris's cheeks.
"Indeed, no! He treats me as he does everyone else: He said once that
he was interested in every human being on this earth. I think he is. He
befriends them all, if he won't call himself their friend."
But Miss Hardacre had eyes in her head, and arrived at her own
conclusions.
Nellie came over to lunch with them one day; but she was really
leaving Fallerton. She had not seen very much of Damaris since her
grandfather's accident. Mrs. Bonnycott kept her always busy, and did
not like her to be away much from her.
"I'm awfully fond of the old lady," Nellie said; "but I tell her that
she must get someone more fitted for an easy billet than I am. I love
grappling with difficulties, and honestly I like coming in contact with
men best, and with men's brains—I'm accustomed to them."
"But you see Mr. Maitland and Mr. Lancaster nearly every day."
"They have their work and I have mine. Well, Damaris, I'm glad to have
seen you in your proper setting. You're no town lover, nor would you
ever make a good town worker. All your people and friends are worth
knowing. Did I tell you I had made acquaintance with Mr. Gore and his
sisters? How the women in that house tyrannise over the man! He and I
have got quite chummy over beetle lore. I'm interested in all insect
life, and I've recommended him a book in the British Museum. Told him
to leave his sisters and come up to town for a bit; I believe he means
to do it."
"Are you really leaving in a few days?"
"Yes; this is my farewell. I bear you no malice for stealing my friend
and placing her down here, but I shall miss her most awfully in town."
"Oh," said Miss Hardacre, "I shall soon be back again; I am only here
for a visit."
"No," said Damaris; "I don't mean to lose you in a hurry. Nellie will
have to come and stay with us next Christmas, when she gets a holiday.
Grandfather will like to see her again, I know."
So Nellie left, and the summer slowly passed. Sir Mark, after a time,
improved in health and spirits. He was able to come downstairs again,
and take short walks, and often allowed Damaris to drive him out in the
low pony-trap; but riding was strictly forbidden by his doctors. Sir
Mark often talked of buying a motor, but he had always been so devoted
to his horses that he still postponed their substitute.
As the hunting season drew near, he grew more and more depressed.
One day he sent for Dawkins, the head groom, and told him that he would
have his favourite hunter, "Rajah" by name, shot.
"I won't have him sold. He isn't fit for a lady, and I don't want
anyone else to ride him."
Dawkins remonstrated in vain. Damaris pleaded that he might be turned
out on grass, but the Squire was obdurate.
Upon the morning when the deed was to be done, Sir Mark gave his orders
that Rajah was to be saddled and brought round to the front door.
"I want to bid him good-bye," he said shortly.
He was sitting out on the terrace when groom and horse appeared.
Damaris had been reading the newspaper to him, but she had seen that
he was in an over-wrought state of mind, and knew that his thoughts
were with his beloved hunter. She longed that the farewell between them
was over. Rajah was a beautiful black horse, and sincerely attached to
his master. Now, as he came prancing up the drive, he turned his head
quickly from side to side as if looking for him.
Sir Mark got up from his seat when he saw him, and slowly descended the
broad stone steps. A little impatient whinny came from Rajah when he
caught sight of the Squire. He advanced a step and thrust out his nose.
The Squire stroked it affectionately.
"We'll never go hunting again, old boy," he said, under his breath.
Dawkins turned away his head. Damaris wondered if his eyes, like her
own, were misty with tears.
Then a sudden quick movement on the part of the Squire, and the next
moment his foot was in the stirrup, and he was in the saddle.
Damaris gave a little gasp.
"Get me my hat, there's a good girl. I'm going to walk him down the
drive for the last time."
"Oh, please don't. Remember what Dr. Lancaster said."
The Squire frowned, but then nodded smilingly to his granddaughter,
and, afraid of exciting him, Damaris obediently fetched his hat.
"You will go slowly, won't you? He seems too fresh for you."
"Rajah and I understand each other," was the quick reply.
Then she signed to Dawkins to follow close behind. The old groom had
a mixture of fright and admiration in his eyes as he gave Damaris
a reassuring nod. She watched Rajah curvetting a little at first,
then quieting down under the well-known hand of his master. A sudden
presentiment of evil seemed to fall upon her. She stood upon the
terrace gazing at the pathetic sight of the old man taking his last
ride. She knew now that when he gave orders for Rajah to be saddled
that he had planned this farewell ride. But the slow pace which he was
going and the close proximity of Dawkins behind reassured her.
And then there was the sudden sound of a horn. Damaris remembered that
the beagles were having a run, but it affected Rajah like a spark
dropped in gunpowder. He raised his head, and was off down the long
drive at a canter. Whether her grandfather spurred him on, or failed to
pull him in, Damaris never knew. She saw Dawkins break into a run, and
then they disappeared from her sight. She dashed into the hall, calling
to Miss Hardacre and to Symons.
The old butler wrung his hands.
"He isn't up to it! The master isn't up to it! He had one of his
attacks last night, when I was helping him to bed. May God bring him
back safely!"
And Damaris re-echoed that prayer with heart-felt earnestness. It
hardly seemed a few minutes before the tramping of hoofs was heard, and
Rajah cantered up the drive carrying the Squire on his back. Damaris
drew a long breath of relief, but her face changed when she saw the
blue-grey face of her grandfather. He seemed struggling for breath, and
had one hand pressed against his side. Symons lifted him gently off.
Damaris went to the other side of him to help him up the steps, but it
seemed to her that he was a dead weight in Symon's arms. They got him
into the hall, and other servants came forward at once, and together
carried him upstairs and laid him on his bed. Once he looked up, and
Damaris caught some husky muttered words. They were—
"May God have mercy on me."
The doctor was sent for at once, but before he arrived, Sir Mark had
quietly passed away.
Damaris heard from Dawkins afterwards the details of that ill-fated
ride. He had followed on foot as fast as he could. The Squire did not
seem to have the strength to check Rajah's pace. They passed out by the
gates on the high road. Rajah, with head up, was making for the fields
where the beagles were hunting, but Sir Mark realised that he could go
no further, and with determined effort brought Rajah to a standstill,
and turned him back towards home. It was that effort that cost him his
life.
At first, Damaris could not realise it, then she, with a
self-possession at which Miss Hardacre marvelled, began to do all that
was necessary, sending wires to the different members of the family.
Stuart Maitland, as usual, reached her first. Bad news travels fast,
and the whole of Marley knew of the Squire's death half-an-hour after
it had occurred.
He came into the library where Damaris was sitting at the
writing-table, and she turned round to greet him with a white strained
face, yet with a gleam of relief in her eyes at the sight of him.
Holding out both hands to him she exclaimed—
"Oh, how good of you to come! You're always at hand when help is
needed."
"How did it happen?" he asked, holding her hands very tenderly.
Damaris told him briefly.
"His family will blame me, but I could not prevent it. It was natural
that he should wish to say good-bye to his hunter; and how could I
imagine what he had determined to do?" Tears began to drop, but she
resolutely wiped them away. "There is much to do," she said.
"Yes, but not for you," said Stuart in his friendly way. "I will do
what I can till his sons arrive; and if you have wired to Barbara, she
will be here at once."
Barbara came in her husband's car an hour later. She felt her father's
death acutely; but it was not her way to show her feelings. She
reassured Damaris.
"If I had been here, it would have been the same. No one could have
prevented him. And it was so characteristic of him, to determine on
his action, and carry it out so promptly. He has always said to me
that riding a horse would strain his heart no more than sitting in a
chair—in fact, that he was more accustomed to a seat in the saddle than
anywhere else. He would not believe in the danger."
The rest of that day seemed like a dream to Damaris. Later on, she
stood out on the terrace alone, trying to realise that her grandfather
had really left her. And it was there that Stuart found her when he
came to wish her good-bye.
"I am off," he said. "I've promised Barbara to come over whenever
she wants me. She is sleeping here, she tells me, and you have Miss
Hardacre, so you will not be alone."
Then Damaris turned to him, and her grey eyes were very wistful and sad.
"Oh, Mr. Maitland, where is he? I have been thinking of that other
country. But it seems so sudden, so awfully tragic. Last Sunday, he
asked me to read him the Psalms and lessons—he said he missed church
so; but somehow or other I found it so difficult to talk. But I did
tell him about myself, and he did not laugh at me. I suppose he knew
when his ride was over that he was done for. He said, 'May God have
mercy upon me.' He has always been so reserved on religious subjects."
Stuart smiled his usual cheery smile.
"We must leave him with his Creator, Who knew him better than either
you or I. And don't fret, you poor little thing! It has been a heavy
blow, hasn't it?"
"Don't pity me, or I shall cry, and I want to keep up so as to be able
to help Aunt Barbara all I can."
Damaris held her head up bravely, and Stuart shook hands with her and
went.
All Sir Mark's sons came to his funeral, and Ella accompanied her
husband. Damaris felt from the moment that she entered the house that
she intended to show all that she was mistress there.
Damaris herself kept upstairs as much as possible. She and Miss
Hardacre sat in her little boudoir most of the day. After the funeral
was over and the will had been read and discussed, the house resumed
its normal state. Sir Herbert and his wife went back to their home in
the North, but before they went, Ella had a talk with Damaris.
"We shall return as soon as possible, of course," she said. "But I
shall be glad if you will remain here and keep things going till we do
come back. We shall sell our present house; but I have some furniture
that I want to bring, and we have many arrangements to make up North
which may delay us. What are your plans? I was wondering if you would
like to stay on with us? Bobbie and Lucia are so fond of you, that if
you would make yourself useful, and take them to a couple of hours'
lessons every morning, we should be very glad for you to still live
here. They are too small for a proper governess, and are just getting
beyond their nurse, who spoils them."
Damaris did not speak for a moment, then she said, with that quiet
dignity of hers—
"I shall be very glad to stay here till you are ready to take
possession; but I do not think I can do so afterwards. I have hardly
formulated my plans yet. May I write and let you know?"
"Oh, please yourself. I should have thought you would have only
been too glad to have a home with us. A girl like you is at a great
disadvantage if you try to live alone. I know the Squire has left you
that tiny Dower House at Park Corner and five hundred pounds a year of
your own, hasn't he? But you can't live there alone; and even if you
take your little old hunchback friend there, you would never have such
social advantages as you would in living with us."
Damaris could hardly forbear smiling. She pictured herself turned into
a nursery governess, and at the beck and call of her aunt all day long.
She knew how she worked her long-suffering nurse. Young Lady Murray was
a woman who invariably made demands on all around her; and even in her
short stay at the Hall the previous Christmas had used Damaris as much
as she dared in contributing towards her comfort and ease.
"I will let you know when I have talked over things with Aunt Barbara,"
Damaris replied quietly; "meanwhile, thank you very much for your
offer."
Barbara laughed when Damaris repeated the conversation to her.
"You would be miserable with Ella. I am sorry for you, Damaris, to have
lost your home so soon; but I wonder sometimes if you have appreciated
it as much as I did. You talked so lightly of leaving it and getting
work elsewhere."
"Oh, I didn't feel lightly about it," cried Damaris; "I only felt I
didn't want to lead a lazy luxurious life when there is so much to be
done in the world. And, of course, the longer one lives here, the more
one gets to love it. I little thought, with you, what a short time I
should be in it. But I could not stay with Aunt Ella unless I saw it
was my duty to do so, and I can't see that. I don't quite know what to
do. It seems difficult."
She went off to Mrs. Dashwood to ask for advice, and it was given very
gently and lovingly.
"Don't be in a hurry, dear. The way will be opened when it is time, and
if your lot is to be cast amongst the stay-at-homes, you will be happy
there, I know. Dr. Lancaster was talking to me about you the other day.
He does not think you over-strong, and I know would not pass you for
mission work abroad, or for any strenuous work at home."
"I shall be so idle at the Dower House," murmured Damaris
disconsolately. "Aunt Barbara has suggested my staying with her, but I
don't quite like to do so. I'm not wanted anywhere now."
"Wait and see," said Mrs. Dashwood brightly. "I don't think you will be
kept waiting long. We can all do God's Will wherever we are. And that
is our chief duty, is it not?"
Damaris returned home with comfort in her heart. It was not her way to
fret over the inevitable, and perhaps it was fortunate for her that she
was kept very busy with household arrangements.
The arrival of her uncle and aunt with a young family caused a good
deal of alteration in the house, and she had promised to prepare for
them.
Miss Hardacre suggested that she should move at once into Mrs. Patch's
lodgings, but Damaris would not hear of it.
"We will go to the Dower House together. Grandfather has left me so
comfortably off that I shall be in no anxiety about money. Everybody
tells me I want a rest, so I can have it there."
So, for the time, Miss Hardacre stayed on with her. She, as well as
others, had noted how white and fragile the girl was looking. Her
grandfather's illness had been a long and severe strain, and she had
never been very strong.