Chapter XII: Lifting the Latch

THAT first evening at the Hall seemed to Damaris like a dream. But her nervousness and dread disappeared. She realised that her aunt was neither antagonistic nor indifferent to her, only undemonstrative, and this put her at ease.

When tea was over, she was shown her bed-room. It faced west, and as she stood at the big window which reached down to the ground, she found that she faced the common. Away on the horizon, gilding and glorifying the stretches of sloping turf and brightening the rose-red tints of the dying hawthorns, the sun was slowing sinking to his rest. Damaris gazed out in silence, then she turned with a radiant face to her aunt.

"Oh," she said, in a low voice, "I shall be happy here."

And then she was shown a little room which led out of the big one, and which was fitted up as a boudoir. The fresh chintzes and delicate china ornaments, the books in the bookcase, and the big writing-table in the window, the couch and big easy chair by the fire; all seemed the height of luxury after her experiences in her dingy boarding-house.

"You have given me two beautiful rooms," she said.

"They were your mother's," Barbara said simply; "and many of her treasures are still in them."

For the moment Damaris felt almost overcome. She gazed about her with misty eyes.

"I wish I had known her. I wish she had lived long enough to give me some memory of herself."

Barbara made no reply. After a little, she said—

"Now make yourself comfortable. Evans, my maid, will unpack for you. We dine at eight; and if you don't find me downstairs when you come, I shall most likely be out. I generally take the dogs for a run between tea and dinner. But find your way into the library. We sit there in the evenings, not in the drawing-room."

She left her, and Damaris, pulling a chair to the window, sat down and watched the sunset in dreamy content. It seemed so still and quiet in the big house. So far, far away from the noise and bustle of town. Some lovely Gloire de Dijon roses made a framework to her window outside, and their sweet scent filled her room. She gathered one, and wondered if she might send a few in a box to Miss Hardacre.

"What a lot of pleasure I may be able to give her," she thought. And then one of the old questions in her mind cropped up again. "Why should some people have so much, and others have so little?"

She did not go downstairs till just before eight, and then, in the big handsome library, she found her grandfather talking to two other men. One of them she recognised as having seen in church,—Mr. Gore,—the other was a tall pleasant-faced man who was introduced to her as Lord Ennismore.

Sir Mark looked pleased to see her.

"A little granddaughter who is going to make her home with us," he said to Mr. Gore, who promptly replied—

"Yes—yes; we have heard all about her. Mrs. Bonnycott was having tea with my sisters yesterday, and told us the news."

Barbara joined them then. She was in a soft green velvet gown, with a string of old pearls round her neck, and some priceless lace about her shoulders.

Damaris, in a simple white lace gown, felt shabby beside her. She was taken in to dinner by Mr. Gore, who discoursed to her in a learned way about the habits of caterpillars. One taste they found they had in common, and that was a love for the country and open spaces. Presently the talk began to be general, and Stuart's name was mentioned. Lord Ennismore seemed to know him well. Damaris heard afterwards that they had been at school together, and had fought side by side in the trenches out in France.

"He's wasting his life," said Lord Ennismore. "I always tell him so. Anyone could look after Mrs. Bonnycott's small property."

"You're so strenuous," said Barbara. "You take life so heavily and seriously. I tell Stuart that he lives to make people happy. That isn't waste of life if you accomplish it."

"Oh, happiness!" said Mr. Gore a little impatiently. "I get sick of the talk of happiness. It is only one of the many moods that come and go like the shadows on the wall. We weren't sent into the world to be happy."

"I don't believe in the contrary," said Barbara decidedly.

"Stuart ought to take up politics. He would have been very good in the Diplomatic Service," said Lord Ennismore.

"There isn't much pleasure in that now," said Sir Mark. "In this time of chaos, politics certainly have lost all glamour."

"Well, he ought to do something towards bolstering up his country now," said Lord Ennismore again. "I have several schemes on hand, and if only he would throw up his present job, he could help me enormously. You know I'm selling my Nottinghamshire estate, Squire?"

"Yes, I heard it. Hard times, I suppose."

"Not exactly; I'm looking ahead, and I'm coming to the conclusion that we land owners don't want more than one property, and that must be the one on which we live. And the sale will help me to carry out one of my schemes."

Barbara looked at him and laughed.

"Is this the ninety-ninth scheme?" she asked. "I've seen a good few of yours die almost at their birth."

"Oh, yes, I'll allow I've a bigger brain for conceiving than for carrying out; but that's where I want a practical man like Maitland."

The talk drifted away to other subjects; but when Damaris was alone with Barbara after dinner she said—

"I did not know Mr. Maitland had been to the war. He never mentions it."

"No," said Barbara, "I think he went through too much out there. Some men are strung harder than others. Stuart feels too deeply; artistic natures do, they say. He was wounded badly in the first year, and he's never been very robust since. That was why he settled down at Fallerton."

"Has he no relations except Mrs. Bonnycott?"

"No; his parents died when he was small; and he was the only child. He's hardly the lazy man that Lord Ennismore considers him. But he's one of those people who pose as a loafer and in reality do more work in one day than others do in a week."

"I like Lord Ennismore's face," said Damaris quietly. "He seems as if he is looking ahead at something great, and is meaning to go for it."

Barbara looked at her with a short laugh.

"Are you like Mrs. Patch, a 'student of human natur''?"

Damaris coloured a little.

"I can't help getting interested in people I meet," she said; "I always wonder what they're like inside."

"Lord Ennismore has had a very sad life," said Barbara; "he was devoted to his wife, and she was killed out hunting. And then his only son and heir was drowned when he was a boy of sixteen at school. He has two girls who are rather a handful. They have a succession of governesses, and he is worried to death with their complaints. He is making up his mind to try another school for the girls. They ran away from one."

"How old are they?"

"Fifteen, I think."

"It's a pity he doesn't marry again."

Barbara did not reply.

When the men joined them, both Lord Ennismore and Mr. Gore attached themselves to her, and Damaris turned her attention to her grandfather. She was accustomed to old men, and was at ease with him at once. He told Barbara afterwards that she was a singularly intelligent girl. And when, eventually, Damaris laid her head on her pillow in her luxurious bed-room, she settled herself to sleep in perfect content with her surroundings.

The event which she had so much dreaded had passed with great simplicity. She had slipped into her mother's family as a matter of course, and if no demonstration of excessive affection had been shown her, she had been welcomed with sincere pleasure.

The next morning was wet. Damaris sat in her own little boudoir and wrote long letters to Miss Hardacre and Nellie.

In the afternoon, when it had cleared, she walked over to a farm about two miles off with her grandfather. Both he and Barbara were very fond of out-door exercise, and walked as well as rode. Damaris enjoyed every bit of the walk. Sir Mark told her a good deal about the property, and talked about his sons to her.

"Herbert will be in my shoes before very long. I shan't make old bones, my doctor tells me. But he'll run the place all right. He's on a small property of his wife's up North at present. She's north country by birth—a good-looking woman, but not my sort—nor Barbara's either. They're coming down to spend Christmas with us this year, so you'll see them. Ella is a good mother, but she's an affected little puss, with many fads. They've two nice boys and a tiny girl. It doesn't do to look on ahead; and now I've two of you to think about instead of one. But you'll marry—and so will Barbara; she won't leave me—I think that's half the trouble. If you do want a home, either of you, when I'm gone, there's Park Corner, the Dower House—quite a decent little house. But I hope I may see you with future homes of your own. Ennismore wants Barbara badly, but she seems hanging back; I don't know why. They've always been good friends—" He paused.

"There, child, my tongue has run away with me. Don't tell Barbara I've been gossiping about her affairs. But it's always a hard time when the women of the house have to turn out to make room for the son's wife. I can remember how my mother felt it—even to this day!"

"You mustn't talk of those times," said Damaris cheerfully; "you will be with us for many years yet, I hope."

She began asking him questions about the farm they were going to, and Sir Mark, with a little relief in his tone, answered them. They returned home mutually pleased with each other, and it was the beginning of many talks and walks together.

Upon the following morning, Damaris went to see old Mrs. Patch. She chose the day on which she knew the younger Mrs. Patch would be away at the market in the town, for she did not feel inclined to hear her comments on her connection with the Hall.

The old woman received her with tears.

"Miss Barbara has been in and told me all. You're Miss Lilian's child, eh, dear? I never thought it could be, and yet I kept seein' her again as you looked and talked to me."

Damaris took her hand in hers.

"You must tell me all you can about my mother. I love to hear about her. And talk to me for my good, Mrs. Patch. I have missed you so much. I have a great friend in London; she is little and weak and old, and has no hope at all in life. I long that you and she could meet, for I know you would do her a lot of good. How would you cheer her? What would you tell her?"

"Weak and old and hopeless," said the old woman thoughtfully. "I would mind her of the promise. 'My strength is made perfect in weakness,' and 'Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry you,' and 'Happy is he whose hope is in the Lord his God.'"

"You always go to the Bible for comfort, I notice," said Damaris.

"Not always," said Mrs. Patch, with a slow smile. "I go straight to my Lord Himself—which is surely best." Then she looked over her spectacles at Damaris's bright face. "How about your burden, miss?"

Damaris looked grave.

"I'm beginning to feel I'm a failure, Mrs. Patch—in God's eyes I must be. I've done nothing for Him all my life. That's a bad record, isn't it?"

"Do you want to love and serve Him?"

"If it's not too difficult, I should like to," said Damaris softly.

"Eh, dearie, we don't mind difficulties in our daily life. It's difficult to blacklead a stove, or make a pudding, or knit a stocking the first time one puts one's hand to it; but we don't give up the trying because of the difficulty. It ought not to be difficult to run right into the arms of love held out to us. Nor yet to hand our burden over to the Burden-Bearer of the world."

"You make religion such a real personal matter, Mrs. Patch, and so does Mrs. Dashwood. I suppose it is because you live so near to God?"

"No, dear miss, He lives so close to us. That's the comfort of it."

Damaris looked thoughtfully away through the small casement window by the old woman's bed. It was such a tiny room, and yet the poor soul confined in it had such a tremendously big outlook on life and beyond it.

"Don't spend your years waiting," the old woman said wistfully. "So many of us mean to turn to God one day; but we won't make up our minds when, and drift on and on. It won't get easier if you wait."

Damaris turned and looked at her.

"You ought to have been a man, and a preacher, Mrs. Patch."

"No; I lie here and think, and it fair makes me long to take hold of you young people and press you into the Kingdom. 'Tis like looking in at a fair garden over the wall, and keeping outside because you don't choose to lift the latch and walk in."

"Oh, I wish I could lift the latch, Mrs. Patch. Tell me how to do it."

Damaris's soul was stirred within her. She had thought a great deal lately about these matters. The patient hopelessness of Miss Hardacre's outlook had shocked and appalled her. Yet she felt that she had no certain hope and assurance herself, and increasingly she had begun to long for it.

The old woman raised herself up in bed; taking off her spectacles, she said solemnly—

"'I am the door: by Me, if any man enter in, he shall be saved.' Can't you just kneel down on the quiet, miss, and lift the latch, and walk in? He says, 'Come unto me,'—and we're just to say, 'I come.'"

There was silence. Damaris almost heard her heart beat. The old sweet familiar words had a new meaning.

Then old Mrs. Patch spoke again, but she seemed to be speaking to herself.

"We are so proud and stubborn, we won't bend the knee, and the latch can only be lifted on our knees. 'Tis too low for the high and mighty; that's why the little children find it so easy. And our burden rolls off at that door."

It seemed to Damaris that she was already at that Door, and her hand was upon the latch.

It was a long time before she broke the silence that followed, and when she did, it was to talk about her mother. She told Mrs. Patch of the letters in her mother's desk, and then she told her of what she had told no one else—that in a corner of the desk she had found half a leaf of what evidently had been her mother's diary.

"It broke off in the middle, as if she had been going to write more and had been interrupted, and I know the words by heart. They seem so pathetic. Perhaps they were the last words she ever wrote:

"'I feel depressed to-day; now that my time has almost come, I am wondering—wondering—I wish I had been as good a daughter to my father, as I feel I have been a wife to my dear husband. As motherhood draws near, it makes me think seriously of life and death. I have prayed as I have never prayed before for my little one—for myself. May God forgive me for many heedless years. I shall try to make my baby better than its mother—'

"It breaks off there."

"Dear Miss Lilian," said Mrs. Patch tenderly. "She always found it hard as a child to own herself in the wrong. Many's the time she's bent her knees at my lap when she was saying her prayers: 'I'm not "quite" sorry enough to speak to God yet, Nannie,' she would say to me, lifting her big grey eyes up to my face."

She lapsed into reminiscences of the children she had mothered in the old nurseries at the Hall, and Damaris listened entranced, till it was time to leave the cottage and go home.

But that night, in the quiet and stillness of her own room, Damaris bent her knees and lifted the latch. The whispered words were not many; they meant a surrendered heart and life:

"O Lord Jesus Christ, I come to confess my sins, to ask Thee to take
them from me, to make me Thine altogether for ever and ever.—Amen."

And a wonderful rest and peace crept into her soul, as she believed she had been heard and accepted.

She had always been a thoughtful girl; but, owing to unfortunate circumstances, her confirmation had not been the help to her that it should. She had been prepared for it by a very old clergyman whom the girls at her school had all disliked. He had little sympathy or understanding with the young, and the bishop who confirmed them was on the verge of a breakdown, and was obliged in consequence to shorten his sermon on that occasion. It had not been a happy service.

Looking back at it, Damaris was only conscious of great nervousness and distraction of mind. Her long quiet times with her needlework in that upper room of her uncles' house had made her ponder over many things; but she had never come in contact with anyone except old Mrs. Patch and the rector's wife who seemed to live out their religion in real joyousness of spirit. Perhaps her fondness from a child for the "Pilgrim's Progress" had helped her more than she thought in apprehending spiritual things; and the hopelessness of Miss Hardacre's faith had clenched her determination to seek for herself, and find out whether there was any real comfort and joy to be obtained in true religion.

It was a new day that dawned upon her when she woke the next morning. She went about with shining eyes, and a smile upon her lips which even attracted the notice of unobservant Barbara.

She thought it was content with her new position. But Damaris's thoughts were away from her new home altogether. She spent the first part of her morning in writing another long letter to Miss Hardacre, in which she poured out her experiences of the previous day.

Miss Hardacre read the letter through with pleasure, but with a little bewilderment. It did not then bring light to her. She considered it a burst of girlish impulse and enthusiasm. Her weary soul and dim eyes could neither see nor understand the wonderful simplicity of God's revelation to Damaris. But she wrote back a loving little letter of appreciation for the confidence given to her, and with that Damaris for the time was forced to be content.

Mrs. Dashwood was away from home with her little boy, who was only just recovering from a severe attack of measles. Damaris missed her very much. The village of Marley seemed empty without her. But there was always a good deal of coming and going at the Hall. Sir Mark was hospitably inclined. His son Walter in town often brought a couple of his friends for a weekend; and when the hunting began, there were always visitors staying in the house.

Most of Barbara's friends were men; women guests were few and far between. But Damaris was accustomed to men's society, and pleased her aunt by her frank simple manner in speaking to them. She did not court their admiration or homage. If anything, she kept too much in the background, and apparently preferred the older men to the younger ones.

Stuart was, perhaps, an exception, but he was very busy at this time, and had only come over once since Damaris's arrival.

"You've dropped into it all most wonderfully," he said to her upon that occasion.

Damaris smiled.

"You talk as if I should be out of my element," she said. "I assure you, I do not find anything unusual in my surroundings; a little more luxurious—that is all. The people I meet are very friendly, and do not seem different to those I met at my uncles'."

"That is putting a nasty construction on my words. You and your aunt get on so easily together. I did not think you would."

"Why not? I admire her very much. We each go our own way. I don't think I should ever be a companion to her; but I didn't expect to be that. She has told me that she does not care for young girls. But she is very good to me."

He nodded.

"Barbara is very sincere and true—she has no petty failings."

"No," Damaris rejoined quickly; "she is very broad-minded and tolerant. I see that in the way she looks after the servants and the tenants. If she's sometimes hard, she's always just. In a way, I would rather be judged by her than by my grandfather." Then she gave a little laugh. "I don't know why I am discussing them with you like this."

"Oh, I'm one of the family," said Stuart lightly. "I always consider they belong to me, and I to them. I adopted Barbara as a sister when I was five."

Then he looked at her with his whimsical smile. "I can't adopt you as a niece, somehow. I think it is that at present you are too remote and elusive. When I get a little bit close to you, I am warned off as a trespasser. You don't quite trust me yet."

Damaris looked at him thoughtfully with her steadfast grey eyes. Then she turned away without a word.