Chapter IV: A Country Lodging

"LITTLE MARLEY," sang out the one and only porter at the small country station, which was Damaris's destination.

She stepped out on the platform with a brave heart, and looked around her. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and on this June day the sun was beating down fiercely on the dusty road outside the station. Fields stretched around it; there was no village to be seen.

"Where is the village," asked Damaris.

The stationmaster, a little stout fussy man, came bustling forward.

"Are you expecting a trap, madam? Marley is a good two miles off. Maybe you are going to the Hall?"

"Oh, no," said Damaris hastily. "I have come into the country for change of air. Is there a good inn in Marley?"

The stationmaster looked at her curiously.

"Well," he said, slowly, "there's the 'Black Swan,' but it's hardly accommodation for a lady."

"I dare say they may be able to direct me to some rooms," said Damaris; "unless you know of any—do you? Is there any nice farm near?"

The stationmaster turned to the porter.

"Tom, is Mrs. Patch letting rooms this summer, d'ye know?"

"I've heerd tell she is," replied the porter slowly.

"'Tis the baker's, madam—corner of the village as you go in."

"Thank you very much. Will you keep my case here till I send for it? If it is only two miles, I can easily walk there."

"Look here, miss," suggested the porter in a more animated tone; "if you don't come back in a couple of hours, I shall know you're biding with Mrs. Patch—I go home to tea at six and pass her door—I'll bring up your case with me, and you won't be troubled to do nothing."

Damaris smiled at him gratefully.

"That will be very good of you. I suppose I can't miss my way?"

"Keep straight up the lane and turn off to the right at the first cross-roads," said the stationmaster. "And if Mrs. Patch have lodgers, she'll tell you whether Merry Cross Farm might put you up."

"Thank you very much."

And as she left the station behind her, Damaris said the herself—

"How simple and easy everything is in the country. I suppose they all know each other and each other's business."

The air seemed fresh and sweet; the trees and hedges had not long worn their fresh coats of green; honeysuckle and wild rose were just beginning to blossom; and Damaris lifted her eyes and heart up to the blue sky with a feeling of exultation.

"I don't care where I sleep," she asserted to herself, "as long as it is clean. But I had a fancy for a village inn. They sound, in books, so romantic and picturesque."

When she reached the cross-roads, she began to feel very warm and a little tired. She was carrying her dressing-bag, which was heavy, and seeing a fallen trunk of a tree lying in the hedge, she sat down on it to have a rest. Presently she heard voices in the distance, and in a few minutes, two people came walking past her. The woman was tall and rather broad-shouldered, she had a quantity of golden-brown hair, and wore a white serge coat and gown and a white panama hat with a plain band of black round it. She had a walking-stick in her hand, and strode over the ground in rather a masculine fashion. The man, who was in grey flannel, was just a little taller than she was, and was evidently enjoying a joke with her, for his laugh rang out, and she said rather sharply—

"I do wish you would be sensible."

"But I couldn't at this juncture, to save my life," was the light retort.

They passed on with just a side glance at Damaris, and she gazed after them with the greatest interest.

"I am sure they must come from the Hall," she said to herself. "They look like it."

Then she got up and pursued her way to the village. It seemed a long straight highroad now, but she presently passed a couple of labourers' cottages, then a farm-house, and at last came to the village. The square tower of the church stood up in the middle of it. She soon saw the baker's shop, for loaves of bread were in the window. It was a thatched white-washed cottage, that presented its end to the village street. A small wooden gate opened into a very pretty flower garden, and the cottage faced it. The door stood open, and a stout motherly-looking woman, with arms akimbo, was talking to a little wizened old man in the porch.

"No, Job, you don't, now! If you value beer more than bread, take your coppers to the 'Black Swan'; if you want the bread, hand out your coppers, for I'll not trust you, so there!"

Damaris opened the gate, and both man and woman turned towards her in surprise.

"I have been told that you let rooms," she said, addressing the woman; "have you any vacant at present?"

Mrs. Patch led the way in hastily, but the old man held out some coppers.

"Here, give us a loaf—the missis must come first, I reckon; but you never were neighbourly, Mrs. Patch."

"Excuse me, miss, one moment."

Damaris found herself in a charming little kitchen; everything was bright and shining, from the freshly black-leaded stove to the copper pans on the dresser, and the red flower-pots of geraniums upon the deep window-sill.

When Mrs. Patch had dismissed her customer, she turned to Damaris.

"Will you be wanting a bed-room only?"

Damaris hesitated.

"I should like a sitting-room, if you have one."

"For how long?"

"I am not quite sure. I have come from London, and I want to spend summer in the country."

"And 'tis only for yourself?"

"Yes, I am quite alone."

Mrs. Patch glanced at Damaris's black clothes, and nodded her head in an understanding fashion.

"Well, what be you prepared to pay? 'Tis best to be quite business-like at first go off."

"I should like to see the rooms first," said Damaris, with quiet dignity.

Mrs. Patch led the way upstairs.

"I've lodged the curick for two years in these here rooms, so you may judge they're quite in style. I have a small parlour downstairs, but I'm not favourable to lettin' it, for I come of a long fam'ly, and they have a way of droppin' over on a Sunday, and I puts 'em in it while I'm dishin' dinner. Now what do you say to these?"

She ushered Damaris into a tiny room with a very big bed and a very big press. There was just room to walk between them. The window overlooked a bit of wild common, and Damaris was delighted with the view. The sitting-room was next to it. It was also small, but very snug and clean. There was a small horse-hair couch with white crochet antimacassars draped over it, a round table, a cupboard in the wall, and a row of books on the top of it. An arm-chair, also horse-hair, a cane chair, and a little table with a stuffed owl in a glass case upon it completed the furniture of the room.

Mrs. Patch stepped up to the window.

"The curick used to sit in this here window in his arm-chair with his pipe, and he told me he wanted no more on earth," she said solemnly. "He was a student o' human natur', same as I am myself. An' if you step up you can see the 'Black Swan,' and every man and boy that frequents it; an' you can see the Rectory door, and the folks who go in and out, an' also the church gate; an' also by cranin' your neck, you catches a sight of the front lodge gate to the Hall; and every blessed person that comes up and down the village street is straight before your eyes. Why, London couldn't give you more, now, could it?"

Damaris's sense of humour was tickled, and she laughed out so merrily that Mrs. Patch gazed at her in astonishment.

"If you only knew," Damaris said apologetically, "that my life has always been that—sitting at a window and watching people outside. I want something different now. I want to be outside myself."

Then, seeing that Mrs. Patch was still gazing at her gravely, she said hastily—

"I am sure these rooms will do very nicely, and on a wet day I shall enjoy looking out of my window very much. Now, about the charge?"

"Do you want me to feed you same as I did the curick? Thirty shillings he gave me every week, everything included, and he said I fed him like a prince. And he paid in advance, like the gentleman he was."

"Then I would like to do the same, please."

Damaris took out her purse, and laid down two notes on the table.

Mrs. Patch took them and thanked her, and Damaris told her that her luggage would be following shortly.

"That will be all right, and, if you're not tired, maybe you'd like to take a little walk round, so as to find your way about, while I'm putting sheets in your bed and having a dust round. You'll find us a quiet house. My husband is in the bakehouse when he ain't out on his rounds, and his mother, who lives with us, is bed-ridden. And you'd like an early tea, no doubt. Shall we say five o'clock?"

Damaris assented. She was more than willing to go out. As she descended the small stairs, the smell of hot bread was so appetising that she longed for her tea hour; and then the sweet country air took her thoughts away from food.

Not very far from the house, she found an old wooden gate partly open, a little lane behind it led right up to the common. She followed this up a short rather steep ascent, and then the common lay before her as far as her eye could reach. Great clumps of golden gorse brightened the landscape for miles, but there were also beautiful groups of old trees—beeches, hawthorns, oaks and ash broke the monotony of the ground. She was tired with her journey and did not go very far. She found a seat below an old oak—a thicket of hawthorn was behind her, and in front an open expanse of fresh green earth and blue sky. Larks were mounting in the air, singing as they went.

Damaris had as yet not found much comfort in prayer. It had been more of a form of words to her than of reality, but now she felt impelled to look upwards and thank God that she had been led to this village.

"I have fallen on my feet. If I do not find any trace of my mother's family, I shall at least have the enjoyment and rest of a visit here. I could not have found rooms in an easier fashion. I walked straight into them. It really does seem as if everything had been made easy for me."

She sat there for nearly an hour deep in thought. She knew she had taken rather a rash step in severing herself so suddenly from her old home and belongings, and yet she did not for an instant regret it.

When she returned to her rooms, her face was as bright as a child's. Mrs. Patch had spread tea in the little sitting-room, and it looked most inviting.

"I've b'iled you an egg, and there's a bit of cress from the brook which comes down from the common, and the gooseberry jam is my own making, and there's bread and butter as much as you can eat. If you're come from London, you're ready for a meal I'm sure."

She lingered as Damaris sat down at the table and poured herself out a cup of tea from the little brown tea-pot.

"It's just delicious, every bit of it," she said enthusiastically; "and oh, what a wonderful common you have!"

"Most folks like that. Master and I be wondering what made you fix your fancy on Marley as a place to come to. 'Tis out of the usual way for sight-seers."

Damaris had yet to become acquainted with the insatiable curiosity that exists in most small country villages. She answered carefully—

"It was an aunt of mine who mentioned the common in one of her letters. I thought I would like to see it."

"Did she live here once upon a time? Or, maybe, came to stay. Perhaps a visitor at the Rectory or Hall?"

"It was a long time ago," said Damaris, and her tone was very dignified. "She was staying here, no doubt; but I had a fancy to come. Is there any bell to ring? You would like to know when to clear away."

"Oh, we have no bells in this house," said Mrs. Patch. "Just give a tap with your heel on the floor, or give me a call down the stairs. And then, at nine or so, I'll bring you a cup of cocoa and some scones to go to bed on."

She bustled downstairs.

Damaris wondered if it would be difficult to keep her secret.

When Tom Webb brought her suit-case up to the house, the talk outside the gate was distinctly audible to her through the open window.

"Good evening, Mrs. Patch. We've sent you a nice young leddy, h'ain't we? Me and Mr. Page say she be no or'nary female out for a few days' burst!"

"Hem!" said Mrs. Patch, coughing discreetly. "She has the appearance of quality, sure enough, but you has to take these young lonely ladies carefully. I studies human natur', Tom, as you know. She has somethin' she's not a mind to tell. I can tell it in the look of her eye. Why did she come here? There's an aunt, she told me, who knows this part, but she didn't give me the name o' her aunt, and was standoffish in her voice. I'll find out about that aunt before very long!"

"No you won't," said Damaris to herself.

She shut the window gently, for she had heard quite enough to be undesirous of hearing more.

"What an interfering curious old landlady I have got," she thought, with dismay in her heart. "How awfully careful I shall have to be. I told her too much. I shall be more discreet in future."

Mrs. Patch certainly got no more out of Damaris that night.

The next day was, unfortunately, wet. After she had had her breakfast, Damaris took out her work-bag and began to embroider. About eleven o'clock, Mrs. Patch came in to ask her something about dinner, and then Damaris asked if the old mother would like her to pay her a visit. Mrs. Patch looked quite pleased.

"She's rare glad to have a chat with anyone—the curick used to pop in nearly every day. He called her gran'ma."

So Damaris was taken along a tiny passage and into a very clean and rather spacious bed-room. The old woman, sitting up in bed with her clean frilled cap and spectacles on her nose and a big Bible in front of her, made a pretty picture of old age, and Damaris lost her heart to her at once.

"You look as if you have just walked out of a book," she said to the old woman.

"Well, she's always happy—I will say that for her," said talkative Mrs. Patch, gazing at her mother-in-law with rather a critical eye. "There be those who are always up and those who are always down. I studies human natur', and so I knows. For myself, I keep on the level, and that's the comfortable way to take life. I don't get over-expecting things, nor do I get excited to tears, and so I get no disappointments. And I'm not in the dumps on a wet day, and think I'll never be happy agen if the master drinks too much or gets in a vile temper. I just take things calm, and keep my fears and tears for only very best occasions." Then, in an aside, she whispered, "Don't mind mother when she talks pious. 'Tis her way with us all. We smiles and takes no notice."

She left the room. Damaris slipped into the chair by the bedside, and old Mrs. Patch looked up at her with a happy smile.

"'Tis nice to see a bright young face, though I fear you've known sorrow."

"Yes," said Damaris softly; "I have lost two old uncles with whom I always made my home. I have nobody to look after me now. It does give one a lonely feeling."

The old woman put her hand on her Bible.

"But if you know the One Who gave us His Word you're comforted."

Damaris did not answer. She began to ask questions about the village and its inhabitants. Then she asked the momentous question—

"Have you any gentle-people round here? There is a big house called the Hall, isn't there?"

"Yes, 'tis our squire lives there—Sir Mark Murray—and a nice hearty gentleman he is. I've known him these thirty-seven years or more—I went into service with his first wife. She was a sweet gentle lady—but proud—oh, so proud on occasions!"

"Is there a big family at the Hall?" Damaris asked. Her soul was in a tumult. Her mother's name was Murray. Was it possible, she wondered, that Sir Mark was her grandfather?

"No, for they've been scattered. There was a nursery full of them when I went up to the Hall as nurse. Miss Lilian, slim and straight as yourself. 'Tis strange, but as you came in the room, I said to myself, it's just as if Miss Lilian be standing there! She was a beautiful child—wayward, but oh, such ways with her! And then there was Master Herbert. He's married now, and has a large family, and lives up in the north. Miss Lilian married, too; but that was a sore trouble. She went out to Italy with an aunt and met a young fellow there, and they got married on the quiet. There was a rare rumpus here, but I can't tell you the whole story. If her mother had lived, it would have been different. But the second Lady Murray never liked her—Miss Lilian used to treat her haughty like, and refused to obey her. Anyhow, she didn't live very long—poor Miss Lilian died after she'd been married a year. Where was I? Polly always says when once I begin talking of the family, I never stop. Then there was Master Walter; he still comes down from London now. He's in a lawyer's bar, I think."

"A barrister," murmured Damaris.

"Yes, that's it. I know they told me he was called to the Bar—and it's not public-house bar, but a lawyer's one. And Master Morris—he came next—he's a captain of a ship now. And then there's Miss Barbara the baby, when I first went and took charge of her."

"And where is she?" asked Damaris, breathlessly. "Is she married?"

"No, that she isn't; but she might have been again and again. She's mistress of the Hall now. Lady Murray died five years ago, and, if I may say so, the squire seems happier and younger now that she's gone. She was a bad-tempered woman, and hadn't the grace of God to keep her temper in check."

Damaris was silent. She had hardly expected to find her grandfather and aunt still living in the same old house. She thought it an extraordinary coincidence that she had come to the very house in which an old servant of her family was still living.

Then, not liking to appear too inquisitive, she asked about the Rector.

"He's a dear kind man, but his wife is just an angel of goodness. Our old rector died two years ago, and he always had to have a curate, for he was very bronchitisy for long before he was taken. But Mr. Dashwood does all the work easy, and his sweet young wife visits us all most regular. Ah! You wait till you see her, and you'll love her as we all do."

"I think you must all be very happy in this village," said Damaris thoughtfully.

The old woman smiled a little sadly.

"Our village is made up of what every village is, miss—the good and the bad together. And we all have our sorrows—my daughter-in-law downstairs has buried three fine sons, and no chick or child left. But we aren't left ignorant of the wicket-gate. Our Rector points to that very clear."

Damaris smiled.

"I am not good, Mrs. Patch, I wish I was; but I always have loved the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' I used to revel in it when I was a small child. I'm so glad you know it."

The old woman pointed to a big book on her chest of drawers.

"There is old Bunyan! I used to have it in the Hall nursery, and show the children the pictures. Have you started out yet with your face towards the Holy City, miss, may I ask?"

Damaris looked doubtful.

"I don't think so," she said.

"Then you've never felt your burden heavy! You've got it on your back, you know, and you'll never get inside the gates with it there."

Damaris looked thoughtful. She did not feel inclined to copy her landlady's example to "smile and take no notice."

But further conversation was stopped by the younger Mrs. Patch coming up with a basin of gruel for the old woman, and Damaris took the opportunity of slipping away. Her mind and heart were too full of her grandfather and aunt being so close to her to take in anything else at present.