THE RIGHT HOME APPEARS
ONE autumn afternoon, Damaris took the dogs out for a run over the
common. The heather was dying, but the golden bracken and the late
gorse seemed to gild the scene, and the trees in their deep red and
russet brown foliage were a real joy to Damaris. She was standing by a
group of hawthorns, when she was startled by a voice close to her.
"Good afternoon."
It was Stuart. He was striding over the ground at a rapid rate.
"So glad to see you out," he said. "Weather conditions better, eh?
Rising fair, I should say."
Damaris laughed, as she always did when he alluded to her barometrical
tendencies, as he called them.
"Oh, yes, I am feeling it is good to be alive this afternoon. What are
you doing out here?"
"I was coming over to see you," he said in a very quiet tone. "I made
up my mind to do it last night, and the thought of it kept me awake all
night."
"Oh, what a pity you thought of it at all," said Damaris laughing.
"Have you any very unpleasant business to transact with me?"
He looked at her rather searchingly, but a smile was in his eyes.
"Now what kind of unpleasant business could I want to transact with
you?" he asked her. "You are looking better—not such an ethereal
phantom as when I saw you last. How is Miss Hardacre?"
"Very fit."
"Are you and she going to set up housekeeping together?"
"I think we are. I don't quite know." Damaris's eyes were dreamy as she
spoke. "She thinks I would be more free without her, but I don't like
living alone; I have had too much of it. And I'm inclined to wonder why
I am turned out of one home after the other. It seems to be my fate,
but, of course, it's all right."
"Well now, I am sure you have had a lot of suggestions from everyone.
And I want you to listen to mine, will you?"
Damaris looked up at him, and then as suddenly looked away. His eyes
revealed too much.
"I want to offer you a home," he said abruptly. "Shall we make one
together?"
Damaris caught her breath. Then she said slowly, but with lifted head—
"It is very kind and good of you. But I ought not to have insinuated
that I was homeless. Aunt Barbara has asked me to stay with her, and
Aunt Ella wants me to live with her."
"But don't you understand me?" said Stuart quickly.
"Yes," said Damaris in the same slow way, "I do. You lay awake last
night filled with pity for one of your many friends—you see, I call
myself your friend—and you wondered if you could offer me the home you
thought I was in need of—and now you have done it. And I am grateful,
though I must decline it."
"You are talking nonsense!" Stuart said hotly. Then he added, "I beg
your pardon. Mine is not a business proposal. I have started the wrong
end. And as for pity—I may have that; but it is love that has kept me
awake all night. Didn't I tell you I did not want to be your friend?
I want to be your lover, no other role will suit me. You are such a
dainty remote little creature, so quick to resent undue familiarity, so
sensitive to hasty words, that I have gone slowly, trying to discover
your mind. And now I'm in absolute suspense as to how you regard me.
As a useful friend and neighbour, eh? I flatter myself that you have
some small liking for me, but whether there's something still waiting
for me below the surface is the problem. It isn't a home I want to give
you—it's my heart and life; and I want to have yours."
He had stopped walking by her side, and had now swung round in front of
her, holding her hands as if he never meant to let them go.
Damaris's colour came and went, her lips quivered, she seemed as if she
were about to cry, and then she looked up into his face, and a soft
little sigh escaped her.
"You can have it," she murmured.
It was just as well that they were in a lonely part of the common, as
Stuart took her right in his arms then and there.
"Well, this is bliss!" he said at last.
And then Damaris laughed, she could not help it. There was something so
naïve and boyish in his tone.
"I can't understand your wanting me," she said presently. "You have so
many women friends, and I always feel very young and ignorant when I'm
with you."
"And you are the only person who inspires me with a feeling of doubtful
uncertainty and of diffidence," said Stuart with a twinkle in his eyes.
"I haven't been able to keep away from you, but I've always pretended
to be very self-assured and grandfatherly in my remarks, when in
reality I have been trembling in my shoes!"
Then he tucked her hand into his arm. "Oh, let us walk over the hills
and far away! I want to be alone with you in the world. Damaris,
sweetest, how long has your heart been mine? Let's make our confessions
one to the other. Do you remember when we first saw each other? You
were sitting by the roadside and Barbara and I passed you; and then I
saw you in church on the Sunday, and I said to myself,—
"'If ever I have a wife, she must look just like that.'
"And your proud little face stamped itself then and there on my heart.
Then we met you coming across the common, and I saw you once or twice
after that; the third or fourth time I was introduced to you at the
Rectory; and then the day you were running off—at the station; do you
remember? What a state I was in when Barbara told me who you were
supposed to be! I went up to town, and felt I would never give up
looking for you till I had found you.
"How angry you were with me when we met! I was determined to get you
down into these parts again. And all this year, I've been looking
forward to the moment which is now with us. But doubts and fears have
beset me, and it wasn't till Barbara was talking with me yesterday that
I determined to put my fortune to the test. Why didn't you let me see
just a tiny bit that you cared for me?"
"How could I?" said Damaris, with a soft glow in her eyes. "How can
any girl show her feelings before she knows that a man cares for her?
Only some days ago, when you last came over and played so exquisitely
before—before our trouble, I thought to myself, as I sat listening to
you, 'I would give all the world to be able to have the right to go
over to him and put my arms round his neck and thank him.'"
"You shall do it," murmured Stuart ecstatically; "next time I'm at the
piano, you shall do it, and I shall demand two very soft kisses then
and there."
Damaris paid no attention to this interruption.
"And then," she continued, "I felt it would be quite impossible to
expect you to care more for me than for anyone else, and people always
said of you that you were friendly with everyone."
"Why did you think I came over so often? It was not to see your
grandfather."
"I thought that was just habit. You used to come and see Aunt Barbara;
and as you were friendly with her, I thought you meant to be friendly
with me."
"I have been a laggard wooer," said Stuart in a contrite tone. "I have
always been steeling my heart to wait until I had some inclination from
you to encourage me. And you never gave it."
"And you are positively sure that you are not offering me a house out
of pity?"
"Now stand still and look into my eyes, and say whether it is pity or
love you see there."
In this way they talked, like all lovers do, and eventually came to the
Hall together.
"Is Miss Hardacre in?" Damaris asked Symons a little nervously.
She felt self-conscious, being afraid of betraying her happiness to all
who saw her.
"Yes, ma'am, and her ladyship is with her."
"Oh, Aunt Barbara has come over. What shall we do?"
She turned a pretty appealing face towards Stuart.
"Do?" he said. "Await their congratulations. I want to proclaim it from
the house-top. Come along in; I will do all the talking for you."
And so they went in to tell their news, Damaris feeling very shy but
almost dazed by her sudden happiness. To her the whole aspect of the
world had changed within the last hour.
Barbara was sitting by the library fire talking to Miss Hardacre. They
both looked up as Damaris and Stuart came in, and both knew before they
were told what had happened.
"My promised wife," said Stuart proudly.
And then Damaris made a quick step forward, and the next moment was
kneeling beside her aunt's chair.
"Oh, Aunt Barbara, I hope you approve! I hope you'll be pleased! It has
happened so suddenly that I hardly realise it."
"My dear child, I've hoped that it would come off for some time. I
knew where Stuart's heart was, but I could not be quite sure about
yours. You are a very reserved little mortal, you know, and most Early
Victorian in your sense of decorum and propriety."
"She's everything that is perfect in my eyes," said Stuart; "so please
spare your criticism. I don't know whether Miss Hardacre thinks me good
enough for her darling."
"Oh," said Miss Hardacre, smiling, "I always felt you would be the man
from the first day that I saw you. And I hoped that nothing would come
between you."
"There, you see," Damaris said, trying to speak lightly, "everybody
seems to have settled it for us beforehand, so I must side with the
majority."
But she felt nearer tears than laughter, and when Stuart eventually
departed, she slipped up to her room and locked the door. She wanted
quiet thought, for the sudden joy had unnerved her. She could
acknowledge to herself now, without any feelings of shame, that her
love for Stuart had come many months before. It had been a continual
struggle to repress it and ignore it. It had been simply happiness to
be in the same room with him, to hear him speak, to watch his every
movement. And when he had condoled with her over her grandfather's
death, she had very nearly shown her feelings.
Stuart's cheeriness, high spirits and his wonderful talents, especially
for music, had drawn from her the highest admiration. But it was the
little serious touches, the deep feeling that he sometimes betrayed
that had appealed to her most. Her girlish heart was attracted by his
good looks and charming personality; but her spirit was drawn to his by
the love and faith they had together in the Unseen.
And Damaris knelt beside her window, and, gazing up into the fast
darkening sky, she whispered her thanks to the One Who held her life
and soul in His keeping.
Barbara and Stuart had left the house together, so when Damaris came
downstairs, she found Miss Hardacre alone in the fire-lit library. She
gave a little sigh of relief as she nestled down by her side.
"Now we can have a chat together," she said. "It will alter my whole
life, won't it? And I'm afraid yours too. He will not hear of me going
to the Dower House."
"Well," said Miss Hardacre cheerfully, "I am too delighted for you,
dear, to care about anything else. But I am seriously thinking of
going to Mrs. Patch's lodgings. I shall be so very happy there. Do you
remember we talked about it when you were first coming down here to
live? I have been several times to see that old Mrs. Patch since you
first introduced me to her, and I feel I should love to live under the
same roof with her."
"Yes," said Damaris thoughtfully; "I believe you would be comfortable
and cosy there—I was. And we'll add some things to the sitting-room—a
more comfortable arm-chair and cushions, and a few other little
comforts. You won't regret the town in the winter, will you? You won't
be dull?"
"Compare it with the Bayswater boarding-house," said Miss Hardacre,
laughing.
Damaris looked into the fire dreamily.
"We are going ahead, aren't we?" she said. "Stuart has no home of his
own, and we may not be married for ages—though he wants to hurry it on.
Aunt Barbara wants me to go and stay with her now; but she would love
to have you too. You will come, will you not?"
"Shouldn't think of it," said Miss Hardacre in her decisive little
way. "I am not going to drag on to your heels everywhere. No; I shall
go round to-morrow and make my arrangements with the Patches. When you
leave this, I will go there, and I shall go joyfully."
Then one of her old wrinkled hands touched Damaris's curly head with
great tenderness. "I want to tell you, child, that I am like the blind
man in the Bible. My sight is slowly coming to me. I see 'men as trees
walking.'"
"How?" Damaris asked softly.
"I suppose we none of us have the same experience. You in your youth
and innocence, have 'lifted the latch,' as you told me, and walked in.
I am like a shut-up darkened house, that doesn't realise its dust and
decay till the light creeps in. And it's a very slow process with me.
My eyes are old and dim, and unbelieving even of what they're beginning
to see; but the light is coming slowly, and old Mrs. Patch is as good
as any pulpit preacher. You will think of me as enjoying mental food
and comfort there as well as physical."
"Dear Miss Hardacre!" Damaris gave her a little hug.
The entrance of Symons to close the shutters put an end to their
conversation. But Damaris felt greatly comforted about her friend, and
no longer made objections to her lodging with the Patches.
The next day, Mrs. Bonnycott arrived over with her congratulations.
"Don't say you knew it was coming," said Damaris, smiling as she
welcomed her.
"Oh, I don't sit down and make up matches! And Stuart has given me
many false alarms. But I shall miss the boy when he leaves me. I'm not
satisfied with Geoffrey Lancaster, and he was simply rude to me when
I told him the news: said he didn't believe it. My dear, where are
you going to live? I wouldn't trust Stuart; he has such extraordinary
ideas. He says people in our class are now suffering from our
luxurious ideas of what is necessary to comfort. That they don't want
half-a-dozen sitting-rooms, and everyone ought to start with a small
house and add to it as their families grow. He will be taking one of
these model cottages he is building, and planting you in one. He has no
sense of proportion.
"I hope he'll make you a good husband. I suppose you know what he is
like? Has too big a heart, I tell him, takes in too many people and
interests into his life. I wonder how much of his heart and life and
time will now be set apart for you? Very little, I fear. But this
doesn't sound like congratulations. Well, I'm glad you're going to
settle down among us, and he ought—I've told him so—to be really
grateful to you for accepting him. You're the prettiest girl in the
county, and one of the pleasantest, too!" Mrs. Bonnycott paused for
breath.
Damaris was accustomed to her rambling talk, and happy to mind anything
she said.
"Why, I would live in a garret with Stuart!" she declared. "And
wouldn't we make it snug and cheery! Wherever we are, I could never be
unhappy. Stuart always drives away gloom. He carries about with him a
spring of joy bubbling up inside. It's like living with the sun shining
on one all day long."
"And very unpleasant that is!" said Mrs. Bonnycott with emphasis. "Oh,
you young people are all the same. You think life together will be
heaven on earth, and then later, you are disillusioned."
Mrs. Bonnycott had never quite forgiven her nephew for giving up his
agency. And Damaris knew it and understood.
But when she saw Stuart next, she linked her arm in his and asked him
earnestly—
"Do you think we shall both be disappointed and disillusioned a few
years later? Your aunt prophesies that we shall."
"Oh, she's in a proper stew over our engagement. I don't think there's
the smallest chance of it, because we've seen enough of each other to
know what to expect."
"You certainly know how moody I am," said Damaris, "for you have found
me in the dumps so often."
"And you know how aggressively cheerful I am," said Stuart. "I have
heard it said that a cheerful person at the breakfast table is one of
the greatest bores in creation. And you'll have patience with all my
plans and projects. You 'will' be the centre of my life, sweetheart—you
are that now; but there will be crowds of people and things outside
you, that will keep me busy. I'm made that way—I can't help it."
"I hope you'll let me help you with some of it," said Damaris.
They were in the library together. Stuart moved across to the piano.
"I'll play you a serenade," he said, "of my own composition, to show
you just a morsel of what is in my heart for you."
In another moment he was making the piano speak, as only he could make
it. Damaris listened, entranced. She seemed carried into another world
when he played. Passion and love vibrated through her. And when the
last throbbing notes had died away, he looked at her.
"Now come and thank me in a proper manner," he said.
Damaris went up, and with her arms about his neck and a soft shy kiss
on his brow, Stuart was more than content.
"I believe you could make me do anything you like with your music," she
said; "and when I'm cross and sad, I shall always have you at hand to
charm me into happiness again."
"And now, when is the happy day to be?" Stuart asked taking out of his
pocket a minute box, and producing an exquisite diamond and sapphire
ring. "This is a forerunner of the real thing," he added, taking her
hand in his and slipping the ring on her finger. "Why it fits as if it
had been made for you. It is my mother's ring—her betrothal one. Do you
like it? Blue stones suit you. I like you in blue. I should like you to
wear nothing else."
"Oh, I love it!" said Damaris, the colour mounting in her cheeks.
"And when is the little plain gold one going on?"
"I don't know. You are going too fast. You make me breathless."
"I don't want to wait, my darling. We have seen each other continually
for over a year. There is nothing to wait for. And I have found our
home."
"Have you?"
Damaris looked up at him with interest at once.
"Where?"
"I am coming round in a car to take you to it to-morrow, if fine. You
must prepare yourself to spend a long day with me. It isn't a caravan
or a barge, as my aunt imagines. It is a quaint old farm-house with
walled garden. It is small enough to be snug, and big enough to be
roomy. And if you approve, we will have it done up at once, and start
our life together as quickly as possible. I want this coming Christmas
to find us by our own fireside, and then we will enjoy it together."
Damaris said nothing for a moment, then she murmured dreamily—
"Long ago, when I used to sit at my window in town, I used to see
in a kind of vision, a farm-house in the country—thatched roof, and
diamond-paned casement windows, and an orchard."
"A vision of your home truly. What else did you see. Wasn't I in that
dream?"
Damaris shook her head with a little laugh, then she nestled against
him.
"I'll do anything you like," she murmured; "for your wishes shall be
mine."
And Stuart's head was bent to hers as he made answer playfully—
"We'll be a real old-fashioned couple, of one mind and one heart; but
when I give myself airs and turn dictator, you must snub me well, and
put me in my proper place."
"If we're going to be old-fashioned," Damaris said, "you must be the
head."
"No; we'll be modern, and run in harness together, side by side."
Damaris smiled. She felt she could leave their future in the hands of
the One Who loved them.
For the present she was wholly and entirely satisfied.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Headley Brothers, Printers, 18, Devonshire Street, Bishopsgate, K. C. 2;
and Ashford Kent.